Authors: Keri Hulme
make zing and beep noises to lure the wee souls in. Construct them of shiny fireproof plastic: mould 'em to
look like bubbles. And Baby comes to play... once yer victim is inside, an automatic dispenser dispenses a
whiff of extremely potent anaesthetic, the clear walls turn opaque, and the cell swiftly incinerates its contents.
Just turn upside down afterwards, and let the clean ashes sift away--
You're a morbid abhuman bastard, Holmes... where were you when they built Treblinka and Dachau?
It isn't a mood she enjoys. She clenches her shoulder and back muscles, loosens them, tightens them, trying to
physically get rid of a grim humour. It works, until she does a round of the strangletraps in the afternoon and
discovers she has caught a fine crop of mice, every size from decrepit patriarch to tender pink nosed fine-
furred baby. She flings thirty corpses out to the gulls, and the cold-eyed birds squawl and battle for the stiff
little bodies. Some are gulped whole, others torn apart, before she can get away from the view, and she has a
new gruesome set of images to fight.
The Tower is clean and sweetsmelling and dustfree by late afternoon. The seawind has blown through it,
every window opened wide as could be.
"Foul fug of smoke everywhere... strange I never noticed it before now." She spent some time cleaning her
smoking gear.
If I could see this yech,
a disgusting slime, dark dung of tobacco she's excavated from her pipes and nargheel.
every time I smoked, I do believe it would put me off for life... On the other hand, I don't see it,
cheerfully lighting a pipe before going down to make tea. She is laying the fire when the radiophone buzzes.
Hundred to one it's Gillayley senior. It can buzz its head off.
But the clamour is unrelenting, going on and on, so she snatches up the mike and thumbs home the speak
button as though she'd like to push it through the set.
"Ah hah," says the operator brightly. "Don't tell me, I know. I just got you out of the shower."
"You did not."
"O? Is everything all right?"
"Yes. Did you just ring up to say hello?"
"No. I've got your friends on the line," all the good humour has fled the operator's voice. "One moment please,"
switch, click, switch.
"Tena koe e hoa!" bellows Joe. "C'mon down to the Duke, Kerewin! We got all kinds of celebration going on!"
Up you.
"No thanks," she says coldly.
"Huh?"
"I said, No thanks."
"Uh Kerewin, you not feeling well?"
"I'm feeling fine."
He's scratching his head. "I've upset you some way? Himi's upset you?"
"Hell, you're self-centred, bloody self-centred. What makes you think the only thing in the world that could
upset me would be you or your son?"
"What's wrong?" bewilderment in his voice. "Whatever's wrong?"
"Nothing. I just don't feel like going out and grogging up tonight."
He must be in the phone booth at the Duke. She hears a door pulled shut, and the babble and clamour in the
background dim.
"E Kere, that's okay," he says gently. "I'm sorry if it sounded like I expected you to drop everything and come out with me. I didn't mean it that way. You see, Piri and his missus are back together, that's why he went
north eh. And Ben's just sold a stud
heifer for a few hundred more than he expected, and everyone's happy. We're having a bit of a do, and I
thought you might be happy to come and join it. Piri's been asking where you are. So's Pi and Polly and the
old lady, you know? And I've been wanting you here."
Well want on, man.
"Yeah, but I'm busy."
"Okay, e hoa," and sighs his breath huhhh out. "Ahh, will you be busy tomorrow? Because I've got a sort of present for you if you want it--"
Talk about baits... or is it just because I've set too many traps today?
"All right, I bite. What kind of present?"
He laughs.
"I'll give you a clue. He aha koa iti, he pounamu." His voice has grown stronger and more relaxed with each word. "You know last night?"
"What about it?"
"I didn't say anything about the painting, unwrap it or even give a thank you... but it's the best self-portrait I've ever seen, Rembrandt included."
("Ha bloody ha."
"No truly, I love it. I hung it up in the sittingroom today eh, right above the fireplace. The frame's perfect. I think I'll do the room up to match it eh?"
His high throbbing giggle.
"Yeah," she drawls.
"I mean that too..." she can hear him ripping open a packet of cigarettes, the click and hiss of his lighter.
"Well, I was thinking what I could get you. Nothing nearly as good as your gift, but something special--"
"That plait you said you'll be making from Sim's hair will do fine."
"O, I made that already. I stayed up a while last night doing it. I was thinking all kinds of things while I did eh." "I'll bet," she says drily.
Hell, imagine. While I was drinking my way through a sludge of selfpity, there was the earnest Gillayley
wearing his fingers down to the bone, up all night regardless of early morning work, to make me a necklet
from his son's moonshimmer hair. I'll bet the bugger's lying.
"Anyway, what I was thinking doesn't matter... I bought you this present today, and I was going to give it to
you tonight." Pause.
The harsh eager gasp as he sucks in more smoke, and the long soft breath out.
He aha koa iti, he pounamu... it doesn't mean that it is a gift of greenstone, but that it carries the emotional
content of jade. The value, the indications of affection and respect, the mana of pounamu.
"All right, you've hooked me... I'll put away me sour mood, and crawl along to the Duke."
"E ka pai, ka pai," his delight makes his voice rise to a tenor pitch. "Look, I'll borrow Piri's truck and come right over, eh?"
"Nah, she's right. I'll ring a taxi. I haven't had much to eat today, and I better get some food aboard before
drinking."
He asks with sudden consternation,
"You haven't had one of those stomach attacks, have you? Like at Moerangi?"
"Hell no. It's just been a shit of a day... I went mad and cut my hair, cleaned everything out, slaughtered
mice... a sort of dreary combination of the murderous and the domestic, you know?"
Joe, giggling, says he doesn't. "But I'm glad you're all right... her, what does your hair look like? Ah not to worry. I'll see it soon... must be shearing time eh?" Snicker. "I'll chop mine too, and get in on the act. O by the way, Haimona's with the old people. We were on our way to you with this koha, and he nearly had us off
the bike, shrieking and pointing and carrying on at some kids. Took about ten years off my life and three
inches of rubber off the tyres as we screech to a halt. And the kids all start yelling and dancing bad as Himi,
and it's Piri's mob, all of them. So we went into the farm quick and you'd never believe it but Himi and them
are all over the top of one another like they're old mates from way back. And I told you how they used to
fight, eh?"
"Yeah."
"Piri and Lynn are all over the top of each other too, ur, I mean they're hugging us as much as we're hugging
them."
"That did sound very much like double entendre."
"Weellll," and she knows he is grinning. "They were kind of close when we barged in... anyway, that's where Himi still is. The old people are babysitting while we depraved adults go out and booze."
"Lucky Marama. Lucky Wherahiko," intense sympathy in her voice to pervert her words--
16 ounces of beer and two whiskies in ten minutes. A bit much too fast for comfort. Particularly after last
night's performance. A momentary giddy swirl.
Polly is saying something.
"I said, you done your hair nice."
"Sorry, I was far away... you like it? I just hacked, but hair like mine grows quickly over catastrophes."
"Huh, you're lucky. You want to have hair like mine. "Polly tosses her head and shuffles cards faster.
My cut hair, lying in a woolly pile on the floor... wondering whether it might be better, more respectful, to
bury it -- but then, worms, mould, decay... so, as always I burn it, and watch, as always, dismayed to see it
shrivel to a sticky mass that charred and disintegrated. A little more of me gone forever--
"Yeah, I'm lucky," she says to Polly.
Joe comes back with another tray of drinks. He whispers in her ear, "Happy you came?"
She nods. "Ah, I'm glad... I'll give it you in private?" laying his hand on her shoulder. Again she nods.
"What're you fellas whispering about?" Piri bawls it out. He is very drunk and very happy, one arm draped
about his wife, hugging her tight to him every minute as though he's afraid she'll forget him.
Lynn is smaller than he is, a fine-boned woman with black feathery hair. She reminds Kerewin of a bird in
more ways than one, high-voiced, sharp-nosed, full of quick nervous movement. A sparrow of a woman, but
without a sparrow's gamin cheerfulness.
"Secrets eh?" says Piri.
"No. I was merely saying this place is filling up." Joe leaves his hand on her shoulder as he sits. The warmth of it soaks through her jacket, through her shirt, warming her skin. "Filling up fast," he says, and takes the hand away, raising his glass to her.
The early evening drinkers are pouring in: the din increases. She can no longer hear what the others are
saying, yet through the general uproar some small sounds are abnormally clear. The plic! of a poolball
snicking another. The flat knock the shotglass makes when she puts it down. Polly going "Fsss!" under her
breath as she plunks down an invincible card. Pi's soft swear. The old lady looks over his shoulder and says,
"Hell!", and draws hard on her pipe. It's gone out since the last puff and Kerewin can hear the sucking sound as though it's being played through loudspeakers.
"Umm... my turn to get drinks eh." Standing, the floor seems to withdraw a little under her feet. "What are you all having?"
"Just some jugs and a few whiskies," says Pi. "We can share them round eh?"
"Right you are," steadying herself unobtrusively. "Would you help us with the glasses, Joe?"
"Gladly."
At the counter, while waiting for the jugs and glasses to be filled:
"and what does the bloody borough do? Put 'em through the stonecrusher!"
"Struth mate, at a dollar a sugarsack?"
"And then they plant them in the bloody tarseal!"
"What's all that about?" thumbing towards the group that's doing the talking.
Joe shrugs. The barman shakes his head, eyes on the squirting stream of beer.
"Stones, I think," he says. "They've found a market for those white ones you can pick up by the ton off Bright Street beach."
"Ah they'll be selling the air we breathe next," snarls Kerewin. "First gold, then coal, then all the bush they could axe, and all the fish they could can. And now the very beach--"
"Ah you never know where it'll end," the barman agrees cheerfully. "That'll be four dollars and 91 cents." He whisks the fiver into the till. "I like your hair like that," dropping the change into her hand.
"My donation to this year's woolclip," she says sourly.
"I like it anyway," Joe smiles, helping load the drinktray.
She has clipped her hair very short: the thick mushroom cloud that had bloomed has been tamed to a neat
tightcurled cap. Not a sign of singed hair anywhere.
"Ta, mate." She swaps grins with him.
Joe thinks, Hope to hell she didn't hear what else those buggers said, or that'll really screw things up.
"S'all right for some to talk," one of the group had said after Kerewin's remarks. "She's got more money than she knows what to do with they reckon, but how many of us can say that?" And another added, "Yeah. Lucky
bastard Gillayley, looks like he's in on it now."
That had hurt. Thinks Joe, I don't want any part of her money. I just want her. He had made his compliment
in a loud voice, covering whatever else the group said.
The hell with what they think... but why can't they keep their big mouths shut?
We're a quiet school, she thinks. A little island of peace in all this racket.
Piri and Lynn are staring tipsily into each other's eyes.
Pi and Polly are intent on their game, cardplayers' eyes flickering like lizard tongues. The old lady drinks and
smokes and stares, chuckling to herself over jokes only she knows about.
She and Joe drink in companionable silence. Shreds of conversation drift by her. The poolplayers give the
game up in disgust, "... bloody cue's flawed, not to mention the table," and troop down to the other end of the bar where the dartboard is. An old old man to her left is saying, "... and the nurse said, Hold my hand then,
ever so nicely."
He's dotted with age freckles, bald but with a thin layer of side hair combed up and across in a vain attempt to
hide the baldness; he sits stiffly upright like a poker's rammed up him. "... and after my operation on the other side, she said, My, Mr Kissenger, for a man old enough to be my grandfather you certainly know some," she
turns her ears away.
A group of men, all dressed in jeans and grey pullovers, discuss fish and boats. One yells, "Hey John! Go get
your guitar and we'll have a bit of a song eh?"
"Do, John," she murmurs to herself, and starts as Joe taps her arm.
"You're miles away."
"I was just thinking... something the matter?"
"No, Pi's got some sandwiches for us."
"The old lady makes them and keeps them in her bag every time we come here now," says Pi.
"We got caught by the greasy hamburgers they make down the road a couple of times, and as for the pies
here--"
"Help yourself," urges the old lady.