Black Marks on the White Page

by Witi Ihimaera

  Towards mid afternoon, doubtless weary of amusing her audience with this kind of repertoire — a therapy as absurd as it was unnecessary, given the euphoric reality of the day itself — the storyteller finishes her act on a slightly more ironic note.

  —It’s the story of a little girl who got pinched during the night by a big crab. Ever since, she can’t stop catching crabs down in the mangroves. And every time she eats one, she feels a sharp pain, in the place where the crab pinched her. To stop the pain, she resists the call of the crabs and decides to stop fishing for them in the mangroves. But that night, she hears them crawling up towards her, so she goes and stands by the hearth with her back to the fire, facing the door. The big crab arrives, comes in and makes straight for her. The moment he goes to grab her between his claws, she moves sideways and the big crab falls into the fire, pinching at the embers.

  THEN THE STORYTELLER, LIKE some disillusioned diva or world-weary star who must fly off to some other, infinitely more important engagement, proclaims that, having still more sales and bargain-hunting to do, she must leave them. Nonetheless, and with no illusions as to the answer, she asks Tom what he’s planning to do. He announces that he’s staying, as if to say ‘too late’.

  He is older than both Lena and his cousin, so he takes the lead in organising the rest of the afternoon. He starts by taking them out of the café whose magic, now broken by the end of the funny stories and the laughter, had allowed him to see himself reflected in the gaze of the young girl whose serenity now reminds him of the calm preceding the storm. He takes the other two for a short walk, his stride adopting the continuous movement of the carnival crowd so that they have no trouble keeping up as he leads them on a kind of enchanted wander, weaving through streets that have thrown off their usual sleazy rags and put on their party clothes, the myriad patterns and shades of which multiply with every step they take. On this extraordinary walk, they each savour what captures their gaze and their fancy in the orgy of colours and manufactured goods. Made in Japan, China, Taiwan and all those other mythical places of origin, in factories making mass-produced goods, ready to take production straight offshore, where, from the weaving to the printing, they make the symbols of our identity: Kanaky flags by the hundreds, or whatever you care to order. In this joyous, whirling dance, a furtive glance from beneath a blue-shadowed eyelid, out from a mass of dreadlocks or finely braided extensions, sets off the wildest imaginings. The three friends allow themselves to be carried off toward other dreams, like those others who, only the day before or that same morning, at the first light of dawn, had laid down their protest demands on behalf of all those who are excluded from the money economy of the merchant town; written them out on banners carefully spread beneath the leafy branches of a false pepper tree, somewhere on the other side of the hills. Now that they’ve shifted their beggar’s bag onto the other shoulder or hung it up in a shanty-town hut down by the mangroves, the protesters can let themselves go, be drawn into the delicious whirlwind of the day’s festivities and live it up. Happily putting aside the militant fervour of the morning, they give themselves, body and soul, to the wave of light-hearted pleasure that carries them toward more carefree shores. In this magical journey into the beating heart of shopping land, into the pulsing lungs of the city’s marketing economy, off they go, hearts on fire and bodies in a trance, toward other shores, other desires, other pleasures.

  Tom is suddenly gripped by an amazing burst of activity, an incredible surge of energy: like some multi-hull helmsman or a street entertainer, he gleefully drags the young couple from pavement to pavement, avenue to avenue, from one square to another. He is overflowing with a vitality that is every bit as sudden as it is surprising, but which is perfectly in tune with the fever-hot atmosphere of the afternoon that leaves little room for introspection. But there, on a street corner, hanging on a rack on the pavement, a pleated grey mission dress with white flowers suddenly forces upon him a distant vision of his mother, back home in the village up in the hills, amidst the columnar pines and fern-covered slopes. He would have liked to have given it to her as a gift, as he often used to do. He can’t resist, and buys it. The assistant hands him his parcel, gift-wrapped, decorated with a little crêpe-paper rosette of black petals surrounding a tiny red heart that he spontaneously removes and pins on Lena’s dress. She is moved by this sudden gesture, but all three nonetheless find it quite natural, in accordance with custom. Then, brushing a surreptitious hand against the nape of her neck as he pushes the parcel into her hands, he continues to guide them forward through the crowd.

  They pass groups of young men having a good time, groups of girls laughing and joking among themselves. They make way for elegant women dressed in silk mission dresses, chatting quietly as they stroke a scarf or hand a sweet to a chubby-cheeked child, unmindful of the hustle and bustle of the crowded streets around them. They pass ladies with bleached, straightened hair, lashes thick with mascara, powdered cheeks and bright lipstick, their hips swaying as they sashay past, some in shorts, others in jeans and boots or high-heels. There is a growing warmth and intensity in the gaze of each passer-by as the minutes and hours tick away on watches that no one looks at, the better to lose all notion of time. Time and notions: emotions that, in no time at all, a rapper in the town square brings back into focus, quick as a flash, in perfectly measured rhythms and flowing rhymes, standing in the middle of a circle where he is joined by two or three pirouetting hip-hop dancers and break-dancers, rapping out his words in a two-three beat.

  Brotha in struggle/ Kanak bro/ Caledo/ from Oceania/ Rasta/ Wearin’ dreads/ wearin’ extensions/ Bob in yo’ heart/ he singin’/ ‘no woman/ no cry’/ Kana sista/ from Oceania/ Islanda/ don’t ya cry now/ don’t cry Ma/ my rebel song/ won’t last long/ like our sorrows/ no tomorrows/ for our dead/ like I said/ mates in arms/ comrade brothas/ gotta be leaders/ gotta stand tall/ gotta fight see/ for our dignity/ for liberty/ justice and equality/ trod down/ to the ground/ this global trip/ everywhere you look/ global domination/ global uniformity/ by the bomb/ heavy artillery/ got the net/ internet school now/ so I learn/ and I dance/ and I sing/ sing my song/ sing my roots/ they so long/ rebel song/ sing for dignity/ for liberty/ justice and equality/ on my Island/ Isle of Light/ Light me home/ Home my land/ Land my tribe/ Tribe my Nation/ my Country/ Kanaky.

  LIKE SHINDERELLA

  VICTOR RODGER

  1

  AFTER THEIR FIRST FUCK, the man took a thick silver ring off his almost-black finger and offered it to Robert.

  ‘Take this as a symbol of my love.’

  His Samoan accent was strong so his s’s came out as sh’s. Thish. Ash. Shymbol.

  Robert, even though he’d never admit it, was inclined to dismiss him as just another hot Fob full of cheesy one-liners. But the ring — the ring was interesting, even if the sex had been unspectacular. (As Robert fucked the man, his moans had climbed higher and higher until they hit almost a feminine register. When he fucked, he liked his men to grunt in a basso profundo — never higher than an alto.)

  Robert took the ring and held it in his hand. Heavy. Definitely not cheap. Robert slid it onto his just-olive wedding finger and admired it.

  ‘Maybe one day, you and me, we get married?’ Tay. Ket.

  The man raised his eyebrows twice in quick succession.

  Robert smiled.

  If only he could remember the man’s name.

  ‘Thanks, man.’

  For now, that would have to do.

  2

  AFTER THEIR SECOND FUCK (much better than the first, since the man kept his grunting low), the man opened the wardrobe in his small Manurewa bedroom and pulled out three boxes. He placed them on the bed.

  ‘Have a look.’ Haff.

  Robert opened the first box: inside were two beautifully hand-stitched black leather shoes.

  ‘They’re beautiful,’ he said, both surprised and excited. His heart began to race as he checked the size.

  ‘Twelves.’ The magical number.
>
  The other boxes contained the exact same shoes in tan and chocolate.

  ‘Take them,’ the man said, looking at Robert fondly.

  The shoes were beautiful — more beautiful than any Robert possessed. Certainly more beautiful than his tatty brown dress shoes which lay underneath his quickly discarded pants and t-shirt.

  ‘You don’t want them?’

  The man shrugged. ‘Too big.’

  There was the question as to why the man had three identical pairs of expensive shoes that were too big for him — but Robert didn’t care. Instead, he grabbed a sock from the floor, put it on his foot and began to slide his foot inside one of the shoes.

  But no matter how hard he tried, his foot resisted. Robert silently cursed his Samoan father for the one thing he’d ever given him: wide feet.

  The man stood there, naked and amused, as Robert desperately tried to get his foot inside the shoe.

  ‘Like Cinderella,’ the man said. Shinderella.

  Robert grimaced. He had absolutely no intention of being an Ugly Sister. He pushed and pushed, willing his foot into the shoe. It was a battle he’d fought many times, around the world, with his wide, flat feet. Sometimes he’d won; sometimes he’d lost. But this time, he was determined to get his foot inside.

  The man seemed confused by Robert’s determination: ‘Too small, uh?’

  Robert’s natural impulse was to glare at the man but instead he kept pushing. And pushing. And pushing, willing the leather to give a little more each time. Finally, when sweat was trickling down his temples, Robert’s foot slid into the shoe. His foot felt like it had been placed into an ever-tightening vice — but it was in.

  He grabbed another sock, forced the other shoe on and then stood naked, his little toes throbbing. He gingerly walked towards a full-length mirror.

  ‘Sole — you sure they fit okay?’

  The shoes were killing him. Every step was absolute agony. But Robert was determined his wide feet would eventually make the shoes succumb to his width. It would just take time: time and persistence.

  Robert looked up at the man. Fuck. He still couldn’t remember his name.

  ‘Thanks, man.’

  For a moment he wondered what the man might bestow on him if they fucked for a third time but he looked at his watch: it was time to go.

  Robert got dressed and hobbled out of the man’s house with the three shoeboxes under his arms.

  The man looked at him, clearly concerned at the way he was walking.

  ‘Sole — you sure you okay?’

  Robert nodded and smiled.

  ‘Sweet. For real.’

  They drove in silence: the man had agreed to drop Robert at his friend Patsy’s house.

  The man rested one hand on Robert’s thigh, slowly stroking it up and down as he drove down Weymouth Road. Among the people-movers sagging with sticky-fingered children and arguing parents, Robert was surprised that the man clearly held no fear about being seen being affectionate with another man.

  Robert looked over at him. He had a strong profile. Impossibly smooth skin. Beautiful full lips. Fine jet-black hair. It was obvious why Robert had drunkenly made a beeline for him at the club last night. And for a fleeting moment he wondered how his mother had felt, meeting his father, fresh from Samoa, for the first time.

  The man was about to pull into Patsy’s driveway but Robert had no intention of being seen with him in public and instructed him to pull over to the side of the road.

  Robert got out of the car, his feet pulsating as though each toe had been hit with a hammer.

  The man winked at him. ‘Vili mai.’

  Robert frowned: his Samoan barely went beyond pleasantries and swearwords.

  The man clarified: ‘Call me.’

  Robert noticed Patsy in the distance, watching with interest from the deck of her dilapidated house, her short, stout frame encased in a faded white bathrobe, her skin a dark chocolate against it.

  ‘Fa,’ he said, quickly.

  ‘Ia, fa.’

  Robert watched as the man drove away, then turned to face Patsy, who had one plucked, bemused eyebrow arched.

  ‘O ai le la kama?’

  Robert ran through the phrases he recognised in his head, trying to translate without having to ask: Kama — man. O ai. Who? She was asking who the man was?

  ‘Just a friend.’

  ‘A friennnnnnnnd?’ The word in Patsy’s mouth was thick with derision.

  Her eyes looked at the new shoes and the shoeboxes under Robert’s arms.

  ‘You been shopping?’

  ‘Kinda.’

  Patsy’s eyes narrowed in suspicion as she caught sight of the silver ring on Robert’s wedding finger.

  ‘Oi, we’re a married man now, are we?’ she said, her voice dripping with sarcasm. ‘Malo, malo. What’s Mr Lucky’s name?’

  Robert opened his mouth and briefly considered lying, then simply shrugged.

  Patsy shook her head: ‘Oi sole.’

  It was not quite dusk. Inside the house Robert could hear Patsy’s husband, Napz, reprimanding one of their children, and a child’s stifled cries.

  Robert took two geisha-girl steps towards the house, his little toes pulsating prisoners desperate to break free from their jail.

  Patsy clicked her tongue against the roof of her mouth as she watched him: ‘E, kalofa e si Little Mermaid.’

  Robert was about to follow her inside when she looked down at his shoes. He knew she meant for him to take them off before entering the house.

  ‘Come on, Pats. If you’d seen how long it took to get them on …’

  Pats raised one eyebrow.

  ‘But …’

  Patsy raised the other eyebrow.

  Robert sighed and then, with great effort and even greater reluctance, kicked his shoes off.

  Ahhhhh, the sweet, sweet release …

  He looked down at the other discarded shoes outside the front door: well-worn jandals, grubby sneakers, scuffed black church shoes.

  ‘Are they safe out here?’

  ‘Ki‘o,’ Patsy said as she moved inside.

  Robert couldn’t bear the thought of them being nicked. He balanced the three shoeboxes under one arm, then bent down to pick up his beautiful new shoes.

  ‘I’ll bring them inside. Just in case.’

  Robert Jahnke

  Navarro tukutuku, 2014–16

  Ata tuatahi, 2016

  Ripeka whero, 2015

  BLACK MILK

  TINA MAKERETI

  THE BIRDWOMAN CAME INTO the world while no one was watching. It was her old people who sent her, the ones who hadn’t chosen to make the transition, who stayed in their feathered forms, beaks sharp enough to make any girl do what her elders told her.

  ‘It’s time,’ they said. ‘They’re ready.’

  But was she?

  There were things the people needed to know. But first she had to make her way into their world. She watched for a long time from her perch, trying to figure the way of them. They seemed so crude and clumsy to her — so slow with their lumbering bodies, their plain, unprotected flesh — no wonder they took plumage from her own kind, or made poor copies with their fibres. Their movements pained her — she would need to slow her own quickness, calm the flutter of wings, the darting of eyes that had protected and fed her all her wild life.

  She saw what kind of woman she would be. She could keep some of her dignity if she held her head high, wore heavy skirts that fanned out and trained behind her, if she corseted in the unprotected flesh and upholstered it with good tailoring. A fine tall hat, or elaborately coiled hair beset with stones that caught the light. She had seen women such as this, glided past them on the wind. They saw her too, but didn’t point and call out like the children. They saw and took note in silence, sometimes lifted their chins in acknowledgement. She saw spiralled markings on some of those chins, dark-haired women, and thought she could read meaning there. Though this was a rare sight, and though she needed to blend i
n, she decided she should mark herself this way too, so that the ones who needed to would recognise her.

  So she came into the world when no one was watching, only just grown enough to be a birdwoman rather than a birdgirl. Then she moved through the forest to where the people lived. On the outskirts of the settlement, the men saw her first. They removed their hats and looked everywhere but into her eyes, for there was something piercing in her manner that made them uncomfortable. She walked past them towards streets lined with houses, alarmed that without wings the dust gathered itself to her and stayed. How did they stand it, the people with all their gravity and filth?

  The women were less circumspect. They looked her up and down from their doorways, and made assumptions about where she came from and what kind of woman she was.

  ‘Looking for someone, dear?’ called Eloise, who had survived four stillbirths and adopted every stray child in town.

  ‘Perhaps she’s in the wrong place,’ said Aroha to Eloise, loud enough for the Birdwoman to hear. ‘Are you lost, dear?’ Aroha was all right once you got to know her, but she was not an easy woman to get to know.

  The Birdwoman thought about how to answer these questions, and the only answer that came to her was politely.

  ‘I am fine thank you, but I am wondering if there might be a place for me to stay. Can you recommend a house?’

  The women were disarmed by her directness.