Past Perfect

by Karen Zelas

  Sue watched Olivia’s petite form weave through the crowd. Many of the faces were familiar, mainly the older ones, fixtures in the department. She helped herself to a star-shaped crouton topped with cream cheese and basil pesto and started to mingle, proffering the plate as she went. She felt at home here; she was one of the fixtures herself. Olivia reappeared with Sue’s chardonnay, excusing herself immediately to receive new arrivals. As Sue meandered through the crowd, she found herself reappraising each of the wives and female students as a potential lover for Ben.

  When the plate was empty, she cast around for him, wondering if he might need her support. But she need not have worried. He was in the far corner talking to a young woman with skin the colour of rich chocolate and legs all the way to her armpits. One of these was flexed, the heel of a calf-length boot resting on the wall. A soft, sheer skirt in shades of autumn fell in folds. She seemed fluid, flowing mysteriously upwards from the floor to where her upper body lightly touched the wall. Her neck arched forward. Towards Ben. Towards Sue’s husband. And large, dark eyes regarded him from under long, black lashes – doe’s eyes. Sue’s stomach felt as if she had dropped four floors in an elevator.

  She of the bad poem.

  Literary criticism could not spare Sue now. She had to believe what was before her eyes. She’s barely older than Charlie, Sue choked silently.

  Rage swept through her, taking her by surprise. Blind, unthinking, visceral. Rage, as she had never known it. Her fingernails bit into the heels of her hands until she wondered what was causing the pain. She would need to take herself in hand; strategise.

  Sue was debating whether to cross the room and interrupt them, when an arm passed around her waist. ‘Why so glum, fair maiden?’ It was Derek Bainbridge, a veteran of Department parties. Derek followed her gaze. ‘Oh,’ he said. ‘She’s new. Alisha. Ben’s supervising her thesis.’ Sue could not hide her alarm. ‘I wouldn’t worry. Look but don’t touch. That’s the rule. Ben plays by the rules. But you can’t blame a man for looking.’

  ‘Thanks, Derek. That makes me feel heaps better. I’ll sleep easy tonight.’

  Derek laughed. ‘Seriously, Sue. Ben’s not the type. Straight up and down. He wouldn’t be able to live with himself.’

  ‘He wouldn’t be able to live with me, either.’ Sue grimaced. ‘Excuse me, Derek. I need fresh air.’

  She stepped from the crowded room, through sliding doors onto the deep balcony. The night was still and soothing. A carpet of lights spread to the left. To the right, a crescent of blackness, spotted only by the lights of an occasional fishing boat, hove to offshore. The sky was huge. Summer scents hung in the mild air. Sue was oblivious to the view. It was only the sense of space to which she could respond. She breathed deeply, willing the trembling in her hands to stop. She was determined not to look foolish. Finding a quiet corner, she rested her elbows on the wooden balustrade and cradled her wine glass. She must think.

  Alisha. So Alisha was Ben’s post-grad. Of course he would talk with her. Perhaps Sue was over-reacting. But Alisha was so … alluring. Post-grad students should not be alluring. Allure should be a trait culled in selection, Sue posited; students already had the advantage of youth. ‘But I have the advantage of maturity,’ she murmured, drawing herself erect. Maturity? Huh. Some wines don’t mature; they turn to vinegar. Be careful, girl. She looked through the French doors and across the room. Alisha was now seated, legs crossed, shapely knees exposed. Ben was leaning over her. Sue glanced down at her own knees, legs foreshortened from her perspective, and wished she had worn a long skirt. But she felt she owed it to herself to front up to the competition. At least in company she could claim her husband; he would surely not be stupid enough to create a scene. She wondered briefly whether she could be as sure that she would not. Refilling her glass on the way, Sue strolled as nonchalantly as possible through the crowd towards her husband and, she was convinced, his lover.

  Neither Ben nor Alisha noticed her approach. Ben, she was sure, was peering down the girl’s cleavage; although she was skinny, she had one. Only when she stopped beside Ben and placed a proprietorial arm around his waist did Alisha tear her eyes from Ben’s and turn them towards Sue. Ben started upright at Sue’s touch.

  ‘It’s all right. It’s only me,’ she said. The last person he wanted to see, she expected.

  ‘Oh. Hello.’ His cheeks flamed.

  ‘Aren’t you going to introduce me?’

  ‘Ah … this is,’ he looked from one to the other, ‘this is … Alisha.’

  ‘How nice to meet you,’ said Sue, extending her hand. ‘I’ve heard a lot about you,’ she added, noting alarm mixed with bewilderment flood Ben’s face. ‘I am Ben’s wife, you know. Or perhaps you didn’t.’ She gave a broad welcoming smile. Like a crocodile, she thought.

  Alisha jumped to her feet, like a frightened gazelle. She accepted Sue’s outstretched hand allowing her long lean fingers to rest in her palm, as if she did not know when to withdraw them. Sue let them go and Alisha’s arm dropped limply to her side. She had a pretty, toothy smile; a Princess Di smile, head tilted forward, looking up from under long lashes. Sue had to concede she was beautiful in a mystical sort of way. No wonder Ben found her intriguing. ‘You can call me Sue,’ she said. Alisha nodded, but did not do so. ‘Where are you from?’ Sue asked.

  ‘Auckland,’ said Ben.

  ‘I’m sure Alisha can speak for herself.’ Sue smiled again. ‘I mean originally.’

  ‘I’m from Sri Lanka.’ Her voice was musical.

  ‘Ben and I have plans to travel widely in Asia,’ Sue said, ignoring the grunt of surprise from Ben. She took his hand. ‘You’ll have to excuse us,’ she said to Alisha. ‘The stereo’s playing our song.’ She dragged Ben to the middle of the floor, where a small space had cleared and a few couples were dancing. She pulled Ben close and nuzzled into the base of his neck.

  ‘What’s wrong with you,’ he asked, gruffly. ‘Our song?’

  ‘I just want to dance with my husband. Nothing wrong with that, is there?’ Sue tossed her brown curls and leant back to look in her husband’s face. She wanted to kiss him, but thought that would be going too far. Ben firmed his grip on the small of her back, and took the lead. They danced well together.

  ‘There you are.’ It was Aroha Johnson. ‘Is this an “excuse me”?’ She patted Sue’s arm and kissed her cheek.

  ‘Never,’ said Sue. ‘Ben’s all mine.’ She grasped him to her and felt him tense.

  ‘Oh, it’s not Ben I want. It’s you. I can have Ben any time.’ She pushed Ben to one side and enveloped Sue in an embrace. ‘Go and talk to your mates,’ she said to Ben. ‘We’ve got girl-talk.’ Ben stood, arms hanging, lip hanging, looking like little boy lost.

  Aroha. Another Mother Earth figure – Papatuanuku, more rightly. Sue seemed to be drawn to them. Aroha had been a student with Ben before Sue knew them and now was a Senior Lecturer in the Department.

  ‘Great to see you, Suzie. It’s been an age. I’ve been meaning to call but … You know how it is. Since we got back from the Sounds …’ They fought their way through the crush of bodies onto the balcony.

  Sue knew well how things could pop up unexpectedly and take over.

  ‘Is Hemi here?’

  ‘No. He’s out there somewhere.’ Aroha made a sweeping gesture toward the dark, which was the coast off Kaikoura. ‘Fishing. It’d be easier to change the date of the Department party than the cuzzies’ fishing trip. Every year it’s this weekend. Back on the old stomping ground. They rally from all over. Still, I don’t mind. It’s good for them.’

  ‘Male bonding,’ Sue nodded. Something Ben did not have.

  ‘More than that. It’s holding onto the culture.’

  Sue did not pretend to understand; she did not need to pretend with Aroha. ‘Sport and a good feed?’

  ‘Family – whanau.’ Aroha was not offended. She had once told Sue that she had been brought up a brown Pakeha. Sue had watched her become more Maori as the years
rolled on, mainly through her marriage into Hemi’s family. With her growing Maoriness, Aroha had become increasingly self-confident. Sue had envied the change. ‘Jake went with Hemi for the first time this year. Hemi thought he was old enough to join the men. I said I’d have his balls if he didn’t look after my boy.’ There was a pause, each woman lost in her own thoughts. Sue swivelled to scan the room behind them.

  ‘Looking for someone?’

  Sue shook her head. She did not need to look; she knew.

  ‘So, what’s with you?’ Aroha turned her broad-boned face toward Sue. Black hair fell to her shoulders in soft bulky ripples held off her high forehead with a black velvet headband. A few threads of silver glistened in the light of the outdoor lamps. Rich cream pearls nestled on her bosom. Sue reached out to touch their satiny surfaces. ‘They were my Nan’s,’ said Aroha.

  As Sue dropped her hand, she could not resist glancing over her shoulder again. She could see Ben’s head but not whom he was with, but she could tell from his stoop that whoever it was, he or she was considerably shorter. ‘How do you find the climate under Des’s leadership?’ she asked in an attempt to maintain control of her feelings.

  Aroha sighed. ‘Don’t know whether it’s being a woman or being Maori.’

  ‘Or both?’

  ‘Or both. But I must say it’s nice not being the only brown face in the Department these days. It shouldn’t matter but it does. Just eases things a bit. There’s Tim over there from Singapore and, among the post-grads, there’s Lee Lee, see – the spritely little lass – from Malaysia. And Alisha, the Sri Lankan woman talking to Ben. Have you met her?’

  Sue nodded. ‘Uh-huh.’ She now had a clear view of the pair. Ben’s hand was on Alisha’s arm and she was laughing up into his face. Sue could not remember how long it was since she had had such rapt attention from Ben. He had been attentive about the cancer, and obviously moved by the thought of losing her, but that was different. He was clearly captivated by Alisha. Possibly in love; he must be to allow himself to be drawn back to her like that in so public a setting, with his wife present. She wondered if he thought her stupid, or whether love was blinding his ability to see himself as others could.

  Aroha said, ‘I’d kill for a figure like that.’

  ‘Personally, I don’t know what people find so attractive in a bean pole.’

  ‘Let me see your eyes. Mmm. I thought so. Green as pounamu.’ She gave Sue a hug. ‘Ben doesn’t sleep around. I’d have had him long ago, if he did,’ she added, laughing throatily.

  ‘The way I’m feeling right now, you’d be welcome.’ Sue put her arm round Aroha’s ample waist. A vision of Ben smothered by Aroha flashed before her eyes.

  ‘Your glass is empty. And …’ Aroha threw back her head and drained her wine glass, ‘so is mine. Let’s go and purloin a bottle of chardonnay.’ The two women linked arms and marched inside to the beat of “Sergeant Pepper”.

  Akaroa,

  25th September, 1840.

  Ma chère Maman,

  I have met and spoken to my first Maori. Two days ago, when I was planting potatoes, I stopped in my labours to wipe my brow. (Although I am adapting to this life, it does not come easily.) That is when I saw her. She was standing at the edge of our land, watching. It is hard to say how old she would be. Her face was full but lined. She was barefoot and wore a simple cotton skirt and man’s shirt bound about by a coarsely woven shawl. It was only as she turned that I saw, concealed in the folds at her back, a young child sleeping.

  I smiled at the woman. At first she looked quickly away and moved to leave. I called “Bonjour, Madame,” and she halted. She smiled, at first shyly with her mouth, but then with her eyes and whole being.

  She gently called a greeting in return. “Kee-ora,” it sounded like. “Kee-ora,” I replied. She chuckled. She came closer and stooped over the potatoes I was planting. She surveyed my mounded rows and nodded sagely. By now, the little one was awake and large brown eyes peered through the woman’s hair over her shoulder, at this no doubt strange white face. (Not that my face is so white any more, nor my forearms, from working outside.) What a sensible way to carry a child, leaving hands free for chores, I thought.

  Today I was again working on the land, this time sowing lettuce seeds. When I straightened my aching back, there she was again. This time, as well as the child on her back, there was a young boy, standing some distance behind her. He was perhaps twelve years old, tall but with the slimness of youth, and beautiful. Not yet manly enough to be handsome. Apart from twill trousers tied at the waist with a fibrous cord, he wore nothing. But in his hands he carried a small bag woven from grass or reed. At the woman’s instruction, he hesitantly offered the bag to me from a distance. Impatiently, she spoke again, “Eh, tama,” and waved him forward. I was surprised at the sharpness in her tone, but the lad seemed to think nothing of it. He stepped forward and placed the bag in my hands. Inside were a handful of small, black, knobbly root vegetables, somewhat resembling potatoes. The woman grinned broadly and gestured that I should plant them in a row beside my potatoes. I thanked her heartily for her generosity and she seemed well pleased. I set to immediately, putting them in the ground. The lad took the spade from my hands and dug a trench for me and we worked together.

  When we were done, we all surveyed our work with satisfaction.

  I lifted and examined the reed bag and asked, with gestures, whether the woman had made it. She nodded and said: “Aye.” She pointed to me and herself and made weaving signs, from which I took that she would be willing to teach me the skill. I can certainly see the usefulness of being able to fabricate containers like this for vegetables and all manner of other things. I pointed to myself and said: “Bibi” several times, then pointed to the woman. After a moment, she stabbed a brown finger at her own chest and said: “Tay Marama.” I pointed to the lad and she laughed and replied: “Tama.” Tama shuffled his feet, making patterns in the dust as I repeated his name.

  By this time, the infant was fractious. The woman pulled it round to her front and, unbuttoning her shirt, set it to suckle. I call the child “it” because I have no idea whether it is a boy or a girl. Just a delicious bundle of firm brown flesh, shiny black curls and the longest lashes I have ever seen. When the child had drunk its fill and was once more cocooned on its mother’s back, we took leave of one another.

  I said: “Au revoir” and then “Kee-ora”. The woman laughed as if I had made a huge joke. She said something like “High ray ra”. So I repeated it, much to her approval, and the three went on their way.

  So, you can see, Maman, so far I have no cause to think that the natives are anything but friendly. But when I told my story over dinner, as we all sat in the entrance to our large marquee enjoying the last of the twilight, it met with stern disapproval. Not only my husband was displeased, but others, too, thought I had been rash to encourage the woman. Yet I feel I have made a friend.

  Yours always,

  Bibi

  The ride home was no more comfortable than the ride to Clifton. The evening had not been a total disaster. Sue had not allowed it to be. But she had been unable to stop herself spying on Ben; when he was not with Alisha, his gaze was on her continually, and time and again he was drawn back to her. Sue slumped in the passenger seat. She was on the verge, she knew, of losing something precious. The city lights no longer held the same attraction; Sue was absorbed in replaying mental video clips: Ben’s eyes straying over Olivia’s shoulder toward Alisha, as she was telling them of a fishing trip that had nearly turned to disaster; the expression on Ben’s face as he watched Alisha and Tim deep in conversation, their heads almost touching; the flutter of Alisha’s lashes as she looked up at Ben; the way he puffed up in response to her adulation; her fluting laugh, and her fingers hovering briefly over his arm.

  Little bitch, thought Sue. She could contain herself no longer.

  ‘You wouldn’t have introduced me if I hadn’t forced it on you, would you?’

  ‘Int
roduced you to whom?’

  The silence was heavy, dangerous. Sue knew they were in new territory, standing on a fault line.

  ‘You know who.’

  Ben put his foot down, accelerating uncomfortably close to the car in front. ‘Come on. Come on,’ he said angrily, as if the driver could hear. ‘Silly old fart.’ He tooted and overtook with little room to spare.

  ‘Ben!’ Sue braced herself.

  ‘Don’t tell me what to do.’

  ‘I will. You’re my husband and I love you.

  Sue preceded Ben into the living room. She stopped in the doorway.

  ‘Oh, hello. I didn’t know you were home,’ she said to the back of Charlie’s head. Beside it was another, also dark and spiky. The Hunk, Sue thought.

  ‘Hi, Mum. You’re early.’ Charlie’s tone was studied nonchalance.

  Sue stood to one side of the couch to see their faces, illuminated by the flicker of the television. ‘Good movie?’ she asked.

  ‘A bit bloodthirsty for you. Hi, Dad.’ Ben came to a halt beside Sue.

  ‘This is, this is Patrick,’ Charlie said, looking up at her parents.

  Patrick stood. All two metres of him, shoulders like a front row forward. No mean pimply youth this. He extended a strong, broad hand to Ben who hesitated almost imperceptibly before accepting it. ‘Nice to meet you, Mr Spencer.’ Charlie caught her mother’s eye, grinned and gave a surreptitious thumbs-up. ‘And you, Mrs Spencer.’ He reached around Ben and took Sue’s hand. His grip was firm. Sue warmed to him and could see what attracted her daughter.

  ‘We’re interrupting your movie,’ said Sue.

  ‘Yes,’ Charlie said, without demur.

  ‘No,’ Patrick said, simultaneously.

  ‘Where’s Jase?’ Charlie asked.

  ‘At Karl’s for the night.’

  ‘So he says,’ said Charlie.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  Charlie shrugged. ‘Nothing,’ she said.