by Anne Ostby
But maybe the pat on the shoulder is mostly for myself. Isn’t this just the kind of life I wanted? A living house, complete with joys and worries, conversations and arguments and song? So I could have people around me, and so I could be around people? “You need your sisters, Madam Kat,” Ateca had said back then. And yes, she was right.
18
Sina
Salusalu. Reguregu. Bolabola. Sina opens her ears wide when Fijian is spoken around her; the words explode like fireworks and the voices trill and boom. This language sounds so strange to her! Supposedly it’s not that hard to learn—the grammar is simple and there are only a few tricky things to remember about the pronunciation. “A d in the middle of a word is pronounced nd,” Kat says. “The city’s name is Nandi. Only tourists say Nadi, remember that. And you’ve heard how Ateca’s name is pronounced. Not Atecka, but Atetha. The c is pronounced like the English th.”
And the sounds are so weird! Every other letter is a vowel, a round o or a string of a’s bursting through the air. The words are like nursery rhymes, repeating the same syllable over and over again. Everyone in Fiji does speak English, but a lot of the conversation around her takes place in vosa vaka-Viti, this Fijian singsongy vowel-speak which always makes it sound like they’re planning something important. It’s as if the words gain a different meaning when they’re spoken in English. It was no coincidence that the pastor in Korototoka Methodist Church prayed in vosa vaka-Viti at their lovo party.
She doesn’t often get Ateca all to herself; Ingrid or Kat is usually close by. But one early afternoon, when the housekeeper sits on the living room floor folding clothes, Sina gets a chance to bring up the subject. Ateca nods and knows what she’s asking right away. “Does it matter whether we talk about things in Fijian or English? Well, yes. It does. In vosa vaka-Viti, it’s…” She takes a second to think about it. “Deeper, in a way.”
“More profound?”
Sina’s not quite sure whether she understands.
“Yes. Well, no…deeper. More genuine.”
“Genuine?”
Ateca nods. “Yes. When you say something in Fijian, it belongs to you. Like the land. Vanua. Do you know what I mean?”
“It doesn’t directly translate,” Kat has tried to explain. “Vanua is the land you and your clan belong to, but it’s more than that. It’s the people who live there now and those who have lived there before. It’s the traditions they’ve had and the songs they’ve sung. What they believe in and what they’ve loved, the togetherness and the memories. The joy over babies who are born and the grief over those who have died.”
Sina thinks she gets it, at least partly. She’s seen it on her walks in and around the village, she’s seen it in ways big and small: the cane knife resting naturally in the palm, the gaze out over the landscape under the hand shielding eyes from the sun. A wide-open, grateful ownership. The security of being part of something. Vanua.
“Yes,” Sina says. She knows what Ateca’s saying. To speak about the things that really belong to you, you need a deeper language.
—
Standing guard is the only thing she knows how to do. Watching out and keeping track, trying to anticipate problems and avoid danger. And when the damage is done: recovering what’s left and making the best of it. Bearing the brunt of it to the best of her ability. To comfort when needed, to hold a hand. But these days she’s mainly comforting herself. It’s been a long time since she’s held Armand’s hand—oh, how well she remembers those skinny, restless squirrel fingers. Today, thanks to online bank transfers, their hands don’t even have to meet when he grabs her money. But his words are the same as always: “Thanks, Mom. I’ll pay you back next week, I promise!” Usually via text message, once in a while in a rushed phone call.
The strange thing is that she can talk about it with Maya. Or to Maya. The years have treated us differently, Sina thinks. Fiji-Maya, with a bulky straw hat on her head and a contemplative look out over the waves, is more remote, more quiet than the confident, pragmatic friend she remembers from high school. The pieces have moved around the board; the whole game has changed.
“First we have to break free from our parents,” Sina tells Maya, who nods under the brim of her hat. “And now we have to break free from our damn kids too.”
In twelfth grade and all the years in Reitvik that followed, Sina was never in the same league as Maya Aakre. Maya and Steinar, they had their jobs, their coworkers, their circle. Sina never had a “circle.” A woman who spends her days shelving sealant and raw linseed oil in the stockroom and sorting wallpaper samples by price doesn’t have such things. They would greet each other in the street, ask how the kids were doing, Maya in a polite tone of voice, Sina with shameful jealousy. Would things have been different if she’d had a daughter? One time Maya’s daughter’s husband, an artist, had an exhibition in Reitvik called “Colors and Landscapes”—Sina remembers the title from the ad in the paper. She’d wanted to go, she knew where the gallery was, on the second floor above the photography studio. But she didn’t go—what did she know about art? Admission was free, but what if you were expected to buy something? How much did a painting cost? Sina’s walls at home are covered in pictures of Armand, baby pictures on a sheepskin rug and teenage photos in confirmation robes. A woven tapestry of a sunset and a few pieces of embroidery she’s done herself. At one point the store took in a batch of framed pictures, flowers in vases in a kind of Japanese style. They didn’t sell many of them, and after a year she was allowed to take three of them home, practically for free. No, “Colors and Landscapes” probably wasn’t for her. So she didn’t go. And she didn’t say anything to Maya the next time she saw her at the supermarket. She just nodded and kept pushing her shopping cart toward the next aisle.
But she’s saying something now. Now that Maya’s shoulders are slumping and her words are slower, Sina is there, ready to lend a hand. She and Maya take the same walk every day: down to the beach, past the short pier with the ladder at the end. Back up past the hill by the cemetery, where they sometimes sit down on the side wall and take a rest. Onward to the village chief’s bure. It’s located at the highest point in the village and has a thatched roof and walls but no windows. They’ve asked the locals about it; Sina finds it easier to talk to people when she’s with Maya. Her friend is often silent, standing there with her big, mute sunglasses and her matted curls tucked under her hat. But Sina can speak for both of them; it becomes a duty she fulfills, an act of compassion. And so it’s also for Maya, the retired literature and history teacher, that she finds out that no one but the chief is allowed through the front door. No one lives or sleeps in the chief’s bure, but important decisions are made here. Sina and Maya get a peek inside through a side door, which confirms what they’ve been told: that the walls are decorated with strips of masi, the thin bark of the mulberry tree, painted with black and brown patterns. That a huge tanoa, the big kava bowl festooned with polished cowry shells, takes center stage in the room. That the floor is covered in coco, the fanciest mats, and the walls are lined with clubs, axes, and spears, symbols of war. Sina shudders at what she’s heard about the old cannibal weapons: the ax to cleave the skull, the club with a hook on the end to dig into the brain.
They politely say thank you and leave; they don’t discuss what they’ve been told. They’re almost back at the store with the piles of watermelon in front of it before Maya makes a comment. “Those clubs look way too heavy. When you need something like that, you need it quick.”
Sina nods. If you want to club someone in the head, there’s no time to waste.
—
When they return to the house this afternoon, there’s a pickup parked in the yard. “Rakiraki Cooling Services” is painted on the side. “We make you freeze.”
Maya retreats to her room. Sina is momentarily tempted to take a nap as well, but Lisbeth is sitting on the porch, and she plops down next to her and points to the truck.
“Why is the cooling company here?
Is the freezer broken again? Or is Kat’s House getting air conditioning installed?” She smirks to herself, as if she’s made a joke.
Lisbeth shakes her head. “I don’t think so. But if we’re going to make chocolate, I’m guessing we’ll need to cool down the sweet house,” she says, using the name Ingrid has given to the unused shed they’re planning to turn into a production site. “They’re probably here to find out about isolation and refrigeration and things like that. I’m sure it’s not cheap to turn an old chicken shack or whatever it was into a chocolate factory.”
Sina nods, and takes a cigarette from Lisbeth’s case without asking.
“And the gardener in chief, where’s she?”
Lisbeth looks around. “Ingrid? I’m not sure. Maybe in the backyard?”
Sina doesn’t respond. She doesn’t engage in Ingrid’s efforts to make the pumpkins grow larger and the melons sweeter. She doesn’t have the energy to compete; her experience from the gardening club in Reitvik pales in comparison with Ingrid’s staunch determination to teach herself everything there is to know about tropical produce.
It’s as if Lisbeth has read her mind. “Well, she’ll have more things to think about than pumpkins and beans when she’s the chocolate director.”
—
They sit in silence for a while. Sina is tracking a boat on the horizon with her eyes when Lisbeth suddenly asks: “How’s Maya doing?”
Sina turns toward her. “Fine. Why do you ask?”
Lisbeth shrugs. “No, no reason. She just seemed so tired.”
“Everyone gets tired sometimes. It was hot on our walk.”
Sina feels the irritation bubble up; why does Lisbeth have to butt in? Her annoyance picks up steam and she mimics her friend in a mocking voice: “ ‘How’s Maya doing?’ It’s not like she’s a little kid! Why don’t you ask her yourself?”
Lisbeth looks surprised; her voice grows apologetic. “I didn’t mean anything by it…I just thought—”
“You thought what?” Sina bristles: “Maya’s the sharpest of all of us, she always has been. Age doesn’t change that. You yourself are not exactly the same person you were when you were twenty either!”
That was a low blow, and Sina regrets it immediately. She should shut up, but it’s so irritating, so ridiculous, that Lisbeth still worries about her looks—she’s an old lady! A memory prickles and seethes inside Sina, a shame she’s almost managed to repress: standing in front of the mirror in Lisbeth’s room, all alone in the house. Greedily grabbing at her silk blouses and high-heeled shoes, trying to squeeze into her narrow pencil skirts and form-fitting jackets. The lilac blouse that didn’t fit, baggy across the chest, way too tight over the stomach. The sudden tearing of the seam. The hole ripping through the fabric, impossible to repair. The feeling of indifference when she draped it back over the hanger.
Sina’s not sure why she jumps so fiercely to Maya’s defense. Her friend may be quieter than before, but she has the same air of authority. Her knowledge of the South Pacific islands, about their history, geography, culture, and politics, is far superior to the others’. Maybe with the exception of Kat—although Sina has a suspicion that their global nomad’s expertise in all the international projects she parades around is actually pretty flimsy. Maya’s knowledge isn’t tried and tested, but it is cross-referenced and thoroughly documented. In their evening conversations on the porch, she’s usually the one to make the interesting connections, Sina thinks. The other night, for example, when they started talking about the constellations, the South and the North Star. “Ursa Minor,” Maya said, “or what we call the Little Dipper. The North Star is the brightest star in that constellation. Stella Polaris in Latin. But did you know it was also called Stella Maris in the Middle Ages? Star of the Sea? That’s actually one of the names they used to call the Virgin Mary.”
Lisbeth looked at her with interest. “Really? That’s exactly what she said. That little girl. She said her name was Star of the Sea.”
Maya nodded. “Yes, exactly. ‘Our lady, star of the sea’ was one of the Holy Virgin’s names.”
She leaned back in her chair, satisfied with this evening’s lecture. The Maya they’d always known, savvy and capable.
Except when she isn’t. When Maya’s face becomes a blank canvas, when her eyes become a pair of closed doors, only slightly ajar to reveal slivers of fear, something in Sina shudders. A discomfort she doesn’t want to share with anyone; it coats her vocal cords and propels her to reassure her friend it’s all going to be okay, she’ll handle it. When Maya loses her words, Sina finds hers.
—
Is Sina the only one who sees it? She thinks so. She’s the only one who has seen right through Lisbeth Karlsen, the princess of their senior year. Seen that it wasn’t self-confidence lurking behind that smile and ample cleavage, but rather a tightly wound coil of anxiety. A string that Sina could flick so it trembled whenever she wanted: one harsh glare, and the artificial laughter through pink glossed lips was stifled. Sina’s never been jealous of Lisbeth. Of her money, maybe, her life of leisure. But she’ll be damned if she’s ever felt inadequate. Power lies in knowledge. Especially in deciding whether to use it.
In fact, she feels sorry for Lisbeth. What’s the point of this whole charade? She’s so tired of it all.
19
Ateca
Dear God
You know that I trust in my dreams, that they always tell me things. But tonight I had a dream that scared me. I dreamed about Drua, the big, holy ship. I was standing in the middle of the deck, in the chief’s spot, watching over the hull and the steering oars on both sides. I was afraid, because I knew it wasn’t my place. I shouldn’t be the one in charge of trimming the sails when the sea got rough. But I couldn’t move. We were going fast and the waves were strong, and I was all alone on the ship when Dakuwaqa, the shark god, suddenly rose up from the deep. And then I became Tokairahe, son of the gods, with the magical fishhooks. The one who can catch all the fish in the sea—except for Dakuwaqa. I had his necklace around my neck, the chain made of bone hooks glittering in yellow, blue, and purple. And then Dakuwaqa came surging up from the sea, coming toward me in a giant leap, and grabbed the necklace in his terrible teeth. But they didn’t touch me, I didn’t get a single scratch! When the shark vanished back down into the waves, Tokairahe’s hook necklace was gone. I was wearing a thin gold necklace instead.
—
The dream frightened me so much, Lord. Help me have faith that you’ll protect me.
In Jesus’ holy name. Emeni.
20
Maya
The scary thing isn’t not remembering. It’s when she remembers that she hasn’t remembered that the dizziness turns into terrified nausea. When she realizes she’s been on the outside. All the way over there on the other, unknown side. That she’s stood there with a blank stare and trembling lips, mumbling, “I don’t know who you are” at faces she can’t recognize.
It’s later on, when she has no idea why she’s standing here, with an unfamiliar umbrella in her hand or groceries she can’t remember buying in her bag. It’s when the gate has shut behind her and shoved her back among familiar surroundings and faces that her throat constricts and she feels the panic racing in with deafening hoofbeats: Where was I?
Still, Maya gets annoyed. At Evy, who tried to hide her concern behind cheerful comments before she left: “Remember to stay out of the sun, Mom. Too much of a good thing, you know how it is.” At Ingrid, who bosses everyone around in the garden and warns them that too much papaya can lead to an upset stomach. At Kat? No, not at Kat. Kat knows. The night they drove Evy to the airport, was that really just a few months ago? The terror when she awoke in the truck and suddenly didn’t know why she was there. The sound of the ocean, its beckoning song. Kat’s face, so familiar, but she couldn’t bring herself to associate it with words or thoughts. She’d cried when Kat put her to bed that night. Bitter, exasperated tears over the chaos within her, the desperate feeling of lo
sing your grip. Kat knows. But Maya doesn’t think she’s told the others.
She glances over at her friend in the hammock, which sways silently in the afternoon heat on the porch. It’s still there, what none of them could put into words back then. The attraction they all felt for her, the bubbling excitement that filled your body just by standing in a circle around her. The smile you wanted to be bestowed just on you. It’s still there. Kat’s hair has as many streaks of silver as her own; thick, blue veins run across her hands holding a book. But while Maya’s worn golden ring rests loosely on her ring finger, a blue-green flower garland is wrapped around Kat’s. Proving in eternal ink that she belongs with Niklas, but in their own unique way. Kat wears a white linen shirt with nothing underneath; Maya can see the outline of her small breasts against the thin material. The sense of freedom she always seemed to radiate, even in the crowded, overheated classroom at Reitvik High, still glows strong and undisputed around Katrine Vale. A heavy wave of emotion washes over Maya, a bitter taste in her mouth. She has to think for a second before she realizes what it is, a feeling she’s long since forgotten. There isn’t just one word for it, the tart mixture of jealousy, admiration, and inadequacy. And here she is again, in Kat’s circle. And just like before, none of them can see that what they’ve always wanted is to be her.
Kat props herself up on one elbow and sighs. “Hot, isn’t it? I don’t know how you’re sitting in that chair in the sun, Maya—aren’t you burning up? Poor Johnny, who has to come into this sauna tomorrow—he’s used to more breezy conditions out on his boat, I’d imagine. But it’ll be exciting to hear what he thinks of our plans.”