stood there under the shining-eyed figures.
‘Here we are,’ said Morgan. ‘The Weekly News .’
They went back to the group in the garden on the shady side of the house.
‘Here, you see,’ said Morgan.
They all looked at the picture of Grammaticus above his weekly column. He had a noble, Roman-emperor air to him.
‘Definitely the crazy old guy at the library,’ said Morgan.
‘Nonsense,’ said Mrs Tawhai.
Mrs Tawhai took the Weekly News and began to read aloud. ‘Watching this summer’s student turmoil in Paris was the philosopher Cioran, one of the gloomy band who have emptied life of meaning. “Human history,” he writes “is an immense cul-de-sac. Life is a passionate emptiness, all truth is a hoax.” Hence the amusement on the face at the gallery of the Odéon, while the students bawled for a brave new world below.’
She read on a little, to herself, then handed the magazine to Morgan.
‘Mum adores Grammaticus,’ said Morgan.
‘Morgan’s great-grandfather had three thousand fighting men at his command,’ said Mrs Tawhai. ‘At a single word from him, all three thousand became Christian. And now he doesn’t believe in anything.’
‘It’s a different era,’ said Rosie.
‘Come here,’ said Mrs Tawhai.
Morgan stood up and went over to his mother.
‘I want you to wear your good white shirt,’ she said.
‘OK,’ said Morgan.
She looked at him. His hair was touching his collar.
‘ Look at you,’ she said.
Suddenly, before he could move, she put the tip of her finger on her tongue and smoothed his eyebrows, one, then the other, a fierce lion with her cub.
Late that afternoon, after lunch in the pub, they drove back to the farm, Race at the wheel this time, and they dropped Morgan at the five-barred gate and then Race turned the old Chev round in the narrow road and they drove away.
‘Didn’t Morgan look sweet standing there in his white shirt,’ said Rosie, and for some reason she laughed, as they rode away in the dusk and went up around the cliff-face road.
8
At the end of the summer Race and Panos took the night train from Wellington to Auckland. They had both decided to go and live there that year. Panos had been studying medicine in the South Island. Now he wanted to become an actor. Race was still studying biology. He only wanted a change of scene. Auckland was a big city by comparison to their home towns. It was sprawling and hazy, laced with motorways. The sea at the city’s foot looked dirty in dawn’s early light. Ships sailed away east into a morning glitter. Grapefruit and oranges grew along suburban avenues, anyone could pick them. On the train, he and Panos spent a lot of the journey chatting up two sisters in the seats opposite. Race then spent the first days in Auckland buying textbooks and visiting real-estate agencies. At night, he and Panos and the two sisters, one a beautician, one a hairdresser, went to the movies and then back to the girls’ flat, which was piled high with feminine clothes, on the floor, on the sofas, on every hook and rail. After a week, Race had found a place to rent, an old cottage between the university and the railway yards. He moved in, but after three days Panos had still not put in an appearance.
On his third night there alone, Race woke just after midnight. He stared at the ceiling. His heart was pounding. He could still feel the heat of the sun on his face in the dream he’d just woken from. It was a simple enough dream: at the start he was climbing a tree, going up round the trunk as if on a rough spiral stair. In some places the branches were difficult to get through, he felt the prickle of pine needles in his face and sticky resin on his hands. Then he noticed that someone else was climbing above him. He stopped and looked up and saw that it was Morgan. Morgan stopped climbing as well, and looked down at him with a most stern and penetrating expression. It was as if he was examining Race’s fitness for the most
‘Here we are,’ said Morgan. ‘The Weekly News .’
They went back to the group in the garden on the shady side of the house.
‘Here, you see,’ said Morgan.
They all looked at the picture of Grammaticus above his weekly column. He had a noble, Roman-emperor air to him.
‘Definitely the crazy old guy at the library,’ said Morgan.
‘Nonsense,’ said Mrs Tawhai.
Mrs Tawhai took the Weekly News and began to read aloud. ‘Watching this summer’s student turmoil in Paris was the philosopher Cioran, one of the gloomy band who have emptied life of meaning. “Human history,” he writes “is an immense cul-de-sac. Life is a passionate emptiness, all truth is a hoax.” Hence the amusement on the face at the gallery of the Odéon, while the students bawled for a brave new world below.’
She read on a little, to herself, then handed the magazine to Morgan.
‘Mum adores Grammaticus,’ said Morgan.
‘Morgan’s great-grandfather had three thousand fighting men at his command,’ said Mrs Tawhai. ‘At a single word from him, all three thousand became Christian. And now he doesn’t believe in anything.’
‘It’s a different era,’ said Rosie.
‘Come here,’ said Mrs Tawhai.
Morgan stood up and went over to his mother.
‘I want you to wear your good white shirt,’ she said.
‘OK,’ said Morgan.
She looked at him. His hair was touching his collar.
‘ Look at you,’ she said.
Suddenly, before he could move, she put the tip of her finger on her tongue and smoothed his eyebrows, one, then the other, a fierce lion with her cub.
Late that afternoon, after lunch in the pub, they drove back to the farm, Race at the wheel this time, and they dropped Morgan at the five-barred gate and then Race turned the old Chev round in the narrow road and they drove away.
‘Didn’t Morgan look sweet standing there in his white shirt,’ said Rosie, and for some reason she laughed, as they rode away in the dusk and went up around the cliff-face road.
8
At the end of the summer Race and Panos took the night train from Wellington to Auckland. They had both decided to go and live there that year. Panos had been studying medicine in the South Island. Now he wanted to become an actor. Race was still studying biology. He only wanted a change of scene. Auckland was a big city by comparison to their home towns. It was sprawling and hazy, laced with motorways. The sea at the city’s foot looked dirty in dawn’s early light. Ships sailed away east into a morning glitter. Grapefruit and oranges grew along suburban avenues, anyone could pick them. On the train, he and Panos spent a lot of the journey chatting up two sisters in the seats opposite. Race then spent the first days in Auckland buying textbooks and visiting real-estate agencies. At night, he and Panos and the two sisters, one a beautician, one a hairdresser, went to the movies and then back to the girls’ flat, which was piled high with feminine clothes, on the floor, on the sofas, on every hook and rail. After a week, Race had found a place to rent, an old cottage between the university and the railway yards. He moved in, but after three days Panos had still not put in an appearance.
On his third night there alone, Race woke just after midnight. He stared at the ceiling. His heart was pounding. He could still feel the heat of the sun on his face in the dream he’d just woken from. It was a simple enough dream: at the start he was climbing a tree, going up round the trunk as if on a rough spiral stair. In some places the branches were difficult to get through, he felt the prickle of pine needles in his face and sticky resin on his hands. Then he noticed that someone else was climbing above him. He stopped and looked up and saw that it was Morgan. Morgan stopped climbing as well, and looked down at him with a most stern and penetrating expression. It was as if he was examining Race’s fitness for the most
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