The Bird

IONA VISITS HIS GRANDPARENTS, Faga and Maopo, at 11 am every Monday, when Malia, his oldest sister, and her husband and their three children who live with their grandparents are at work and school, because he wants his grandparents to himself for the one-hour duration of his visit. Iona says nothing to Sam, his cousin, who is driving them to his grandparents’ in Mangere.

Hot summer day. No wind. He loves the heat. When he gazes out at the Manukau, the dazzling morning light richocheting off the surface of the black water cuts into the core of his eyes and he has to look away.

No one about in the street. Sam stops the car in front of Number 134. Iona gets out and, pausing at the front gate, concludes once again that their family home is the most expensive one in the street. He’d wanted to buy them a larger house outside South Auckland but they’d refused, insisting they wanted to finish their lives in the modest state house they’d raised him and his sisters in. Besides, their church, closest aiga and friends were there. So he’d bought the house, gutted and renovated it completely, thrown out all the old furniture and appliances and refurnished it with what Faga told her friends at church was ‘the most expensive furniture and things this side of Heaven’. He always gives his grandparents the best. After all, they’d struggled in shit factories and shit cleaning jobs to raise him, his two sisters and cousins, after their parents had died in that horrific car crash, when his dad had been bloody drunk, full to his violent gills! Yes, for over twenty years Faga and Maopo had slaved their guts out for them.

He pushes open the gate and is immediately in a sea of colour and scent, Faga’s front garden. Among the lush exuberant mix of flowers are taro and bananas — Maopo’s contribution.

‘Twelve, okay?’ Sam calls to him. He nods.

Opening the front door with his key, he goes into the corridor which is alive with the smell of coconut oil, the smell of his growing up. Coconut oil is Faga’s cure for everything. His sisters and cousins hate it because they don’t want to be identified as Coconuts. Yeah, but he loves it, is proud of it, flaunts it. ‘Faga!’ he calls.

‘Is that you?’ Her voice comes from the kitchen. He finds her crouched on the floor, cleaning the cupboard under the sink. He wants to help her. But he doesn’t, because Faga doesn’t like being considered old and helpless. He waits until she’s standing up, her thin frail body trembling from the strain of rising from the floor. ‘Can you see my eyes anywhere?’ she asks in Samoan. He finds her glasses on the bench and gives them to her. ‘You go in and sit with Maopo, while I prepare some lunch.’ He hesitates. ‘Go on. I’ve cooked some chop suey and taro. You look too skinny, Iona. Too much palagi food. Her mind and memory are still strong, but she’s slowing down, becoming forgetful, sometimes confusing the past and the present.

Maopo is in the middle of the bed, still, vacant eyes staring into the ceiling. Bed-ridden, unable to recognise anyone else but Faga. Maopo’s emaciated face, with the eyes deeply buried in their hollow sockets, remind him of the face of an owl. Been like this for about a year. And worsening. Iona hesitates at the door. Can’t take this any more, watching his grandad being eaten up by old age. First his sight, then his hearing, his body, then control of his bodily functions, cruel fucking humiliation for someone who’d lived so comfortably in and with his body and senses. Grace, marvellous coordination of movement and muscle … And you can’t do a thing to stop the final humiliation, this slow death.

He sits down in the chair by the bed. Smoothes down the sheet on his grandad’s chest. ‘Ya remember that time, Maopo, when we were still at Freeman’s Bay, in that flea-ridden house we loved because it was home, that time you came home drunk and, instead of being angry, Faga asked you to sing your favourite song and you sang in your fresh-off-the-boat English:

“Pa, Pa, Plackie Siki

Have youse any valu?

One for le master and one for le teine

Who lives down de way …”’

Iona laughs and says, ‘Ya remember that, Maopo? I learned right then how to speak FOB English, like you.’

During most of his visits, he fills the silences with Maopo with reminiscences from their life together, stories that weave into other stories, telling them the way Maopo used to.

Now, as he’s doing that, anger starts intruding. Why the fuck did you ever come to this country, this land of the albinos, which continues to treat you as nobodies, dumb powerless Coconuts, FOB, to be used in the factories and shit jobs they won’t touch? He stops. It’s unfair. That’s not how his grandparents had seen it. New Zealand had offered them a chance to be out of the poverty of Samoa, to have work, get their kids a good education. ‘Yeah, I learned early from you and Faga, Maopo. Remember, how I used to help Faga go round the streets on rubbish collection days, collecting all the cans and bottles from the rubbish bins? Remember? Sometimes Faga was blue with the cold. And the humiliation. I knew why she and you were doing that: it was to keep us alive. But I promised myself, no bastard — brown or albino or black or yellow or purple — was ever going to do that to me or my sisters or to you when I was able to support you.’ He pauses, and caresses Maopo’s hand. ‘I decided then, you and Faga weren’t going to need for anything.’ Pauses. ‘You learned early never to ask me and my cousins where we got the money, food, and other stuff we started bringing home.’ Chuckles. ‘You didn’t know, but at the age of twelve, me and Ofu and Sam controlled the paper runs in central Freeman’s Bay. Yeah, any kid who wanted to deliver newspapers had to pay us 15 percent!’

During lunch with Faga he does nearly all the talking. As usual, she expects him to tell her, in great detail, what he and the rest of their aiga have been doing that week. ‘It’s good, Iona, that you keep an eye on everyone, it’s your duty because you’re the most Samoan. Maopo raised you to be the head of our aiga,’ she keeps interrupting him. ‘You got into lots of trouble, eh, boy?’ She chortles. ‘Yes, right from your first week at Freeman’s Bay Primary.’ She continues laughing.

Their Samoan names got them into trouble first. Iona, Malia, Ofu, Samuelu, Pelu and Upega. Their teachers and the palagi students couldn’t be bothered pronouncing their Samoan names properly, so they named them Jonah, Mary, Melanie, Sam, Joe and Nick.

When she was first called Mary by her teachers, Malia started whimpering softly, and all that day refused to obey her teacher. Ofu stamped her feet repeatedly when the other kids teased her about her new name, Melanie; she scratched one boy across his neck and the teacher ordered her out to stand in the centre of the playground. Samuelu, who didn’t say much, ever, grunted his disapproval at being called Sam, and, when his teacher turned to write on the blackboard, gave him the up-you sign, much to the other kids’ delight. On being renamed Joe and Nick, Pelu and Upega folded their arms across their defiant chests and refused to budge from their seats until lunchtime. However, all of them within a few weeks relented and got stuck with their palagi names for the rest of their lives. But he refused to give in. He slugged the first boy who called him Jonah.

Now as he relives that, he enjoys, yes, enjoys the sharp, defiant crunch of his punch. The teacher strapped him. Not a whimper or tear. Next morning when Miss Balsham called him Jonah, he looked defiantly into her fat face, and said, ‘Miss, my name is Iona, I-O-NA!’ The headmaster reprimanded him for that. A few days later Miss Balsham’s car, which was parked in front of the Ponsonby Picture Theatre, got four slashed tyres and a smashed rear window. Even now, years and years later, he enjoys remembering how, after that, she and the other teachers pronounced his name correctly.

‘You and Grandad always stood by us, Faga. Always.’

‘Yes, but we got fed up with you at times. We were afraid of the police and the courts. We’re ignorant people, Iona. We couldn’t speak English … At times, Maopo was sick with fear when he had to come to court and face those awful police and judges …’

‘But you always stood by me, Faga.’

‘That’s what aiga is, Iona. You know that!’ Wicked smile. ‘And you’ve always been a quick learner, eh, Iona? You learned from your first time in the Boys’ Home and Mt Eden, how not to find yourself in there again, eh?’ They laugh together. ‘And you made sure your sisters never got into trouble with the police.’ Faga pauses again, then, turning her thick spectacles on him, asks slowly, ‘Are you ever afraid of anything, Iona?’

‘Lots of things, Faga …’

‘You know what I mean, Iona. We’ve always been afraid that you have no fear. Not even of God!’

‘That’s not true,’ he tries to say. He knows what she’s going to say next — she says it every visit.

‘You must never stop believing in God. We’ve survived well in this country because of our church and the Almighty. Never forget that, Iona.’

Just before twelve, after he’s washed, dried and put the dishes away, he goes in to his grandfather, kisses him on the forehead, smoothes back his hair, and retreats into the sitting room where he stands at the front window, watching the street for his car to return. Remembering, he takes $200 out of his wallet and puts it under the tanoa on the mantelpiece — his weekly contribution to his grandparents’ upkeep.

His car noses darkly up the street and stops at the front gate. Fucking shit, he can’t believe it when Sam and Nick get out wearing black Raybans, black suits, black polonecks, black boots and number one haircuts. Talk about attracting unwanted attention to themselves!

‘Faga!’ he calls. No reply. ‘Faga, I’m going!’ He starts for the front door. ‘Ou ke koe sau fo’i i le vaiaso lea! Fa!’

He shuts the front door just as Sam and Nick hit the front steps. They start greeting him. He brushes past, between them. Gets into the back seat, slams the car door, sits staring ahead in menacing silence. Sam and Nick get in meekly. Absolutely brainless, like most young Hamos in the city: arrogant, brash, dumb showoffs!

‘How’s Faga and Maopo?’ Sam asks. Iona refuses to answer, or let them off the hook.

Through the lunchtime streets of Otahuhu, Onehunga and then along the motorway, along the Manukau. The strong smell of hot sun and low tide, wind weaving in from the south.

Sam turns in to the Pacific Tavern and drives round to the carpark behind. ‘We’ve arranged the meeting,’ Nick informs him. Iona gets out. ‘Rangi and Dodo are waiting in the back bar.’

Sam and Nick start following him. He stops unexpectedly and, without turning to look at them, says, ‘Go home and get out of those … those fucking costumes!’ He waits.

‘Okay, Iona,’ Sam apologises.

‘Ya look like faafafiges with ice-blocks shoved up ya ufa!’

‘Sorry, Iona!’ Nick tries.

‘You’ve learned nothing! What’s the rule? Go on, I wanna hear it!’

‘Be invisible,’ Sam begins.

‘Blend in with the people,’ Nick continues.

‘Be back in twenty minutes,’ Iona orders, and hurries to the front entrance of the tavern. Cousins, my cousins, who owe me their lives. Ever since Freeman’s Bay, he’s had to save them from their stupidities and flaws. All he asks for is loyalty.

He first met Rangi and Dodo in the Boys’ Home, and they continued their friendship, a few years later, in Paremoremo Prison, where he’d been for a year. His friends now live in Kaitaia and are part of his larger aiga and business, coming to Auckland every few months, where they meet at different pre-arranged bars. Iona likes the back bar at the Pacific Tavern, with its mainly Polynesian clientele and its expansive windows that open out to the park to let in a steady stream of fresh air. No smoking allowed there, either. He hates smoking. Kills ya! Fucks up your lungs and brains.

The bar is filling up. Many greet him. Some wave respectfully. He recognises many of the Samoans: some are members of his family’s church. They part and let him through to Rangi and Dodo at the table under the back windows.

‘Hi, Iona, welcome!’ Barry Winston, the palagi owner who’s serving behind the bar, calls to him. Iona waves back, perfunctorily. Mister Barry Winston’s a grateful, satisfied client. No trouble ever at his tavern. No, sir. No fights or burglaries or staff strikes or scams or whatever. I make sure of that. At a price. At a good and fair price.

‘Kia ora, Bro!’ Rangi greets him. They hongi and embrace. He hongis Dodo. Great to see them, bloody staunch. ‘A drink, Bro?’ Rangi asks. He tells him he just wants a Diet Coke. Dodo goes off to the bar.

‘Good ta see ya again, Rangi. How’s Jeanne and the kids?’

‘Good, good.’ Trim, fit, a compact unit of boundless energy, determination and no bullshit, Rangi is loyal once he knows you’re straight and generous with him. Good also to have him in your aiga because of his skills with his fists and a baseball bat.

‘How’s business?’ Rangi asks.

‘Strong and improving at a growth rate of 3 to 4 percent!’ Iona mimics Winston Peters. They laugh. Dodo arrives with their drinks.

‘Kia ora, e hoa!’ Dodo salutes.

‘Manuia!’ he replies. They drink. More customers are arriving, but they keep away from their table. They merely wave, call out their greetings, and go elsewhere.

‘Everything’s been arranged for your stay,’ Iona tells his friends. ‘Sam and Nick’ll look after ya. Anything you need, ask them.’

‘Thanks. I’m sure we’re goin’ to have a great time!’ Rangi replies.

‘As usual!’ laughs Dodo, the dark tattoos on his arms dancing.

‘Sam tells me the stuff’s the best grade?’ Iona remarks.

‘Fantastic crop,’ Dodo says. ‘And a lot of it.’

‘As you instructed, we’re holding back half the crop so the prices stay up, Iona,’ Rangi explains. Iona pokes him playfully on the shoulder. ‘Ah’m learning, eh, Bro. Learning about supply and demand and stuff like that.’

While they’re laughing, Iona surprises them. ‘Usual price?’ he asks. Rangi and Dodo glance at each other. Not usual to discuss prices so early and so openly, but then Iona does unexpected things that always result in bigger profits for everyone. ‘How about 5 percent on last May’s prices?’ Rangi nods and they shake hands. ‘To be paid through the usual channels?’ Iona asks.

Through the crowded room saunter Sam and Nick, dressed in jeans and sports shoes, bald heads covered with blue balaclavas, like the people, not sticking out like peacocks for the cops to de-cock. The people part respectfully and let them through.

Iona refuses to look at his cousins as they hongi Rangi and Dodo, who offer them drinks. They glance at Iona and politely refuse the offer of drinks: no alcohol while Iona does business.

Swiftly Iona reaches up and whips off their balaclavas, for all the others to marvel and laugh at his cousins’ shiny bald heads. ‘Da da!’ he introduces them.

‘Fuck, man!’ Rangi whistles. Barney Winston and Iona’s Samoan elders lead the laughter and applause and whistling.

‘Bow, ya mongrels!’ he orders his cousins, who hesitate and then bow. ‘Lower!’ Iona emphasises. They do.

Quickly, he instructs Sam and Nick about looking after their ‘northern brothers’ and the crop. He embraces Rangi and Dodo. ‘Give my love to the missus and the kids, Bro! See ya!’ He turns; he can feel everyone watching him as he paces through the crowd. They wave and call their farewells; he smiles and keeps waving his arm high in the air.

Yes, he likes that: respect, fa’aloalo, his grandad calls it. He’s earned their respect — and admiration. And they come to him for help when they need it.

Above all else, his grandad before he lost his mind had said, ‘Iona, our aiga and community respect and love you for the generous way you always help them.’

On his way through thick traffic to K Road he rings Ofu, his sister, on his cellphone. He’s the only person who gets away with calling her Ofu. Everyone else has called her Melanie since she insisted at the age of twelve that that was her preferred name. He gets away with it because he had paid for most of her university education, got her into Buffin, Mutle and Blake, the law firm he uses. He continues to be her biggest client. He is also head of their aiga, and her fearless protector.

‘Talofa, Ofu!’ he greets her. ‘Why are ya ashamed of your Hamo name?’ he jokes. Deep hurt pause at the other end. He laughs. ‘Jus’ been to see Faga and Grandad. Faga tells me you’ve not been to see them since Loku-a-Kamaiki. That’s no good, Sis. That’s not family.’

‘I’ve been very busy, Brother,’ she tries to placate him.

‘With that palagi boyfriend? Boyfriends come and go. Faga and Maopo are our parents,’ Iona whispers. ‘And they’re old and unwell!’

‘And without them I wouldn’t be alive and well today, right?’ she mimics him.

‘Right, Sis! Right. And you’d better not forget it.’ He’s into his Marlon-Brando-as-Don-Corleone act.

‘I’ll go and see them tonight,’ she pronounces, and before he reminds her, adds, ‘And I’ll take Faga her favourite chocolate …’

‘Don’t forget your cash contribution to their welfare, too, Sis.’

Quickly, he details the deal with Rangi and Dodo and the price and the amount to be ‘transferred’. She updates him on three property transactions he’s involved in. ‘They’re not shifting on prices,’ she tells him.

‘Give it another two weeks. With a little persuasion they’ll come down.’ Chuckles.

It’s slow along K Road. Chocka with traffic. Ahh. He U-turns swiftly into the vacant carpark on the other side. Always lucky in women, business and carparks! his second sister, Malia, keeps telling him. A lot of truth in that, he thinks.

Slots a fifty-cent coin into the parking meter.

When he was a boy, K Road was full of Pacific Islanders, Maori and working-class people. He’d loved shopping there with his grandparents. Since the middle-class yuppie wankers, mainly palagi, started moving into the inner city, most of his people were gone into the suburbs, into South Auckland.

He recognises some of the drunks and ex-whores on the benches. He looks up. Ahead, right in his gaze, two young Samoan fa’afafine in sleek black, immaculate makeup and high heels, are sashaying musically towards him. ‘Hi, Iona!’ they greet him, in unison. He bows and waves. They sashay past, dizzying smell of Opium.

Trade Aid Shop. Love shopping here. He enters. Not too many customers. Among them, a couple of Samoans. They nod; he nods and smiles. The two shop assistants are young women without makeup: plain, appropriate representatives for the products from the Third and Fourth Worlds. One of them, Jill, talks to him when he’s there.

Gotta support the poor and exploited, he muses. Samoa’s still in that category. As a boy, when he came home howling because a teacher had called him Sambo, Faga sat him down and said, ‘Iona, there’s racism and injustice in this wicked world. You can’t change that all by yourself. Nor should you try. Most importantly, work with it. Having racism right in your face shouldn’t stop you from doing what you have to do.’

Yeah, he thinks as he examines a book by Reynold Thunder, powerful countries, usually white, fucked the poor countries, usually black or brown or yellow, sucked the juices out of them. It’s all gotta do with power, and who has it, who fucks who, who licks whose arse and other sensitive vital parts, to get what they want. It’s all business, nothing personal, except when they try and fuck you and those you love and respect.

‘Anything we can do for you?’ Jill asks. He always buys something, several things.

‘Thank you, I’m jus’ looking.’ As he wanders on, something, a blur, tugs at the corner of his vision. He stops, looks to his left, up to the top shelf. The Owl. He looks again. About a foot high and half hidden by a framed photograph. Reaches up, pushes the picture aside. There, swallowing him up, with Its huge blue-black, shimmering eyes. Of ebony wood and polished to a marble sheen. Simple symmetry, almost all face and eyes and beak and talons. Hefty and squat. He touches Its shoulder, suspiciously. Nothing. Runs his forefinger down Its left wing, all the time he’s caught in the Bird’s all-encompassing gaze. Fathomless, shimmering depths in which his reflection shifts and swims.

Gingerly, he clasps the Bird, with both hands around Its talons and base, and holding It in front of him at a safe distance, he takes It and places It on the glass counter in front of Jill. ‘It’s beautiful, eh?’ she remarks. ‘It came in our last shipment.’ He nods, once. It’s fierce, yeah, manaful. As the light plays over It, It bristles and watches you. ‘It’s $120,’ she says. He unfolds his wallet and pulls out the notes.

Jill starts wrapping It up in tissue paper. He is suddenly in the depths of a tropical rainforest. Blue, dank, humid light. In Samoa? I’ve been there before. Upolu? In my childhood before New Zealand, with who? My grandad? Yes, with Maopo.

Then into his hearing slides the deep resonant hooting, and the slow-flapping of wings, the determined take-off, the branch shuddering as the Bird leaps into the forest stillness, the long slow weaving through the canopy, body and feathers sleek with sun and shadow, as It searches and stalks the undergrowth below …

‘You’ve given me too much,’ Jill rescues him. He tries to smile. Returns the notes to his wallet.

He is safe; the Bird is wrapped in delicate tissue paper and contained in the Trade Aid shopping bag. ‘Thank you again!’ Jill says. He notices that her eyes are an unusual translucent blue.

‘I collect owls,’ he says and immediately feels stupid for saying it — bragging? Showing off?

He turns, bag handles grasped firmly in his left hand, and hurries out, the weight of the Bird anchoring him.

As he rejoins the current of shoppers on the street, he again questions his inexplicable attraction — or is it addiction? — to things beyond order and safety, to creatures and happenings at the edge and over-the-edge, beyond reason, logic, the law, the usual, the accepted. Like re-exploring the wild possibilities of sex for the first time with a new lover, like driving beyond the speed limit risking a violent death, like smashing the bastards who’re trying to intimidate you, yeah, especially that, and enjoying it, like diving into Grandad’s wild gaze as he raves about the ancient atua of Samoa, the pagan atua, the fearless atua, before the fucking missionaries outlawed them, yeah, like …

The Red Hibiscus Cafe and Bar is owned by Sheena and Dave Blonsky. Palagi but aiga. Dave and his sister, Milly, and their crazy dad and alcoholic mother had lived next door to them in Wellington Street. Dave and Milly tried to escape their violent parents and poverty by spending nearly all their time in Iona’s home, and Faga and Maopo had treated them as their own. When Social Welfare took the kids away from Mr and Mrs Blonsky and put them in foster homes, Dave kept returning to Iona’s.

He had helped Dave and Sheena set up the café, but he’d refused a shareholding. Only two free meals a week, he’d suggested, as payment. Sheena and another waitress are serving at the bar. Now he lunches there twice a week.

Today, the place is full and noisy. Sheena waves and points to the back of the restaurant, NO SMOKING ALLOWED. ‘See ya in a minute, Iona!’ she calls.

Nearly all palagi customers. Again, he feels self-conscious as he strolls to the back and waits for his table. Kim, the university music student waitress who usually serves him, is suddenly beside him. ‘Bloody crowded, eh?’ he sighs.

‘Yeah, but there’s always room for you,’ Kim replies, respectfully. He follows her.

Attractive in black body tights and cotton blouse, she moves like an athlete. Tight arse and flanks, thighs, back. But no — hands off. She’s staff — and he never fucks staff. Bad for business relationships and morale.

Sheena embraces and kisses him on the cheek. ‘Shit, Iona, you’re looking fitter than all of us put together!’

‘Yeah, comes from having to work hard to feed, house and clothe a large, hungry aiga.’ He waits while Sheena and Kim unfold the table under the large oil painting of a red hibiscus, place two chairs at it, and Kim wipes and sets it.

Sheena came into his aiga six years before, when she married Dave (with Iona’s consent). She’s a descendant of a German–Samoan family who’d migrated to Auckland in the 1940s. You can say she is Samoan, of a kind.

‘We can barely cope with the number today,’ she says.

‘But you’re making lots of bread, eh!’ he laughs.

‘Some bloody consolation,’ she says. ‘Shall I take that?’ She refers to his parcel.

Shaking his head, he says, ‘No. It’s going to sit with me.’ He places the parcel on the opposite side of the table.

‘What is it?’

‘An atua,’ he admits, finally. She looks puzzled; he doesn’t care. Mysteries, that’s what keeps the blood kicking and searching.

‘A god from the Trade Aid Shop?’

‘Yeah, from the Trade Aid Shop,’ he laughs.

‘I’m sure Dave’ll understand that more, so I’ll tell him you’re here. I’ve got to serve.’ She rushes off.

Through the partition that separates the kitchen, he can see Dave and another chef sweating as they cook at the stoves.

‘The usual?’ Kim asks.

He shakes his head. ‘Just a salad and coffee today. You’re a very bright university student, do you know what owls eat?’

She is surprised, but doesn’t joke when she sees that he is serious. ‘They’re birds of prey, eh?’ He nods again. ‘Well, I suppose they eat live rats and things like that.’ She pauses, impish smile. ‘And, Iona, we ain’t got any of those!’

He starts chortling, softly. ‘Kim, you keep surprising me. Yeah, what other surprises have you got in store for me?’ He regrets the invitation and is relieved when she smiles, invitingly, and then says, ‘I’d lose my job. Dave and Sheena have instructed us to treat you as off limits.’

She hurries off to get his meal.

He sits contemplating the Bird in the parcel.

Kim and Dave return with his meal — green salad with bacon and avocado, and coffee. Dave embraces him. ‘It’s Faga’s birthday next Tuesday, isn’t it?’ he reminds Iona. Dave always remembers and does the right thing, reciprocates the people who love and help him.

‘Shit, Dave, I’d forgotten about it.’

‘I’ll bake her favourite cake …’

‘Which is?’ Iona tests him.

Dave pretends he’s trying to remember, then chuckling, declares, ‘Carrot cake, Gotcha, Bro,’ And I’ll get some fresh oysters and mussels …’

‘… and crayfish…’

‘From the Sea Mart, cook it the way she loves it …’ Dave stops. Ponders. ‘She’s not well, is she, Iona?’ Iona shakes his head. ‘It’s unfair, isn’t it, Bro?’ Dave adds.

‘How’s my nieces?’ Iona changes the subject.

For the next fifteen minutes they talk about their relatives and aiga and friends. Sheena joins them, and details what’s been happening to them that week. Iona finishes eating and, sipping his coffee, watches her and how Dave is again at the edge while she directs their life. He wishes, again, that she was less palagi. He knows she’s leading the conversation to business and he’s annoyed about it because you never discuss business over a meal. But that isn’t going to stop her from getting there because he knows from the past that Dave, though angry about it, isn’t going to stop her either. ‘… And if ya talk to the other business people on K Road, Iona, they’ll tell you, angrily, that all the rents are going up again. Blood-sucking bastards!’ She pauses. ‘Did ya know, Iona, that only last Friday the bastard who represents the company that owns this complex came and told us our rent is going up by 6 percent, at the end of the month.’ She stops and looks at Iona, who’s trying not to look at Dave, who is looking up at the red hibiscus painting. ‘Bloody crooks!’

He sighs and says, emphatically, ‘Sis, jus’ ring Melanie and tell her I told you to ring her about it.’

‘Thanks, Iona,’ Sheena says. She doesn’t even bother to give it time; she leaves to help the other waiters.

‘Sorry about that, Iona,’ Dave apologises.

Iona smiles, ‘She was late coming into our aiga, so she’s never quite understood how we do things. But, as you know, our aiga and I have a lot of alofa for her. Yeah, Dave, because she’s your wife and the mother of my nieces. I also know you don’t like telling her off.’ Pauses. ‘I don’t like correcting adults either, Bro.’

Kim comes and starts clearing the table. Iona asks her for an orange juice.

‘So when are ya going to ask me?’ Iona asks Dave.

‘About what?’ Dave continues pretending.

‘Fuck, mate, about that.’ He reaches over and pats the head of the parcel.

‘Okay, okay, what’s it?’

‘Open it, Bro. Open it!’

No one in the lobby of his apartment building. He takes the lift up to the top floor. No one in the corridor as he strolls to his apartment through the white summer light streaming in from the row of windows on his right. For a moment he thinks his body is turning into white vapour. Apart from Ron Buckle, who built the apartments and sold them, no one knew he had that apartment. They believed his home to be his house in O’Neil Street, Ponsonby.

The apartment took up half of the top storey, with a spacious sitting room, three bedrooms, two bathrooms and a balcony a quarter the size of a tennis court. Through various sources he’d heard that Ron Buckle, after pre-selling the apartments, had gambled away much of that money, and was desperate for finance to finish the building. It didn’t take long, through Buffin, Mutle and Blake, for him to arrange that money — at the interest rate of a ‘free’ apartment, this apartment, his secret nest.

He puts the parcel on the coffee table, hurries to his bedroom, changes into an ie lavalava, returns and sits by the parcel.

The sitting room is sparsely furnished: sofa, two soft chairs — all in white; on the far wall a corny photograph of his village and church; a line of family photos on the mantelpiece. Nothing else. Monastic, he likes to think of it. Like his grandfather, he has reduced his life, in this apartment, to the bare essentials. Real power and happiness lie beyond material things. It’s in you, in your ability, sight, belief in yourself. That’s all you need to cope even with fear, and with any threat from your enemies. Yes, he has control of his life.

Lovingly, he unpacks the Bird, uses a piece of flannel to wipe It until It is glistening like the profound blackness of the retina of an eye. Then, cradling It in his right arm like a child, he carries It out to the balcony and the boundless world of summer light.

He stands at the railing. Above him the heavens stretch up and up in a mix of white cloud and haze and blazing sun. Below him, tumbling away into the harbour and the bridge and Rangitoto and the Gulf, the city. His city. His hunting ground.

With both hands, gripping the Bird’s talons, he raises It, slowly, inevitably, above his head for all the city and bays and sky to salute, in awe. Awesome.

All around, the air starts trembling with the heart-like beat of the Bird’s hooting and slow flapping of wings …