Once Were Warriors Page 22

  So eleven at night and here was a man strollin down the main street whistling and enjoying lookin in all the windows. And crisscrossing the street so he could get to see his reflection — but makin out he had business on that side when he did cross, lookin at his watch, the digital he’d stolen from a sleeping drunk in the McClutchy toilets, lappin up that image of tall, beautifully — budeeful — proportioned man a muscle. Even with his clothes on you could still see a man was well made underneath. Fuckem. Sayin fuckem, to himself. At them. The fuckin world. Sonny Boy Jacobs. The Brown Fists. Her, Beth. For sayin what she did in front of everyone even though it wasn’t what she’d said herself, he knew that, it was what Grace musta wrote in a, you know, last letter, suicide note. But it wasn’t true. It wasn’t.

  Down at the lake end of town and Jake could smell the aroma from the first Chinese takeaway where he always went and never the other joint, dunno why, just that a man took a dislike to that other joint, and these aromas comin to a man makinim starvin but no dough, man. Felt like marchin in the place anyway and haulin the little Slit jerk over the counter and robbinim. But Jake was no robber. And besides, the little jerk might know kung fu or sumpthin. Turn the tables on a man. Chop-chop a Maori boy’s neck off, hahaha! his laughter echoing down that deserted street, and not long after being followed by the town clock chiming …? Jake stopping to count the dongs: twelve ofem. Midnight. My, how time flies when ya havin a good time.

  Found himself in Samuel Marsden Park, named after some white colonial fulla from the old days when the Pakeha first arrived and changed the Maoris’ way of life forever. Man, did they what. Mind you, a man, Jake Heke and his entire family, woulda been a slave in them days. Magine that, bein a slave, havin ta have some cunt givin ya orders, havin ta do all the shit jobs. And being born to it? Fuck that. Man’s lucky he’s around now and not then, was how Jake Heke saw his first night in the park.

  Now, he was used to it. Didn’t like it, but used to it. Accepted the fact that his life wasn’t, you know, right any longer. That things’d changed. And that maybe even he’d changed. But a man was still a tougharse, make no fuckin bones bout that.

  Fridays and Saturdays a man could usually find a bed somewhere, get a decent feed into him, get cleaned up. Clean clothes from the plastic rubbish bag of clothes he had stashed now at the park and which he washed in the toilet bowl of the public Lavatories, which it said above the door, not Toilet as a man expected it to read, without soap or maybe there’d be a bit in the handbasin if a man was lucky. But the rest of the week, man … sittin shivering ta death under a drippin tree or pouring with rain and the fuckin wind howlin all ovah ya; too cold and wet ta sleep have ta walk to get warm. Walkin all fuckin night. Like a tramp. A real tramp ya see on the TV in them olden-day movies. Man, what’d happened to a fulla? And in such a short time? And ya mind, man, thinkin weird things, sorta like dreams: distorted, everything fucked up, yet a man is awake so thinking you were going, you know, mad. But maybe it’s just the cold and the wet? Or maybe a man’s missin his wife (her warm body, ahhh … why didn’t a man appreciate what he had when it was there on tap forim?) And his kids too. Wonder how Boogie’s gettin on? And thinking of the others: Nig in the Brown Fists how was he doing, the kid can fight, just like his old man, but I wouldn’t a thought he had that meanness, a man’s gotta have a mean streak he wants ta run with them cunts. Well, he’ll find out. And Poll? And her little doll, what’s its fuckin name now? A man can’t remember. Or maybe he never knew the name ta start with. You know how a man gets: he forgets he’s a father to all these kids. It’s the drinking, see, his whole fuckin life moves around the drinking. But that don’t mean a man don’t think of his kids now and then. And Huata? How’s my baby boy doing? Ahh. A man gettin all sentimental over his youngest, the baby of the family. Enough ta make a man weep — Well, not actually weep. I don’t weep for nuthin or no one. But tears in his eyes. And Abe? Now that’s a kid with a mean streak. Hahaha. Cunning as a shithouse rat. Cept he can’t fight. Or not well enough to takeim to the top. Like his old man.

  And Grace.

  All the time wondering: Did I touch her? But immediately the denial: I can’t have. Because a man’d know, wouldn’t he? In his heart of hearts he’d know, surely ta fuckin God? Thinkin of going to her grave, but what the hell, what’d a man say to a grave? He might even get angry ater for writing that suicide note. I mean, she could’ve just left it out that someone’d done bad things to her, or she coulda left me out. I mean how’d she know? Know for sure that it was a man, this man, that’d stuck his — No way, man. That ain’t Jake Heke. But haunting him. Always haunting him.

  And now even the cops knew a man was sleeping rough: Evnin, Jake. Not so nice tanight, eh? cop on the night beat’d greet a man. Like I’m an old friend — no, not that. More like an old tramp. Or a wino. Not that ya see many winos in Two Lakes, ya don’t. Small town, see, they don’t end up on the streets (in the gutters) like on TV. But no shortage of streetkids, Jake was more and more noticing. And some ofem with strangely familiar faces like he knew em but that being impossible, Jake figuring it might be that he knew their fathers, had seen their mothers around, you know, at McClutchy’s, a party, just around in Pine Block general.

  But tryin ta say hello to em ya may as well be talkin to a fuckin brick wall: they’d just look at a man and move off. Remind a man of stray dogs. And feeling sorta sympathetic withem, or in tune withem. If only they’d give a man a chance, just stop for once and have a chat. I ain’t gonna bite em. A man feelin hurt. But no anger with it. Just hurt and lonely, and wanting company. Any company.

  So one day at McClutchy’s strollin over to the table where the alkies drank, four ofem, every day, six days and nights a week and Sundays boozing at their shared flat just up the street a bit. Smilin atem, How’s it, boys? Greetin em in turn and order of known seniority: Patch (the boss). Red. Hey Red. Hey Jake. Smilin at a man, makin him feel warm inside. And hello to Jock, and how ya goin, Wally? Then waitin. For what they might say to a man. A sign or sumpthin, a hint.

  Patch eyein a man all ovah, that in the old days woulda had Patch flat on his arse with a broken jaw lookin at a man like that. But Jake as nervous as hell. At Patch eyin him all ovah. And eyeballin Jake ta finish. Then finally: Whatcha havin, Jake? And Jake keeping his gladness under control, not wantin to scare em off. Oh, whatever you fullas’re drinkin.

  Sherry. (Jesus Chrise.) With beer chasers, they called it. A beer man all his life and havin ta drink fuckin sherry. And at one o’clock in the afternoon. Jake swallowing the stuff like it was poison. But thinking it was better — oh far better — to be in than not. Reminding himself to stay cool, not make out how desperate he was. That he needed em.

  So where ya been stayin these days, Jake? Patch asking a man. Oh, around. You know. Shrugging. Pretending to be casual about it. Seein em lookin at each other again. We heard ya been doin it a bit hard, Jake. Sleeping in the park we heard. Only sometimes, Patch. Lookin at Jake again. All fuckin ovah. Makin a man feel stink. We share a house, Jake, as ya know. Yeah, know that. Heart hammering. We share everything: the rent, the food, the power. Lookin at im. And booze. We share our booze, Jake. Oh sure. Why not, eh? Giving a chuckle that he hoped they didn’t hear the nervousness in. Each of us picks up his sickness benefit each week and it goes in the centre, Jake. The Pool, we call it. And no one draws more than the other, Jake. No one. Eying im. Gotta have rules, eh Patch? And the old alcoholic smilin at Jake, goin Yeah, Jake. Ya gotta have rules. And Jake nodding; feeling like it was a power comin off Patch. As if Patch was in charge of him. And as if that was how it was meant to be. And Patch stickin his old whiteman freckled hand out: Put it here, Jake. And Jake puttin it there. And ya need a place ta stay, Jake, you just let us know. And Jake saying: I might just take ya up on that, Patch. And smilin at the man. Oh, and the other three. Like they’d been waiting for him all these years, and he for them. It just seemed to fit. And he raised his sherry glass: Cheers, lads. Cheers.

 
; 16. Deep Tattoo

  And he was talking in English, tellin em all gathered at his feet, his constantly moving feet, that their inheritance was their past and without the past they were nothing and, why, indeed, they had been nothing till he and his tribal elders and helpers and committee members came along at the request of this woman here, Beth, who used to be a Ransfield when she belonged to us. Hadn’t been for not so much us but what we bring, the knowledge — the knowledge — of your great history, your illustrious ancestors, then you lot, boy, I have to tell you fullas and you girls and women (and there woulda been a hundred, oh, over a hundred ofem gathered there on the front adjoining lawns of Numbers 27 and 27B Rimu Street) you lot were gonna kill yourselves. Tapping his heart area, the paramount chief, Te Tupaea, and then his forehead. Dead in your heart, so dead in your minds. So.

  He breathed out a long sigh and the people they shifted position and tried to make out it wasn’t freezing but it was hard, boy was it hard; just as he, this great chief come amongst them, was hard. And some lit cigarettes and the smoke got instantly snatched by the chill wind but still no one got up and moved off to warmer parts, not even the kids, the unwanteds whose needs’d got one woman starting all this; they just sat there. And listened as history flowed down on them from above.

  He told them of great acts of chivalry during the warring with the first white men: of warriors — that’s Maori warriors — slipping out into the battlefield at night to tend to the wounded enemy, giving the enemy food, drink, even touches of comfort. And the gathering going, Wow, far out, but why? And the chief’s eyes with that fighting fire in them saying: So the enemy might have more strength to continue the battle in the morning. And the crowd went, Ooooh! Smiling all over. Thinking: But we never knew that.

  No one taught us this at school. They taught us their history: English history. They forced us to learn, off by heart, dates and names of great Englishmen and battles fought in a country none of us have ever been to nor are likely to go. And they gave us no marks in our exams when we couldn’t remember these dates and funny names and strange-sounding places, and they never understood that to remember things of knowledge ya have to have fire in your belly for it, like the great chief there, or just ordinary passion of wanting to remember it because it, well, it’s about yourself, historical knowledge most easily remembered.

  And the chief putting into words their vague thoughts, giving their minds a shape they could visualise: We fought em at every turn. We never gave up. They came to this land with their queen and kings, and we, the Maori, set up our own king in defiance of them. YOU HEAR THIS? And the crowd roared, YESSSSS!!

  And when they knew we would never give up they signed a treaty with us. The Treaty of Waitangi. You all heard of that? YESSSS!! You all know what it was? Individuals answering they thought it was an agreement between two peoples to share the land, its resources. As equals! their fiery chief exclaiming.

  A contract! IT WAS A CONTRACT. Then silence.

  And just the coughs and sighs and rustle of movement.

  Te Tupaea just stood there, legs astride, fists on suited sides. A contract … Whispering it, so the ones at the back had to ask what’d he say, and then their whispering dying down. And Te Tupaea again whispering: Which — they — broke.

  Suddenly he was bursting into a roaring cry signifying the start of a haka. And so a line-up of older males behind him stood. Like a row of fierce-faced guards. And they danced. The dance of war. The expression of anguish. A dozen, no more, thundering voices led by their chief. A dozen chest-slapping, thigh-slapping, elbow-slapping, arm-out-thrusting, arm-dancing, feet-stomping warriors from yore. And this man in a suit and a carved walking stick dancing back and forth across their front, twirling his tokotoko this way and that. Gold fob watch flying. Spit flying. And joined by four women, who launched themselves into it with even greater ferocity than the men.

  And the people sitting there with chills running up and down them and not from the cold either. And this incredible beat of war setting off things in their heads: of understanding themselves, some locked away part of themselves suddenly opened up, sprung by him and them up there, shuddering this very ground we sit upon. And their movements all as one. The near-shrieking and roaring wording in exact time.

  And in every line of mad, rhythmic shout, this familiarity just impossible to know where it was coming from or why. Just this sense of: This is me. At them, the sight of your warrior past stood in animated defiance of all that this struggle of a life can throw up. Sorta like a, you know, a culturalised way of saying: Fuck you! I am me! I stand here, I fall here. Sumpthin like that.

  Hardly a one in the crowd knowing what’d struck him and her. Only that sumpthin good’d happened.

  It ended. Chief gave a sharp look when some ofem started to applaud. But their beating hearts were applause enough. Te Tupaea gave one of his sighs, then a single word: Moko.

  Looked at em. Tapped his face, then his pinstriped rump, with a chuckle. Tats, that’s what they call it nowadays, eh? He told them of how the warriors of old used to have full-facial tattoos and on the nono — patting his rump with a smile — down to their knees, to signify their warriorhood. Silence. Looking over them. You got that? Warriorhood. And it was — pausing, with the skills of an accomplished orator — It was chiselled in.

  Pausing again. Eyes going over them. And telling them in a half-whisper how not one cry was to be uttered during this long and painful process. Not one cry.

  And the warrior — your warrior ancestor — his whole face became puffed up … so he would have to be fed through a funnel … and this process, people, this manly painful chiselling went on for months … But never did it occur to the warrior to show in sound or sight his terrible pain …

  Lookin at them in that kingly way again in the pause, this time long, and having the people wondering what was coming next … It was a finger. Pointing. Then slow swinging over all of them. Accusing them. Or maybe just embracing, they’d know in a moment.

  Pain, he said. Your ancestors endured the pain of moko … pain, my people. Like you are suffering in here, your hearts. But —

  The look was of contempt. No bones about it. But why? Yet you, most of you gathered here — stabbing the finger this time — You have been enduring your pain like — like — Seeming to be struggling for a word and not like him, they knew that much of him. Like slaves! it hissed out of him.

  And the crowd let out a collective sigh of surprise, even mild outrage. Waited for the man to explain himself. Many shifting position, as if ready to up and go should the explanation not suffice.

  Beer! he spat the word out. You endure your pain only by the false courage of beer. The word bad on his lips. His eyes darting all over them now. Beer.

  And this … beer, it has you beat up your wives, your children, turn against each other. Yet you dare to call yourselves Maori? Pah! He made a downward stroke with right arm. Not Maori. Not Maori, he thrust his jaw skyward. Dismissively. A don’t wanna know you gesture.

  Then an arm came lizarding out in front of him, in an arcing sweep of pinstripe and bladed hand. The eyes absolutely fixed on the movement of the hand. And his stance, everything about him fitting. Something in the pose, the people recognising without really knowing that it was classic poise. Trained classical poise. Then came a chant … begun by a sobbing, of emotion choking on a word. But then it flowed. And the twelve men and four women stood once more …

  Up the street, around the corner and up a bit, a fulla getting tattooed. Electric job. Tattooist in town he came out to the Brown Fist’s HQ they only had to call and he’d be there. Charged em for it mind you. The electric needle with its ink injection going bzzzzzz along the pre-drawn lines on the fulla’s face. Only a young guy too. Handsome young fulla, can’t be more’n eighteen, nineteen. And going for the full facial too. And laying there on this (filthy) couch, jaw clamped shut, eyes squeezed closed but opening now and again so the tattooist knew the kid was feeling it alright, but making a dam
n good showing of manhood he was. Except for the tears of sheer pain.

  Design a replica of olden-day moko, which the tattooist’d copied out of a book from a photograph of a real tattooed Maori head. Now, he knew the design and its stock of variations so well he could do it by heart. Was the big thing to do these days amongst these gang members. And a man tried to do a very professional job because even if it wasn’t exactly his cuppa tea, the design, the original he’d taken from, was no less than exquisite. A man’d heard that the real thing back in the old days was chiselled in. Man, these Maoris are devils for punishment. I think it must be still in their blood. They like tough things, deeds, acts.

  And this gang sheila standin there lookin over the tat operation, making a man nervous, specially a white man in a Brown Fist house. This sheila not responding to his attempts to converse. Just grunting. And giving him funny looks. And the young guy — Nig he said his name was — asking every so often, It look alright, Tania? She grunting, Yep. Choice. And the kid’s face transforming before a man and his apparent girlfriend’s eyes. (Poor bloody mixed-up kid. What they do to show their toughness.)

  The gathering gaining more and more as people strolled from up the street, down the street, from all over Pine Block as telephones passed the word around. And this flashly dressed Maori fulla addressing the growing crowd, and the venue the Heke place of all the places. And boy was he laying it on the line toem: tellin em to jack their ideas up. Ta stop being lazy. (Who’s he callin lazy?) Ta stop feeling sorry for emselves. Ta stop blamin the Pakeha for their woes even if it was the Pakeha much to blame.