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Shark Dialogues

Page 43

by Davenport, Kiana


  “You girls seem astounded,” he said, “that I am up on things. Sixty years of reading papers, listening to the news, I am a tome of information!” He took Pono’s hand. “As for local scandals, your tūtū kept me up-to-date!”

  He teased her, regaling the women with memories of Pono as a young girl. Her secret healing herbs, her addiction to the sea. “Always out beyond the reef with giant octopi and dolphin. How she loved storms! When there was thunder, I had to tie her down.” He looked at Jess. “You have this ocean-love in common.”

  He told them of Pono’s boredom in the kitchen, always begging Duke to take her to Manago Hotel for “good kine pork chops.” How she had learned to love champagne, and waltzing. He showed Toru how he had made swim goggles for her carved from sturdy hau branch, how to make fishhooks from sea urchin spine, and how lava made good squid-lures.

  Seasons changed as day after day they wheeled him through the house, room to room, filled with old koa, monkeypod, teak furniture all carved by hand. Sometimes he would drift, remembering sunlight trembling on a silken dress, his mother at a window. Lip-prints left on old Venetian goblets. Tradewinds turning pages of his father’s books. Sometimes he pulled volumes from library shelves, pages crumbling in his hands.

  “Termite fodder. The fate of genealogies.” He sighed. “Well. You girls will carry on. Blood continues in the life of the soil. And you have given life to this old house.”

  “No, Grandfather,” Rachel said. “It’s you. Workers in the orchards say the house seems to vibrate now that you are home.”

  And it was so. The place echoed with his deep baritone laughter. After so many years as the brooding backdrop of the plantation, the house now seemed to step forward, the white center, the pivot of all these lives, repository of all the years of toil and rancour and longing. Walls seemed to glow as his strong male scent wafted through each room. Even the sound of him urinating in the John—copious, percussive—rang through the house, his whistling as he flushed, like that of a young boy piping down the halls, keeping the place astir.

  At night the women gathered on the lānai beneath his window just to hear his loud, protracted snores. And in the mornings, they sat breathless, waiting for the loud thump of his feet hitting the floor as Pono helped him from their bed. And then, the ceremonial huff and strain of his slow descent downstairs to breakfast, the cousins lined up waiting at the doorway as he kissed them each and took his place at the head of the table. And the quiet solemn moment before eating, moment of thanks to Mother God, not for food, but life, this miracle. And then the sweet ballet of shared blood sharing bread.

  One night, Duke saw Vanya and Toru talking in another room. Later, he called her to him.

  “You are very talented, my child. And beautiful. Much like your tūtū.”

  She snuggled close to him on the hikie’e, loving his scent, peculiar mint odor of medication and the sharp clean smell of salt, of a man who had lived for years beside the sea.

  “Mahalo, Grandfather. Run Run, too, says I favor her. But she and I...”

  “I know.” He patted her arm, kissed her forehead. “She talked for years. I listened. You are so much alike. She saw her stubbornness in you, knew she would never quite control you. Each of you disturb her, because each of you carry different traits that are all part of her.”

  Vanya joked. “You mean she recognizes how impossible she is!”

  Duke laughed. “Ah, the energy it takes to love such a woman. A man must be half mad.” Then he turned serious. “Vanya. I know you and Toru are involved in . . . many things important to our people. Things that may be dangerous. I applaud this. I admire you. But I suggest one thing. Before you do something irreversible, ask yourself how can you best serve Hawaiians. Working with other legal experts, representing organized reform groups? Or joining up with renegades, angry activists impatient with the system?”

  She started to respond. He raised his hand. “I only ask that when you are alone you look in a mirror. Examine what you see. Ask yourself what is your true motive. Maybe you need something louder than the system. Maybe violence is really what our people need. We have never been that good at words. We have only had a written language for two hundred years. But, think, keiki, only think. What you do will be irreversible.”

  She wrapped her arms round his scarred and mottled neck.

  “I have known for years what my mission is. You see, Grandfather, I have nothing left to lose. My boy ... he looked like you. A carbon copy ...”

  Duke nodded, stretched and unstretched the crippled fingers of his hand. “When Hernando died, I screamed like a woman. For years I mourned, kissing his photograph until there was nothing left. Dust, damp with tears. Loss seems to be our legacy. Grief. And loss.”

  “He died believing in something,” she said. “Even so young, he had ideals. His friends say he was murdered. That the U.S. Navy wanted to make an example of people fighting their bomb-testing on Kaho’olawe.”

  “Don’t live with that thought in your heart, Vanya.”

  “But, he was an excellent swimmer, better than any of the others. And the sea was calm that night. The shore was rocky, so they anchored their boat at a distance and were swimming to the beach. They say something pulled him down. He fought it. It wasn’t a shark, there would have been blood. He would have screamed. There were Navy boats around that night, frogmen waiting for protestors. It was random, Hernando just happened to be the one they caught.”

  Duke moaned, knowing what she said could be true.

  “Now the Navy is returning Kaho’olawe to our people, so perhaps my son died for good cause. But please understand, Grandfather. I cannot digest this anger. Whatever I do, I have nothing left to lose.”

  Several nights later, Toru pulled up in the driveway, called Vanya to his truck, and handed her an envelope.

  “That has to get to Honolulu. Someone wants it up front.”

  She looked inside, a certified check for $10,000.

  “Something’s brewing with her,” Rachel said.

  Jess shook her head. “She has work obligations. Everytime Vanya ignores you, you think she’s expressing hate.”

  “I know she loves me. She just can’t get inside me. It disturbs her.” She stroked the moist flesh of a mango as if it were something conscious and undressed. “Tūtū’s life now revolves around Grandfather. She leaves Vanya alone. Vanya doesn’t have to defend herself, so she has more time to torture me.”

  Jess felt something tearing loose in her. “Rachel, stop it, stop it! Whenever Hiro’s trips turn into long, extended journeys, you go pupule. Look what’s happened to us. We have Grandfather now. We have pride, knowing who we are. Hiro was your refuge, you don’t need a refuge anymore. You were his plaything. You’re not that anymore. You’re a woman over forty. How can you put up with a husband who deserts you, and deserts you?”

  Rachel turned her perfect face to her, and in the sunlight Jess saw little crow’s-feet gathering.

  “Yes,” Rachel said. “Look at me in sunlight. Little cobwebs edging the eyes, a thinning in the lips. I have a mole growing hair. Who else would want me now? Have you never learned, Jess, the comfort of . . . habit? Addiction? Ming understood so perfectly.”

  She drifted from the room and closed the door. Five minutes later, she returned. “I’ve slept beside him, smelling scents of other women. He slumbers in my thighs, calling out their names. Children, really. I’ve seen their photographs. I begin to feel motherly, concerned. Are they healthy? Does he pay them well? Tell me, Jess, is that age? A lessening of desire as hair lengthens in the mole? Or have I found morality?”

  Jess caught her breath; Rachel had never talked so confessionally. Her voice turned soft as she replied. “All I know, cousin, is that you’re missing out on life. The one Hiro built for you is a decoy.”

  She stood still, thinking. “Perhaps. Perhaps. Grandfather says I must learn to close the five doors of desire. I must memorize the blending of the elements of incense.”

  She
drifted from the room again, and Jess sat back thinking how all those years she had believed Ming was the enigmatic one, the mystery. Ming was ill and found escape. There was no mystery. It was Rachel all the time, the riddle, the wavering equation, impossible to fathom.

  Dog That Travels the Rough Seas

  * * *

  SHE STARED AT THE CORPSE OF A CAT floating down the Ala Wai Canal. A haole approached in ribald-colored cycle shorts, a baseball cap, and zoris.

  He stood so close, his breath blew on her cheek. “What’s the magic word?”

  She turned and walked away.

  He ran after her. “Just kidding. I forgot what I’m supposed to say.” He shoved a package at her. “Here. It’s shatter-proof. You got the check?”

  Vanya hesitated. “Are you Toru’s . . . connection?”

  He looked around, nervous. “Time is money. Where’s the check?”

  She handed him an envelope.

  Now she sat in her house in Honolulu, staring at the package. First step away from the known perimeter. Several more steps, and things would be irreversible. She thought of her son, Hernando. Would she be doing this if he were alive? Or was it temperament? Was she a woman who would always go against the wind? She sat there brooding for a long time, then something moved, something alien in her landscape. Looking across the room at a mirror on the wall, she saw her reflection, and that of a man sitting in a nearby chair.

  He stood slowly, switched on a lamp, his face gaunt, hard, paleness accentuating the auburn mustache and hair. He faced her as if curiously empty of emotion, his manner quiet, almost courtly.

  “Simon. What are you doing here?”

  “Let’s say my life took a turn without my knowledge.”

  She switched on another lamp. He hadn’t shaved, his beard was pushing out, orange spikes that made her think of sparks from axes on a whetstone.

  “What do you want?”

  “Look, Vanya. I didn’t mean to . . . coming here like this, I suppose I’m out of line. I just don’t seem to belong where I come from anymore.”

  “You don’t belong here, either.”

  “I belong with you.” His voice changed, verging on belligerence. “And don’t give me that bit about animal lust. It’s something else. Something in you I don’t have. Something that, when I’m with you, makes me feel a bit of all right. Christ, I don’t know. I’ve missed you.”

  She walked into the kitchen, flicked a switch, filled a kettle with water. “There’s no room in my life for you. If you need healing, find a nurse.” She turned on the stove, keeping her back to him. “Find a woman who’ll mother you, screw you all the way back to your youth in the Outback. That’s What you want. Innocence. It’s what we all want.”

  “You can stand there, saying you feel nothing for me, haven’t thought of me one second? After what we had?”

  She slammed the kettle down and faced him. “You . . . do . . . not ... belong . . . here. I don’t want you here!”

  “Because I’m haole? The face of the oppressor? Because I was, as you say, a hired gun? Or is it that you can’t stand how good I make you feel?”

  Something happened to her face, it seemed to pulse with rage. “Listen closely. I have seen my grandfather, a man I didn’t know existed. I’ve sat for days with my arms wrapped round him. He’s a leper, crippled, scarred. Banished, hidden away for . . . sixty years. They hid them all away, thousands upon thousands, until they died. Slowly and horribly. Oh, its curable now, no longer contagious, they’ve given it a pretty name, Hansen’s disease, as if someone donated it. It’s robbed us of family for almost two hundred years. Outsiders brought us that disease. And syphilis. Smallpox. In return, they stole our land. And still take our land. You’re an outsider. I don’t want you in my life.” She paused, caught her breath. “Anyway, times are a-changing, as they say. There’s going to be a little payback.”

  He backed into the living room, sat down in a chair. “What do you mean ‘payback’? That’s not a word in your legal lexicon.”

  “I’m not speaking as an attorney.”

  “No. You sound more like a ... mobster. A terrorist.”

  She came and stood before him. “There are certain instances when terrorism is imperative.”

  “Vanya, what are you up to? Nothing you do will be as effective as what you can do for your people through the legal system. You’re a role model for Hawaiians. You’re what they can achieve. Don’t fuck it up, don’t demoralize them.”

  “Simon, I’ve worked for years and look at me. I still represent people who are faceless, landless. We have no moral agenda.”

  “Sounds like someone’s gotten to you. You’re not thinking clearly.”

  “Thought’s a luxury.”

  “Look. Hawaiians are a small, small group. In ten, twenty years, you’ll be almost totally assimilated. You know that. And most of them welcome progress. Fast cars, fast food, VCRs. So, what is it you’re fighting for? What do you really want?”

  “We want back our land. We want back our seas. We want to be visible. We want tomorrow like today. We don’t want foreigners telling us what we want.”

  He reached out touching the hem of her dress. “You know, you’re like those Amazons who cut off their breasts to better bend their bows. You want to live life on the jagged edge. I promise you, there are better ways to handle grief. Ways that would make your son proud.”

  “Don’t mention him. Get out. Get out!”

  He stood, respectful, keeping a distance. “I’m not going anywhere. You see, I’ve burned all my bridges. Chucked the heli job, told them where to stuff it. Gave all my gear to Digger in the Kakadu. I’m a dog traveling the rough seas. You’re the end of the road for me. Use me, Vanya. I want to be in your life.”

  “You mean you want to fuck me.”

  “No! Not just. I mean, I want to be beside you. I want to be the one who listens. Maybe if someone takes the time to listen, you won’t throw yourself away. Forget the color of my skin. Use me. Let me keep grief from taking one more bite out of you.”

  She turned away, exhausted, saw the package on the table and moved toward it instinctively, half stumbling. Simon picked it up, started to hand it to her.

  “Get away from that!” she screamed. “Don’t touch it.”

  Her voice alerted him. Gently, he shook the box, then sniffed. “Jesus . . . Christ.”

  “Put it down, Simon. Please.”

  “You silly, silly bitch. What have you gotten into? I know cordite when I smell it. Who’s assembling this stuff?”

  She sat down, absolutely silent.

  “Talk to me!”

  “... Locals who work with explosives in construction and demolition. And vets ...”

  He shook his head, laughing softly. “Hardhats. And dropouts.”

  “My cousin, Toru, was a bomb expert in ’Nam.”

  “Toru, the ex-junkie.” He shook his head again. “Vanya. ’Nam was twenty years ago. Don’t you see, these guys are amateurs, they probably remember just enough to blow themselves to pieces.”

  “It’s too late now.”

  “What are they planning to bomb?”

  “I can’t tell you. I don’t trust you. How do I know you’re not working for them? How do I know the military didn’t send you here? That’s what you’re expert at, spying. And killing.”

  He hung his head. “I know how costly trust is. I know what betrayal is. Can’t you forgive someone their past? I beg you, trust me.”

  “I hate that word, it’s sentimental and dangerous.”

  “So is love. If you can’t trust someone who loves you, who will you trust? Now, tell me. What are they planning to bomb?”

  She looked down, shook her head. “Hotels, mostly .. .”

  “When?”

  “January, the Centennial. The Hundred Year Memorial to Queen Lili‘uokalani. In 1893, U.S. Marines came in with fixed bayonets. Whites forced our queen from her throne. They stole our kingdom. We were illegally annexed.”

  �
��I know the history. Be grateful it wasn’t the French. Or the bloody Dutch.” He looked at her for a long time. “Sweetheart. Don’t do this.”

  “Too late. Too many people involved. Groups on every island planning, selecting sites.”

  “How many haole do you plan to kill to make your point?”

  “None. We just want to make a statement. Let the world know we exist.”

  “Oh, dear girl. You are so naive.” He sat back in the chair, closed his eyes as if praying. “I thought I left all this behind.”

  “You have no place in this,” she said. “This is not your business.”

  “Listen to me.” He leaned forward, his face all frontal like a cat. “I was in Laos, Cambodia, as deep as you could get. The Falklands, Nicaragua, Argentina. They jetted us around like celebrities. Gave us fancy names. Elite Corps. Encounter Strategists. International military death-squads is what we were. We had a special appetite, you see, a craving, for guerillas, terrorists. We would stalk them, annihilate them. It was an art. Vanya, once you get involved, the day you fire that first bullet, pull that first grenade pin, you’re a fugitive. You’ll spend your life running, cops, soldiers, always on your trail. They’ll follow you for years. They will sniff your excrement, run you down like dogs. Have you thought of that?”

  She looked at him in shock.

  “Everyone who knows you will be hounded, under constant surveillance. Your friends, family, your grandparents. Anyone who ever spoke to you. A local priest, a field-worker. They’ll lose their jobs. Some will disappear. What will happen to their kids? Who will feed them? And, for what? Ego? Your picture in the news? Sure, people will march, call you a hero, a martyr. But nothing will change. Your cause is lost. It was lost the day you started trading with the white man. Bombs will accomplish nothing. Maybe kill a few tourists. And you will live a life of running.”

 

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