Call of the Kiwi, page 12
part #3 of Neuseeland-Saga Series
Gloria smiled. “Will you paint me sometime too, taua?”
Tamatea looked at her searchingly. “On you it would look real. You have the blood of the Ngai Tahu.”
Gloria did not know why those words filled her with such pride. But after her conversation with Tamatea, she began to feel better than she had in a long time. It gave her the courage to approach her mother with her head held high.
William Martyn was overseeing the unloading of some crates of props as Tamatea and Gloria pulled up in front of the Ritz. A final good-bye concert was planned here before Kura and her troupe departed for the States.
“There you are, Tamatea. And Gloria! Wonderful to see you, my girl.” William kissed her fleetingly on the cheek. “Take her straight up to her mother, Tamatea. Kura will be happy to see you, Glory. You can give her a hand.” With that, he returned to his task.
Gloria’s heart beat heavily. What could she possibly help her mother with?
The suite was located on the top floor. Gloria entered the elevator with a slight shiver as always. So did Tamatea. “If the gods had wanted man to betake himself to Rangi’s arms, they would have given him wings,” she whispered to Gloria as the elevator boy told her about the wonderful view from that floor.
“Come in.” Kura seemed to sing even those simple words in her melodious voice.
“Gloria! Come in. I’ve been waiting for hours.” Kura Martyn had been sitting at the grand piano looking through some notes. Now she got up eagerly and went to Gloria. She still looked young and lithe; no one would have believed she had a nineteen-year-old daughter. Kura herself was only in her midthirties.
Gloria greeted her shyly and waited for the usual remarks: how big she’d grown and how adult she looked—her mother always seemed surprised that Gloria was growing up. Kura Martyn had only grown more beautiful in recent years. Her hip-length hair was still a deep black—though now artfully put up. Her clear skin was the color of creamy coffee, and her eyes shone an azure blue. Her heavy eyelids gave her a dreamy expression and her full lips were a delicate red. She had her clothing custom made without regard for current fashion, and the designs unfailingly emphasized her figure, flirting with and flattering her curves.
“You must help me a bit, dear. Marisa, my pianist, has gotten sick—and right before the farewell concert in England. A rather nasty flu. She can hardly stay on her feet.”
Gloria had a bad feeling.
“Don’t worry, you don’t have to accompany us onstage. We know that you have stage fright.” Gloria could almost hear what Kura didn’t say: Aside from the fact that you’re not very easy on the eyes. Kura continued, “But I’ve just received a new arrangement. And it’s gorgeous, a sort of ballad. The haka takes place in the background, a simple dance. Tamatea taught it to the dancers in five minutes. And in the foreground the spirits tell the story at the heart of the ballad. First a piece of music for the piano and putorino—just the spirit voice, very ethereal—and then piano and singing. I would just love to take it onstage tomorrow. It would be a worthy finale but also make people hungry for new material. But Marisa can’t do it. If you play the piano part a few times, I’ll be able to practice the flute. Here’s the music. Sit down. It’s quite simple.”
Kura adjusted the piano stool for Gloria and took up the little flute she had laid on the piano. Gloria thumbed through the handwritten sheet music helplessly.
She had taken piano lessons for the last five years, and she did not lack dexterity. If she practiced long enough, she could even manage difficult pieces, but it was always an effort. Gloria had never sight-read music before. Her music teacher had always liked to first play the pieces they would be working on, pointing out trouble spots, and then going over them bar by bar.
Yet Gloria did not dare refuse now. With a will born of desperation, she struggled through the piece to please her mother. Kura listened, rather stunned, but did not interrupt her until she messed up for the third time on the same bar.
“An F-sharp, Gloria. Don’t you see the sign in front of the F? Surely you’ve played it before. My God, are you just playing dumb, or are you really so untalented? Try it again.”
Gloria, her nerves now completely shattered, tried but soon got stuck again.
“Maybe if you play it for me first?” she asked.
“Why should I play it for you? Can’t you read?” Kura pointed to the sheet music with frustration. “Heavens, girl, what are we to do with you? I thought I could use you, but it is clear I cannot. Go to your room. I’ll call the concierge. This is London, after all. We should be able to find a pianist who can assist me temporarily. And you’ll listen to her play, Gloria. Your teachers at school have clearly let your education slide.”
While her mother was on the phone, Gloria slunk around the suite until she finally found a room with a single bed. She threw herself on it and cried. She was ugly, useless, and dumb. She had no idea how she was supposed to survive the next six months.
Charlotte McKenzie needed two days to recover from the passage from Blenheim to Wellington. Jack was doing his best to make the trip pleasant, and Charlotte made every effort to enjoy it. She ate lobster in Kaikoura and pretended to care about the whales and dolphins they saw from a little boat. But the passage to the North Island had been too much for her. The sea was rough, and Charlotte never did have sea legs. She succumbed to vomiting again and again and was so dizzy by the end she could hardly walk. Jack practically carried her from the pier to the carriage and finally to the hotel room.
“We should leave for Auckland as soon as you feel better,” he said when she once again covered the windows and got out the wool wrap. However, warmth and darkness had long ceased to offer much relief. Only the opium tincture that Dr. Barrington had prescribed helped anymore, but that muted not only her headaches but also her feelings and perception.
“But there was so much you wanted to see,” Charlotte objected. “The rain forest. And Rotorua, the hot springs, the geysers.”
Jack shook his head furiously. “To hell with all the geysers and trees on the whole North Island. We came here to see Dr. Friedman. I only said it because . . .”
“Because this is supposed to be a vacation,” she said gently. “And because you didn’t want me to worry.”
“But you wanted to go to Waitangi. We can drive past there,” Jack said, trying to calm himself.
Charlotte shook her head. “I only said that for the same reason.”
Jack looked at her helplessly. But then something came to him. “We can do it on the return trip. We’ll visit the doctor first. And once he’s said that everything’s all right, we’ll travel the island. Sound good?”
”Yes, we’ll do that,” she said quietly.
“By the way, it’s called Te Ika-a-Maui—Maui’s fish. The North Island, I mean.” Jack knew he was talking too much, but he could not bear to be silent. “The demigod Maui pulled it as a fish out of the sea.”
“And his brothers hacked at it to partition it out, creating the mountains, cliffs, and valleys,” Charlotte completed the story.
Jack admonished himself for his foolishness. Charlotte probably knew the Maori legend better than he did.
“He was a clever fellow anyway, that Maui,” she continued, lost in thought. “He could slow down the sun. When the days passed too quickly for him, he caught it and forced it to move more slowly. I’d like to do that too.”
Jack took her in his arms. “We’ll leave for Auckland tomorrow.”
Although a railroad connection had been in place for several years, the journey to Auckland could not be done in one day. The North Island Main Trunk Railway led up and down mountains, often through breathtakingly beautiful landscapes, but for Charlotte the journey was no less arduous than the sea passage.
“On the way back we’ll take a slower route,” Jack promised on the final day of their three-day journey.
Charlotte nodded indifferently. She yearned for a bed that did not move beneath her. It was hard to believe she had ever enjoyed their honeymoon in George Greenwood’s private car. Back then she had drunk sparkling wine and laughed at the shaky bed. Now she could hardly keep a sip of tea down.
Both were relieved when they reached Auckland, but neither had a taste for the beauty of the city.
“We have to climb Mount Hobson or Mount Eden; the view is supposed to be fantastic,” Jack remarked listlessly. The terrace-covered mountains cast a lush green glow over the city. The sea, its tide calmed by dozens of volcanic islands, looked an inviting azure blue, and Grafton Bridge, the longest arched bridge in the world, completed only a few years earlier, stylishly spanned the Grafton Gully.
“Later,” Charlotte said. She had stretched out on their hotel bed and wanted nothing more than to feel Jack’s arms around her and imagine that this was nothing more than a bad dream. She was asleep in minutes.
First thing the next morning Jack set out in search of Dr. Friedman’s practice. The brain specialist resided on the upscale Queen Street, which was lined with stately Victorian houses.
Jack rode the tram, a mode of transport that had always given him a childlike pleasure in Christchurch. On that sunny summer day in Auckland, however, he was only filled with fear and foreboding. But the doctor’s manorial stone house inspired confidence—he had to be successful if he could afford such an elegant building. Dr. Barrington had already written Dr. Friedman. So when a secretary announced Jack, he didn’t have to wait long before being ushered into the doctor’s office.
Dr. Friedman was a short, rather delicate man with a bushy beard. He was no longer young—Jack placed him at over sixty—but his light-blue eyes looked as alert and curious as a much younger man’s. The surgeon listened attentively as Jack described Charlotte’s symptoms to him.
“So it’s gotten worse since you consulted with Dr. Barrington?” he asked calmly.
Jack nodded. “My wife attributes it to traveling. She’s always gotten seasick and the neck-breaking train route didn’t help. She’s suffering from increased dizziness and nausea.”
Dr. Friedman smiled paternally. “Maybe she’s pregnant,” he suggested.
Jack did not manage to return the smile. “If only God would show us that mercy,” he whispered.
Dr. Friedman sighed. “At the moment God is not exactly distributing his mercy with both hands,” he murmured. “This senseless war alone into which Europe has blundered. How many lives will be destroyed there, how much money will be wasted that research needs so desperately? Medicine has begun to make rapid strides, young man. But for the next few years it will come to a standstill, and the only skills doctors will develop will be the amputation of limbs and the treating of bullet wounds. Bring your wife to me just as soon as she feels strong enough. I don’t like to make house calls since all of my diagnostic instruments are here. And I hope with all my heart that everything proves benign.”
Charlotte still needed a day to steel herself for the consultation, but the following morning she sat next to Jack in Dr. Friedman’s waiting room. Jack had put his arm around her, and she curled against him like a scared child. She seemed smaller these days, he thought. Her face had always been narrow, but now it seemed to consist entirely of giant brown eyes, and her abundant hair was duller than it had once been. Jack did not want to leave her side when Dr. Friedman finally called her in for an examination.
He spent a fearful hour too tense to pray or even to think. It was pleasantly warm in the waiting room, but Jack felt an inner chill that not even the hot sunshine could ease.
Finally Dr. Friedman’s secretary called him in. The doctor was sitting at his desk again. Across from him Charlotte was clinging to a cup of tea. At a sign from the doctor, the secretary filled a cup for Jack, and then tactfully left the room.
Dr. Friedman did not delay with a long preamble.
“Mr. and Mrs. McKenzie, Charlotte, I’m afraid I don’t have good news. But you’ve already spoken with my very competent young colleague in Christchurch, and he did not conceal his fears from you. My examination has unfortunately confirmed his suspected diagnosis. My professional opinion is that you suffer from a growth in your brain. It’s causing your headaches, vertigo, nausea, and all the other symptoms with which you are afflicted. And by the looks of it, it’s growing, Mrs. McKenzie. The symptoms today are already much more pronounced than they were when you saw Dr. Barrington.”
Charlotte sipped her tea with resignation. Jack trembled with impatience.
“So what do we do now, Doctor? Can you cut the thing out?”
Dr. Friedman played with the expensive fountain pen that lay on the desk.
“No,” he said quietly. “It’s too deep in the skull. I’ve operated on a few tumors. Both here in New Zealand and back in the old country with Professor von Bergmann. But it’s always risky. The brain is a sensitive organ, Mr. McKenzie. It’s responsible for all of our senses, our thoughts, and feelings. You never know what you’ll destroy when you cut around inside. While it’s true that cutting the skull open and manipulating the brain have been practiced since antiquity, I don’t know how many people survived it back then. Today, knowing the dangers of infection and working very cleanly, we can keep some people alive. But sometimes at a heavy price. Some people go blind or become lame. Or, they change.”
“I don’t care if Charlotte is lame. And I’d still have two eyes if she went blind. I just want her to stay with me.” Jack felt for Charlotte’s hand, but she pulled it away from him.
“But I care, dearest,” she said quietly. “I don’t know if I’d like to keep living if I won’t be able to move or see and might still be in pain. And it would be even worse if I didn’t love you anymore,” she sobbed drily.
“How could that happen? Why would you stop loving me just because . . .” Jack turned to her, shocked.
“There can be personality changes,” Dr. Friedman explained gravely. “Sometimes our scalpel seems to extinguish all feeling.”
“And how big is the danger that something like that will happen?” Jack asked desperately. “There has to be something you can do.”
Dr. Friedman shook his head. “I would not recommend operating in this case. The tumor is too deep down. Even if I could remove it, I would destroy too much brain mass. I might kill your wife in the process. Or dim her spirit. We shouldn’t do that to her, Mr. McKenzie, Jack. We shouldn’t rob her of the time that would otherwise remain.”
Charlotte sat there with sunken head. The doctor had already given her his conclusions.
“You mean, she, she has to die? Even if you don’t operate?” Jack grasped for any hope.
“Not right away,” the doctor said vaguely.
“So you don’t know?” Jack asked. “You mean she could still live a long time? She could . . .”
Dr. Friedman cast Charlotte a desperate gaze. She shook her head almost imperceptibly.
“How long your wife will still live, only God knows,” the doctor said.
“She could also recover then?” Jack whispered. “The growth could cease to grow?”
Dr. Friedman raised his eyes to heaven. “It all lies in the hands of the Everlasting.”
Jack inhaled deeply.
“What about other treatments, Dr. Friedman?” he asked. “Are there medicines that could help?”
The doctor shook his head. “I can give you something for the pain. Medicine that works reliably, at least for a while.”
Charlotte stood up slowly. “Thank you very much, Doctor. It’s better to know.” She shook the doctor’s hand.
Dr. Friedman nodded. “Consider at your own pace how you want to proceed,” he said. “As I said, I don’t recommend an operation, but if, in spite of that, you want to risk it anyway, I can try. Otherwise . . .”
“I don’t want an operation,” Charlotte said.
She had left the doctor’s house holding on tightly to Jack. This time they did not take the tram. Jack stopped a horse carriage. Charlotte leaned back into the cushions, and Jack held her hand. They did not say another word until they reached their hotel room. But Charlotte did not lie down right away. She went to the window instead. The hotel offered a breathtaking view of Auckland’s harbor, Waitemata—a fitting name for this natural bay that offered ships protection from the often hefty Pacific storms. Charlotte looked out over the shimmering green-blue water.
“If I could no longer see that,” she said. “If I could no longer understand the meaning of words. Jack, I don’t want to become a burden to you. It’s not worth it. And everything about this operation. They would have to cut my hair. I’d be ugly.”
“You’d never be ugly, Charlotte,” Jack said, walking up behind her and kissing her hair while he, too, looked at the sea. Deep down he knew she was right. He would not want to live either if he could no longer perceive all the beauty around him. More than anything he would miss the sight of Charlotte. Her smile, her dimples, her clever brown eyes.
“But what should we do then?” he asked. “We can’t just sit here and wait, or pray.”
Charlotte smiled. “We won’t do that either. There’s no sense in it. The gods won’t be moved so quickly. Like Maui we’d have to outsmart the sun, and the Goddess of Death.”
“He wasn’t very successful,” Jack said, recalling the legend. The Maori demigod had tried to conquer the Goddess of Death as she slept. But the laughter of his companions betrayed him, and he died.
“He tried, at least,” Charlotte insisted. “And we’ll try too. Look, Jack, I have medicine from Dr. Friedman. I won’t have to suffer any more pain. So we’ll do all those things we decided to do. Tomorrow we’ll drive to Waitangi. And we’ll visit the local Maori tribes. And then I’d like to go to Cape Reinga. And to Rotorua, where there are still supposed to be Maori tribes that have hardly had contact with the pakeha. It would be interesting to hear if they tell their stories differently.” Charlotte turned to face Jack. Her eyes shone.
