Manawa Toa

  “The brown and cream designs on beaten bark?”

  “Yeah. Well, Maui decides to check out where the sun rises at Wailohi. He makes a strong cord from coconut fibre, throws it over the sun to draw her back, and slows her rising.”

  “Does it work?”

  “Sure thing. That’s why we have plenty of daylight now. There’s a similar story in Aotearoa.”

  “But the French slowed us down, even if they didn’t catch us.”

  “Ah, yes, but not for good. We escaped. The net’s no good if you can cut holes in it, eh?”

  Sahara throws her head back and laughs gloriously. “You are incorrigible, Cowrie. You’ve an answer for everything.”

  “It’s in the blood, sis. You ready for brunch?”

  “Yes. I’d like a fresh salad with at least five different lettuce leaves, olives and fetta cheese.”

  “Fresh lettuce is one delight we can’t do out here, Sah. But I could whip you up a Spanish omelette.”

  “That’ll be fine.”

  Arm in arm, they walk the deck then go single file down the ladder to the galley. Behind them, Marie-Louise is taking notes. Cowrie glances back, wondering if she’s as solid as they’d thought. Strange her sending out that tape without checking it with Sahara first.

  Ki te hamama popoia te tangata, e kore e mau te ika.

  If a man spends his nights yawning, he will not catch any fish.

  She is surfing down giant sand dunes, salt air in her face, gritty sand scouring her shoulders, plunging head first towards gigantic waves. She tries to turn back, fall off, roll away but she is glued to the sand board. The first wave towers above her, crashing over her back. She is plunged deep into the belly of the wave. It throws her up into its surf like a whale playing with a seal pup before the kill. Then a crooning sound through the thunderous surf. Her mother’s voice, singing to her.

  Sahara wakes, startled. Nothing but black sky and bright stars. She makes out the Southern Cross and traces its tail, then follows the wide sweep of the Milky Way, trying to calm herself after the nightmare. The vulnerability of being tossed about in the sea stays with her, frightens her. Why has her mother come back now to rescue her after abandoning her when so small and leaving for Europe? Dreams can be so cruel, setting us up for a fall, terrorising us, rescuing us, then letting us wake to that recurring knowledge of abandonment.

  She goes over the day’s events, wondering why Marie-Louise behaved so strangely. Perhaps Cowrie is right to be wary of her after all? Yet she spent so many years supporting Rua and working for the anti-nuclear cause after seeing the harm and devastation it caused Maohi families. Maybe it is simply that she is unreliable. Like her own mother. There one minute, gone the next.

  She tries to count the stars in the Milky Way, then gradually drifts back into a sound sleep, despite Cowrie snoring loudly beside her.

  He pakura ki te po, he kaka ki te ngahere.

  A swamp hen in the night, a parrot in the forest.*

  Securité

  Paris.

  “Madame Verde. C’est le video.”

  “Merci, Jacques.”

  An elegant woman, dressed in a shimmering green silk suit, takes the video tape from his hand, swivels around in her chair and places it in the VCR. She flicks on the television screen to see footage of her agents boarding and confiscating the Rainbow Warrior. The French reporters make it clear that the boats entered French territorial waters illegally and that they are merely acting on government orders. That anyone who trespassed would be treated the same. Then the news flickers back to Bosnia.

  Madame Verde is pleased the incident has been given so little coverage. In some countries, they showed footage of the French officers treating the crew roughly. Didn’t look good. However, they had their case prepared should that have been shown on French television. It was simply a case of law and order.

  The video has rewound to its beginning. Perhaps it’s time I moved on, she thinks, as she sets the pause button a moment while she pours out a schnapps. So long a period teaching English to the French, then translating for the embassy, becoming an agent and gradually rising through the ranks. She was vital for English-speaking projects with her impeccable accent. Twenty years or so now. Who would have ever thought she’d make it this far? Not those parochial countryfolk back home. She always knew she was cut out for a diplomatic life. But her husband had held her back. No family to worry about now, just endless dinner parties. She sighs, sips her drink and switches the video to Play.

  * * *

  *Both the parrot and swamp hen mark the passing of time with their cries.

  * * *

  Footage of sand dunes. Amazingly huge sand dunes, the ocean lapping at their feet. She recalls her days in the Sahara, her old life before the French Embassy. The video focuses on a group of women riding bareback over the dunes. She remembers riding bareback in her youth when her father wasn’t around. This can’t possibly be the right tape. It was supposed to have footage of the military botching an operation and letting those blasted New Zealanders go free. Her task was to see if there was any useful footage that’d make the military look good or show up the amateurism of the protesters, have it transferred to a new video and leaked to the media. She also needs to send footage of the protesters to the video department to blow up. They need to identify who spiked their craft. She reaches for the remote to push Stop when suddenly the tape flicks to the water.

  A canoe is being launched. The tape captures it from the water. She takes another sip of schnapps. Beautiful carvings. Then chanting. Nice photography. Another sip. She fast-forwards over the next part until she sees the zodiacs parting company. Ah, oui. There’s an excellent shot of all the Greenpeace boats within French water. She notes it down. 14.6 minutes into the tape. Then darkness, voices. Fast-forward. Endless black water. Suddenly the camera focuses on a helicopter in the sky. People yelling. Shots. Shots? She’d specifically requested there be no shooting. Bloody fools! More water, yelling, cursing. Zodiac crewed by brown faces. Bound to be Maori activists. Jots it down. 16.7. Probably another one filming. Then suddenly the net flies out of the sky down over them, catching both boats. Mon Dieu! These agents couldn’t organise a piss-up in a brewery. That’s what her English husband used to say.

  She laughs. She’s never believed in nuclear testing, had marched against the bomb once, but it’s her job to oppose the protesters now. Still, only a few months before retirement. Now the French agents are struggling under their own net! What an embarrassment! Thank God the video had got to her before the media. Suddenly the video focuses on a white face in the protest zodiac. Through the netting the face looks familiar. She rewinds the tape and watches it in slow motion. Then she presses the Enlarge button and looks more closely at the face. She hasn’t seen her for a while. Only school photographs, then university graduation. She’d been proud that day. Actually thought of making contact, then decided against it. But surely not? She enlarges it still further.

  “Oh, mon Dieu!” She runs into the ensuite and vomits violently.

  Me te kiore haumiri kakaka.

  Like a rat hugging the fence.

  News reaches Manawa Toa that the Greenpeace boat and her zodiac have been confiscated by the French. There is some dispute over the legality of the operation, since the Rainbow Warrior was captured in international waters. But the French, with their unique brand of logic, argue that since the zodiacs are connected to the main boat, then all are guilty. By insinuation, all have entered into French waters. The entire Peace Flotilla is outraged. And so are many governments by now. There is international condemnation of the act and the tide turns in favour of the protesters. France is being isolated, and England with her.

  “I say we should ban Pommy goods as well as French. They are in collusion and have also colonised the Pacific,” suggests Kuini over breakfast.

  Marie-Louise has been burrowed in her research for days now. She looks up. “I think that it’s more complex. As much as I detest the use of nuc
lear force and the military being stationed in Tahiti, I’ve lived there and know that the Tahitian islands are now dependent upon the French government for housing, education, hospitals, even food.”

  “Yeah, but that’s the very issue. The Maohi people survived before the French arrived and colonisation made them dependent. Who’s to say they would not survive again if left to their own devices? Oscar Temaru said the islands are rich in natural resources. Mind you, they’d have to decontaminate some of them now.”

  “Precisely. It’s too late. The Tahitians could not survive without French government support now.”

  “But surely there’s a crucial ethical principle at stake here?” adds Sahara. “The French government has only ever provided services as a bribe for using the islands to test nuclear weapons. If these are to be the last tests, as they say, they’ll probably do some gesture of compensation then abandon the contaminated islands to test their weapons by computer. Where does that leave local people?”

  “Oui, but there’s always a choice, n’est ce pas?”

  “Yeah, like Sophie’s choice,” states Cowrie. “You have to sacrifice one child for the gas chambers. Which will it be? That’s no choice. It’s temporary survival but there’s still deep pain that can never be healed. All you can do is look after the other child with all your heart.”

  “What do you mean?” asks Marie-Louise.

  “You must see that self-sufficiency and self-determination are crucial to any nation’s self-esteem? If one nation takes that off another, let alone raping sacred land by penetrating its surface with nuclear weapons and plugging it with nuclear waste, then even if they finally leave, the woman, the land, is still raped. The trauma lasts a long time. Surely she’s better to work her way back to health with her people than constantly being in the company of rapists?”

  “You are too emotional about this issue. Colonisation leads to progress. The world has changed. You cannot live a subsistence lifestyle any longer. I realised that when returning to the land with Rua. It’s not viable,” asserts Marie-Louise. She pours another coffee and retreats into her books.

  Cowrie, Kuini, Sahara and Irihapeti wash their dishes and retire to the deck for some air. They discuss the issues, some of which relate to Maori sovereignty also. Sahara asks many questions. She makes links to the situation in Ireland, while acknowledging the vast differences. They admit the issues are complex, cannot be easily solved, but that the crucial fight is to let indigenous people have the chance to rely on their own initiative and resources again.

  Cowrie adds it’s also a matter of restoring the soul to people. Once this is lost, she says, it’s like death. She relates a Hawai’ian story that Paneke told her regarding restoration of the dead. “One of the reasons Paneke is a lomi lomi masseuse is because of its tradition of restoring soul back into body. The corpse is wrapped with fragrant plants to tempt the spirit, and chanting allows it to make the journey back into the body. First you begin with the feet, since the spirit enters the instep or toe, and work your way up. The spirit is fearful of the dark. Finally, there is a purifying bath. After that the body emerges, soul intact, replenished and reinvigorated. The process is called kapuku. During the process, the soul is often depicted as fleeing about the body, over the oceans, over land, visible only to the kahuna who catches it in a gourd and releases it back into the body when it is time.”

  Kuini responds first. “Kia ora, Cowrie. You offering to massage the soul back into us, then, eh?”

  “In your dreams.”

  “Maybe it’d be more use to Marie-Louise. I’m not sure I trust her.”

  “Me neither. I didn’t like the way she couriered off Sahara’s tape without asking her or us. She could have put us all in danger.”

  “How did she know where to send it?”

  “She said she’d copied the address from the notice-board. I never thought to question her further.”

  “Perhaps we’re getting paranoid, but it does seem odd.” Cowrie sips her tea and looks out to the ocean. “Maybe we should confront her directly.”

  “We’d need to be careful. She’s been a bit touchy lately. Maybe she just wanted to help. She hasn’t had much more than an advisory role on this trip.” Kuini, always the mediator, offers to approach her calmly. The others agree. They need to clarify roles so that media releases are appropriately handled.

  “It’s probably not too late. I can radio in and make sure my colleagues do the editing. They just need to cut out close-ups of us and any identifying information. Black boat, crew in black wetsuits with hoods. I doubt that we’d be in any trouble if it’s handled correctly,” adds Sahara, preparing to visit the radio room with Iri.

  “Let’s hope so. Or we might all find ourselves in the hands of the French military like the Rainbow Warrior and her crew.” Cowrie offers to join Kuini when she confronts Marie-Louise.

  Ka katokato i te rau pororua.

  I am plucking the leaves of the sow-thistles, one by one.

  Securité

  Paris.

  “Jacques, j’alors au Marseille l’apres-midi pour rendez-vous avec Greenpeace.”

  “Oui, Madame. C’est ça.”

  Madame Verde, still upset, exits the door of the embassy. She has a crucial decision to make and she knows she needs time away to do it. She’ll call from Marseille in the evening and say there have been complications. That she must remain there another week to sort everything out. They know she will not be able to say more over the phone.

  Once in her hotel, she extracts the papers, video and a cache of photos and letters she’s carried with her over two decades. She had Jacques, whom she could trust, check the identities of those on the video in strict confidence. Interpol verified that the white woman was called Sahara Green, that she’d been arrested several times protesting at Greenham Common. She’d been marked as potentially dangerous since she’d climbed the silos and painted peace symbols on them and also resisted arrest. She remembered hearing about the protest. She was translating for the embassy at the time and never saw the pictures. She’d been on a mission in Germany. The German women were very excited by the bravery of the action and she’d also felt pleased, little knowing her daughter had been involved.

  Sahara, sweet little Sahara. She remembers holding her in her arms, looking out to the dunes of the Sahara Desert. They’d been happy then. She pours herself a coffee. Tears stream down her face. Her family had disowned her when she became partners with Bill. A working-class miner was their idea of a nightmare as a potential son-in-law. She was cut off from the family wealth and told to fare on her own. She didn’t care. They were so happy. Then Bill got posted overseas on a mining contract near the Sahara. She joined him for the happiest months of her life. Sahara, the last of their family, was conceived there. Then the mining company went bust and life became tough. Their relationship began to sour. The only thing that kept her going was the romance of the dunes, the memory of those wild nights exploring a new country, feeling like pioneers in a new land. The vast, mighty Sahara Desert offered new life to them. Reminded her of her childhood holidays on the beaches of France, with their dunes and caves.

  She slips the video into the VCR and watches the Hokianga dunes in slow motion. Sahara must be filming, for she only appears once or twice when someone else takes over. She pushes the Hold button, capturing her daughter’s face in utter joy as she descends a dune on horseback, heading for the ocean below. She recalls that feeling of joy so well. Although she has fought her way back into respectability, the feeling has long gone. Her risk and adventure are now transferred into being a pawn for the French government. She feels a traitor, to herself, her family, her ideals.

  Elizabeth Green sinks to the floor and weeps. She’d cried from time to time, missing them, wondering whether she should make contact, if they’d still love her, yet being too afraid to risk it. But never like this. She weeps decades of hurt, anger and shame. She knew this time would come, had been avoiding facing it for years, throwing herself i
nto her work instead.

  At the beginning, becoming an agent was so exciting, recalled that joy of discovery she’d felt with Bill when they met and up to the time Sahara was conceived. That first year with her daughter was idyllic. She’d always wanted a daughter after the three boys. It felt like giving birth to herself when she emerged from the womb. Sahara was a happy child, always full of adventure and inquisitiveness. But once the job ended and Bill was out of work for several years, everything soured. She decided to leave for France to make a new start and return for the children once she was independent. But by then they were settled and happy with Bill, who’d found work at the Ashbourne lime quarries. She made sure she paid for their education and her brother Quentin agreed to accept them at his school. Even Sahara—at a boys’ prep school. She’d laughed at that, would have enjoyed it in her youth.

  But now her daughter may be in desperate trouble. She fast-forwards and closes in on Sahara beneath the net thrown by her own agents. She, Elizabeth, was responsible for the capture of her daughter. Like a butterfly trapped in a net. The video had cut off after that. She assumed Sahara was on board the Rainbow Warrior and the boat was now in custody. If they ever traced Sahara to her, it would put her credibility in danger. She’d lied and said she had no family when applying as a translator. She and Bill had never officially married. They didn’t believe in it. The authorities never found out.

  But now she’s sick of lying and betrayals. She watches the tape over and over, the magic of the dunes, the canoe being lowered into the water, the chanting. Where has her idealism, her beliefs, her spirit gone? She can forgive herself for leaving her family. Times were tough then. The fighting between her and Bill would have hurt them more. But now, she knows she’ll never forgive herself if she goes through with the final betrayal of her daughter. There had been talk in the agency of trying to get the protesters arrested and imprisoned on federal offences. After all, they’d tampered with military secrets. They could be indicted and remain in prison for years. The government wanted to discredit the protesters and get the main instigators out of the public eye until the tests were over. Then Chirac would be restored to his “rightful place as a successful president”.