That evening when he got home from work, Anne told him that the Meins wanted them to come over that Sunday for lunch. ‘When I asked Mata about what we could bring, she said, “Bring only a large appetite!”’ She added. This was the first time they’d been invited for lunch; until now it had only been for morning or afternoon tea, or a casual drink, and they’d reciprocated in that way.

  Throughout most of his life, he could never remember his dreams; not in detail anyway. However, ever since his lawyers rang him to inform him of his father’s death, his dreams had become more detailed and they felt starkly accusing, threatening, because at their centre was a ferocious presence – a creature? – that was creating itself slowly and, when it was complete, would spring into his awareness. He and Anne slept in separate bedrooms; her choice because sometimes he snored badly and she said she preferred to ‘spread out’. As his dreams worsened he wished she was there to wake him when the creature was whole, and save him from it.

  Tonight, the presence – first a featureless swirling darkness – suddenly assumed the face of a young man he’d never seen before but he felt he knew. Penetrating black eyes under a high forehead, black hair shaved almost to the scalp, hollow cheeks, thin sharp nose, thin pale lips; a cocky, cynical, know-it-all face, with the assuming shape of a sneer rippling across it. Unexpectedly there was a close-up of his glistening eyes, of his silver black retinas, in which were reflected the face of a young woman with long wavy auburn hair framing a face that was shaped in a predetermined look of fear that was worsening, worsening, and in her eyes, in her retinas, was the enlarging reflection of the young man, clench-fisted right hand upraised, momentarily, and then lunging down at her, into the utterly exposed centre of her …

  ‘… It’s okay, darling, it’s okay,’ Anne was whispering into his ear, and he felt her reassuring arms around him. He buried his face between her breasts and sighed his fear into her warmth. ‘I could hear you from my room, darling,’ she said. He tightened his embrace. ‘You were – were screaming, well, in a suppressed sort of way …’

  ‘… Had a terrible dream …’

  ‘About what?’ she asked.

  He hesitated and then lied, ‘About a presence sliding into my room and into my bed, becoming the bed, which then enveloped me, wrapping itself around me, and pulling me down, down …’

  In a short while she fell asleep holding him.

  The dreadful fear he’d experienced and his mind’s refusal to release him from admitting to himself that the young protagonists were his parents kept him awake for a long time.

  Mata had told Anne not to bring anything but Eric made a large mixed vegetable salad and French dressing and Anne roasted a shoulder of pork. They also had four bottles of champagne to take. Though, as they showered and dressed, they continued to feel apprehensive about what they anticipated was going to be a large gathering in which they wouldn’t know how to behave correctly, that eased away when Jeannie came through the back gate and into the kitchen, exclaiming, ‘Wow, guys, that pork smells absolutely delicious!’ She hugged and kissed them on the cheeks. ‘Dad wants you to come over now cos he wants someone to drink with – most of our ‘āiga don’t drink alcohol on Sunday,’ she said. Early in Anne’s life, she’d realised she had the knack of winning other people’s trust and affection easily – not that she worked at it deliberately. Her father had said ‘my beautiful daughter loves people and animals and they reciprocate that automatically’. When she first met Jeannie, she sensed immediately that Jeannie possessed the same gift, and, though they were very different in other ways, Jeannie became the sister she’d always wanted. ‘Champagne; wow!’ Jeannie said as Eric pulled the bottles out of the fridge and packed them into an esky. ‘Now I’m certainly going to have a drink!’

  As they followed each other through the gate and up the path between the vegetable beds, carrying the food and esky, Anne saw that the wide back veranda was now the reception area, with all the sofas and armchairs from the sitting room arranged neatly across it. Each table had a large bouquet of flowers on it. And she knew this was more than a lunch.

  Sitting alone on the central sofa was a thin old man with wispy white hair, dressed in a bright red floral shirt and black ‘ie lavalava. Two elderly women, obviously sisters, sat in the sofa next to his. Jim and Mata occupied the armchairs opposite them. A young woman, with a yellow flower in her ear, was serving them snacks. On the corner on the ground was a hefty wooden table under a wide beach umbrella. On it were glasses and bottles – obviously the bar. Behind the bar was a young man who looked like Jeannie. A few men and women were coming in and out of the kitchen and house. Anne noticed that most of the people resembled one another, all sharing the prominent forehead of the old man on the sofa.

  As soon and Jim and Mata saw them they waved them onto the veranda, but Anne and Jeanie veered off into the kitchen with the food, while Eric took the esky to the bar. ‘What’s this lunch for, Jeannie?’ Anne asked, concerned.

  ‘It’s Dad’s seventy-fifth birthday – and you’re the only non-family guests,’ Jeannie replied. ‘Dad didn’t want a party but we talked him into it.’ She laughed. ‘He didn’t want anyone to know this lunch was his birthday party, so you don’t need to worry about presents or anything.’ She placed her hand on Anne’s shoulder in reassurance, and Anne’s anxiety eased away.

  When Eric went onto the veranda, he walked round introducing himself, shaking hands first with the old man, then the women, and finally with Jim and Mata, who introduced the old man as Hans, Jim’s older and only surviving brother, and the women as Renata and Effi, Jim’s only surviving sisters. Such German names, yet so Samoan-looking, Eric observed.

  When Anne and Jeannie and the young barman brought an opened champagne bottle and some champagne glasses, Anne kissed all the guests and offered them the champagne, which, shyly, they turned down. ‘All the more for us,’ Mata laughed as she took a glass.

  ‘Eric and Anne, thank you for this!’ Jim said, holding up his glass.

  Jeannie quickly gathered everyone from inside the house. The five older men and women were Jim’s sisters’ children and Mata’s cousins, the two teenagers and the barman were Jeanie’s children, and the others were various nephews, nieces and cousins. None of them accepted Anne’s offer of champagne or the young barman’s offer of other alcohol. A young woman brought them mango juice. After they’d all been introduced to Anne and Eric, only the four oldest stayed with the elders; the rest returned to the kitchen and dining room to prepare the lunch.

  ‘Like all true fundamentalist Christians and Samoans, most of our ‘āiga do not drink the devil’s water,’ Jeannie remarked. Most of the elders laughed, the old man wheezing his laughter as if he was choking.

  ‘You can laugh,’ Jim accused Hans. ‘You used to outdrink all of us until your heart started packing up!’

  ‘And before I returned to God,’ Hans continued. ‘You know of course,’ he turned to Eric and Anne, ‘that Jim and Mata are the only atheists – or is it agnostics? – in our Christian ‘āiga?’

  In the conversation that ensued Anne and Eric gathered that the Meins’ surname had come from a German sea captain who’d settled in Samoa in the mid-nineteenth century, marrying into one of the prominent families in a village called Malie. Because of his European surname, the original Mein’s oldest grandson was the first of the family to be allowed to settle in New Zealand, and he had worked and saved and sent for the next Meins. That pattern continued to Hans, who migrated to New Zealand after the Second World War; he had saved money and sent for Jim and another brother. Over the years, all of Jim’s eleven brothers and sisters had settled in New Zealand, and mainly in Auckland.

  ‘In case you’re wondering why Jim’s name is Jim and not a really hefty German one like all of ours,’ Hans said, his body shaking visibly with mirth, ‘it’s because our father was apprenticed to a Kiwi plumber called Jim Katten, who he admired enormously.’

  ‘Yes, Jim Katten Mein,’ Renata echoed.

  ‘What a handle!’ laughed Effi. The two sisters were built slender and slim like Hans, and looked like twins.

  ‘Better than Hans Bruno, Renata Eva, and Effi Johanna!’ laughed Jim.

  As this light-hearted banter about ancestry and naming continued, Eric grew aware that he was feeling more and more defensive. He was most alarmed when Renata asked Anne about her family, and Anne, without hesitation, explained that she’d been born in New Plymouth and, like Mata, was an only child. ‘Well, I became an only child when my sister Ethel, who was born prematurely, died after only five months. My parents were both GPs who, after Ethel’s death, never referred to her again; well, not in my presence. Beyond my parents, I know only vaguely of my grandparents and other ancestors before them. My parents seemed uninterested in any of that. They were more devoted to their patients and investing in property and getting me to do a business degree …’ As she detailed her family history, Eric realised this was the first time he was learning a lot about Anne’s family; a subject that, in their relationship, he’d avoided meticulously in case she asked after his family. And because he’d spent much of his life manufacturing a family history, he knew Anne, like the Meins, was presenting a censored, heavily edited version of her family. Despite that, he knew she was telling ‘the truth’. He tried to remember what he’d told Anne about his parents, and grew more afraid when he started doubting his recollections. ‘… Like many GPs, my parents, while caring wholeheartedly for their patients, neglected their own health badly. My mother, a heavy smoker, died of pancreatic cancer when I was finishing my degree, and my father of a heart attack about three years later.’ Anne stopped, traces of tears in her eyes. Mata came over and held her. ‘This is the first time I’ve talked about them in such a long time,’ she admitted. Jeannie refilled her glass. ‘Thank you for making me do that.’

  ‘Here’s to Anne’s parents and ‘āiga,’ Hans toasted, raising his glass of mango juice.

  ‘‘Ia manuia!’ Jim and Renata and Effi toasted.

  And they all clinked glasses and drank. Eric reached across and held Anne’s arm and, after clinking glasses with her, he again drank his champagne until his glass was empty. Now he needed to divert the conversation away from himself, so he got up and offered to get drinks for everyone, but Mata told him he was a guest. The young barman came and took their orders.

  Over the three years he had known them, Jim had gathered much detail about Anne’s life and work – she was always forthcoming about those – and much about Eric’s career and work, but very little about his parents and his childhood. Now, as the alcohol eased throughout his body and head and he felt even closer to Anne and Eric, he needed to know. All autobiographies that individuals and families made public were heavily edited versions. No one wanted their so-called skeletons to come clacking out of the cupboard. If they did, they dressed them up to bolster their reputation or they laughed them away. ‘So, my friend, Eric, what’s your whakapapa?’ Jim asked, and tried to sound casual about it.

  Eric took a sip of his refilled glass, smiled, and stated, ‘Nothing really as long and as interesting as the Meins’. No adventurous sea captain from a cold Europe and the start of a huge and illustrious ‘āiga – did I say that correctly?’ The elders nodded and grinned. ‘I never knew my parents; well – only for the first five or so years of my life, and I can’t remember much about that. The information I have about them, and my ancestors before them, I’ve gathered from my Aunt Sybil and Uncle Roger, who raised me, and from other people and the little research I’ve done. My Pākehā ancestors, poverty-stricken, migrated here from England. What they did and how they fared here in those tough settler days I don’t know anything about.’ He paused, now feeling comfortable and safe with that narration. ‘My parents came along after the Second World War. Dad was born in Blenheim; Mum in Hawera. They met in their twenties while she was working in the railway café in Wellington and he was a railway mechanic. Fell in love, had me, and five years later she died in a car accident ……’ He had to stop; sorrow was filling his throat. He swallowed it back and then continued, ‘Dad was driving and he blamed himself. He gave me to his sister Sybil to care for while he retreated into the interior, to Taihape, to work in the railway gangs constructing new lines. A few months later, he fell off a new bridge they were building across a river.’ He paused again. Anne reached over and held his hand, tightly. ‘My Aunt Sybil and Uncle Roger raised me. They were marvellous parents. They had no children, so when they died in the 1970s, I had no other relatives left. And here I am, fortunate to be married to this beautiful woman and being with neighbours we respect and’ – he hesitated and then said it – ‘love and admire.’ He knew he had them believing utterly.

  ‘Mālō, mālō!’ Hans and Jim congratulated him.

  ‘Here’s a toast to Eric and his ‘āiga,’ Renata announced, raising her glass.

  ‘To Eric and his ‘āiga!’ All the elders toasted.

  Jim went over to Eric, embraced him and pulled him up to his feet. Mata pulled up Anne. ‘To the best neighbours we’ve ever had,’ Jim declared, and the whole veranda and neighbourhood resounded with another toast.

  ‘Careful with the champagne!’ Jeannie cautioned. ‘We’re going to run out of it before we can toast the birthday boy.’

  Soon after, a woman came and whispered in Jeannie’s ear, and Jeannie announced that lunch was ready.

  They followed Hans and Jim into the spacious dining room. The heavy round rimu dining table was fatly laden with food, crockery and cutlery; at the centre of it was a small chocolate birthday cake with one candle in the middle. Anne had not seen such a magnificent feast before. She clutched Eric’s hand. ‘Wow,’ Eric whispered.

  ‘We know the birthday boy and Eric are not fond of raw seafood, Anne, but we made sure our favourite oysters and oka found their way onto this table,’ Mata said. ‘And there’s more in the fridge because I know Hans, Renata and Effi are addicts too.’ Some of the elders laughed.

  ‘Good for the muscles!’ Hans remarked.

  ‘Speak for yourself!’ Jim improved on the joke. Louder laughter.

  Everyone came into the room, and those who were serving lined up behind the circle of elders. Anne realised that her appetite had been sharpened greatly by the champagne, the emotional happiness she was experiencing, the hypnotic aromas of the various dishes and not having had breakfast, but she knew she had to wait.

  Hans stepped up and stood in front of the birthday cake. He looked round at everyone and then started speaking in Samoan in what was obviously oratory. Up until then, because all the elders had spoken only English, Anne had assumed their knowledge of Samoan was limited. But, as Hans spoke, and his whole being and voice assumed a charismatic strength that held her even though she didn’t understand Samoan, she concluded that there was profound respect and love of the language – and other things Samoan – there. Hans was obviously welcoming everyone, acknowledging all the members of his ‘āiga and Anne and Eric. He then wished Jim happy birthday: ‘To our beloved brother Jim Katten, a happy seventy-fifth birthday,’ he broke into English. Hurriedly, Jeannie and the barman refilled their glasses and they drank a toast to Jim.

  ‘Jim Katten, may you live for as long as you want!’ Renata called.

  ‘Yes, as long as the Atua Tagaloaalagi allows!’ Effi added.

  Mata lit the candle, Jim blew it out and they cheered and then sang happy birthday. The singing was in four-part harmony, Anne identified. Obviously the result of family and communal singing over generations. The stereotype of Polynesians being superb singers was accurate in this case!

  In Samoan, Jim thanked Hans and his sisters and Mata and everyone for the party, and then said in English, ‘For the benefit of Jeannie and all the other younger ones who don’t know, Tagaloaalagi is Samoa’s supreme god and creator.’

  ‘Of course I know, Dad,’ Jeannie protested. ‘You told me years ago.’

  ‘Apart from Jim Katten and a few other pagan Samoans, no other Samoan believes in Tagaloa any more!’ Hans tried to joke, but Anne detected a deep regretful tone in his voice.

  ‘Time for overeating and adding on the calories!’ Mata declared, handing Hans a plate.

  Hans bowed his head and said grace in English.

  About two hours after lunch, Hans, Renata and Effi and their children left, saying they had to go to a church function, taking with them a share of the leftover food. The barman and the other servers cleaned up and then left, with their share of the food. Jim, Mata, Jeannie, Anne and Eric continued drinking wine and beer that Mata kept producing from the freezer in the store room under the house. Though they were feeling woozy and bloated from eating and drinking too much, their absolute contentment at sharing the Mein ‘āiga’s love and hospitality kept them lucidly buoyant and aware and wanting that time to continue. Anne discerned her speech was slurred, and her limbs were not moving smartly to her instructions, but she was enjoying that too.

  ‘The birthday boy’s asleep,’ Jeannie laughed, pointing at her father, who was half-slumped in his armchair, his chin resting on his chest, purring audibly.

  ‘At seventy-five, he’s earned it,’ Eric exclaimed. ‘He deserves it.’

  ‘And the birthday boy’s girlfriend is falling asleep too, from too much eating, drinking and old age!’ Mata staggered up to her unsteady feet. Jeannie held her up. Anne rushed over and hugged them both.