‘Yes, Auntie Pat,’ I said, ‘it’s done. It’s over.’
‘I’ve been carrying the guilt all my life,’ she answered. ‘I’m glad you know everything.’
‘You have to forgive yourself. You weren’t to blame. You can put the past behind you now and get on with life. And I need you.’
‘Need me?’
‘This is just the beginning, Auntie. There are other Sams to fight for. I’ll need your feistiness, your fighting sprit.’
I watched as Auntie Pat’s back stiffened and her head went up to look at the far horizon.
‘Okay, Nephew,’ she said, spitting on her hands. ‘Just put me in the front row. You’ll hear all about it if you don’t put me in the front —’
Roimata was right. Auntie Pat was going to make a good kuia for our new gay tribe.
When I returned to the marae, the Southern Cross was turning just above the meeting house like a pinwheel. The meeting house had become its axis, determining the revolving of the world and stars. Roimata was sleeping next to Waka’s casket. Some of the kids from Wellington had crawled into her arms.
‘Yes, Roimata, you will make a fine mother for this great new tribe of ours. Your children will be as numerous — twins, triplets, whatever. Pity you couldn’t have chosen a better father.’
I went to find Carlos in the meeting house. He was by himself, watching the stars spilling over the brim of the night.
‘Keep your hands to your sides and don’t move,’ I said.
I stood behind him and slipped my arms under his shirt and around his chest. He shivered at their coldness.
The sky started to streak with the dawn.
‘Hey,’ Carlos said, ‘It’s going to be a great day —’
I felt Tunui a te Ika leap with expectancy against my heart. A good place from which to do battle.
A good day to begin battle from.
My mind went back to Cliff Harper when we were saying goodbye to each other at Los Angeles Airport. I was at the jetway, boarding my flight. He was at the other end of the terminal, walking away. He looked so lonely.
In despair, I called down the concourse. ‘Mr Harper!’
He turned to look at me. I didn’t know what to do next. Then I heard music surging like the sea, music filled with timelessness. The retreating sound of hunting horns. Two lovers taking the reckless chance to be together. Clattering down through the music, a huge chopper came through the roof. The helicopter hovered, its rotors slicing the sun.
‘This is from Sam!’ I called.
My voice echoed and echoed along the concourse. It seemed to open gateways in Time. People stopped, looked at me, curious.
I pointed at Harper. You.
I pointed at my heart. Me.
I made the thumbs up sign. Love you.
I stood tall. Saluted to him.
Cliff Harper seemed to crumple. Then he straightened. His hand snapped up as he returned my salute.
He turned and walked away.
In the roar of aircraft taking off and landing, in the sound of a helicopter suddenly jumping into the sky, I watched Cliff Harper until he was gone.
And the sun was there, bursting across the horizon.
I thought of Uncle Sam and his great love story. I made him a promise.
Uncle Sam, it is time to construct the world again, but a brave new world. Your story will become part of it and I will tell it until the whole world knows it.
I make my promise, Uncle Sam, to bind the new world’s top and bottom with light. I will tell your story to everyone I meet, whether they want to hear it or not. I will tell them how you loved a man and how wonderful that love was. With that love I will bind the outer framework of the world with the inner framework.
I have realised, Uncle Sam, that the telling of our stories will bring a location and a history to the world that we build. We who are gay and lesbian must fix the stories with firmness and solder their knots with purpose so that they become part of the narratives — the foundations, walls and roof — all peoples tell about each other. We must speak our stories, we must enact them, we must sing our songs throughout this hostile universe. We must bring a new promise to life and a new music to the impulse of history.
Tuia i runga, tuia i raro.
Tuia i roto, tuia i waho.
Tuia i te here tangata ka rongo te Ao
Ka rongo te Po.
Tuia. Tuia
Tuia.
No, Uncle Sam, not eternal darkness.
Acknowledgements
This book has been in my mind since 1986. However, it wasn’t until 1 October 1999 that it began life as Brangäne’s Warning. It was completed as The Uncle’s Story on 3 July 2000. Just prior to beginning the novel the New Zealand Air Force and New Zealand Army must have been on joint manoeuvres at the military airbase at Hobsonville. All I know is that in September I kept hearing thunder in the sky: the sounds of military helicopters morning and evening coming down Auckland Harbour and over the house I live in on the harbour. The sound was a powerful stimulus to my imagination. In particular, it brought back memories of Maori relatives and friends who had died in the Vietnam conflict and, also, of two events in Washington DC, where I lived in 1987–1990, stationed at the New Zealand Embassy: witnessing the moments of grief at the unveiling of the Aids Quilt, 1997, and at the Vietnam Veterans’ Memorial on Memorial Day, 1997.
In terms of research, I wish to particularly acknowledge the following texts:
Brief History of the New Zealand Army in South Vietnam, 1964–1972, Army Public Relations, NZ Ministry of Defence, Wellington, 1973; Choppers: Thunder in the Sky, Robert Genat, Metro Books, New York, 1998; Grey Ghosts: New Zealand Vietnam Vets Talk About Their War, Deborah Challinor, Hodder Moa Beckett, Auckland, 1998; Reluctant Warrior: A Marine’s True Story of Duty and Heroism in Vietnam, Michael C. Hodgins, Ivy Books, New York, 1996; Six Silent Men: 101st LRP/ Rangers: Book One, Raynel Martinez, Ivy Books, New York, 1997; Splash One: Air Victory Over Hanoi, Walt Kross, Brassey’s (US) Inc., McLean, 1991; The Killing Zone: New Zealand Infantry in Vietnam, 1967 to 1971, Colin Smith 1987; The New Zealand Army: A History from the 1840s to the 1980s, Major M. R. Wicksteed, RNZA, Wellington, 1982; Te Mura O Te Ahi: The Story of the Maori Batallion, Wira Gardiner, Reed, 1992; and Wounded Warriors, The true story of a soldier in the Vietnam wars and the emotional wounds inflicted, Colin P. Sisson, Total Press Ltd, Auckland, 1993.
Documents about the 28th NZ (Maori) Batallion by Bruce Poananga and George Rogers were also consulted.
The First Peoples’ Conference described in Part 6 of the novel is based on the ‘Beyond Survival’ conference, Ottawa, Canada, 1992 and the ‘To See Proudly: Advancing Indigenous Arts Beyond the New Millennium’ conference, Ottawa, Canada, 24–27 September 1998. The political debates that occur in the novel are extrapolated from some of the issues that arose at both conferences.
The ‘Heartbreak Hotel’ (Axton/Durden/Presley) © lyrics on p. 240–243 are reproduced with kind permission by J Albert & Son Pty Ltd.
The lines on p. 120 were written by Nguyen Du, an 18th century Vietnamese poet and philosopher.
As always, my thanks to Jessica Kiri and Olivia Ata, my constant inspiration. Thanks also to Jenny Te Paa, who will recognise herself, to Darling Thing, to Little Bear, who came into my life just when I needed him, to Jenny, Jaimie and Gretchen, my madcap companions on the trip through Texas, and to the boys in Hawaii.