The Mango's Kiss, page 49
‘I am satisfied,’ she declared. ‘It is more than adequate for the purpose.’
At dawn on Sunday, with her three daughters around her gently massaging her limbs, Lalaga died in her sleep.
That afternoon her funeral service was conducted by their pastor according to Lalaga’s strict instructions: the service was to last only an hour at the most; they were to sing her three favourite hymns — she listed those; Iakopo was to read her two favourite biblical texts; and if they considered her life worthy of eulogising, Peleiupu, her oldest child, was to give one that was no longer than three minutes.
‘Our mother was of that first generation of women who were blessed, by our beloved Christian missionaries, with an enlightened Christian education in all the good things of the papalagi way of life …’ Peleiupu continued reading the wording she and her sisters had agreed to — a eulogy which, as she observed the congregation and heard the doubt in her own voice, started feeling ‘untruthful’, very distant from the mother she’d known. She wanted to depart from the text and talk from the heart about Lalaga, even joke about her, but the congregation looked so ‘inspired’ by her eulogy, she decided that they wanted (and needed) exemplary Christian models to emulate. ‘… She was the humble daughter of an uneducated village couple who wanted to gift her to God and the Christian conversion of this sinful country …’
Peleiupu stood between Tavita and Lefatu at the head of the open grave as the pastor recited the Prayer for the Dead and the setting sun cast a blood-red light over the mourners, the church and the village, and turned the blossoms of the mango trees a brighter flame-red. Naomi and Ruta and many of Lalaga’s friends wept mutely. The air was saturated with the smell of sun and drying frangipani and earth. Someone touched her right hand. She turned. It was Iakopo, carrying Pili. ‘Where’s Mama?’ Pili asked her. In silence she took the boy from her son and, holding him against her chest, gestured down at the coffin at the bottom of the grave.
‘Mama has gone to God and Papa,’ Iakopo said to Pili.
And for the first time that day, Peleiupu wept openly. Tightly she held on to Pili. Iakopo and Lefatu pressed against her.
Tina o le Galuega, ua e sola i Niuafei
Lua te fa’atasi ai ma lou Au lalelei,
Ua e sola i Niuafei
O lo’o lagomau ai Mautu,
Le Manaia o le Aiga nei …
Lefatu and Ruta sang, as the men started filling Lalaga’s grave. Immediately everyone joined in the singing, and Lalaga’s Song flowed away over the mango trees and the sea into the sunset and up into the welcoming currents of sky …
BOOK THREE
The Way of the Frigate
On Board
Paddling, paddling, paddling furiously, his feet flap-flap-flapping against and through the dark green water, churning it up into millions of sparkling bubbles, his hands clutching at the air and finding a grip, and he was inexplicably on land, in the familiar landscape of Satoa by the river at night and hemmed in by hordes of people he couldn’t see in the darkness — people who whispered, their whispers like quick slithering eels, and groaned and complained about him, though he couldn’t hear what they were saying — people who suddenly stank of putrefying flesh, and he was again in the epidemic, his arms wrapped tightly around the mat-wrapped body of his son I’amafana, his throat clogged with desperate pleas to be rescued, to be saved, to die …
He was awake and in the dark on the sofa in his office, his clothes drenched with sweat, and he remembered he’d been drinking after Peleiupu and Siniva and the other workers had gone home. Since settling in Apia two years before in 1920, when New Zealand was awarded the mandate by the League of Nations to govern Western Samoa, he’d not been able to rid himself of the recurring nightmares about the epidemic; nightmares that began the first night they slept in Apia.
He lit a lamp and took it to the bathroom, where he washed his face and neck, gargled the stale smell and taste of whisky out of his mouth and noted, in the mirror, that his hair was heavily flecked with grey. How much more anxiety could he take? Two years of feeling insecure in himself, two years of feeling inadequate dealing with Apia, their rapidly expanding business, his complex aiga, and all the endless trivia that had to be attended to in order to survive. Outwardly, publicly, he was the fearless head of an aiga rising to wealth and power, unafraid of the Governor or jealous business rivals and the racist quagmire of Apia European society.
The more successful he and Peleiupu became, the more complex and anxiety-ridden his life. He was a simple Satoan: Tavita, the villager, who’d been forced into being David Barker, a papalagi who had to be successful in the papalagi world. Peleiupu was thriving in that world, dealing fearlessly with it and overcoming the discrimination against them as ‘half-castes’. At times he resented her for that, and the more he did, the more he resented himself for blaming her for his inadequacies. It was unfair that he looked like a papalagi and everyone expected him to be a papalagi in every way, while she looked Samoan and everyone expected her to behave like one, yet she was superb as a papalagi. He was a better Samoan than her, about that he was sure — and pleased.
After locking his office, he groped his way down the dark corridor and up the stairs. He envied their aiga at Satoa: they were in the world he knew and loved.
He paused at the top of the stairs and looked out at the buildings, which stretched back over the swamps and up to the foothills in the falling dark. They’d built a new business headquarters (a large store, offices, a spacious apartment upstairs and a warehouse); they’d bought, cheaply, from companies and people leaving Samoa fourteen trading stations around the country (now they owned twenty); they’d acquired two more vessels (the Lady Vaomatua and the Le Satoa); they owned a car and two trucks (some of the first in the country), fifteen hectares at Lotolua just outside Apia, and almost three hectares at the town centre along the Apia waterfront; and they’d established their own copra trading and exporting business. All this had been financed by the huge profits they’d made (and were still making) from the copra harvesting scheme they’d initiated immediately after the epidemic, and money Peleiupu had saved without his knowledge.
Now their children were preparing to attend boarding schools in New Zealand, and that frightened him because he’d never been abroad. He was afraid for his children but, once again, Peleiupu had persuaded him they needed to have a better education than was available in Samoa. They could afford it. She also wanted to use their trip to find Arona.
Jim Mackson, their lawyer, had arranged for Lefatu and Maualuga to attend Mrs Mackson’s old school, and Iakopo his old school, in Auckland.
The enticing smell of cooking sapasui, fa’alifu talo and fish immediately held him by the nose and pulled him into the large kitchen when he opened the back door.
Peleiupu was supervising the two women who were doing the cooking at the large wood stove, while Siniva was sitting at the kitchen table munching peanuts and drinking lemonade. ‘Want a beer?’ Peleiupu asked. Did she need to drive it home?
‘Have we got a permit to buy any?’ he asked.
‘You are Mr David Barker, classified as a “European” by the New Zealand authorities, so you are entitled to points to buy alcohol!’ she mimicked the official she’d seen the previous year to get a liquor permit.
‘Yes, I will have a beer,’ he said, bowing.
‘Don’t forget, we’re going to the Winsomes’ tonight for dinner. ‘The Governor will be there.’
‘But there’s better food and company here.’
‘We’ll leave you some of our food!’ Siniva said.
Tavita took his mug of frothing beer into the sitting room.
Lefatu and Maualuga were playing with Pili. Iakopo was drawing at the coffee table. The children fell silent when they saw him. ‘Have you done your homework?’ he asked.
‘We don’t have any,’ Maualuga replied.
Pili rushed over, and Tavita swung him up and sat with him on the sofa. ‘Are we going to speak English tonight?’ Pili asked in Samoan.
‘Not if you don’t want to,’ Tavita replied.
‘Good — my English is not good,’ Pili said.
Lefatu took her father’s satchel into the bedroom, returned, took off his tie and coat and took those into the bedroom.
Maualuga unlaced her father’s shoes and took them off. ‘Papa, we don’t want to go to New Zealand,’ she announced.
‘Why not?’ he asked.
‘It’s a country of papalagi,’ Lefatu replied.
‘You’re a palagi,’ he insisted. ‘Your grandfather was an Englishman, a full-blooded European.’
‘She doesn’t look papalagi,’ Pili reasoned.
‘Your surname is English, you are European: you will fit into New Zealand,’ he tried to reason.
‘But our school here is for Europeans and the teachers and the other kids don’t treat us like Europeans,’ Iakopo said. ‘We look too Samoan!’
‘It’ll be different in New Zealand,’ Peleiupu said from the doorway. ‘The Europeans there are far more civilised and well mannered than the ones here. And our money will be just as good as theirs.’ She paused and then added, ‘Your dinner’s ready now,’ stopping the difficult discussion.
The children hurried to the dining room. Tavita was puzzled and disturbed by Peleiupu’s last remarks but didn’t pursue it.
‘Why do you think the Governor has been invited to the Winsomes’?’ she asked, sitting down beside him.
‘The opposition against him and New Zealand rule is getting worse, more organised,’ he replied. ‘He needs support from some of us European merchants.’
‘What are we going to do?’
‘Play along with him for a while,’ he said, trying to sound casual.
‘We shouldn’t jeopardise our business, should we?’
The wealthy merchants who were opposing the New Zealand administration were trying to recruit him. ‘Our son and many of our loved ones died in the epidemic,’ he reminded her in Samoan. Always when he wanted to feel comfortable in a discussion with her he used Samoan. ‘We must never forget that.’
As the SS Matai cut through the calm water towards the harbour entrance into the deepening night they stood on the upper deck, looking back over the stern at the waving crowd on the wharf, at the thin spread of lights that blinked along the waterfront, at the darkening hills and mountain range looming above the town. Above them, the moon was a fingernail, pale grey and transparent. Lefatu and Maualuga stood on either side of him. ‘I can still see Mama!’ Maualuga said, waving at Poto on the wharf. Peleiupu was holding on to Iakopo’s arm. His son looked miserable, Tavita noted. Of their three children, Iakopo was the least enthusiastic about going to New Zealand.
‘I’m going to miss Pili,’ Lefatu said.
‘So am I,’ Tavita said.
‘We all are,’ Peleiupu said.
‘And Poto — I’m going to miss Mama most of all!’ said Iakopo.
It was strange; out of his whole aiga Tavita missed Pili most of all, yet Pili was adopted. He was going to miss the little fellow slipping into their bed in the mornings and waking them with his cuddles. Sometimes he had to change his urine-soaked clothes before letting him into their bed. Peleiupu refused to do it, saying Pili was his responsibility.
In Apia, ships had to anchor outside the reef and have their passengers and cargoes loaded and unloaded by lighters. Earlier that evening the other passengers had taken the lighters to the Matai. Mikaele had insisted on using the Lady Poto to take them and the other elders to the ship. There’d been very loud, tearful farewells on the wharf and on board the Lady Poto.
Tavita noticed they were breaking through the harbour entrance into the open sea. The ship started rising and falling on the incoming waves and tide. Peleiupu shifted up against him, her arm touching his. ‘We’ll have a good holiday,’ she murmured. ‘We’ve earned it. We must also find Arona.’ The children wanted to go into the ship’s lounge directly behind them; she let them.
The cold wind flicked at their faces as they continued watching Upolu receding into the darkness. Peleiupu told him she was feeling cold, so he led her into the ship’s lounge.
Because the Matai was mainly a cargo vessel, it carried only about a hundred passengers. At a quick glance Tavita estimated that most of those were in the lounge. Mainly male and all papalagi. Some of the men were at the bar; a few families occupied some of the tables.
‘Over here!’ Maualuga called. Their children were at the far table, talking politely with Father Tomasi, a middle-aged American priest whom Tavita knew well from Mulivai Cathedral. Tavita felt exposed, imagining the papalagi watching them as they hurried across the lounge. They shook hands with Father Tomasi, and sat down.
‘Would you like a drink, Father?’ Tavita asked.
‘My friends and I have ordered already, Mr Barker,’ the priest replied in fluent Samoan, in his very American accent. Father Tomasi was respected throughout the country as an authority on the Samoan language. ‘I understand from my friends here that the children are going to school in New Zealand?’
‘Yes, they’re lucky, aren’t they, Father?’ Tavita replied.
Father Tomasi nodded. ‘Yes, you must be the first Samoans to do that,’ he said to the children. ‘You are lucky!’ It was obvious to Tavita that Peleiupu and their children were fascinated by Father Tomasi’s very blond, very un-priestly appearance — neatly trimmed goatee beard, silky shoulder-length hair, black soutane and leather sandals — so he encouraged him to talk.
They learned that Father Tomasi had been in Samoa for almost thirty years, starting as a parish priest in Olosega, Manu’a, once the centre of the ancient Samoan religion. ‘We Catholics learned early in our colonisation of the world that in order to win pagans for our Christian God we had to study their religions and then move into the centres of those, and either destroy them physically or convert their priesthoods to our God. That’s why we established our first missions in Samoa in Falealupo, the centre of the Nafanua religion, and in Manu’a, seat of the Tui-Manu’a, the most sacred of Samoa’s paramount chiefs and priests,’ Father Tomasi explained, his eyes twinkling mischievously. After six years in Olosega studying the ancient religion and trying not to be erased by the LMS Church, which dominated the island, he was shifted to Falealupo, Savai’i, where Catholicism reigned supreme, and he had to save the LMS and Methodist churches from being banished by the Falealupo fono. ‘Competition is healthy, isn’t it, Mrs Barker?’ he laughed. ‘Monopolies and dictatorships destroy adventure, search, inquisitiveness, invention. That’s why I helped my Christian brothers in Falealupo. I also respected the Lady, Nafanua.’ He stopped and enjoyed his listeners’ shocked silence. ‘Yes, Mr and Mrs Barker, I respect all religions, especially those we’ve tried to erase cruelly, inconsiderately.’ He paused. ‘Mind you, the Bishop almost had me erased as a Catholic priest. He accused me of loving pagan Gods and practices!’
The waiter interrupted Father Tomasi when he arrived with the drinks the priest had ordered. ‘What would your friends like, Father?’ the waiter asked, in his very New Zealand accent. Father Tomasi looked embarrassed.
‘I’ll have a whisky and my wife will have …,’ Tavita rescued him.
‘A beer, please,’ Peleiupu said, in English. Still the waiter stood looking at Father Tomasi.
‘You heard what Mr and Mrs Barker said?’ Father Tomasi asked him.
‘I’m sorry, Father, but we can’t serve … We can’t serve alcohol to these people.’
‘Then tell us, sir!’ Tavita ordered. ‘It has nothing to with Father Tomasi.’
Emphasising each word, the waiter said, ‘I am sorry, Mr Barker, but we cannot serve alcohol to non-Europeans.’
Before Tavita could reply, Peleiupu said, ‘Sir, I think you had better get your superior and get him now.’
The waiter scurried off, and they could see him talking animatedly to the bald-headed pink waiter behind the bar, who dropped his hand-towel and marched over, with everyone now watching what was happening.
‘Father, I’d like you to explain to your friends …’ the stout, bald-headed, pink waiter started saying.
‘Stop right there, sir,’ Father Tomasi interrupted him. ‘Mr and Mrs Barker speak better English than you and I. You tell them, and you’d better be prepared to take the consequences of your rude and arrogant ignorance.’
The waiter hesitated, then, eyes lowered, said, ‘We cannot serve natives alcohol, sir. It is not our fault. We just carry out orders.’
‘Then get us the person who gives those orders,’ Tavita said. The waiter shuffled off and out of the lounge, which was now tense with silence.
‘I’ll take the children away,’ Father Tomasi offered.
‘No, I want our children to witness this because we now know what they’ll have to deal with in New Zealand,’ Tavita said. Iakopo pushed his soft drink over the table to him. Tavita drank it quickly, the ice tinkling in time to his swallowing. Peleiupu pressed her leg against his.
The purser was a huge, red-haired man, with his belly, neck and arms threatening to burst through his white uniform. He swaggered across the lounge, stopped and gazed down at them. Tavita refused to look away. ‘I am sorry, sir, but the law is quite clear: we cannot serve your wife,’ he pronounced.
‘Why not?’ Tavita asked.
‘Because she is non-European,’ the purser replied.
‘How do you know she is non-European?’
The purser shook his head impatiently. ‘Because she does not look European, sir.’
‘And because I look European, you are assuming I am one?’ Tavita pursued him.
