Huia Short Stories 10

by Tihema Baker

  My eyes inflate with venom, staring down at this dress I want to rip from my body, because no one should be angry wearing yellow primrose. I shake my hair loose, and plant my feet firmly on the earth. Our arms flail in a game of hei tama tū tama, but no one is winning – our actions are always at odds. I can feel her voice is weakening though; only random words the tone of a scream now. I look for a motivating image behind my eyelids, then open them again to Queenie, in a heap at my feet.

  I pull out a white handkerchief from my pocket, then throw it into the air. My eyes collide with Tui’s as the flimsy cloth hovers between us, guiding it to our feet with a slow nod.

  I raise my hands in front of me, flick at the air.

  ‘Hī aue hī,’ I whisper.

  I Must Warn You

  Terence Rissetto

  Chapter Three: Kahla

  He walked into the dimly lit but welcoming café and made his way through the crowded tables to an empty one in the corner, setting down his pack and gear. Sitting with his back to the wall, he finally allowed himself to relax. The café patrons were obviously local groups and families engaged in excited chatter and laughter, with some loud shrieks coming from a group of Americans in the far corner. The sound of spoken English was comforting, although the accent was irritating.

  The waitress spoke little English, but with a bit of pointing and miming, he managed to secure a large salad with fish, olives, bread and olive oil dip, together with a large ball of buffalo mozzarella and a bottle of indeterminate but softly smooth red wine.

  Halfway through the meal he noticed a beautifully exotic woman with long black hair tied back, dressed in a business suit, who was approaching each of the tables in turn, offering to take photos and leaving a card whether she was successful or not.

  He watched her work the room, chatting easily with each group, demure with the families, flirtatious with the Americans, complimentary and laughing with the women. She noticed him looking at her and engaged more fervently with the customers, laughing louder and touching some of them warmly before sneaking a glance in his direction. He stopped eating and picked up a second glass of wine, settling back against the wall and staring at her openly. He winked at her whenever he caught her eye and poked his tongue out at her whenever he got the chance. She blushed and pretended to ignore him.

  Finally, he was the only one left in the room whom she had not approached. He was in the corner, so there was nowhere left for her to go. He smiled at her and raised his glass and eyebrows, nodding his head in acknowledgement as she came towards him.

  ‘Enchanté, kia ora,’ he said. ‘May I say, you are very beautiful and obviously very talented. You did that very well. I’m very impressed.’

  She grimaced slightly and shook her hair from her eyes.

  ‘You American?’ Her voice was guarded but interested. The French accent made the enquiry very alluring and mysterious.

  ‘Sort of but not really. Kiwi,’ he offered.

  ‘Kiwi? You want a picture or not?’ She asked half diffidently, half irritated.

  ‘Of you? Mais, oui. Certainement.’

  ‘Not of me. I take one of you!’

  He laughed. ‘Vous est une petite morte, ma fille.’

  ‘Your French is very good, Kiwi. You just called me an orgasm. Stupide!’ She hit the palm of her hand against her forehead.

  ‘I did not call you an orgasm, stupide – you’re obviously too smart for that – and I wouldn’t call you a stupide orgasm because I have just fallen in love with you. I would never insult such a beautiful woman as yourself.’

  She shook her head in apparent disgust and went to move away.

  ‘Pardon,’ he said. ‘My apologies, I have been away from women a long time. You can take my picture on the condition that you sit down with me and have a glass of wine and talk to me. I will pay you for your time as well.’

  ‘Bastard! I am not a prostitute!’

  Her voice carried to the other diners who looked around at them. He held up both hands to show he was unarmed.

  ‘No, but I am. I’ve just got out of prison after a long time, just arrived in your beautiful city and I would like to take pictures of you.’

  ‘Of me? Pourquoi, why?’

  He motioned for her to sit down. Once she had done so, after a slight hesitation, and a glass of wine had been placed in front of her by the waitress, he continued.

  ‘Because for a long time all I took photos of were cemeteries and graves, and then I lived in prison with the living dead, and now I want to be among the living and take photos of beautiful women.’

  He noticed her take a sip of wine and briefly smile at the compliment.

  ‘Naked, of course.’

  She smiled at him again, shaking her head ruefully. Up close, she was even more beautiful than from afar. She had taken her hair out and swept it back over her shoulders before bending forward to cut off a large chunk of the mozzarella. She put it in a mouth framed by firm lips and looked at him mischievously with startlingly green, intelligent eyes.

  ‘My name’s Terris,’ he offered.

  ‘Mines’s Kahla.’

  ‘Kali?’

  ‘No Kahla, the dark one. You know Kali? The goddess?’

  ‘The Thuggee, yes but I knew a Kali once in another life. You married?’

  ‘I must warn you, Kiwi, I’m gay,’ she said between mouthfuls, looking at him shrewdly.

  ‘That’s all right, I’m gay too.’

  ‘I’m gay, Kiwi, so don’t waste your time.’

  ‘I’m happy too,’ he protested.

  ‘No, I mean I’m really gay,’ she persisted.

  ‘Thanks. On second thoughts, you’re right, I hate really happy people.’

  ‘No, I mean I’m gay. I don’t sleep with men.’

  ‘That’s OK, I don’t either.’

  ‘I like women.’

  ‘That’s OK, I do too. We’ll get along fine.’

  ‘I’m in a relationship with a woman.’

  ‘You’ve got me there, unless women warders count? You live with this woman?’

  ‘No.’ She sounded regretful.

  ‘Do you see her often?’

  ‘No, she’s married.’

  ‘I sense a dilemma. How long have you been seeing her?’

  ‘We’ve been friends for a few years and just recently it’s become serious.’

  ‘Emotional attachment?’

  ‘Yes,’ she smiled at the thought.

  ‘Daddy issues or mummy?’

  ‘Look, funny guy, I’m only into women.’

  ‘Yeah, so am I. Didn’t we just have this conversation? Can we go somewhere else and continue this? I’m very aroused. But I don’t have anywhere to stay tonight.’

  That stopped her. She looked at him dumbfounded.

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘I’m kidding. But you are very beautiful, you know, underneath all your heterophobia.’

  ‘Beauty’s on the outside,’ she snorted derisively. ‘What about the inside? Women have inner beauty, you know. That’s why I prefer being with them.’

  ‘Are you giving me permission to check out your inside? I have just the tool if you can show me the way in.’ He gave his most innocent smile.

  She shook her head in disbelief and looked at his face and over at his pack and gear.

  ‘Yes, I do think you are a tool. Where did you say you were from again? You look kinda scary, but I think it’s all bluff.’

  ‘Aotearoa. Nouvelle-Zélande.’

  ‘Nouvelle-Zélande? It’s a beautiful place. I don’t know why I’m doing this, but you can stay the night at my apartment. But make sure you keep your hands to yourself.’

  ‘I have to, they’re attached to my arms. Shall I buy some more wine to take away with us? Otherwise I have some duty-free cognac.’

  ‘Cognac? You’ll be drinking that by yourself. Cognac doesn’t agree with me. I do things I regret.’

  ‘I’ve only got two bottles. Will that be enough regrets?’


  ‘No. I’m pretty sure I have some wine at home.’

  They stood up, and she waited while he paid the bill and gave a generous tip to soothe the waitress’s nerves. He picked up his bags and handed Kahla his camera to carry. Outside, the air was warm and welcoming. She grabbed his arm and walked down the street with her arm through his.

  ‘Tell me what it was like in prison, macho macho man.’

  ‘Shocking, horrible, disgusting.’

  ‘Because of the other men?’

  ‘No. The lack of women.’

  She laughed.

  ‘What were you in for?’

  ‘Stupidity.’

  ‘Did you see anyone killed?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Did you ever kill anyone? There’s something dangerous under that puppy-dog smile of yours.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Really? Tell me about it.’ She tightened her grip on his arm excitedly. He abruptly stopped walking and turned to look her in the eyes, his face hardening.

  ‘Never ask me that question again, not even in jest. Comprenez-vous?’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she stammered, avoiding his eyes. ‘I didn’t mean to …’

  ‘It’s OK,’ he laughed, taking her arm again and starting to walk, ‘I was lying.’

  ‘About killing someone?’ She asked cautiously, sneaking a glance up at his face.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Oh, you’re impossible,’ she exclaimed, punching him on his arm in exasperation.

  ‘No, dear, I’m possible. And incredibly good-looking.’

  She laughed and lent her head on his shoulder. Her hair smelt nice. In fact, the whole woman of her smelt and felt nice. There was a strength about her that he liked. It was a good start.

  They walked for ten minutes together in silence, lost in thought and unconsciously adjusting the rhythm of their bodies to suit each other’s, until they came to a doorway set into the stone of one of the surrounding buildings. She lifted her head off his shoulder and detached herself from him so that she could find the door key.

  The door opened with the familiar ancient creak and rattle of a cell door. He followed her inside a small hallway and up several steps to a landing where she used another key to open a wider, more modern door. There was a small plaque attached to the wall outside that read:

  Les Fleurs du Mal

  Studio de Photographie

  Pour Les Femmes

  Inside, there was another small hallway leading to several steps, and at the top of them, he found himself in a spacious room with high ceilings, reminiscent of some of the New York lofts he had seen while visiting friends when he had first gone to America.

  The right end of the room had a mezzanine floor with a small staircase leading up to it. Underneath this was the kitchen, modern and well-appointed, and a dining area where pride of place was given to a large rustic cottage table with nine chairs. To one side of that was a large fireplace. The other end of the room was given over to various sofas, a home theatre set-up with a digital projector, studio lights, screens, chairs and camera equipment.

  The street lights shone through a row of windows high in the wall almost parallel to the mezzanine at the other end. The walls were covered with artwork and photographs, including portraits and family groups. Several of the frames held what appeared to be certificates of some kind. The room had a lovely warmth about it, and he felt at home instantly.

  There were several other doors leading off the main room. One looked to be a bedroom, one a bathroom, beside that a darkroom, and beside that an office of some sort, with several computers in it as well as shelves of document boxes. Along most of one wall in the main room were several bookcases loaded down with art books, and legal, feminist and sapphic dialectics. Kahla turned on several of the lamps before turning off the main lights.

  ‘Put your bags over there.’ She indicated one of the sofas. ‘Do you mind if I make something to eat? I’ll just get out of these clothes first. My bedroom’s upstairs – you can sleep in the spare room in there. I’ve got my own bathroom, so feel free to use the one over here. Do you mind lighting a fire?’

  By the time she came down there was a roaring fire, and he was immersed in one of her photography books – Clarence John Laughlin. She did not disturb him as she set about making a meal. When she called him to the table, he saw that she was wearing jeans and a man’s shirt and had obviously showered.

  ‘My work clothes,’ she explained. ‘Oh, damn, I don’t have any wine left after all.’

  ‘Never mind, try some cognac. I promise not to get you drunk, serious.’

  He rummaged in his bag and pulled out the bottle Remy had given him as a present. As he opened the cardboard box and pulled the bottle out, a small plastic bag fell on the floor. Reaching down, he saw it was a thick wad of US banknotes. There was a note attached. It said ‘Always, Remy’.

  ‘Who’s Remy? Your boyfriend? That’s a lot of money.’

  ‘He’s a friend. He owes me.’

  ‘Tell me.’ She seemed genuinely interested.

  ‘Maybe. If you have a drink or three with me.’ He opened the cognac and filled two wine glasses with its dark molten colour.

  ‘After we eat,’ she nodded, taking one of the glasses and sniffing the contents. ‘Salut!’

  ‘Blood!’ He toasted in return, taking a large sip and feeling its honey warmth.

  The meal was magical though he didn’t know what he was eating. The combination of food, cognac, warm fire and the mystery and fire of the woman opposite relaxed him. She was good company. He found himself telling her almost everything: Jennie and her father, Kali, his grandmother, drugs, prison. She looked at him shrewdly.

  ‘You’re looking for a sympathy fuck, aren’t you?’

  The question and its sudden vulgarity came out of the blue. He’d been enjoying her company, two humans bonding. Humanity hadn’t had much to do with his life over the last few years.

  ‘Are you offering?’ he replied cheekily.

  She smiled and shook her head so that her hair fell over her eyes and he couldn’t read what was in them.

  ‘How about a charity one then?’ he asked.

  ‘You don’t need charity, young man, not with all that money your boyfriend gave you,’ she retorted.

  ‘Oh right. OK, I’ll pay you then. How much?’ he said, pretending to be businesslike.

  ‘I don’t like men. I told you that.’

  ‘Yes, but I’m not a man, I’m a poor ex-prisoner who’s had a wretched life and needs a friend, one without a penis. Oh, hell. You’ve probably got one haven’t you? Made of hard rubber and a leather belt. Tie one on has a different meaning with you.’

  ‘Don’t be crude.’ She toyed with her glass. ‘It’s different with women. Women don’t need to be at it all the time. Sometimes a hug is enough.’

  ‘I can do hugs! Can I ask you a question?’ As he filled her glass, she tilted it to avoid the cognac spilling. ‘Are you the catcher or the pitcher?’ He looked at her expectantly.

  ‘The catcher or the pitcher? What are you talking about?’

  ‘Well with men, one gives and one receives.’

  ‘Oh, is that what you mean? Women do both, give and receive at the same time.’

  ‘Sure, sure. No woman can do what a man can.’

  She was becoming intoxicated and he could see the fire reflected in her eyes, which started to blaze with one of their own.

  ‘I can do anything a man can do,’ she declared.

  ‘You can’t.’ He shook his head emphatically.

  ‘Don’t swear! Ask me to do anything apart from anything sexual.’

  ‘OK. Take your top off.’ He had noticed that she was not wearing anything underneath.

  She started to retort and then, exasperated, stood and took her top off.

  Watching a woman take her top off was one of the wonders of the world, and this was no exception. He watched in awe as her full breasts lifted and then fell as she took the top off and shook h
er hair so that it concealed her nipples.

  ‘Now take yours off,’ she challenged.

  He hadn’t expected that, not having thought that far ahead.

  ‘Go on Mr Toughguy, take it off,’ she goaded him.

  ‘You’ll be sorry,’ he said, standing up and pulling off his shirt. There was a gasp as she saw some of the scars and tā moko.

  ‘Oh my God! Where did you get those from?’ She came around the table and put cool fingers on the scars on his stomach. He flinched at the touch. It was too nice.

  ‘Various,’ he said, starting to put his top back on again.

  ‘Leave it off,’ she said. ‘Come and sit on the sofa.’ She put hers back on and picked up her camera. He grabbed her and, holding her cheeks, kissed her softly on the lips, feeling her weaken and lean against him before pushing him angrily away.

  ‘Don’t do that again.’

  ‘It was a charity kiss, darling. You looked so sad, I couldn’t help myself. Can we put some music on?’

  She put on the Joni Mitchell Blue album, then changed her mind and put on Leonard Cohen, live in concert, gently swaying to the music and snapping photos of him.

  ‘Move! Pose! Look mysterious! You look like a gay Jim Morrison.’

  ‘That’s not fair. I’m not used to this.’ He unsheathed his own camera and started taking photos like a machine gunner, while pretending to look at his nails and shine them on his jeans.

  ‘Enough!’ she yelled. ‘Some order here!’

  ‘Tell you what,’ he said, ‘drinking game. Whoever takes a picture has to take a drink of cognac. Deal?’

  ‘Deal. And tell the other one how they want them to pose.’

  ‘Deal.’

  She took a quick drink.

  ‘What do you want me to do?’ he asked.

  ‘Nothing. That was a practice.’

  He took a sip. ‘Take off your top again.’ He smiled and took numerous shots as she did so, including of her face, and quickly took another swig. ‘Take off your jeans and undies and put on your fur coat.’

  ‘That’s not fair, it’s my turn.’

  ‘No, the person who drinks first.’

  She did as she was told, taking two quick drinks as he took photos.

  ‘My turn, mister macho man gay happy meal. Take off your trousers and everything else.’