by Anne Ostby
In a soft background hum, she can hear Kat on the phone with Evy, Ingrid out on the porch greeting those who have come to offer condolences. All of Korototoka knows by now that one of the ladies in Vale nei Kat has breathed her last breath. The mats will be here soon, Sina thinks.
Lisbeth pushes the door ajar. “Can I help you?”
She opens her mouth to rebuff her, but instead hears herself saying, “I can do it by myself. But you can come in and sit for a while.”
—
Evy wants Maya’s coffin to be sent to Norway; she’ll be buried at home in Reitvik. The daughter wanted to jump on the first flight to Fiji, but Kat has convinced her it isn’t necessary: “We can arrange the transportation home from Nadi.”
At first Sina doesn’t know why Ateca looks relieved, until she explains: “It gives us time to have a reguregu.”
Sina has never heard the word before. “Is that a kind of funeral ceremony?”
Ateca thinks for a moment. “It’s more than that,” she says at last. “It’s saying goodbye.”
Sina has so many questions.
“Cremation is quite common in Norway,” she says. “You don’t do that here?”
Ateca nods her little backward nod. “Not too often, but sometimes. The most important thing is that Madam Maya has a place with God, with the angels. It doesn’t matter whether she goes in a coffin or in ashes.”
—
She’s dreading it. She doesn’t want her farewell to Maya to be something foreign and unfamiliar, an incomprehensible ceremony that feels alien. Sina’s grief is restrained, almost wary, as if she has to protect Maya through this too.
The reguregu is indeed foreign, and a bit strange, but not inappropriate. Not frightening. Since Maya doesn’t have her own family here, the mats are laid at Kat’s feet. Akuila has brought a big tanoa from his house for the kava; the little bowl they keep on their own shelf is for decoration only. The porch fills up with people, a silent procession pours into the house and passes around the dining table where the coffin is laid. Bilo after bilo is drunk, many kind words and prayers are said for Maya. Sina thinks of Evy, of the rest of the family, and of Maya’s friends back home in Reitvik: they won’t get to experience this. A crowded and heartfelt farewell from those who were there when the journey suddenly came to an end.
Father Iosefa is about to lead everyone in a hymn in the living room, and Sina walks out to the porch. Her gaze is fixed on the waves, and she doesn’t notice Ateca until a hand takes hers. She jerks back, but doesn’t pull her hand away. Not until the song in the house reaches its last verse, and Ateca sings along:
And when at last the mists of time have vanished
And I in truth my faith confirmed shall see,
Upon the shores where earthly ills are banished
I’ll enter, Lord, to dwell in peace with thee.
Something explodes inside Sina. Suddenly she’s furious, at Ateca, at the ridiculous lyrics of the hymn, and she tears her hand away in anger. “Dwell in peace?” she shouts. “Maya didn’t go to dwell in peace. She had a stroke. And now she’s dead!”
Ateca stops singing, but doesn’t answer. Just stands calmly with her hands folded until the hymn is ended.
“Grief makes our thoughts dark, Madam Sina,” she says when it grows quiet. “I don’t know how they do it in your village. But here in Korototoka, no one ever forgets. We’ll remember Madam Maya again in four days. And ten days after that. And a hundred days after that again. Even if her body is someplace else.”
Sina nods, and her anger dissipates as quickly as it came. She thinks of something she once heard Ateca say: When you say something in Fijian, it belongs to you. Maybe that’s how it is with grief too? That you have to mourn in a way that your heart understands? So that your grief can find the right place to rest?
“When Madam Maya gets home to Norway,” she begins, “her daughter will be there to receive her, and there will be our kind of reguregu, a memorial service in her own village, according to our custom. It’s different from your way, but it’s where everyone who wants to can come say goodbye.”
“Can everyone speak and say what they want?”
Say what they want? What does Ateca mean?
“Yes…anyone who wants can give a speech in remembrance.”
“Can they ask for forgiveness, and be forgiven in turn?”
Sina doesn’t get it. “Forgiveness? If they’ve been on bad terms with the deceased, you mean?”
Ateca sighs quietly, and Sina gets impatient. What is this about?
“There can never be peace,” Ateca says, slowly articulating each word, “not for the departing, and not for those who remain, if bad blood and harmful deeds aren’t resolved. Without one asking for forgiveness and the other forgiving, the departing one can’t leave. And the remaining one can’t say goodbye with their whole heart.”
—
A shadow moves beside them, and Sina and Ateca turn toward the narrow, quiet face of the Star of the Sea.
“We’re small,” Maraia says. “We’re so small because the ocean is so big.”
It’s the first time Sina has heard her speak since Jone brought Maya’s lifeless body up from the beach.
The crowd in the living room chimes in with a new hymn, but Sina doesn’t hear it. All she can hear is deep, heaving sobs. Kat is standing right behind her, crying so hard her body shakes.
51
Ateca
I wanted to say goodbye to Madam Maya alone before I left. The coffin was so beautiful, Lord. Covered by a tevutevu and beautiful masi. The white shells had been placed there by Maraia.
I wanted to sing the farewell song to Madam Maya. Isa lei. Oh, such sadness. No one can leave us until we’ve sung the song of parting ways.
Isa, isa, most welcome guest
Your going fills me with sorrow
Whatever the reason you came
I feel bereft at your leaving.
My heart quivered when Madam Kat started to sing along. Our voices were light as the wind as we stood there together with Madam Maya in the last big white song.
Isa lei; oh, such sadness!
I will feel so forlorn when you sail away tomorrow.
Please remember the joy we shared
And in Korototoka you will always be remembered.
Dear Lord, thank you for welcoming Madam Maya when she gets there. She’s traveling alone, but you’ll be waiting for her.
In Jesus’ holy name. Emeni.
52
Ingrid
They haven’t done anything with Maya’s room. As Ingrid walks past the closed door, she thinks that perhaps she should go in and open the window. Air out the smell of loss, let in the joy of the bird-of-paradise flower. But she can’t bear it, knows that the atlas is still laid out on the table in there, opened to Maya’s and Maraia’s dreams.
—
There’s mail on the kitchen counter. It took Ingrid a while to understand how the postal service in Korototoka works: if there’s a letter for someone in the village, it ends up either at Salote’s house or in the little booth they call the police station. One way or other, the mail will find its way from there to the addressee. Letters usually come to Vale nei Kat via Ateca or Akuila.
But this letter is addressed to Ateca, and it’s opened. Ingrid curiously picks up the envelope; the pencil handwriting on the front is in large gray block letters. No sender. She pokes two inquisitive fingers into the envelope, but drops it back on the counter in a flash when she hears Ateca’s footsteps outside the kitchen door.
“Madam Ingrid.” Ateca nods and puts down her basket of groceries.
Ingrid feels the almost-caught-red-handed flush stinging her cheeks, and hurries to take charge of the conversation. She picks up the letter and casually remarks, “I was just putting your mail up on the shelf, the counter tends to get so sticky.”
The embarrassment gnaws a little deeper when Ateca doesn’t look suspicious at all; her smile radiates toward Ingrid as s
he takes the envelope and holds it up like a gold medal: “Madam Ingrid, it’s a letter from Vilivo! From my son. Madam Ingrid, he’s found a job!”
Her missing canine creates a wink of a dimple in the corner of her mouth, and Ingrid has to smile back. The laughter pours out deep and rumbling from between Ateca’s lips, and she has to lean on the kitchen counter before she can continue.
“It pays well, Madam Ingrid. They’re building a new bridge over the Waimakare River. Listen to what he says.”
Ateca’s reading voice is slow and solemn, as if she’s reading from her worn Bible.
Dear Na
I’m sure you’re mad at me for leaving without saying goodbye. But I knew Madam Ingrid would tell you what I said to her in the truck, although I didn’t tell her where I was going. A friend of Salesi’s had heard they needed people to work on the bridge construction up in Drokadroka, and I decided to go. On the bus from Rakiraki up through the valley, I met some guys who were working on the new bridge over the Waimakare. They brought me to the bosso of the project, and he let me start working that same day. The pay is good, Na, I’m sending you some money with this letter. There will be more later. There are many of us working here, from different villages, but no one from Korototoka. Bosso is from China, so are many of the others.
I do what they ask, it’s mostly digging and hauling rocks. I’ve told bosso that I know a lot about machines too, and today I drove one of the road rollers. It’s good work, Na, I’m glad to be here. I liked helping Madam Kat with the chocolate too, she’s always been good to me. But it wasn’t strong work for a man. I am happy for the job up here in Drokadroka. I want to work hard, build a house, marry a nice girl, and have my own family. And when you’re too old to work for Madam Kat, you’ll come live with us.
I’ll be back, Na, though it could be a while longer. My house will be in Korototoka. My vanua is there.
Please tell Madam Kat that I’ve found a job. And may God protect you in Jesus’ name always.
Your son
Vilivo Matanasigavulu
“Are you, Ateca?” Ingrid doesn’t know why she asks the question in such a backward way.
“Am I what, Madam Ingrid?”
“Mad at Vilivo? Like he says in the letter?”
Ateca claps her hand over her mouth, horrified. “Oh, no, Madam Ingrid. I’m happy. This is what I wanted.”
“For Vilivo to leave?”
“I wanted him to find work. So he can support himself, become an adult, and start a family.”
Ingrid hesitates. “Mm-hmm. I mean, he did have work here too. But what was it he said…‘it wasn’t strong work for a man’?”
Ateca nods. “He was happy to have work, and for everything Madam Kat tried to do for him. But he was ashamed that there was no use for his good hands and his strong back.”
“He wanted manual labor? It wasn’t manly enough, working with chocolate?”
Ingrid can hear Wildrid’s voice grow sharp around the edges, and wants to shush her: Ateca can’t tear up roles and social rules as old as the gods that inhabit her dreams.
But Ateca simply shakes her head. “My heart was heavy when he left. But he had to. And when he comes back, it will sing again.”
—
It takes time to fill a void. And some shouldn’t be filled, either, Ingrid thinks as she observes Sina from the porch. She’s folded a towel to cushion her knees as she crouches down facing the flower bed. The yellow allamanda has started clinging to the net she’s affixed to the wall; the funnel-shaped flowers are blooming in magnificent clusters. Sina’s face is shaded by the flat, bulky hat; Ingrid hasn’t heard anyone comment that Maya’s frayed headgear is still being worn daily. I guess that’s how it is, she thinks. Each one of us takes with her what she needs to move on.
She wanders back inside, feeling the restlessness that’s been there all afternoon. It’s just a few days since she and Kat sent Maya out on her last journey, a quiet trip to the airport with heavy baggage. When everything had been arranged and the coffin was waiting to be loaded, they sat down in the coffee shop outside the departure lounge, and suddenly there he stood. Ingrid relives the moment again. Her hand jumps to her throat; she feels the way her blush spread, the warm joy that flowed through her body when he materialized in front of their table with a cup of coffee in his hand. “Ingrid?” She’d risen out of her chair; the surprise made her throw open her arms to give him a hug. Kat’s smiling face in the corner of her eye, the rush of people around them that made her sit back down. She can’t remember what she said, maybe just an “Oh!” or a “Hello!” What she does remember, yes, she’s sure of it, is how Johnny Mattson’s face lit up when he caught sight of her. As if he saw something he’d been longing for.
He sat down with them, said something about picking up parts for a boat engine. She doesn’t remember much more about what was said, only his smile, and his hand waving goodbye as he left. Rough and wrinkled, but strong. And warm, she’d thought.
—
She doesn’t check her emails every day. Kjell doesn’t write as often anymore, after a nasty exchange when she asked him to put her apartment up for sale. It was Wildrid who wrote the email:
I’ve decided to stay in Korototoka. To be honest, I decided it long ago—the first night I saw the red and yellow flames across the sky at sunset. There’s nothing I miss back home, nothing you have to arrange. I’ve contacted the bank in Reitvik, they know me well and they’ll put the money from the apartment sale into a mutual fund. A low-risk one, don’t worry! We make do with very little here in Fiji; I go barefoot now, saving money on shoes.
Wildrid had laughed as she wrote the last sentence; Ingrid had almost deleted it, but ended up leaving it in.
But there’s no word from Kjell in her in-box. Not from Simon or Petter either; they sometimes drop her a line, but not very often. Yet there is a new email for her. In the top row of her in-box, in bold letters, the subject line reads: Hello from Labasa.
Hi Ingrid
I said I was going to write, but as you’ve gathered, I’m not very good at correspondence. I also said I would come back and visit, but I haven’t done that either. Now that Kat’s Chocolate is in full swing, my work is done. But I’m not sure that you and I are done, although we haven’t even really started yet.
I was happy to see you at the airport, and I think I sensed you were too. We don’t know each other well, and for all I know, this note might hurt you or frighten you. I hope it doesn’t. But I’m done not taking chances, and I won’t waste any more time.
I think you and I could understand each other. We’re only accountable to ourselves, and we know what it means to go it alone. That knowledge brings peace and lets you look yourself in the eye. But the older I get, the less time I have to wait. I want to grab life with both hands, like we did that night in Korototoka.
I want us to get to know each other better. Do you like fishing? I spend more time on the boat than at home, and I’d be happy to bring an extra crew member aboard. If you’re willing to take a trip out in deep waters, I promise to bring you safely back to shore.
Wildrid feels the fishing pole jerking between her hands. The ocean dances around her with silver glimmers, the burning sun sparkles high in the sky, and the boat springs quickly and easily from the crest of one wave to the next. The deep-water pole bends, she leans back and battles the reel, giving a little slack, then pulling it back in. Johnny stands behind her to help, his arms tightly wrapped around her. His breath is warm against the top of her head, a drop of sweat drips from his chin and hits her forehead. Wildrid plants her legs wide and leans back as she pulls with all her might, screeches with delight when the giant mackerel flails and resists as she drags it in over the railing. “There you go!” Johnny says, and laughs. Removes his cap and dries the sweat off his face. “Give it everything you have; don’t hold back!”
He puts his big, rough hands around her upper arms. They’re smooth and slender.
If you think I’m bei
ng too forward, just don’t write me back, and that’ll be that. I’m too old to take offense. But if I’m right about what I think I sensed at the airport, let me know when you might consider a trip to Labasa.
All the best from Johnny,
who looks forward to seeing you. If you want.
Ingrid stands up from her chair. If she wants! Is this really happening? But she doesn’t need to read the message again. Yes, it’s happening. She looks down at her feet, her toes are curling up and willing her to start dancing. Ingrid Hagen has danced far too little, but she intends to do something about that. Wildrid throws her hands up in the air and laughs from her belly. A big and powerful laugh she didn’t know she had in her.
53
Ateca
Dear God
You know it’s often hard for the kaivalagi to understand the simplest things. You told me long ago that I have to talk to Madam Kat. But first I had to talk to Sai, so last night I went to her house. “Maraia knows the song of the women in Namuana,” I said. “When they sing to the princesses so the turtles come up from the sea.”
Sai wasn’t surprised, Lord. She just nodded. “It brings them to the surface,” she said. “What’s no longer here has simply taken another form elsewhere.”
I could hear that she wanted to say more, so I waited.
“Everything becomes clear in the end,” she said. “Even for those who don’t want to see.”
I understood at once, Lord. She was thinking of Madam Kat. Madam Kat, who hasn’t wanted to see.
I was completely unprepared, I swear. When she continued, the sky pushed the clouds aside, and the moon stood blank like a lie exposed. “Mister Niklas knew,” she said. I squeezed my eyes shut, I couldn’t look at her when she told me. About her husband, who had always thought their daughter was too pale-skinned. About Mister Niklas, who had the truth in his eyes from the day Maraia was born. About Madam Kat, who knows in her heart.