by Anne Ostby
She now has the title of supervisor and is in charge of overseeing the sweet house, where four women from the village work day in and day out in green aprons, rolling, conching, and pouring the chocolate into molds. Two of them belong to Mosese’s extended family. It makes me happy when I see him occasionally limp down the hill to make his meticulous round of the drying plot, peeking in to observe the chocolate-makers, and finally coming up to the house. He still stands on the porch steps and refuses to come in; Ateca still calls me over when she spots him through the window. But now Vilivo usually shows up too and keeps his predecessor company, answering his questions, taking his time. Our new plantation manager has an “office” now: Vilivo built a small extension to the toolshed, where he keeps a desk, a chair, and an assortment of pipes, pulleys, stamps, and tools he uses to improve and repair our machines. “My son went to school,” Ateca says whenever the opportunity presents itself. “That’s why he has a good job and can support himself.” And then she laughs so hard the sun bounces off the window glass and the hole left by her missing tooth winks gleefully.
—
If the baby comes today, I know Ingrid will hurry over right away. Madam Ingrid, who even in Ateca’s eyes needs no wedding ring to be considered Mrs. Mattson, calls to check in almost every day when she’s in Labasa. Johnny has a satellite phone aboard the boat, and I can feel the wind in her face when Ingrid reports from the deck: “Three gigantic tuna fish! Over sixty pounds each! We don’t have enough freezers on board, so we’ll have to go back in tonight so the fish won’t spoil.”
The laughter, the breathless, short sentences; I picture her wide feet firmly planted in cut-off rubber boots among seaweed and fish scales. Her sulu has been replaced with a pair of shorts, her gray hair has grown long and is gathered in a ponytail under a worn bucket hat. As far from the fastidious, bookkeeping Ingrid as you can get. It’s as if an inner alter ego has been set free and is now dancing her own meke on the deck of the boat in Labasa. When Simon and Petter came to visit last summer, it was quite touching. Like doting grandparents, but without anxiety, Ingrid and Johnny took them out in the boat right away, and later we all sat together and spent a whole evening looking at Petter’s photos. Sunsets, big catch, closeups of a sea snake he’d bent over the rail to get a shot of. The joy in the faces of these boys from the country at the top of the world when they raved about lines and hooks, waves and weather. Ingrid’s face, beaming with pride over a passion she found and is passing on.
She’s a master of the art of balancing, both on deck and of the books, regularly swapping her salt-streaked sailor’s life for a visit to scour the account books of Kat’s Cocoa and Kat’s Chocolate with sharp eyes. At least once a month Ingrid comes to stay in the room she still keeps in Vale nei Kat, and she goes through the debits and credits line by line. Vilivo sits in the chair across from her, a giant step forward from when his predecessor insisted on standing on the stairs with his head bowed. I take part too, of course, but it’s nice to know the business is in good hands as far as management and finance goes. These days, it’s mostly about the chocolate and the solid brand we’ve created, although we still make some deliveries of raw cocoa beans to a few of my oldest customers. We use most of the harvest ourselves to produce “Maya,” the signature product of Kat’s Chocolate. A little piece of happiness. The taste of Fiji, wrapped in shiny cellophane with two glittering turtles on the label.
—
Sometimes I feel as if Ingrid has taken over the freedom I used to have. Had, and took for granted until the ridiculous, unhappy accident. Fall down the stairs—me? After sitting on the roofs of buses along dizzying mountain roads in Pakistan and battling wild currents aboard tiny boats in Malaysian rainforests? To fall down the stairs at home! The four steps my feet could take in my sleep! Until I tripped one morning three years ago, somehow letting one foot step on the other, and so lost my balance. A femur fracture, weeks of clammy sheets and a nightstand with vases full of limp bouquets. Surgery in Suva, weeks and months of slow recovery, aches and pains, and finally resigning myself to the fact that my hip will always be a little creaky. I guess I can’t complain; many of us have it much worse at this age. But I’ll never be best friends with my walking stick, an invaluable but far from beloved appendage.
Ateca followed a few steps behind me the first few months, indoors and outdoors, until I had to ask her to stop. Madam Kat has gained an extra accessory, I told her, but I’m otherwise the same. She doesn’t quite believe me, and insists on following me when I take a walk on the beach; sometimes I have to use a sharp voice to tell her I don’t want her to come. Some walks I have to take alone. Making my way through soft sand is harder than before, it goes slowly, but I have time. Time and joy over the things that haven’t changed: the sunshine that mellows and softens. The boats that bind the days together. The waves that don’t exist on their own, but are always part of the rumbling sea. The light that forgives, time and time again.
What does it mean to look back? Is it the same as looking forward? I think to myself that it must be. Because she is what’s yet to come, while she’s also what came before. She stands there in the doorway, a beautiful young woman, fifteen years old. Her long hair in waves more dreamy than the ocean, her gaze ever patient and wise. Free as the wind that brought her here, loyal as the earth that keeps her grounded. Maraia lives here whenever she wants, comes and goes as she pleases, returns when our hearts call out to her. Her footprints in the sand are as big as mine now. Clear, deliberate impressions, with strong toes pointing forward.
I won’t follow her the whole way; her time is separate from mine. I’m going to listen now, feel the waves underneath the boat. Think of the hope that was born that night, between a white balolo moon and a sea that was waiting and watching.
The phone that rings inside the house. The gentle footsteps across the floor. The light in her eyes when she comes back.
“That was Ateca. It’s a little boy. They’re going to call him Niklas.”
Acknowledgments
Many calls for help have been sent across the seas while working on this book. The biggest thank you goes to Salote Kaimacuata in Suva, Fiji, who has wisely and kindly guided me to an understanding of everything from the mystical meaning of kava to rites for funerals and forgiveness. Language and religion, myths, beliefs, and modes of address: the possibilities for missteps are endless. If I’ve avoided the pitfalls, it’s thanks to Salote; where I’ve missed the mark, the fault is mine alone.
Anne Moorhead and Richard Markham have let me join via email in the start-up of their own cocoa plantation in Savusavu on Vanua Levu and have generously shared their knowledge of plants, crops, and production methods. Without them, Kat and the others couldn’t have grown their cocoa.
Thank you to my editor, Kjersti Herland Johnsen in Norway, who had faith in the story from day one, and to my daughter Marie Ostby, who translated every word and nuance perfectly. My boundless gratitude goes to my U.S. editor, Carole Baron, and her brilliant team, especially Bette Alexander, Genevieve Nierman, and Maria Carella, who expertly and patiently helped fine tune and ready the manuscript for U.S. readers; and to Judy Jacoby, for skillful guidance through the worlds of social media and digital marketing. A warm thank you also goes to my agent, Chandler Crawford, who has brought so many pieces of happiness to so many audiences.
And last but not least, thank you to my husband, Knut, who believes in me every day.
A NOTE ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Anne Ostby is a Norwegian author and journalist. She has written children’s books, YA, and adult books. Pieces of Happiness is the first to be published in the United States and is translated by one of her three daughters, Marie. She presently resides with her husband in East Timor, having lived in Denmark, Malaysia, Pakistan, Kazakhstan, the United States, Iran, and Fiji over the last twenty-seven years.
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