Legacy Page 7

  ‘What’s going on?’ Jack says to no one in particular.

  ‘One of the Gyps stole a fella’s boots.’

  Riki looks at Jack, and Jack nods – they push their way to the front. A group of soldiers, six in all, are holding the edge of a blanket. They are tossing a man in the air. Riki remembers doing this at school camp – it was fun. But the man who is being tossed here is not enjoying himself at all. It is the orange seller, wearing Riki’s hoodie.

  ‘Please, please …’ The orange seller begs the men to stop, but his begging seems to egg them on.

  The soldiers are tossing him up again, and his head jerks as he lands on the taut blanket. He has no time to collect himself as they toss him again, this time off the blanket on to the ground.

  ‘That will teach you, you bastard!’ Riki recognises Bill – he can’t tell if his face is bright red from the heat, his anger or the effort to toss the orange seller. Perhaps it is all three. There is a moment when he looks straight at Riki and frowns – God, don’t let him recognise me – but then he looks down at the man at his feet, who has pushed himself up to his hands and knees. Bill kicks him hard in the stomach.

  The crowd cheers, and Bill accepts the adulation with a smirk on his face and his hands raised high.

  ‘All right, all right, men, that’s enough.’ An officer arrives, and the crowd is subdued. ‘You’ve had your justice; off with you now.’

  The men leave, and Riki watches as the orange seller pulls himself to his feet and picks up his empty basket. Guilt makes Riki feel queasy.

  ‘Let’s go get that drink,’ Jack says.

  Jack buys two beers at the wet canteen. The place is busy; Riki wonders how many of these men were in that crowd before coming here. Big Mo sees them and raises his hand. Jack nods at him and hands a beer to Riki. ‘I thought I wasn’t getting a drink,’ Riki says.

  ‘Your lucky day.’ Jack sips his beer as they push their way towards the others. ‘I heard that they’re going to run this canteen dry; no point lugging the grog with us when we strike camp tomorrow, eh?’

  Riki sips the beer. It will probably make his dehydration worse, but he hopes it will ease his guilt.

  ‘Was that part of the plan?’ Riki asks Jack.

  ‘What plan?’

  ‘The plan. The boots, the uniform. Was giving my top to the orange seller part of the plan?’

  ‘Not the orange seller in particular …’

  ‘But any Egyptian? Is that why you had me pretend? Speak gibberish?’

  ‘What did you think? We tricked a man out of his boots; do you think he was going to say Jolly good jape! What a fool am I! No, he was going to blame someone.’

  ‘And so he blamed an innocent orange seller …’

  ‘Better him than you.’ Jack puts his drink down on the nearest table and looks at Riki. ‘You’ve heard the stories. What about what happened to that Māori boy who was part of the Pākehā contingent, eh? Sailed over here with them. Remember him? Always turned out in a pristine uniform, buttons and boots shiny. And because they were bored, or wanted to take him down a peg or two, they created a mock court and found him guilty. Of what? No one cared: just guilty of being Māori. They filled up a sack with horse shit and made him carry it on his back. Stripped naked, carrying horse shit while his “mates” and officers watched on and laughed. What do you think they would do to you? Someone who is actually guilty?’

  ‘That man … he didn’t deserve it.’

  ‘None of us do,’ Jack says, as he goes to pick up his beer.

  Riki gives his beer to Jack. ‘Here. I’m not thirsty.’ He leaves Jack in the canteen.

  7

  5 APRIL 1915

  They had waited under the gum trees for at least an hour before Riki decided to write in Te Ariki’s diary; partly to pass the time before the train came and partly to get his head around what was happening. If this ‘reality’ was like a puzzle to solve, then he needed to take note of what happened to him while he was here.

  Te Ariki’s last entry was on Thursday, the day before Riki ‘arrived’. Riki fills in the days that have passed since then with brief notes – the diary itself is tiny, not much bigger than a credit card, so that it can fit into his pocket. He wonders how Te Ariki could have squeezed so much into his entries; it feels impossible to Riki to make his handwriting so small, particularly with a blunt pencil that is nothing more than a stub. He has to contort his hand just to hold it, and has to take regular breaks to stretch his fingers. It would be so much easier if he could type or text this.

  Friday 2 April.

  Digging for curios in Dead City with Matatau. Arrived at the Wazza under strange circumstances. A riot. Me and Jack went back to camp and found Matatau asleep.

  Riki has decided that he’ll try to write what has happened without writing what has happened. A diary here isn’t exactly private – not like Riki’s old idea of diaries: those padlocked secret possessions of young girls. He wouldn’t be surprised if diaries here are shared as entertainment for the men; there seems so little else to read. Even as he writes now, he has Jack and Big Mo reading over his shoulder.

  ‘What about us? Me, Little Mo and Rewai? We were there too,’ Big Mo says.

  Riki adds: Saw Rewai and Big and Little Mo at the canteen.

  ‘You have terrible penmanship, Pūweto,’ Jack says.

  ‘This, my friend’ – Riki holds up the stub – ‘Is a pencil. I have terrible pencil-manship.’

  Jack laughs. ‘That’s not a word. You should give up now, Riki. What kind of writer makes up words?’

  ‘All the ones who are remembered.’

  ‘Is that why you’re writing it? To be remembered?’

  ‘No, it’s so I remember.’

  ‘Why would you want to remember this? Hot, windy, sand in your eyes. Waiting for a train to take us to a port to take us to God knows where.’

  ‘Because it might be important. It might make a difference.’

  ‘Waste of time.’ Jack stands and stretches. He shields his eyes from the sun as he looks beyond the shadow of the trees. ‘Looks like a game of Two Up. Come on.’

  Riki shakes his head and looks down again at his diary. Jack walks off to the game.

  Saturday 3 April.

  Had an inspection by generals and the High Commissioner. Jack, Mata and the Mos were in the haka party for the welcome. Captain Buck gave a fine speech …

  Riki laughs as he imagines his mother going crazy at that entry.

  Sunday 4 April.

  Jack and I headed to the Great Pyramid. We met a Pākehā boy who had never seen a Māori before. I was disappointed that we did not have time to look at the Sphinx, but we had to catch the tram back to camp. Decided to go into town for our last evening here. Locals still cleaning up after Friday. We were fleeced by a fortune teller and went back to camp. An Egyptian was thrown in a blanket as punishment for stealing.

  Riki pauses and stretches his fingers, reading over what he has written. He’s never been a particularly good writer and this is proof; his entries are dry and boring – much like this place. He’s even lost his audience of one – Big Mo has wandered away. Riki yawns. Jesus. I’m boring myself. He decides to write about the fortune teller’s predictions.

  The fortune teller said two things: that I don’t belong here and that Jack will die.

  Riki looks up and sees Jack laughing with the others playing Two Up. He doesn’t want Jack to die, even if this is not real. Writing it down makes it seem like it is real; like he is condemning his friend. He licks his finger and smudges Jack’s name. He tries to write one of us over the top of the smudge, but there isn’t enough space. Still, it’s a relief that Jack’s name has been obliterated. Now he doesn’t feel responsible for Jack’s fate.

  Riki closes the diary and slips it into his pocket. He stands and stretches his back and shakes out his legs. He looks for the rest of his mates. Jack is still playing Two Up. Big Mo sits with Little Mo; they’re playing a hand-slapping game. Rewai is st
retched out in what little shade there is under the trees, hat over his face. Matatau sits away from all of them, still reading his bible. He’s in the full heat of the sun.

  Make it right with Mata. That’s what Jack had said. Riki walks over, and stops before he gets too near. But the change in light from Riki’s shadow makes Matatau raise his head. He’s wearing his broad-brimmed hat; the band is soaked with sweat, and Matatau’s face is also dripping. The sweat seems to be getting in his eyes now he’s tipped his head up – he just squints and blinks at Riki. Riki supposes that he probably looks backlit, a figure haloed by light. Better an angel than a demon, he thinks.

  ‘Hey, Mata …’ Riki sits down next to him.

  Matatau has tensed: he holds himself still. Riki shifts himself away a little, trying not to antagonise him. But now that he’s sitting here, he has no idea what to say to ‘make it right’. He could just apologise, but he’s not sure if he’d sound sincere – whatever happened is not his fault. Maybe was not even Te Ariki’s fault.

  ‘Look, about Friday …’ It seems like the words just bounce off Matatau as if he’s a stone wall. ‘Whatever happened, if it is my fault then I’m sorry.’

  Matatau keeps looking at his bible. ‘Your beguiling words will not lure me in, demon,’ he says.

  ‘There are no such things as demons, for God’s sake,’ Riki says, and Matatau crosses himself. It is so frustrating talking to Matatau, Riki just wants to shake the guy.

  ‘Matatau, I’m trying. Could you just tell me what happened?’

  Matatau holds his bible up like it is a shield. Riki just wants to have it out with him; get it all out and over and done with. He grabs the bible and struggles to wrestle it from Matatau’s grasp. A page comes free and flutters down between them. Riki lets go of the bible, and Matatau falls back with it.

  ‘Oh God.’ Riki picks up the page and then realises he’s said God again. ‘Jesus, I’m sorry. Shit! I didn’t mean to say … fuck!’

  Matatau is already on his feet. Riki holds the page out to him. ‘I’m sorry about your bible, mate. I’m sure you can just tuck this inside …’ But Matatau walks away without taking the page.

  Riki wonders which page it is. There was a fortune telling game that some kids used to play when he was little – you’d stick a pin into the side of a bible and read the passage it pointed to to find out about your future. What does this page hold? A psalm? Or maybe a revelation? Riki looks at the paper – it is not from the bible at all. It is a map with a sketch of a building and a caption that reads ‘Dead City, Grand Tomb’. It’s the map he saw when he was looking at Te Ariki’s diary at home. Riki feels as if he has unlocked a part of the puzzle. Once you’ve found the map in a game, all you have to do is follow it. This could be how he gets home. Perhaps he didn’t have to make up with Matatau after all; perhaps all he needed was this map.

  He is still looking at the map when Jack comes over to sit with him.

  ‘How did it go with Mata?’ Jack says.

  ‘He talked to me,’ Riki says. ‘He still thinks I’m a demon.’

  ‘Well, I suppose that’s progress.’

  ‘Jack, do you think Matatau really believes in demons? I mean, he can tell the difference between fantasy and reality, right?’

  ‘Of course; he’s as sane as you or me. You can tell the difference between life and a dream, can’t you?’

  Riki doesn’t answer Jack right away. He folds up the map and slides it between the pages of his diary. ‘Most of the time, yeah.’

  Riki has that itchy feeling he gets when he hasn’t been for a run in a while; like he can’t concentrate or do anything until he’s been. It’s impatience, but it seems weird to call it that, considering he’s not looking forward to the future in this reality. Perhaps waiting breeds impatience, no matter what it is you’re waiting for. In only twenty days some of these men will die; they have less than a month to live and here they are wasting an afternoon waiting for a train. What would happen if he told them what waited for them in Gallipoli? Would they believe that they could suffer such a loss? That the Empire could falter? They’d probably dismiss what he had to say; they’d call him mad like that chick from Troy, the one who was cursed to know the future but would never be believed. He thinks of what the fortune teller said: to know your time is short makes life a burden to be endured. Perhaps waiting for death will make these men impatient for it.

  But there’s a part of him that wants to tell them. A part that, at best, thinks that it is dishonest of him to keep it to himself and, at worst, wants the satisfaction of being proved right. At home, Jackson always had the uncanny ability to know the plot twist of any TV show or movie they watched together. Riki hated it, and banned Jackson from talking. Even when he didn’t actually spell out what would happen next, Jackson’s reactions to plot points could become spoilers. Riki had always thought that Jackson was being smug when he predicted the twist; now he knows that it is frustrating to know what’s coming next when the rest of the world is bloody oblivious.

  Even if someone listened to him and believed him – he’s powerless to change anything. He decides that he’ll just keep it to himself; swallow it down, even if it does leave a nasty taste in his mouth.

  The order to march is given, and the men find their way back to their companies. Riki, Jack, Matatau, Rewai and the Mos march together. The rhythmic sound of the march is comforting, almost as if the footfalls are the beat of a gigantic heart. And that’s what it feels like at times to Riki: that he is just a part of a bigger organism, a bigger idea than just himself. He boards the train with the rest of the men, queasy with both fear and excitement.

  As the train pulls out of the station, Jack shouts, ‘We’re on our way!’ And the compartment whoops in reply. Only Rewai and Riki are quiet.

  ‘You didn’t cheer,’ Rewai says, making his way over to sit next to Riki and keeping his voice low.

  ‘Neither did you.’

  ‘I’ve been through this before, with the Boer War. From what I’ve seen, soldiers are usually cynical after a battle or two. Most young men are excited before they go off to war.’

  ‘How can anyone be excited by war?’

  ‘They say it’s in our blood. That we are born warriors.’

  ‘Do you believe them?’

  Rewai just smiles and taps his nose.

  Riki looks at the rest of the guys in his compartment: Jack, Matatau and the Mos; some randoms he hasn’t met. They seem more like kids off on an away game than born warriors.

  ‘They don’t realise what it will be like, do they?’ Riki says.

  ‘No,’ Rewai says. ‘The question is, how do you know what it’s going to be like?’ Rewai gives him a hard look: the look parents and teachers give to kids when they want them to break.

  Riki shakes his head and shrugs. He feels sick; he always get sick on journeys. He moves away from Rewai to a seat near the window, hoping the air there will be cooler, and watches as the land speeds by.

  8

  6 OCTOBER 1975

  TRANSCRIPT:

  Cassette number 2: Te Ariki Mikaera Pūweto (interviewee, WWI veteran) and Alamein Pūweto (interviewer and grandson of Te Ariki). Also present: Taimona Pūweto (daughter and caregiver of Te Ariki).

  ALAMEIN Tell me about that first Anzac Day.

  TE ARIKI What ‘first’ Anzac Day? In 1915?

  ALAMEIN Yes, when the Anzacs landed in Gallipoli.

  TE ARIKI There’s not much to tell you. The Māori Contingent were stationed in Malta, and it was probably like any other day – morning fatigue, drills. I can’t remember …

  TAIMONA Do you want your diary, Dad? I can find it for you.

  [Shuffling]

  TAIMONA Here it is …

  TE ARIKI You read it, girl, I don’t have my glasses.

  TAIMONA Sunday 25 April – tent inspection and church parade. Went into Valletta with Jack and Mata – Jack’s shout because I’m broke again. Spent my time watching the locals and sightseeing. Didn’t feel like
drinking …

  ALAMEIN Yes, OK, I get the picture …

  TE ARIKI I don’t know what you want me to say; that somehow we knew what was going on? Of course not. That somehow I knew what was going on?

  [Silence]

  [TE ARIKI laughs]

  TE ARIKI Of course I didn’t. We were not soothsayers or fortune tellers; we were just ordinary men. It was just another day. We went about our business: training, digging trenches, what have you – just like people in New Zealand went about their day. It wasn’t like it happened and then suddenly it was on the radio or the TV news, like today. Do you remember when JFK was shot?

  ALAMEIN Of course. It was on the news – we came around to your place to watch it on the television.

  TE ARIKI And you remember the day? What you were doing when you heard?

  ALAMEIN Yeah, I do.

  TE ARIKI That’s because you heard it on that day – it was beamed out across the world almost immediately. It took time for the news about Gallipoli to come through to us. By that time the events of that day had already started to fade. Can you remember what you did a few weeks ago?

  ALAMEIN Not really, no.

  TE ARIKI I think people at home knew before we did.

  ALAMEIN But you knew what had happened on the twenty-fifth before you arrived in Gallipoli?

  TE ARIKI Well, yes. It was two months before we ended up in Gallipoli, so by then we had heard. Some of the wounded had been sent to the hospitals in Malta, so we had seen what happened to some of them – their injuries. And those were the ‘lucky’ ones – the walking wounded, who were patched up and sent back out to the front. Those who were maimed beyond useful duty were sent on to England to recover before going home.

  ALAMEIN Did that make you nervous?

  TE ARIKI Well, of course. But we were at war, so none of us expected a summer holiday.