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Authors: Bianca Zander
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but apart from a few postcards I never heard from you again.” Her tone was reproachful. “I didn’t even know if you were still alive.”
“I wanted to keep in touch,” I said, fumbling for an excuse. “But after a while, everyone seemed so far away. The longer I left it, the harder it was to write. And then it seemed like too much time had passed and I didn’t know where to start.”
“I thought that’s what must have happened,” she said. “But it seemed so unlike you to be silent.”
There was a note almost of contempt in her voice that I didn’t understand. “I know. I’m useless, and by the time e-mail came along I didn’t have anyone’s address.” I’d been lucky to even find Alana again. Her parents still lived in the same house they’d lived in when we were at school and their number was listed. But other friends had been untraceable. “I’m sorry,” I said. “After my mother died, it was a weird time.”
“I’m sure it was,” she said, a flicker of sympathy in her eyes. “Anyway, it’s all ancient history now.” She grinned. “But you’re buying the first round.”
And just like that, I was down to my last forty quid.
The bar was hidden down an alley and decorated with mismatched velvet furniture and draped antique shawls, enough touches to suggest a 1920s speakeasy but not so many that it could ever be accused of being themed. At this hour, it was crammed with suits and noisy with the furor of after-work relief.
“I hope you don’t mind, but we’re meeting some friends of mine here, colleagues, actually,” said Alana as we elbowed our way to the bar. Then she yelled out, “Chris! Over here!” and disappeared behind a ridge of corporate shoulders.
Alana’s friends—Chris, Mike, and Steve—materialized in identical navy blue suits and one second after they were introduced to me, I forgot which of them was which. The one who made Alana blush I guessed was the bloke from work she fancied, but that didn’t tell me his name, and soon I was left to entertain the other two when she and her beau drifted away. Of the two left behind, one was taller and heavier, with a wider chin, but both had cropped brown hair, clear skin, and pale eyes—clean, good-looking blokes, the kind you took home to mother, if you had one.
Next to them I felt like a backpacker who’d been dragged off the street and charitably given a beer, but they seemed to find me fascinating, and raised their eyebrows in amused surprise at everything I said, no matter how inane. It took me a while to realize they were partly laughing at my accent, an odd combination of deep Kiwi and West London posh that flummoxed almost everyone. Partly laughing at me, but not wholly. The taller one soon announced that he’d been to New Zealand and had “totally fallen in love with the place”—a line I’d heard before from a dozen English kids on their gap year. Because I didn’t know them, and it was easier, I played along with the version of New Zealand they had in their minds and found myself banging on like a tour guide about black-water rafting, tandem skydiving, nude bungee jumping, and a host of other extreme activities I had never participated in. I didn’t tell them I preferred bars to beaches, that I had never been to the South Island, except for a night in Christchurch, or that my experience of the beautiful, unspoiled landscape was that in a nanosecond it could switch to empty and oppressive—a Gothic cathedral without a congregation. At other times, the cities seemed so new they were barely there.
On one of my last mornings in Auckland, I had gotten up early and gone for a drive before the sun came up. It was a Sunday, and the streets near where I lived were still asleep, bathed in weak gray light, everything hazy, undefined. As I drove it looked to me as though all the buildings and cars were slowly fading out, and I remember thinking the time had come to depart from this place, that if I didn’t leave,
“I wanted to keep in touch,” I said, fumbling for an excuse. “But after a while, everyone seemed so far away. The longer I left it, the harder it was to write. And then it seemed like too much time had passed and I didn’t know where to start.”
“I thought that’s what must have happened,” she said. “But it seemed so unlike you to be silent.”
There was a note almost of contempt in her voice that I didn’t understand. “I know. I’m useless, and by the time e-mail came along I didn’t have anyone’s address.” I’d been lucky to even find Alana again. Her parents still lived in the same house they’d lived in when we were at school and their number was listed. But other friends had been untraceable. “I’m sorry,” I said. “After my mother died, it was a weird time.”
“I’m sure it was,” she said, a flicker of sympathy in her eyes. “Anyway, it’s all ancient history now.” She grinned. “But you’re buying the first round.”
And just like that, I was down to my last forty quid.
The bar was hidden down an alley and decorated with mismatched velvet furniture and draped antique shawls, enough touches to suggest a 1920s speakeasy but not so many that it could ever be accused of being themed. At this hour, it was crammed with suits and noisy with the furor of after-work relief.
“I hope you don’t mind, but we’re meeting some friends of mine here, colleagues, actually,” said Alana as we elbowed our way to the bar. Then she yelled out, “Chris! Over here!” and disappeared behind a ridge of corporate shoulders.
Alana’s friends—Chris, Mike, and Steve—materialized in identical navy blue suits and one second after they were introduced to me, I forgot which of them was which. The one who made Alana blush I guessed was the bloke from work she fancied, but that didn’t tell me his name, and soon I was left to entertain the other two when she and her beau drifted away. Of the two left behind, one was taller and heavier, with a wider chin, but both had cropped brown hair, clear skin, and pale eyes—clean, good-looking blokes, the kind you took home to mother, if you had one.
Next to them I felt like a backpacker who’d been dragged off the street and charitably given a beer, but they seemed to find me fascinating, and raised their eyebrows in amused surprise at everything I said, no matter how inane. It took me a while to realize they were partly laughing at my accent, an odd combination of deep Kiwi and West London posh that flummoxed almost everyone. Partly laughing at me, but not wholly. The taller one soon announced that he’d been to New Zealand and had “totally fallen in love with the place”—a line I’d heard before from a dozen English kids on their gap year. Because I didn’t know them, and it was easier, I played along with the version of New Zealand they had in their minds and found myself banging on like a tour guide about black-water rafting, tandem skydiving, nude bungee jumping, and a host of other extreme activities I had never participated in. I didn’t tell them I preferred bars to beaches, that I had never been to the South Island, except for a night in Christchurch, or that my experience of the beautiful, unspoiled landscape was that in a nanosecond it could switch to empty and oppressive—a Gothic cathedral without a congregation. At other times, the cities seemed so new they were barely there.
On one of my last mornings in Auckland, I had gotten up early and gone for a drive before the sun came up. It was a Sunday, and the streets near where I lived were still asleep, bathed in weak gray light, everything hazy, undefined. As I drove it looked to me as though all the buildings and cars were slowly fading out, and I remember thinking the time had come to depart from this place, that if I didn’t leave,
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