Ana stared at the man before her. “How can you do this to your people? How?”
Through his visor, she saw perversely absent eyes. “Back!” he shouted. “All you folks get back!”
Ahead, bulldozers turned in at the beach gates where homeless women herded into police vans shouted as their men battled federal marshals and deputies. She felt crowds pushing up behind her, threatening to crush her. She didn’t think the cops could hold them back. A big brown arm flashed before her, something projectiled from the hand.
Then all around her objects flew, the sky suddenly full of rotting fruit. A cop staggered back, his visor hit by a large exploding papaya. Another swiped at something yellow dripping down his chest. The wall of uniforms retreated, blinded by cataracts of garbage. The shouts of the crowd a wind-driven song. She saw a truncheon raised, a man go down. The crowd condensed in panic. The thud of hard rubber on soft flesh, the moans. Then sirens, choppers overhead.
She heard Lopaka shout, “Stay calm! Stay calm …”
She saw him grapple with a cop, his arm crutch kicked away from him. Then someone threw her to the ground. In an instant, the highway had become slick, the sky overcast by waves of papayas, exploding grapefruits. In slippery leather boots, the uniformed men could not find traction on the ground. They skidded back and forth like skaters, swinging their truncheons, their visors dripping with runny produce. Folks were knocked down, knocked out. The next wave of folks moved in, armed and aiming. It seemed to go on for hours. Then Ana heard the horns.
They came from a long way off and as they neared, folks pulled back, confused. The horns grew louder, and down the highway crowds began to cheer. She shaded her eyes, looking in the distance. Ten trucks speeding up the highway, blasting their horns. On the back of each truck stood old tūtū—grandmothers and great-grandmothers. Tiny, wrinkled women and some who were stately and huge.
In billowing, faded mu‘umu‘us, brown faces glowing with sweat, they stood with their gray hair flying in the wind. On each truck, half a dozen old women braced themselves, holding a flagpole steady as the Hawaiian flag flew over them, each flag flying upside down, the international signal for distress. In truck after truck, they stood firm, facing forward like the prows of ships, looking like harridans and angels of wrath.
Ana stepped back in shock, recognizing Aunty Pua, her profile immaculate and stern, hair flying out like a silver shawl as she sped by. Their horns blew and continued blowing, and in that moment Ana felt a tug, some memory she could not clearly summon. Folks began shouting again, running beside the speeding trucks headed to the barricades. As the drivers lay on their horns, demanding to be let through, a second and third line of SWAT teams moved in with German shepherds, blocking the trucks.
Federal marshals pushed forward, warning the drivers, “Back up or be arrested.”
The old women never spoke, they just stood there, wind lifting their hair and fluttering the flags as they stared at Mākua Valley, the desecrated bosom of their ‘āina. SWAT teams stood patting their palms with truncheons. Attack dogs strained at their leashes. Then one of the old women began to chant. A dirgelike chant that grew louder and louder, her voice vibrating until it seemed not a chant but a terrible portent echoing across the land.
The crowd fell back. Another tūtū took up the song until dozens of them were chanting in unison. Eyes resting on the valley, their voices slowly rose, deep and terrible, like voices from the dead. Then slowly their heads shifted, their eyes came to rest on uniforms surrounding every truck.
One of the old women raised her hand and pointed her finger at a cop. His eyelids fluttered, he seemed to sway, and dropped his arm, his truncheon useless at his side. Still chanting, she pointed at a snarling German shepherd; the dog whimpered and lay down, its head between its paws. All around, the armed forces stood there dazed. And still the old women chanted, their voices a roar that bounced off the walls and ridges of the valley.
“Ē mau! Ē mau! … I Mau Ka Ea I Ka ‘Āina I Ka Pono … !”
We must strive! We must strive! So that righteousness will fill the land again.
And they continued chanting in Hawaiian. “Rise up! Rise up! Do not submit to insult and ignominy. Rise up until there are no more people left to rise. And when we all have risen, then the stones will rise! Then Earth will rise up with us, too!”
Along the highway, folks stood dumb. Three women went down on their knees. Federal marshals looked around, unsure. Out on the beaches, women still shouted from police vans, their men grappling with cops as bulldozers leveled their shacks and tents. Then, it suddenly grew quiet. Only the voices of the tūtū were heard, calling to their gods.
They called on Kāne, creator of man, keeper of the earth. They called on Kū, god of war, of chiefs and chiefesses. They called on Lono, god of agriculture, of clouds and weather. And Kanaloa, god of the ocean, of the life therein. They called on Hina, first female god of the ancients, and on Hi‘iaka, goddess of healing, restorer of life. In those moments, no one moved, no one seemed to breathe.
It was then that the wind came, answering the old women. It blew soft as breath, stilling everything. It was Makani Hau, the cool wind from the uplands of Mākua issuing from deep inside the mountains. It blew the people calm, blew children sleepy in their parents’ arms. It blew the armed, uniformed men a sudden ease, so that they raised their hands, stifling yawns.
All along that troubled coast, everything was still. Brothers looked each other in the eye. Moments ago they were prepared to maim or kill. Now they just felt sleepy. And when Makani Hau was ended, people felt it lift away. And they felt the coming of her sister wind, Makani Malu, the wind of peace, and of protection.
And in that peace and quiet, came a voice. One so deep, so ancient and resounding even t?t? turned their heads, raising their arms as if surrendering. They listened and they heard.
“ ‘Olaaa … Nā … ‘Iwi. ‘Olaaa … Nā … ‘Iwi.”
The words repeated and repeated. An urgent litany echoing across the land.
“ ‘Ola … Nā … ‘Iwi …” The bones survive.
People moaned. The hair stood up on Ana’s arms. Sheriffs covered their genitals protectively. Mākua, their Mother Earth, their parent, was telling them she knew. She saw. How the people were offering their aloha, their mālama. They were offering to take care of her. She saw they were prepared to die protecting her. For them, she would live on. Deep in the soil, and in caves where bones of their ancestors rested, she lived on. A woman knelt, stretched out, and laid her cheek against the ground. Many others followed.
Finally, as the voice died down, the old women in the trucks resumed their chanting, and people in the crowds composed themselves, prideful and determined. Ana set her shoulders wide, and as she watched, deputies and National Guardsmen holstered their truncheons and took a brother’s arm, asking them to go home peacefully. The marshals stepped back, gazing into the valley with wondering eyes.
On the beach, bulldozers resumed their destruction. Tents and shacks were razed, and some of the homeless were arrested for resisting. There were minor scuffles, injuries. But on this day, folks felt victorious. They had risen up, the land had risen with them. And so, too, had their gods.
And so it was that on a day when lives could have been destroyed, when brother might have maimed or murdered brother, people stood intact. For years, parents would tell their children, and their children’s children what they had witnessed here. How their gods had rallied. Mākua had rallied. They had been granted progress, not slaughter.
The trucks slowly turned around and headed down the highway, the old women silent, fierce-looking and triumphant. Cops ran beside each truck, trying to clear the way. But to Ana—watching how they gazed up at the old women with a kind of awe—it seemed as if they were running in support of them, ready to throw off their gear and join them. As crowds slowed the progress of the trucks, people tried to clamber aboard. Several young soldiers hoisted themselves up, and stood protectively beside the o
ld women and the flags.
In that moment, Ana remembered footage from Niki’s film, the fall of the Soviet Union. She remembered uncanny scenes of Russian soldiers capitulating, handing their rifles to the crowds, turning their backs on the Russian army forever. And she remembered old grandmothers, babushki, climbing aboard armored Russian tanks, young soldiers pulling them up, embracing them, as the tanks rolled into Red Square.
Ancient women who had known only slavery for generations had, in those moments, become the symbol of liberated Russia. As they passed through the crowds flooding into Moscow, they did not wave. They stood proudly atop the tanks, their faces sober and determined. Now, as old Hawaiian tūtū passed in trucks, gray hair streaming out behind them, they seemed to see right through the world.
ALMOST MIDNIGHT AS THEY CLIMBED KEOLA ROAD. ANA’S CHEEKBONE hurt, she felt the beginning of a shiner. In the house, youngsters had gathered at Pua’s feet, seeing her with a new eye. She had a different air, one of quiet authority, as if she had been keeping her power a secret all these years, and suddenly unveiled it. No more the mixed-up aunty, one day quoting from the Bible, next day from the KUMULIPO. Now she had precision, like a blade-sharp stone. She marked each thing, each person with a glance. Ana saw what she had missed for years, that Pua was wisdom-full, that she possessed hanohano nui. Great dignity. In all her years of searching for truth, she had earned much mana.
She sat down and rubbed Pua’s dusty feet. “Aunty, so proud of you today. Watching you, I understood we’ve been getting it all wrong. Our future doesn’t lie with my generation, or the kids coming up behind us. It lies with you, our kūpuna.”
With a trembling and exhausted hand, Pua reached out and stroked her head. “So it has always been, child. We are old fools, but wise fools. One day it will be your turn.”
“Do you think we’ll win? Will we ever get Mākua back?”
“Oh, yes. Remember what Lopaka said. Victory is just a two-day paddle home. Meanwhile … Ē mau! Ē mau! I Mau Ke Ea I Ka ‘āina I Ka Pono.”
Gena came out of the kitchen with a beer, exhilarated from the march. They sat out on the steps in the jungle of tattered slippers and running shoes.
“A good day,” Ana said. “The gods marched with us. Lopaka must be proud … Where is he?”
“Passed out. That boy’s been up four days and nights. We’ll celebrate tomorrow.”
They gazed into the night, a coiled indigo shimmering through fog. They heard a peacock scream. In spite of her euphoria, Ana felt great fatigue and a recurring sense of nausea.
Gingerly, she touched her eye. “Passive resistance really works. I always thought some of us would have to die to make our point. Well … what good is life without a point?”
Her voice was soft, devoid of edge. Gena silently reflected on how Ana had changed in the past few months. She came home to the coast more often, sitting in at community discussions on women’s health issues, on ways to combat crime and drugs amongst the young. She addressed folks more caringly.
Looking back, Gena saw that the change had begun with Makali‘i’s death. After that she saw an idling in Ana’s gestures, a hesitation in her walk as if not sure which way to turn. Since Niki’s departure, she watched her sit for hours staring out of windows, as if the calligraphy of windswept leaves would tell her what to do, how to behave.
“Ana, remember those long-lost nights at the Humu Humu Lounge? The two of us counting our waitress tips?”
“I remember. What happened, Gena? How did we drift apart?”
“I’ve got a theory about that. We’re role models, you and me. First-generation college grads. First-generation not-hula-girls-or-chambermaids. We’re talented, ambitious, but not too confident. We don’t have enough peers to bounce ideas off of … so we disagree, and take it personally.”
She played with her beer, scraping the label from the bottle.
“And then, there is Lopaka. I have always known how much he loves you. It’s deep, real deep. Maybe I’ve been jealous.”
“He lalau! Nonsense,” Ana said. “You’re what he wants. And what he needs. He loves you! I’m sorry for that thing I said way back, that where he’s concerned your brains were between your legs.”
“Well, where he’s concerned, sometimes they are.”
“I see now I was lashing out, at everyone. Trying to hide how terrified I was. Even six, seven years after surgery, sometimes I’m afraid to fall asleep. Afraid I won’t wake up.”
In the silence, Gena moved closer. “Ana. I’ve got to tell you something. I mean … I’ve got to give you something. If Lopaka finds out, he’ll kill me. I don’t care.”
Ana leaned back slightly.
“I stole something. It’s for you. He doesn’t think you deserve to have it. That’s not for him to say.”
Gena held out a long, white envelope. “I took this from his files.”
“What is it?”
“A letter. From Niki. The day he left, he asked Lopaka to give it to you.”
“But that was five weeks ago.”
Gena looked down, embarrassed. “When you let him go, I thought, ‘the hell with her.’ Now I realize, it’s not for me to judge. Not for Lopaka, either.”
Ana stood holding the letter as Gena slid into her car, her head thrust out the window. “Whatever happens, whatever you need … I’m here for you.”
HŌ‘IKE NA KA PU‘UWAI
Revelations of the Heart
Beloved Ana …
It is late at night, and I depart tomorrow. I write this by candlelight so I do not wake you.
I look at you across the room, lying on your side. Outline of your shoulder and your hip. You will always be beautiful to me. A woman of extravagance and moral force. Though I think you do not know this. When I have seen you coming down the street, I think, “She is my lover, and my friend. A miracle!” I do not know why you chose me. I maybe will never understand.
Yes, I have been a liar all my life. Is how I survived. Until I met you I never knew this luxury of speaking truth. I was impaired. My past, my poor homeland, these made sense of my impairment. I think my behavior does not make sense anywhere else. This is why Russians do not adapt. But every word I write now is from my heart. Pu‘uwai … as you say in your beautiful language. And I hope you will hold a long time these words in your heart.
I leave you my collection of Pushkin’s poems. And those of Anna Akhmatova. They speak from the very soul of my country. Rare birds who froze to death midflight. In Moscow, I will read them again. Maybe you will be reading them, too, and we will be connected through their thoughts.
“… I loved you with such purity, such passion/ As may God grant you to be loved once more.”—Pushkin.
Oh, Ana. I have wanted life too much. I have wanted you. Maybe with completion of my film, you will see a better me. Maybe in such work, I will become the man I wanted you to love.
In Moscow I will return to Old Arbat district. Friends are there, many ill like me. They cough, smoke cigarettes, drink vodka, like good Russians. Probably some of them are dying. Some have already fled, but those who stay continue painting, writing poetry, pretending there is a future.
My friends will call me mudak, fool! for coming back. Will tell me how that neo-Tsarist, Yeltsin, is starving everyone to death. But they will welcome me, ask about my travels. There is an old, smoky shashlik restaurant. I will sit with friends, remembering you but will not talk much about you. It would make me joyful, and joy is so exhausting.
Now you turn in sleep, flinging your arm across the bed. I remember first time I saw you after Hurricane ‘Iniki. Your hair so wild, your face so stern and angry, at first I found you scary. But then I listened, how you comforted that child. And I watched how you listened when I told my stories, some of which were lies. Maybe I began to love you then. O! How to conjugate that great, slow word. Yes, even then I wanted to stand beside you, help you do something, maybe something you could not do alone. These were new sensations.
After
Irini died, I was like an animal. Even filming sick and damaged people, I sometimes spoke brutishly to them. She was dead and they still lived. I walked out of people’s lives in middle of their sentences. I was again that scavenging orphan with head of lice, knowing only how to scratch. But that campfire night in my cheap leather clothes, I was already adoring you.
Now I wonder, will you remember me? Will you remember my sad stories, life seen through a dirty glass? You said I have lived very hard. Yes, I lived enough for two. I see that now. If there is afterlife, I have already lived mine. When I’m dead, I’ll just be dead.
I always thought I would die young. But those who loved me died young instead. You came in the part of my life when death seemed to be sleeping. Maybe I felt safe too soon. But you brought out my innocence, that unbreathed part of me strangled as a boy. I was my best self with you. Was someone I had never been. Not even with Irini, because first I had to know deep suffering.
I understand now, much of my life I hated myself. I longed for everything which stood outside me. You taught me how in some ways I am lovable. I could be witty, people could be drawn to me. I know you could not love me, but you cared. Enough to make me think that on my own I will be all right. That maybe I can stand myself. You helped me see parts of my past I had forgot. Little miniatures that made me happy. Moments when I made others happy. You taught me many things. Only you did not teach me how I should forget you.
This was meant to be thoughtful letter of farewell. It seems instead letter of extreme longing. Maybe this is good for me. You said without longing, bones lose calcium. If so, I will grow well! Maybe, if granted time, I will go back to mathematics, study of which expresses human will to live. Once this old professor told me a place is nothing but a place. Is just long chains of molecules occupying space. Beach resort, prison cell. Both same. Just occupied space.
House of Many Gods Page 28