Dreamboat Dad

by Alan Duff

  And how does a man of twenty-one admit he's still a virgin when to other men he's the kingpin, formidable man of iron fists? It must follow that, when he's out of incarceration, without the steel bars every way he looks, women would be drawn to him, his physical power, his scary reputation. They are not.

  Can't weep, grieve. He's just alone, in an isolated place, the kid Lena Takahe called Boyboy.

  Come on, hop in. We can't see each other nude, too dark. And anyway, you're like my brother.

  Life, it has just never stopped hurting. Hurting. But can't tell anyone. He would have confided in Yank who used to be a brother, but Yank rejected him, though maybe that was understandable.

  Come on, it must be freezing out.

  Don't feel like it.

  Well I'm getting out and you don't want to be seeing me without clothes.

  No I don't. When he does. No, he does not. He does.

  I bet your old man snores like a pig, she says.

  He is a pig.

  You said it.

  You know it.

  What do we call your old lady?

  Can try bitch to start with.

  My mother is a saint.

  Not what some people say.

  Who cares what they say? She's the best mother and been pretty good to you too, Chuddy. You talking about what they call her?

  Some do. I don't. She's been good to me.

  My mother was and is a very beautiful woman.

  Like you.

  Thank you, Chud.

  Other than the waterfall there is silence.

  How old are you now, Wiks?

  Seventeen.

  Makes her a woman. A year past legal age. You've never slept with a girl, you over there standing in the corner like the class dunce, the unwanted, unloved boy. This is your chance. There'll never be another opportunity like this, never.

  Love is but a few waded steps from you, in undressed state. That close.

  That close, Chud, you can reach out and touch her. Do whatever you like with her. To her. Whatever you like, big powerful man your own village never understood, with your anger, what those shit parents did to you.

  Well right now, Boyboy, you can claim one of those experiences. Just grab it, lay it down on the thermally warmed concrete, and take what has been denied you.

  Hearing the scratching sound of towel against her body, barely visible other than movements and a vague shape, that ceaseless pounding of water.

  They have stopped talking. The waterfall echoes deafeningly in the changing area, sound hitting an iron-clad wall with a roof overhang. Means anything he does, no matter how gentle, cannot be explained with words of affection, even a hand on her shoulder cannot be followed with request that they get to know each other maybe differently. Dark frees him from cowardice in the face of a woman, but noise traps him: no move can be innocent without words.

  He rises from the long wooden bench, without clear intention, all instinct now. Feels his trembling, maybe aware of fearing — for himself, what he might do, what he is capable of — and makes to walk past her.

  Wiki? I got to get past, he says with raised voice. As there is little space between her and the pool.

  What? she says. Damn noisy in here. They should have a place for spare light bulbs so least we can see. Might be down here with a freak.

  He stops at hearing the word. Did she call me a freak? Or was that the echo effect? Close enough to kiss her, fondle those full woman breasts, fuck her. That close.

  Somehow he catches her smile in that barely moonlit dark. Somehow he hears her unshouted words telling him if he gets any closer, well.

  Well.

  Well what? You dressed yet, Wiks?

  Not yet, no. Why do you ask?

  I don't know. Just did.

  And I said no. Not yet.

  So close, he thinks. I could do anything I like.

  You must be cold sitting here all this time, Chud. Why didn't you get in?

  Chud wondering how he can pick out her words that previously were garbled or swallowed by the thunder of water.

  I didn't bring a towel.

  So why did you come here, a bathing pool, with no towel? Hmm, Chuddyboy?

  Asks himself that: why did I come down here? Guess the same reason I roam all over, not just my village but the township, suburban streets, walking, walking, never finding because I never own up to what I'm looking for.

  He says, with more than normal voice, I was just out walking.

  She says, oh? How boring. Just walking.

  Well, as I can't fly. Grinning, when he knows she can't see it. And he has not moved past her, not one fraction. Nor has she moved out of his way. So close he could merely lift a finger and make contact with her bare skin. Skin he can sense like danger, like love at last, in closest proximity.

  Chud?

  Yeah?

  What's your real name?

  What's your brother's real name?

  You know it's Mark. Now tell me.

  The breath of her words up into his face. The drumming of the water. Beating of his heart. Please don't let me do something bad, he asks of himself, perhaps the better self.

  It's a stupid name. Don't want to tell you.

  The Pakeha version of my name is Victoria. Know who she was?

  Nope.

  She was an English queen. You know the one they've got a statue of at Marsden Park. All covered in birdshit. Wiki chuckles. My dad says no matter what you do, how important you are, one day you'll get shat on.

  Her laugh a whoosh of air against his throat.

  Then she says up under his chin, gee, you sure grew tall. He only has to bend his head and he could be kissing her. Only has to reach out and he could be fondling her.

  Come on. Tell me the name they gave you.

  Michael.

  That's a nice name. Got class.

  Got arse, you mean. A sissy name. Doesn't suit, either.

  Suit what — this place?

  My place. Fucken home.

  Whoo, you got some feeling about that haven't you?

  Wouldn't you?

  Oh yes. Be a nightmare, parents like you had. But still.

  Still what? Still a nightmare?

  Which turns into sweet dreams. Sometimes, Chud. If you really want it to.

  Oh yeah? But he says it without conviction. In fact with a plea, for reassurance. Like a frightened kid asking a friend to whistle in their shared dark.

  Yeah, she says. She puts the magic wand of touch upon him, just his wrist, but it lights up the world the universe.

  He reaches out — doesn't have to hardly move — and finds bare skin, warm, alive, as soft as a pleasant dream, like floating on your back in that there warm pool.

  Wiki?

  Yeah?

  Wiki.

  Wiki who shuts off his words, who reaches up and pulls him down to her. Joins her mouth with his. Joins up his broken life. Mends his heart. Saves his soul.

  No more the refrain in his aching mind he has never been with a woman. No more.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  IT WASN'T QUITE THE MIRACLE first thought, Barney's recovery. Lena described him as reverting, which seemed to irritate him — connotations perhaps of a weaker man.

  The bench seat they shared was bedded right by a large pool of superheated water that had cut its own deep channel a good eighty yards to the river, forming a snake-like, yard-wide stream of boiling fury. The higher sulphur output made for a permanent stench. No place for sightseers. And yet, as Lena got to observe, a form of life — green algae — thrived in places, just on the fringes of pools, shallows at less than boiling point. She saw them as hopes surviving every one of life's disappointments. As a dream still with chance of coming true.

  To be able to converse fully was indeed a miracle. At first. And so too did the love-making take on more literal meaning, for Barney could express in words, take it beyond the physical, articulate the assumed. Tell her he loved her, how much he admired her strength.
>
  In this tree-guarded private domain, he now did most of the talking. She teased he couldn't be shut up. They laughed about it. Talking rugby again (his own remembered games), getting a bit tiresome, but Lena listened patiently. For his ego's sake, for a sportsman's pride too, respect for an old soldier. Or so she thought.

  Are you listening? Barney jolted Lena from her thoughts, from a sightless fix on the raging stream, a patch of emerald algae.

  Sorry. Forgot where I was. You know how it is. And now you can tell me how it is, yes? Knew she was being somewhat patronising, but rugby bored her and as for the war, her view would always be affected by her experience back then: Yank's birth, the woman Jess coaxed out and she could never get back.

  Back Barney went to a grand final game the same year world war broke out. The regained voice had given back his looks, put life into his handsome features, no question. Except a voice is but an echo of what goes on within, Lena was deciding. It is a mirror of a person's character.

  Several days ago he had talked a good two hours on his war experiences. Luckily, he had lost it and started grasping at words. She told him to give it a rest, meaning give her respite. Wished he'd just quit talking and try contemplation, make love to her — anything except chatter.

  Barney took the hint and headed off while she strolled aimlessly; found herself at Merita's metal mail box, three newspapers sitting there. Most odd.

  Merita was not ailing as Lena had assumed, just that the kids had not got into a routine of bringing her newspapers and mail up daily. She grumbled: This modern crop of young people have little respect for their elders. In the old days our word was law. Seemed pleased to see Lena, to get her newspapers.

  Smell of urine was strong though the old dear kept an immaculate house, including the dirt floor. Lena visited only once or twice a year; knew her son and Merita had a special relationship. Lena liked to remove her shoes to feel the thermal warmth, the incongruous slightly damp feel of earth underfoot inside a constructed dwelling.

  Too chilly to sit outside. Merita made tea, asked how Yank was doing, said what a good kid he was — and I know who's responsible. Then looked at Lena in a curious way.

  You remind me of her. Margaret. Maggie we called her.

  Guide Maggie?

  Ae. That's who you remind me of.

  But she was legendary. Lena felt there was no comparison. Maggie's photograph was in most of the older people's houses, Merita's too: a standard tourist portrait of the famous Waiwera guide standing in front of an exquisitely carved meeting house with her equally beautiful sister, Bella. I think you're comparing a rose to a daisy, you old tease.

  The daisy who could have been a rose? Still could be?

  The old woman squinted hard at Lena, tightened her mouth which made the wrinkles fold over her spiralling chin tattoo, inked lips turn to thin dark lines.

  Maybe. But the children came first.

  As they must . . . but not every moment of your life, girl.

  No one else to take care of them. And they've turned out pretty good, haven't they?

  Oh, yes. Specially him. Merita didn't even need to say the name. But what about you? How have you turned out?

  How do you mean?

  Well, you're not happy.

  No. Not sad either.

  You of all people deserve some happiness.

  Only time I tried look what happened.

  I think you're trying again. Aren't you?

  So she knew. Lena shrugged wasn't going to bother denying. Merita's eyes were saying no, Barney is not your type.

  Go over and look in that mirror, girl, Merita pointed.

  But Lena wasn't inclined, neither for foolish confirmation nor to indulge even a venerated figure like Merita.

  She was our most beautiful woman, Maggie. Half-caste, we could close our eyes when she spoke English and swear it was an upper-class Pakeha speaking. Her Maori was equally beautiful; she spoke the classical, poetic form full of metaphors. You know metaphors, child?

  Now I do. My son passed on some of his school learning. You know they didn't try and teach us that much at the local native school. Thought we were all dumb.

  Yes. Dumb and the females assumed to have no personality. Why I married a boring man — so I could shine! Merita's laugh a dry cackle.

  Maggie had married an aristocrat Englishman, gone and lived for a while on a big estate in England. Sometimes the newspapers ran articles on this beautiful Maori woman who had adapted so well to upper-class English life. And now Lena approached the portrait hanging on Merita's wall. Looked at it.

  That's you, the old lady told her.

  Lena turned, but not to deny. It excited her that someone from this village could go so far beyond her world, back in those times.

  Except you're still here, my dear.

  With a husband who's a very rough version of Maggie's English aristocrat, Lena said. A husband of much mana who is greatly respected around here, and beyond.

  But whose mana didn't stop you from — from being yourself. Would I be right?

  You mean my American? Being myself? With him, I guess I was. Not sure who I was back then.

  Anything but what you still are now, dear. I got eyes, old that I am. Now do as I asked: go and look in that mirror. Please. For your old Aunty M.

  So, she is looking at herself in the mirror. And Merita, shortened of already quite short stature, shuffles up and thrusts up alongside Lena's face the photograph from the wall.

  Do you see what I mean?

  Lena struggling with being compared.

  Same hair. Same proud features that I told your son came from highborn lineage — just to make him feel better about himself. Look at her eyes. Are they not yours, almond-shaped and with dreams of elsewhere? Of yearning to be other than where she was born and expected to stay?

  There is a similarity, no denying. Lena flicks between the black and white photograph and her own reflection.

  You're not going to tell me she is my real mother. Lena, jokingly.

  No, but you could be her daughter. Lena, this can still be your home, without you living here. I always told my children to go beyond Waiwera, unique and pleasant though it is. I saw it in you when you were sixteen, seventeen, perhaps younger.

  Saw what?

  Hunger. Yearning. Born with a mind, a personality that can never be satisfied, not until you try things, see for yourself. Born under a star that keeps you restless inside. You need to go and seek it out.

  I thought I tried, a long time ago. She turns from the mirror. What if I never find it? What if it all means nothing in the end? What will I have then?

  Not my questions to answer, my dear. They're yours. But no answers here in this village, Lena. And you always have your children. Now, where did you put my newspapers?

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  THE MAN CAME UP TO the front desk and asked to book four double bedrooms; he was a local and his guests were overseas business friends. Even though he dressed casually, his clothes looked expensive. He paid in advance with a business cheque, commented that he looked forward to his guests touring the sights of Waiwera.

  Lena told him of her fill-in role as a guide, that she never tired of showing visitors around her village, how she always found something new herself.

  His cheque bore the name Welsford Enterprises Ltd; he introduced himself as Ralph, managing director. And did she know that for all his international travel he still rated Waiwera's thermal sights as the best he'd seen?

  Henry came along just then, nodding formally as he passed, in keeping with his manager's role being taken seriously even by his own wife. He never lingered; it was a wonder he employed her here in his domain.

  This morning Henry had woken her early and had his way before he went for a bath. Two weeks earlier he had repeatedly slapped her over something so minor she could not remember it. So, much as he had mellowed over the years, the leopard still had spots.

  Ralph said his visitors were from America and a wry
smile must have shown on Lena's face for he asked, why the smile, had he said something wrong, did she not like Americans?

  She looked up at him, instinctively judging whether to trust the man; found herself chuckling.

  Oh, I like Americans all right, some would say too much. On one occasion at any rate.

  He was trying to read her face and with his own smile forming. Looked such a worldly man. A few years older than she.

  He said, not sure what you mean. And by the way, I don't know your name. It's Mrs . . . ? Looking at her wedding ring, which had long felt a farce.

  Lena Takahe. That was my husband who just went past. He's the manager.

  Ralph Welsford's face fell. He's Henry Takahe, right? I've heard about him. A fine man. Sorry, your comment about Americans must have confused me, as I thought—

  Lena stopped him by holding up one finger. One American, I meant. Back in the war days.

  Wondering why she had told this to a complete stranger. He was distinguished, but not handsome. Greying, probably prematurely. Very self-confident which gave him a certain presence. The sort of man who could own several hotels like this, and other businesses, and not bat an eyelid. Not that she knew anyone so wealthy.

  And do you regret it? The question came softly, as if for no ears except hers.

  She shook her head and gave a firm little smile, her gaze unblinking. No.

  Ralph shrugged, said, how interesting. Everyone our age remembers them here during the war. I missed out on military service because I—

  Had flat feet? Every man says that. Especially round here as Maori men are so ashamed if they didn't fight in the war. Are there that many flat feet?

  You didn't let me finish. I had two children and of course a wife.

  Lena said she was only kidding. Told of her being pregnant when Henry volunteered and him not mentioning that fact to the recruiting authorities. She did not mention having had a child to the American. Not yet, might be going too far. Might put him off.