Black Marks on the White Page

by Witi Ihimaera

  We were on the homeward stretch when it happened. It was a partial, but rare enough, according to Aden, who said we wouldn’t see another like this for, I don’t know, something like 100 years, though it might be less. Aden had got hold of some welder’s glass, and as the moon started to drift slowly across the sun, taking a bite out of it, we all lined up, passing the glass up and down the line so we could hold it across our eyes and stare into the sun. It didn’t get all that dark, even when the moon was blotting out a fairly big chunk of the sun; it was like evening but without the boundary of night and day. The contrast had vanished, and the shadows darkened to a deep violet beneath the trees. But it wasn’t eerie because the birds were still singing and there was a gentle northerly rustling the tops of the trees. And there was the smell of wood smoke all around from the smouldering gum stumps that Aden had fired earlier in the week.

  I HAD ENOUGH MONEY when I left the orchard for a second time to set myself up in a shared flat in the city, and let Lorna know where I was. Eventually some mail turned up, forwarded by her, and I discovered I’d gotten into art school. I also got a part-time job in a black-and-white photo lab, behind the scenes in the darkrooms. The money was rubbish, but it was a good job. I was too ordinary to be a model, and too shy to take my clothes off, so mostly I was left alone to spend hours printing and washing down prints. It reminded me of juicing at the orchard. The slosh of hands in liquids and the steady trickle of water down the sink. The chemicals made the skin peel from my hands and my lovers complained that the smell and taste of them had permeated my skin.

  I developed the films from the orchard and some of the photographs — the ones taken outside — were even quite good. The negatives have since disappeared and any prints I made have vanished into the ether of lost photographs. All except one. A black and white of Cy standing between the fruit-laden trees holding his three-year-old son Marco upside down by his legs and the two of them laughing and laughing. I keep it tucked inside the stolen library book; a reminder of winter fruit and something I cannot name.

  I SAW ALICE ONE day, about two years later, on Victoria Street with her little girl. They were waiting for a bus. She lived in Swanson now, with her boyfriend. The orchard was, she said, exactly the same, but the horses were sold and gone. She looked exactly the same too. Except for the baby.

  ‘What’s her name?’ I asked.

  ‘Eclipse,’ Alice replied, jiggling the toddler, who looked exactly like her father, on her hip.

  ‘Just like the racehorse,’ I said.

  Alice laughed. ‘Do you remember …?’

  ‘Of course I do,’ I replied. ‘I remember all of it.’ And I did too.

  I waited until their bus arrived. ‘Hey, don’t be a stranger, Ruby,’ she said, handing me Eclipse and collapsing the pushchair. ‘Give us a bell, come out and meet Pete. We’ve got a cracking little place up in the bush. Not flash, but you know, nice.’

  ‘I will,’ I said, holding on to Eclipse for dear life, terrified that she would begin squirming and I’d drop her. Though all she did was hang in my arms and gurgle softly and look at her feet.

  ‘That’s it,’ Alice said, straightening up and pushing her hair off her face. ‘Look at you, you’re a natural,’ she said, taking Eclipse from me.

  ‘Oh hurry up, love,’ complained the bus driver. ‘I haven’t got all day.’

  ‘Hold your horses,’ Alice said cheerfully, climbing on board. I watched as she settled in a seat in the middle of the bus. ‘Ring me,’ she mouthed. And you know I always meant to. But nothing is ever exactly the same.

  EXTRACT FROM FREELOVE

  SIA FIGIEL

  ENGLISH CLASS FORM 6 VOCABULARY LIST

  Vehemently, Divulge, Brim, Trimester, Forbidden, Intently, Hymen blood, Retaliation, Scrutinize, Conceal, Monotony, Emphatic, Alacrity, Divergence, Contradiction, Exaltation, Affair, Conspiracy, Uncontaminated, Prejudices, Discriminate, Illuminate. Pulsate, Penile erection, Aesthetics, Relationship, Aeronautics, Retribution, Offender, Apology, Perpendicular, Contemplate, Incestuous, Splendiferous, Resolve, Critique, Nostalgia, Subtle, Lingers, Philosophical, Infinities, Opulent, Refulgent, Philosophical, Lustrous, Intimate, Opulent, Ecosystem, Suppressed, Sinful, Innuendo, Transparent, Symbiosis, Photosynthesis, Resemblance, Reproduction, Osmosis, Scintillating, Amaranthine, Nonchalantly, Cannibalistic, Resourceful, Alluring, Reasoning, Indulgent, Cacophony, Paradoxical, Irony, Instinct, Governed, Opulent, Wicked, Expanse, Beaut, Empiricism, Illicit, Humility, Deflowering, Bacteria, Spirituality, Omnipresence, Premonition, Stupendous, Prediction, Semen, Sperm, Traumatic, Recede, Gratification, Pleasure, Multitudinous, Precision, Manipulate, Determinant, Vehemently, Indulgence, Syllogism, Pavlovian, Inter-galactic, Nocturnal, Divulge, Interconnectedness, Rhetoric, Perpendicular, Theory of Relativity, Manifestation. Ceremonial.

  SAMOAN–ENGLISH VOCABULARY LIST

  Inosia. Despised. Ino. Excrements. Sia. pron. This. Sia. One passive termination, as motusia or inosia. Alofatunoa/Alofafua. To love unconditionally, to love freely.

  Alofa. s. 1. Love, compassion. ‘O lona alofa. 2. A present, a gift. Alofa. v. 1. To love, to be compassionate. 2. To salute; as Ta alofa, contracted to Talofa, the ordinary salutation; pl. Alolofa; pass. Alofaina, alofagia; recip. Fealofani.

  Fua. Malay, Buah, s. 1. Fruit, flower. I fua mai le nau ina utupupu ia. ‘O lona fua. 2. Seed. 3. An egg. Le fua lupe e tau tasi. 4. Spawn of fish. 5. A good-looking child of a chief. E le tauilo fua o ali‘i. 6. A fleet of canoes. 7. A measure. Fua, a particle suffixed to the units, with ga as a connecting particle, in counting breadfruit, shellfish, & c., e laufua, e tolugafua; it is prefixed in counting tens, e fualua.

  Fua. adv. 1. Without cause. Lau sala e fa‘apua fua. 2. Without success. 3. Uselessly, to no purpose. Fua. v. 1. To produce fruit. 2. To proceed from, to originate. Fua mai lava.

  Fua. s. Jealousy; only of the sexes; ‘O lona fua. Fua. v. to be jealous. pass. Fuatia. Fua. a. Jealous. ‘O le fafine fua. Afatasi. n.v. Derived from the words afa and tasi. Afa. v. To be united in action; from afa, a mesh stick. ‘Ua afa fa‘atasi. They all use one mesh-stick, and the meshes are equal.

  ‘Afa. s.i. Sinnet, the cord plaited, from the fiber of the coconut, largely used instead of nails for house and boat building. O la‘u ‘afa. 2. The name of a fish. 3. An anchor. Syn. and more common term, taula. Tasi. a.i. 1. One. 2. Another; O le tasi teine, po‘o le tasi tamaloa. The one girl or the one man.

  Tasi. v. To be unprecedented, to be unique. E tasi ae afe. One in a thousand. Tasi. adv. Very. E lelei tasi lava. It is very good. Afatasi. v. n. 1. To connect or unite in one action. 2. To strengthen as one. 3. n. One that is unique; the unprecedented one. O tama‘ita‘i afatasi. Plural. Unique women; unprecedented women. Women who come together to strengthen or to unite as one. Women who are anchored by one action or event.

  AOGA MAUALUGA NU‘UOLEMANUSA NU‘UOLEMANUSA HIGH SCHOOL

  Ripoti Fa‘ai‘u o le Tausaga End of Year School Report

  Itumalo Faleolela / Faleolela School District Malo Tuto‘atasi o Samoa i Sisifo / The Independent State of Western Samoa E fa‘avae i le Atua Samoa / Samoa is founded on God Tesema 20, 1985 / 20 December 1985

  IGOA / NAME: INOSIA ALOFAFUA AFATASI Vasega: 6 / Class: Form 6. Mata‘upu: Vasega o le Fa‘asaenisi / Subject: Science Amio: Maoa‘e le Lelei. / Conduct: Excellent. Tulaga i le Vasega: Sili. Place in Class: 1st Place. Togi aofa‘i: 100% / Total Points: 100%

  Fa‘amatalaga a le Faiaoga / Teacher’s Comments:

  Inosia is one of those rare gems of a student that a teacher is blessed with once in a lifetime. Intuitive and mature beyond her years, Sia is able to grasp the fundamental concepts of Science and is able to excite and share her knowledge, particularly with those fellow students who struggle with them.

  She is not afraid to ask questions and I have had the privilege of witnessing her academic growth through this last year of high school. Diligent and hard working, I have great faith that whatever she decides to study and put her mind to, she wi
ll do so successfully.

  It has been an honour to have been her teacher, although at times, she has taught me more than she’ll ever know.

  O ou mama na, Sia. / Go with my blessings, Sia. Mr Ioane Viliamu. Faiaoga/Teacher

  TOP 20 BEST SONGS OF 1985 ON THE 2AP

  Like a Virgin by MADONNA.

  E Pa‘ia o le Alo o le Atua by TAMA O LE TIAMA‘A.

  Sosefina by TAMA O LE TIAMA‘A.

  Pule Aoao le Atua by TAMA O LE TIAMA‘A.

  Mo‘omo‘oga by PUNIALAVA‘A.

  I Want to Know What Love Is by FOREIGNER.

  I Feel for You by CHAKA KHAN.

  Take On Me by A-HA.

  Malu A‘e le Afiafi by FETU LIMA.

  Everytime You Go Away by PAUL YOUNG.

  Careless Whisper by WHAM.

  Sa Ou Nofo ma Va‘ava‘ai i Fetu o le Lagi by PENINA O TI‘AFAU.

  Taualaga a Solomona by PENINA O TI‘AFAU.

  Cherish the Love by KOOL & THE GANG.

  The Power of Love by HUEY LEWIS AND THE NEWS.

  Sina Ea, Sau Se‘i Fai Mai by TAMA O LE TIAMA‘A.

  Pele Moana by THE GOLDEN ALI‘I‘S.

  Beyond the Reef by THE YANDALL SISTERS.

  Tupe Siliva by ‘ELEVISI‘ ‘ELVIS OF SAMOA‘ LAUOLEFISO TO‘OMALATAI.

  Saving All My Love for You by WHITNEY HOUSTON.

  I LISTENED INTENTLY TO Mr Viliamu as the breeze caressed both our faces.

  He was a walking encyclopedia who knew just about everything there was to know, and yet he always made whatever knowledge he was passing on seem like it was a gift from God. That he was merely the medium with whom such a gift was exchanged for those of us who needed to receive it.

  Momentarily, I felt lucky and special that he stopped to pick me up. To share this knowledge with my ever curious and hungry mind that seemed to absorb everything he said.

  A penny for your thoughts, girl, said Mr Viliamu, drawing me back into the conversation.

  I didn’t know what he meant.

  English, I’m afraid to say, was not my best subject in school, which meant I paid more attention to it than any of the other classes I loved, like Science, Mathematics, Samoan, Social Studies and Health. I kept vocabulary notebooks and studied them and studied them and studied them until I knew meanings of words, but found that there were not too many people in Gu‘usa who spoke it. Perhaps I secretly loved English. Perhaps I didn’t. Perhaps I did and I didn’t. That’s how I felt about English. It was a moody language. At times void of meaning. Empty. Perhaps this feeling of the emptiness of English comes from the blatant fact that I really had no relation to it just as much as it had no relation to me. It wasn’t like my geneaology could be traced through it. Or that the veins in my blood were to be found in its alphabet, the way it is found on my mother’s tattooed thighs. Besides, I did not want to appear fiapoko, like I knew everything, especially before my classmates who struggled with it, as it was a language I too found hard to swallow, that got stuck always in the middle of my throat, especially when I pronounced words like beach, peach, pig, big, and porridge.

  And before I could respond, Mr Viliamu asked me again.

  Why are you so quiet? What are you thinking about? I’d like to know.

  Does he really want to know what I’m thinking about or is he just being polite? Besides, why would the thoughts of a 17½-year-old girl be of interest to an old man? He’s at least 10, 12 years older than me! Not to mention the fact that he’s a walking encyclopedia who just happens to be our pastor’s oldest son, which technically makes him my brother!

  Nothing, Mr Viliamu, I said, not wanting to disappoint him with my lack of enthusiasm.

  I’m not thinking about anything. Besides, it’s what you’re thinking of that I’d like to know. Boldly smiling at him, supposing I had said something that he might find intelligent and would be proud of because it originated from him.

  But instead he responded quite differently, as if he hadn’t heard what I had said, which disappointed me, and I showed my disappointment by avoiding eye contact with him and stared instead into the ocean, watching her give birth to waves, listening to them splash onto the lava rocks below the cliffs of Si‘unu‘u, which meant we were halfway to Apia.

  Mr Viliamu’s voice echoed suddenly from a far away place, only he was no less than six inches away from me.

  You might be embarrassed if I tell you what I’m thinking, he said, rubbing his stomach with one hand as if he hadn’t eaten breakfast as he steered the pick-up truck with his other hand.

  What is he saying? Embarrassed? Why would I be embarrassed? Is he going to correct my English? Should I have said a cluster or a crowd instead of a school of birds? They’re birds all the same, aren’t they? But then Mr Viliamu said something else. Something he spoke through the language of his body movements. He started scratching his knee and my eyes followed his hand as it moved from his knee to his inner thigh so that his shorts shrunk upwards and I caught a glimpse of his pubic hair.

  Immediately, my eyes darted out the window.

  Not only was I embarrassed, frankly, I became offended, not to mention deeply ashamed.

  A nervousness entered my body and I thought for a moment that I was going to cry. After all, I had never seen that part of a grown man’s anatomy, and I suddenly found myself thinking about all the males in my family: my uncle Afatasi Fa‘avevesi, who was my mother’s brother and our ‘aiga’s main matai, lived with his wife Stella behind the fale where my mother Alofafua and her sister Aima‘a, Gu‘usa’s traditional healer, and my grandmother Taeao (short for Taeao‘oleaigalulusa) and Ala (short for Alailepuleoletautua), my grand-aunt who was deaf, lived with all the girls of our family and boys under 13, which included my 12-year-old brothers Aukilani (Au) and Ueligitone (Ue), identical twins who loved to play identity tricks on people. The older boys, which included our Uncle Fa‘avevesi’s sons Chris and Emau, as well as our adopted brothers and other taule‘ale‘a or untitled male relatives from either Savai‘i, Manono or Apolima, who were all technically considered my brothers, lived in a house behind Uncle Fa‘avevesi’s house, closer to where the umukuka or kitchen was located.

  With all these males around, you’d think I would have seen a full grown man’s penis by now. And yet, the taboos that governed the movements of our brothers in relation to us, their sisters, known as the feagaiga, or the brother/sister covenant, were so strictly observed and highly scrutinised that it meant I’d only witnessed a penis once.

  Well, twice actually. But they belonged to my twin brothers Ue and Au, who had been circumcised along with their friends, and were waddling out of the ocean after one of them was stung by a jellyfish.

  It was the funniest sight.

  Q and Cha and I teased them so badly that their only form of retaliation was in empty threats that further paralysed them by the state of affairs they were caught in.

  Imagine the fastest boys of Gu‘usa reduced to waddling turtles, calling out that they’re going to ‘get us’ once their penises were healed. Because that’s going to ever happen, ha! It was utterly hilarious and became a family and village joke recounted over and over by the women at suipi whenever they needed light entertainment to break the monotony of someone’s winning streak.

  I clung to the image of my brothers and their friends for safety as I was beginning to feel uneasy with Mr Viliamu.

  I didn’t know how I was to ever look into his eyes again with the same confidence he had originally instilled in me at school, now that I had seen something so intimate as his pubic hair.

  Perhaps it was an accident, I told myself. He didn’t mean to expose himself to me deliberately. But then again, wasn’t he the very same person who told our class that there were no accidents or coincidences? That every action we make creates a ripple in the universe, which means that all actions are interconnected?

  How then could I possibly unsee what I had just seen? Instantaneously, I told myself that this was a bad idea. I never should have accepted Mr V
iliamu’s offer in the first place. I would have wholeheartedly given up the six tala my mother had given me for busfare to sit next to an old man who hadn’t showered in a week in a crowded bus with babies crying and old women smoking Samoan tobacco, and Cyndi Lauper’s Time after Time playing over and over and over, not to see what I had just seen.

  But it was too late, I suppose.

  As my Aunty Aima‘a always said, Once a cup of water is spilled, it can never be retrieved.

  Suddenly Mr Viliamu said, You’re quiet again. I can tell you’re thinking about something because your forehead looks wrinkled.

  Ha, I laughed, nervously, touching my forehead.

  Really? You can do that? Know from my forehead what I’m thinking about? I asked rhetorically this time, not really expecting him to answer.

  I looked out the window so that I could catch a glimpse of my forehead in the mirror to see what Mr Viliamu meant. But Mr Viliamu told me that there was a mirror right above me and reached across me to fold it down. His arm brushed lightly against my left breast and a tingling sensation surged through my body, from my head to my toes, which had never happened to me before.

  Oopsy, said Mr Viliamu. He looked at me and smiled.

  I’m sorry, love, as he returned his arm to his stomach, caressing it, moving it towards his inner thigh, circling his pubic hair, this time, looking directly into my eyes.

  Perplexed, I tried to avoid his gaze and the piercing effect it had not only on my own eyes but on my entire body.

  What is happening? I asked myself, as I closed my eyes and felt the sensation of Mr Viliamu’s arm against my breast, not to mention his penis, which had increased immensely in size, bulging under his shorts, which I was trying desperately to avoid seeing.