The Vintage Book of International Lesbian Fiction

by Naomi Holoch

  About that time, fierce literary discussions arose among critics until the problem was resolved into two schools, one of which demanded that the bureaucratic hogwash be expunged from the text like a diamond evolving out of carbon. That was called the Diamond School. The other school demanded textual integrity no matter how long the text turned out to be, which in some way vindicated the formality of bureaucratic lingo by recapturing its ritualistic function in society. That was the Ritual School. After many long and heated struggles in symposia, international conferences, and the academic press, the matter came to the attention of the international Spanish-speaking literary market, and several deluxe editions of the Diamond School were published that included the Complete Poetry, Stories, and Excerpts from the Novel with the impressive title of A Light Shines in the Darkness. On the other hand, the Ritual School broke all records worldwide with its publication of the Complete Works in sixty thousand volumes, where a select few could enjoy reading about everything that happened in official cultural circles in the Province of Matanzas from the 1970s to the 1990s. Finally all the typist’s stories and poems, plus the long and marvelous novel, could be read in their entirety.

  But the girl typist herself—sunk in a world of glasses of tea that stuck to tables, putting out incessant cigarettes, reading silly novelettes and watching soap operas—never knew of her anonymous fame, which spread all around the world to the glory of the word.

  Translated by Lisa Davis

  Ngahuia Te Awekotuku

  Representing Aotearoa/New Zealand, Ngahuia Te Awekotuku, the Maori writer, describes herself as part of an extended family of weavers, orators, carvers, storytellers, and cross-dressers. In Tahuri (1989), her first collection of short stories, Awekotuku portrays the experiences of a runaway Maori girl who, with her own home-grown audacity and cultural wisdom, takes on all the obstacles that threaten her journey to adulthood. The three stories here reflect several of the author’s primary concerns: the power of the Maori earth itself and its mythical representations, the potential for violence against women, and the wonder of youthful lesbian lust.

  PARETIPUA

  GAME out of the whare. Stood on the step, big and strong. Paretipua. Hair wrapped in a towel. From the bath, from the steam. Hair wrapped in a towel, dark dark blood dark red towel. Wrapped up. On top of her head. Paretipua. Came out of the whare.

  Shoulders bare, and wide, and brown, deep color, glossy. Deep color too on her cheeks, on her face, on her chin.

  Bright eyes flashing and sweet kind smile. Sweet kind smile and white white teeth. And fingernails, too.

  Sweet kind smile, bright eyes flashing. Paretipua. Came out of the whare. Hair wrapped in a towel. Shoulders bare.

  Across the Ruapeka, dawn glittering feebly through the steam.

  Slowly, the sun rose; shadows crept like blots upon the water; tree branches twisted, and the raupo stretched and rustled, wiry thin.

  The woman paused at the doorway, welcoming the morning, herself stately as the sun. She balanced the heavy towel on her head, looked around, noticed her small niece, the quiet, queer one, setting the breakfast pots down near the ngawha. She smiled. At the little girl. At the promising, preening sun. She smiled.

  Paretipua. Shoulders bare and wide and brown, deep color, glossy. Lifted her arms up. High, elbows high. Bent her head over. Head with hair wrapped in a towel. Dark dark blood dark red. Bent her head over, arms up. And fingernails, too. Paretipua.

  Towel undone. Hair spilled out, black, black. Falling, falling. Falling down, falling. From shoulders bare and wide and brown. Black hair, black. Long. Thick. Long. Waves of black. Long hair, dyed muka ropes, dried by the sun.

  Black, black. Waves of black. Falling, falling. Paretipua.

  She flexed her shoulders, turned her neck, swung around, and the heaviness of her hair spilled almost to the step. The weight of it. Yet she could never cut it, not freely, this gift she wore like the finest cloak; it meant too much, for too many people. So instead, she enjoyed it. The wonder, the blackness, the weight. And the beauty. Steadying her feet, bending forward slightly, knees spread, hand clasping thighs, she tossed it to the sunlight, to the morning; a cloak, a fishing net, a cloud of lustrous black.

  Waves of black. The wonder. Sparkling and shimmering, black, black, caught in the sunlight, water stars, shimmering and sparkling.

  Water stars, made by the hair, caught in the sunlight, black, black.

  Falling, falling. Sparkling and shimmering, water stars, water stars. Black, black. And water stars.

  From the sunlight. From the morning.

  From the shoulders bare and wide and brown. From the waves of black, black. The wonder. From the morning. From her. Came out of the whare. From Paretipua.

  OLD MAN TUNA

  THE pulled the laces tight on her shoes, eyes scanning the riverbank. Vague shapes in the stream. Her brothers were still there—not quite waiting for her, but still there. That was the main thing. Although she wanted to, she didn’t yelp with delight. She had promised to shut up and be quiet, so that she didn’t scare away the fish. The fish, the fish. Much more important than her, a mere girl, who was just a nuisance anyway. Though she could have her uses. Maybe.

  They were still ahead, but she could see them; large, dark shapes gliding through the shadows. Big guys. Milton was nineteen and had a motorbike and a pakeha girlfriend. He told spooky kehua stories that made your skin tingle and go all stiff like a dead chicken’s, while his eyes got bigger and bigger and glowed like headlights. Scary and horrible. But Milton was fun too; he always brought home Cadbury Roses chocolates for his sister and Bailey’s Irish Cream for the old lady, who loved him.

  She hadn’t met the girlfriend yet; plenty of time for that, he reckoned. His brother, Tuku, wasn’t so sure. He was always thinking—never said much, read his books and looked out of the window most of the time. No motorbike for him; he had his sights set on a Citroën. Style. That was his secret, as he moved through the rustling bushes in his uncle’s old swandri and Grandfather’s frayed-out cords. Style, that’s Tuku, graceful as a preening cat. Clutched in his left hand, the cold smoothness of an AFFCO meat hook. His eel gaff.

  The moon was on her back, and pale light dripped feebly down between the weeping willow branches. They stopped. They were there—at the place; barely ten minutes walk from home. Too close, thought Whero.

  “Here’s fine.” Milton lifted his rod and flexed it lovingly. “Got that big one last night, just about this spot. Let’s try her out again, e bro?”

  The younger brother nodded. Both men stretched, and shrugged, then set to fixing their gear.

  Whero watched, squatting in a pool of darkness, her elbows wrapped around her knees. So much for her big outing with the boys. It was boring; even the place was wrong; if she climbed up a nearby tree, she could see the lights at home; if she really stretched her neck she could see right into the sitting room, past the lace curtains. And there would be Kuia, happily watching TV, blue haze flickering across her gentle face. Whero had hoped they’d walk for miles, all the way to the mouth of the river. What a bummer.

  She stood up. Whispered. “Hey, Milt, can I go for a walk?”

  Whirr, whirr, whirr went the reel. Whirr, zipzipzip. “Okay. Not too far.”

  “I won’t. I’ll just go down a little bit. Not far.”

  “When I whistle, you come back, girl.” Zipzip, whirr.

  “Yeah, I will.” She glanced at Tuku, who was crouching like a river stone, absolutely still. Gaff at his side. String line between finger and thumb of right hand. He was at it again. Thinking.

  She felt marvellous—free! Out in the night air! She danced quietly along the track, breathing in the darkness and faint moon-gleam, running her fingertips through a wall of flax. Paused as the track opened onto a scrubby bank. Dense grass fringed and dripped into the river; the water looked dark, a solid oily mass of black, punctured with melting globs of light. Out of the water, a raupo clump tufted shivering; some spines drooped sadly,
streaming in a greasy line around an ancient log, which formed a ragged, festering bulk to the shore. Threatening, choked in a slime of thick weed.

  Whero stopped. She knew this place—how different it looked at night! Worse even than in the daytime. Spooky. The water, so still. Where the Old Man Tuna lived, they said. Somewhere in that weed. In the willow stump. Or underneath the log. A Big One.

  Yuk, she thought. Strained her ears. Whirr, whirr. Everything was normal, okay. If he whistled, she’d hear. If she shrieked, he’d hear. Both of them would. And her own favorite place, where she liked to be and doze and think, was close by, just a little bit farther along. Where the water trickled again.

  Behind her, in the dark weeds, something moved. Broke the water, like a boneless ebony arm. It rose smoothly, gleaming, from the ooze. Then fell into it once more.

  Her favorite place—a tree trunk. A wide, massive branch that reached over the river, it cradled her body and, with a sigh, she settled onto the nuggety bark. Her favorite place. She’d be there for hours, wiggling on her back, looking at the leaves change color, weekend after weekend, until they dropped off and the stark winter blue peered down; or else, straddling frontways, she’d gaze into the water, watching blossoms float by. And she’d dream; daydreams. Now, at last, she was here—at night! In the dark, in the shadows. By herself. She drank the cold of the night, breathed the chill air, turned onto the tree. And rested her cheek, and ear, on the silvery gray surface, listening to the tree’s blood moving. She closed her eyes. Listened. To the tree, to the river trickle, to the sound of being free.

  Whirr, whirr. No, whistle. Sound of air hissing through a gap in the front teeth. Milton. Close by, coming to her tree. Whero sat up, then relaxed. He was there, just in front of her, framed by a rustling stand of tall flax stems. Silently, he moved toward her. His jacket was unzipped, and the yellow flecks in his jersey glittered. He bent toward her, still whistling softly. One hand on her shoulder, pressing gently.

  “Lie back.”

  Whero wasn’t sure what was going on, but she did as she was told. Leaned into her tree, feeling safe in her favorite place. Milton nuzzled at her neck and was somehow planting something between her legs. It was his other hand, fumbling down there while he snorted in her ear. His bum was moving, slowly, softly, pushing against her. Whero squeaked, caught some of his hair in her mouth. Squeak. Then tried moving her own hips, pinned down by his weight. He stopped.

  “Shuddup girl, don’t move and then I’ll finish.” It felt funny. She was aching inside, and he kept pushing against her. His mouth was half open and his eyes were shut, and his bristles scraped her chin. It was beginning to feel wrong. She started to struggle, weakly, in a halfhearted way, then decided to concentrate instead on the dappled shadows that played across his face, and the tree bark, and the flax stalks moving, and the moon on her back too. If she shut her eyes, she could listen to the music of the water, running across pebbles and stones and clumps in the stream, avoiding that other place; she let her mind drift away with the water….

  “Hey Milt! C’mere! Hurry up bro. I got it. I got the bugger. C’mon e—”

  Yells and excited shouts a few yards away. Tuku bagging a big one.

  “Hurry up e!”

  Hands on his sister’s trembling shoulders, Milton heaved himself up, turned, lifted his face, snorting. “What, man? What the hell’s the racket for?”

  “Old Man Tuna. I got him. I got him!”

  “What? Shit, you’re having me on e”—in a split second, he was gone.

  They were by the heaving, weed-choked water, Tuku hauling at the gaff, twisting his wrists, flat on his front, knees digging into the track, feet somewhere firmly in the green wall behind him. His older brother gripped the sugar bag, its flaccid mouth gaping and ready. They waited for the writhing and thrashing to die down; it seemed to go on forever. Whero looked on, not saying a word, wishing she was somewhere else, but staying still, being quiet. Wanting like hell to get away.

  The tuna fought, tiring the two young men. It pulled, then stopped, then pulled again.

  Suddenly it was loose. The gaff hung slack in Tuku’s hand. Milton snarled. The girl sank far into the flax leaves, folded in their slick wetness, waxy hard.

  Old Man Tuna had got away again.

  Milton cursed his brother and the fish. Tuku scrambled up, brushed himself off. Feeling useless again; he’d never make a hero, an action man. But he’d always look good. And he liked to think. He really did. Angry, frustrated, they made their way back home.

  “Hey, where’s the girl?”

  “E? Oh—I thought she was with you, e.”

  “Nah. Musta gone back already, e.”

  Slowly, murky sludge began to settle, blots of weed sitting damp upon its surface. Whero crept out of the flax, close to the river, eyes focused on the half-sunken log. Everything was still, quiet again. She thought of her brother, what he had done. It had happened, that was for sure. Yes it had. She remembered.

  She couldn’t take her eyes off the log, the bank of twigs and leaves and other stuff rotting in its forks. Night black, midnight black, something seemed to be waiting. She took a step forward.

  A thick length of darkness arched out of the weeds, curled and twisted around, spun on itself like a great whip, sleek and shining. It skimmed across the water, it filled every part of that small, sluggish hole. Then it heaved once more and was gone, plunging down into the mud.

  WATCHING THE BIG GIRLS

  SHE loved watching the Big Girls. Especially when they were in front of the mirror, in the toilets. They jiggled and jostled, and pulled each other around, and flounced and combed and fluffed their hair, and then suddenly they would go very very still. Looking.

  Looking at each other, but most of all, looking at themselves. Wow.

  And if a Big Girl came in by herself, that was even better. Tahuri would quietly shrink into a corner, making herself as tiny as possible. So small that no one could hear her. But she could see them! It was exciting.

  Her favorite Big Girl was Cassina. She should’ve been a boy, the old people said, named after Montecassino where her uncle was killed, long before she was born. Cassino. But that was a boy’s name, they said. So here she was—Cassina, instead. And all the faraway, exotic, foreign, enchanting pictures that her name sounded to Tahuri were there—in her, in her eyes, and her hair, and her lips, and even her ears.

  Cassina had beautiful ears, neatly tucked against the sides of her head, with finely rounded lobes. She wore stars on them; stars sometimes, and other times little gold circles that slept and slipped through the holes that Kuikui had drilled with a small hukere stick and muka thread. Ouch. She twirled them, her long Cutex scarlet nails bright in the gloss of her hair. Most of all, Tahuri liked the big gold circles—hoops they were. Gleaming and gilded, like the sun through smoke, or steam. But that was only on very special occasions, because the hoops were a secret that Cassina sneaked on when Kuikui and her mother, Karu, were not around. For some reason they didn’t like the hoops at all, and they said so—but they never said why. They didn’t like the fingernails, either, but made their stand on the hoops. This puzzled Tahuri, and made Cassina mad, but she wore them anyway. In sort of secret. Golden hoops and rich black curls that went all over the place, never ever sat in a decent beehive, but ballooned in fat black blossoms all over her head and swirled around her shoulders.

  Cassina was beautiful. She’d bat her long, dense eyelashes, and “do” her dusky eyelids, and smile and sparkle at Tahuri, there in the corner by the rubbish tin. That was the neat thing about Cassina—she always noticed if her little cousin was there, and she always grinned at her, making Tahuri feel all warm and cosy inside.

  Not like Trina. She was a witch, but somehow she had a lot of boyfriends with cars even; while Cassina got around with Heke, on his broken-down motorbike.

  Trina was skinny, and white. Her legs and arms were the color of the old old sheets at the pa—creamy-ish, and dotted. Sometimes freckles surfa
ced on her nose in summer, and she hated that, cadging a huge flax hat from Kuikui “to preserve her complexion.”

  Whatever that meant. She’d come into the wharepaku, usually alone, her long neck swanning into a deep plum beehive, shades of purple in the reddish brown, spangled stiff with lacquer. Trina would turn her head this way, then that; lean toward the mirror and dig carefully at the clotted spikes that ringed her slanted hazel-green eyes, muttering about mascara; check the line of pink around her pearly little teeth; take a sleek powder compact from her clutch purse and cover the offending specks upon her nose; examine her eyelids too; and then, with a satisfied sigh, she’d stand back and purr at herself. No ladders in the stockings. Good. Then, she’d turn once, twice, three times, on the balls of her white, slingback spike heels, and with a spring of stiff petticoats and frothing skirts, she was out the door. Without even a blink in Tahuri’s eye.

  Ben sometimes came in too, by herself. Bennie was special—she was different, and she was kind, too. Always had the Juicy Fruit or the PK chewing gum for little kids like Tahuri. She never looked quite right, though; her feet looked too big for her shoes, and her shoulders were as wide as Heke’s. And her hair was cut funny, so it dropped like a dog’s tail over her forehead and went straight down to a V at the back of her neck. Her clothes weren’t very interesting either, really dry and colorless—purple shirt, black jerkin, and gray pleated skirt, which hung halfway down her densely muscled, rocklike calves. Bennie—called Penupenu by Kui—had the legs all right. But she just used them to jump and dance and run around with; she never ever shaved them, like Trina, so very fine threads occasionally caught the light on her shins, because she hated stockings too. Along with all that dangly stuff that held them up. Tahuri decided that Bennie would’ve made a really handsome boy—she never wore makeup, but her eyebrows were jet black and moved from fat to thin above her dark dark eyes, framed in a lace of thick eyelashes. No need for the mascara there. Her nose was medium, and her teeth were big and white, and her smile was huge when she smiled; ear to ear, and dimples puckered up, and her sallow skin would glow.