and his beloved cigars.”
“He smoked cigars?”
“Always. He claimed it was the only thing about Spain that he missed, and no one returning here from Auckland or Wellington would think of doing it without bringing him a box of cigars.”
“So what happened on his trip?”
This time Ra was more matter of fact. Gone was the spell that had held them rapt.
“It was a long one. He was gone a year. Many of our people thought that we would never see him again. That he had gone home to his own country to finally rest with his ancestors. It made sense to them, for his bones to lie with their bones. That is what they would have done. But finally, Diego was not like them — or maybe because he was now one of them — he returned.
“His voyage was long and stopped at many places and he saw many things. It was these stories that I remember him for. As kidsaround the pa we would nag him until he told us another, and then another. We were greedy for images. Don’t forget, this was the age before television. We never even had a radio. He told us about Sulawesi and Torres. About trading with the Chinese at Mallacca. About visiting the royal city of Kandi on a rickshaw. About these little plants that would wither and die before your eyes, when you touched them with your finger. He told us about his trip up the Ganges to the holy city of Benares. Of the smell of burning flesh from the cremation fires. About passing through the Suez Canal.
“Anyway, when Diego finally made it to Barcelona he found a different place. In forty years it had grown to a loud and busy city with street cars and big buildings. Little remained of what he remembered. All those years of living among our people had changed him, too. He and the city were strangers. The place he remembered now lived only in the fondness of his memory.”
“Did he find his brothers? His fortune? Was it all a waste of time?”
“Nothing is ever wasted in this life, Te Arepa. Everything happens for a purpose. Part of him knew what he would find: the brothers dead, the fortune scattered to the four winds, the family in unweeded tombs. The city moves on. So it is with us all. His line had already been reaching its end at the beginning of his life. His dream of taking his place among the mighty was a boy’s fantasy. For a family to survive through many centuries takes a powerful vision. An ethos. A certain ruthlessness. His brothers were ruthless, but they didn’t maintain the vision that had been carried from generation to generation. Without it, the stone walls crumble and fall. The great families of Barcelona had survived by knowing this, and by eating the weaker of their number.”
“It’s horrible.”
“It is their way. It is our way too. The Ngapuhi were after more land, more sovereignty. The coming of the Pakeha rocked the boat and the scramble for guns changed everything.”
That night Te Arepa tossed and turned endlessly in his little bed as images of Diego flashed through his head. It wasn’t just that he had listened to the stories, but rather that he was inhabited by them. Everything seemed to be meshing together: the rahui, the taniwha/eel, his whakapapa, and there he was, in the middle of it all.
Chapter three
“Haere mai, Te Arepa!”
It was Ra calling him from the kitchen. He stood at the bench with a letter in his hand.
“What’s the story with this panui?”
“Mr McLintock called me into his office. He said he wanted me to do a test. He was going to tell you about it in the letter.”
“Is that all he said?”
“He said other things, but I can’t remember.”
Ra looked at him, his head slightly tilted. He didn’t like Te Arepa saying “I can’t remember.” and usually told him, “That’s what stupid people say. Or people who are lazy, which counts as the same thing. Can’t remember, won’t remember!” But he didn’t this time. He returned to the bench where he was preparing the vegetables for a boil-up. Te Arepa went back
“He smoked cigars?”
“Always. He claimed it was the only thing about Spain that he missed, and no one returning here from Auckland or Wellington would think of doing it without bringing him a box of cigars.”
“So what happened on his trip?”
This time Ra was more matter of fact. Gone was the spell that had held them rapt.
“It was a long one. He was gone a year. Many of our people thought that we would never see him again. That he had gone home to his own country to finally rest with his ancestors. It made sense to them, for his bones to lie with their bones. That is what they would have done. But finally, Diego was not like them — or maybe because he was now one of them — he returned.
“His voyage was long and stopped at many places and he saw many things. It was these stories that I remember him for. As kidsaround the pa we would nag him until he told us another, and then another. We were greedy for images. Don’t forget, this was the age before television. We never even had a radio. He told us about Sulawesi and Torres. About trading with the Chinese at Mallacca. About visiting the royal city of Kandi on a rickshaw. About these little plants that would wither and die before your eyes, when you touched them with your finger. He told us about his trip up the Ganges to the holy city of Benares. Of the smell of burning flesh from the cremation fires. About passing through the Suez Canal.
“Anyway, when Diego finally made it to Barcelona he found a different place. In forty years it had grown to a loud and busy city with street cars and big buildings. Little remained of what he remembered. All those years of living among our people had changed him, too. He and the city were strangers. The place he remembered now lived only in the fondness of his memory.”
“Did he find his brothers? His fortune? Was it all a waste of time?”
“Nothing is ever wasted in this life, Te Arepa. Everything happens for a purpose. Part of him knew what he would find: the brothers dead, the fortune scattered to the four winds, the family in unweeded tombs. The city moves on. So it is with us all. His line had already been reaching its end at the beginning of his life. His dream of taking his place among the mighty was a boy’s fantasy. For a family to survive through many centuries takes a powerful vision. An ethos. A certain ruthlessness. His brothers were ruthless, but they didn’t maintain the vision that had been carried from generation to generation. Without it, the stone walls crumble and fall. The great families of Barcelona had survived by knowing this, and by eating the weaker of their number.”
“It’s horrible.”
“It is their way. It is our way too. The Ngapuhi were after more land, more sovereignty. The coming of the Pakeha rocked the boat and the scramble for guns changed everything.”
That night Te Arepa tossed and turned endlessly in his little bed as images of Diego flashed through his head. It wasn’t just that he had listened to the stories, but rather that he was inhabited by them. Everything seemed to be meshing together: the rahui, the taniwha/eel, his whakapapa, and there he was, in the middle of it all.
Chapter three
“Haere mai, Te Arepa!”
It was Ra calling him from the kitchen. He stood at the bench with a letter in his hand.
“What’s the story with this panui?”
“Mr McLintock called me into his office. He said he wanted me to do a test. He was going to tell you about it in the letter.”
“Is that all he said?”
“He said other things, but I can’t remember.”
Ra looked at him, his head slightly tilted. He didn’t like Te Arepa saying “I can’t remember.” and usually told him, “That’s what stupid people say. Or people who are lazy, which counts as the same thing. Can’t remember, won’t remember!” But he didn’t this time. He returned to the bench where he was preparing the vegetables for a boil-up. Te Arepa went back
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