You start up the long massive front steps that lead into the house. You can’t see anyone about. The wide sliding doors in the front are open, and you can smell fresh greenery and flowers. At the threshold, you all take off your sandals and line them alongside the footwear that is already there.

  You notice that the pillars immediately inside the door and holding up the high ceilings of the house now have long garlands of flowers and nīkau palm leaves woven round them. Everything, including the art, has been removed from the massive room and the whole floor is covered with Samoan mats and siapo. You realise that the house has been transformed into a fale-tele. In the centre of the space, on top of a thick layer of siapo and ‘ietōga, lies the white casket. Beside it, at its head, sits Melissa in a plain white puletasi. Behind her sitting in a group are some of their children and grandchildren and a few of Melissa’s Samoan ‘āiga. To her left facing you are two grey-haired matai, bare-chested, wearing only plain siapo, their tatau glistening. It is obvious that Melissa has consulted and assembled the ‘āiga. You are in awe. You look at your father and see that he is awed too, but there is also fear there: he’d not expected such knowledge and correct observance of Samoan protocol and customary funereal practice.

  You have Graeme’s cell phone number and, after you’d seen the news on television, you’d debated all night if you should ring it. Early in the morning, you’d done so, hesitantly. You’d jumped in fearful surprise, expecting Graeme to answer, when the voice said, ‘This is Melissa Hudson speaking.’ Clear, unemotional. ‘You must be one of the thirty people Graeme allowed to have his cell phone number.’ Is she amused by that?

  ‘This is Jonas,’ you reply softly.

  ‘Tālofa, Jonas, I’ve been expecting your call,’ she said. ‘Why? Because being Samoan, you know what to do when a loved one dies and an ‘āiga needs comforting and consoling.’ That’s not true for you, but you decide not to contradict her.

  You’d rehearsed what you were going to say but lose all of that and blurt out, ‘Mrs Hudson, I’m very sorry about Graeme …’ and go blank and try to control the sadness surging up in your throat.

  ‘Jonas, he died the way he wanted: quick, unexpected, and reading The Crocodile, which you gave him …’ She stops, catching the first signs of sobbing in her gullet and holding them there.

  ‘Is there anything I can do to help with his maliu?’

  ‘Thank you for thinking about that, Jonas, but Graeme’s Pālagi ‘āiga and my Samoan one are arranging everything.’ Her voice is clear again. She itemises those arrangements. ‘By the way, there will be no Christian service. As you know, apart from being a loudly loquacious atheist, your friend Graeme considered all religions as “the causes of the worst massacres and wars on our planet”. I’ve had to work bloody hard persuading my Samoan ‘āiga about not having a Christian funeral. And we’re bringing Graeme home for the day and night before his cremation.’ She pauses. ‘You bloody Samoans are so difficult; I had to persuade my ‘āiga that cremating Graeme isn’t inconsiderate and insulting!’ She pauses and, breathing in deeply, says, ‘If you want to come and see your friend, come here when he’s home.’

  Melissa nods and smiles at you as your party enter and sit down cross-legged on the floor. The two matai start welcoming you in high oratory, which you don’t understand because the language is ancient, allusive and metaphorical. You glance at your father, whose head is bowed, beads of sweat starting to drip down his face, and you hope he can cope with the level at which the ceremony is being conducted.

  When your father starts to reply, almost inaudibly, his head rises slowly, and when his gaze is directly on Melissa, his speech grows more confident and louder. He replies in the ornate language used by the matai, who nod often and congratulate him on his oratory. Then your father, unexpectedly, cracks what is obviously a joke in Samoan, and the matai and Melissa laugh. That immediately dispels the solemnity and seriousness. ‘Because most of the people here today do not understand our language, I would like to speak in English,’ he says, and doesn’t wait for a reaction. ‘I acknowledge and greet all the sacred ‘āiga of Graeme Hudson. I greet the chiefs and orators of those ‘āiga and, in particular, Mrs Melissa Hudson, the grieving wife and mother …’ As he speaks, you scepticism turns to surprise that, though he has denied you the fa‘a-Samoa and you were convinced he didn’t know much about it, he is now showing he does. ‘We are here because of the friendship between our son and Mr Hudson. This mat is to acknowledge that friendship and alofa.’ Your mother and Diana rise and, again displaying the ‘ietōga, take it towards the matai.

  ‘Mālō, fa‘asāō!’ The women in Melissa’s ‘āiga praise the beauty of the mat. Two of them come forward. Taking the ‘ietōga, they fold it and place it beside the matai.

  ‘The mat is called “Matagi Mālū”, “Cool Wind”, which is an apt name in the cool vocabulary of the uncool young people today,’ your father continues. ‘We kept it over the years to present to our son on his MA graduation, but he wants it presented to Mr Hudson on his graduation to Le Lagituaiva.’ Melissa clasps her hands together and laughs. The matai and some of the elders laugh with her. You don’t understand the reference to the Lagituaiva. ‘For the benefit of uninformed people, like our children, the Lagituaiva is the Ninth Heaven in the Samoan cosmology of ten heavens.’ He laughs softly with Melissa. ‘Even this “never-been-to-university Samoan” knows about cosmologies.’ You survey Melissa’s Pālagi ‘āiga: they too are enjoying your father’s performance. ‘In our ancient religion, when you die and you’ve lived a virtuous and generous life, your agāga, soul, goes to le Lagituaiva, the highest heaven for humans. The Tenth Heaven is reserved specially for Tagaloaalagi, our Supreme Atua. This humble person is sure that Mr Hudson is on his way to Le Lagituaiva. To help pay for his fare, here is an envelope with a humble sum in it.’ All the elders are now laughing openly. To Diana, he hands the envelope with the money you’d put together the previous night, and with bowed head she takes it to the matai. Your father ends by speaking directly to the casket: ‘Lau susuga, Mr Hudson, go with our alofa, go safely and go well. The Atua will protect you all the way. Soifua!’ Many of Melissa’s Pālagi ‘āiga applaud.

  As your parents approach the casket, Melissa rises to her feet and embraces your father, then your mother. ‘Thank you, thank you, for your alofa!’ she tells them. They kneel down beside the open casket, and your mother, without hesitation, caresses Graeme’s hair and then kisses his forehead. Your father does the same, then they turn and embrace the matai. ‘Come, Jonas,’ Melissa beckons you. The restrictive, terrible self-consciousness that usually infects you on public occasions like this is gone, completely. You slip into her embrace, she gazes up into your eyes and you kiss her on the cheek, and hold her and hold her.

  The start of finals is only a week away. You wait outside Professor Thalmer’s office for your 10.30 am appointment. Only a few minutes to go. You’d expected to be gripped by apprehension, fear and trepidation, but you’re not experiencing any of that. Since Graeme’s cremation, which was restricted to only his immediate family, the two matai elders and you, you’ve prepared yourself for this meeting with meticulous care: the kind of care Graeme would have taken. You’ve selected all the possible scenarios, worked out all the arguments and their supporting data, and then memorised all of it. You’ve been in Professor Thalmer’s office a few times before, mainly to discuss the seminars you were giving. Those times, he did most of the talking.

  You knock with confidence. ‘Come in!’ you hear him calling.

  You open the door and meet the pleasant smell of books and papers – and is that strawberry yogurt in the mix? You see the opened yogurt container, with a plastic spoon in it, on his desk. Professor Thalmer is one of the few lecturers who hasn’t adopted the more egalitarian, less threatening arrangement of not having your desk between you and your visitor. Behind his desk, he is writing furiously in a pad, and looking neat in his purple-framed glasses, his long brown hair freshly washed and combed. Without looking up he waves you into the chair directly in front of his desk. You deliberately focus on his shiny forehead. That does it. He drops his pen and glances up. His eyes brighten in recognition. ‘Ahh, Jonas!’ Then he remembers, and his beaming smile changes to an expression denoting sadness. ‘I’m so sorry about Graeme Hudson. I know he was a good friend of yours. So sudden, so quick.’

  ‘Yes, Graeme helped me a lot with my work – and other things.’ You look appropriately sad. Graeme is there beside you.

  ‘He was a – a marvellous student who contributed a lot to our class.’ He pauses and looks away from you. ‘I understand he was also a good architect who contributed much to the development of that field.’

  ‘Yes, all the media praised him for that.’ You stop deliberately; you don’t mind the awkward silence that is going to happen. You wait and gaze intensely at him.

  He looks at you and away, fidgets and eventually has to ask, ‘Now, Jonas, what can I do for you?’

  You take your time. You hear Graeme’s ironical chuckling. ‘Yes, I have decided that I would like to do a PhD in New Zealand and Pacific literature.’ Thalmer looks as if he hasn’t heard you. So you repeat, ‘I’ve thought about it very carefully, and have decided that I would like to do a PHD in this department.’ You know he is going to give you the stock reply to such a request.

  ‘For that, you need to make a formal application to the head of department, who will then refer it to our graduate committee, who will make the final decision.’ He gives that stock answer.

  You again wait and watch him. ‘To succeed, what do I need to have?’ you ask slowly.

  ‘You need to have a research topic and a staff member in the department who can and is willing to supervise your research and thesis,’ is his automatic reply. And then, trying to deemphasise its importance, adds, ‘You need good grades as well.’

  ‘I have a topic, Professor. I want to do a thesis on the topic “Politics and the Pacific novel: with special reference to the novels of Sia Figiel and James George”.’ You and Graeme wait and watch.

  ‘Good, good,’ he says. He stretches back in his chair, gazes up at the ceiling and asks, ‘And do you have someone in mind as your supervisor?’ You and Graeme continue to wait and watch. Thalmer names two possible supervisors on the staff.

  You then attack. ‘Professor Thalmer, I know you are the international authority on those authors.’ You pause and watch his eyes, his ego, bloating. ‘In all the four years I’ve been in your marvellous classes I have never doubted that. I have read almost everything you’ve published on New Zealand and Pacific literature, Professor.’

  ‘Thank you, Jonas, it’s very flattering that you believe that, but there are many others in the field who are admired and respected more.’

  You and Graeme allow him time to enjoy his self-importance and then ask, ‘What sort of grade average do I need to have for the department to consider my application seriously, Professor?’

  ‘Usually, you have to be in the top 2 percent of your MA class, Jonas, but – but the department has made exceptions in the past. What sort of grades have you had for your MA courses?’

  You pretend you’re trying to remember. And then say, ‘Nothing above an A-minus, I’m afraid. You’ve given me four of those. Two of my other lecturers have also given me A-minuses.’

  You and Graeme sense Thalmer is now worried about those grades but that he is quickly finding a way out of that dilemma. ‘A-minus is a very good grade, Jonas. When I give an A-minus it is a very very good grade. I will not hesitate in telling the graduate committee that!’ You know that he is chairman of that committee. ‘I will also remind our department that it has always been university policy to encourage and support students from underrepresented groups, such as women, Māori and Pacific Islanders. I will also remind the department that over the last twenty years only two Polynesians have ever finished a PhD with us: Meilin Hansen and Selina Marsh.’ He is breathing heavily, triumphantly, as he declares, ‘You should be the third one, Jonas. I – and I’m sure all the other right-thinking members of staff – will support your application.’

  ‘I’d hate to be anyone who tries to stop that!’ Graeme laughs.

  Ranfor

  Summer was cleaning out every cold and dark corner of Ponsonby, and it was ten days before Christmas, a season Professor Harold Thalmer wished didn’t exist because it meant he had to again cope with the undiminished anger of his former wife, Lucille, and his sons, Matt and Otis, who were failing at university while he had to pay for it. Outside Harold’s study, up in the neighbour’s high Phoenix palm, a couple of nesting thrushes were crying with a loud, consistent TWEET-tweet-TWEET, obviously objecting to a stalking cat underneath them. He tried not to be distracted by it, though he knew the culprit was their cat, Ranfor.

  Attraction had little to do with love – whatever that is – and almost everything to do with your genitals and lust, was the theme he was now pursuing as he continued writing his paper on what he was tentatively calling ‘Love and Lust in the New Zealand Novel’. His graduate class in New Zealand literature had recently inspired it, when he’d arrived at their lecture a few minutes late to find the class in high hilarity debating the topic. They didn’t notice him standing at the back of the room.

  ‘… When a new couple meet and they’re attracted to each other, it’s all got to do with lust and sexual desire,’ claimed Dalphine Mavrock, the oldest in the class and a twice-divorced lawyer who, disillusioned with law, was finishing a master’s thesis on Patricia Grace’s novels. Some were sniggering, but most were nodding in agreement.

  ‘So what about all that bourgeois fiction – since the invention of the novel – about romantic love, virginity, innocence, chastity belts, loyalty, fidelity and women swooning at the loved one’s touch?’ Lance Westright, who was a James Joyce addict, asked, his voice rich with irony.

  ‘Yeah, what about that?’ others chorused.

  ‘All dainty bullshit that denies us existing below the navel!’ Dalphine pursued.

  ‘So over the long years of English departments researching and teaching fiction, our professors have forced us, gullible students, to study that above-the-navel-bourgeois bullshit?’ someone at the back continued teasing. Most burst into laughter.

  ‘Yes, because all the writers were conditioned and forced to write above their navels!’ Dalphine persisted.

  Lance raised his hand and declared, ‘So if free and unashamed guiltless sex – Freud’s cure for everything – had been the order of the day and our writers, like the delicate Jane Eyre, had written from the basic truth that lust and sex and sex and sex are at the core of how we view reality, Henry Miller’s and Joyce’s ancestry would have stretched right back to the beginnings of the novel?’

  ‘Too bloody right!’ Jonathan Smittle, a red-haired fan of Miller, replied. His supporters grunted in support.

  Thelma Horne, stately, usually unflappable and a staunch member of the Students’ Christian Movement, blushed a strawberry red, and accused, ‘Are you saying that right now, you and your supporters are looking at us and seeing us only as sex objects?’

  ‘Are you saying that?’ a few other women echoed her.

  ‘You’re flattering yourselves!’ Dalphine betrayed them. ‘So during the two hours we spend with Professor Thalmer and with one another, you don’t experience a Joycean stream of consciousness that is rich and raunchy and deliciously turns some of us into what you call “sexual objects”?’

  ‘Not even one Rabelaisian image?’ someone added. The Christian Thelma and her cohorts looked offended – and cornered.

  ‘Not even one smidgen of lust?’ Another pressed the attack home. ‘Not even to do with the handsome, sexy Professor Thalmer?’

  ‘Yes,’ stuttered Thelma, ‘but that doesn’t dominate my whole time in our class or elsewhere!’

  ‘Be honest: lust, delicious lust, is the name of the game!’ someone else called out. The majority of the class agreed.

  ‘That’s not true,’ someone mimicked Thelma. ‘When I meet a hot guy I just want to hold hands and say beautiful clean things to him and vow to be faithful forever and ever.’

  Thelma and her cohorts looked extremely upset, so Professor Harold Thalmer knew he had to intervene.

  There was a hushed, awkward pause when he walked down the aisle, chortling and shaking his head. ‘May I ask you to tell me what your generation thinks about how boy-girl or boy-boy or boy-whatever relationships begin?’ he asked.

  For a rich moment no one responded, unsure if he was being serious or not. Then Mark Brethland, who was prematurely grey and usually reticent about expressing his views, said, ‘A mix of a lot of factors, Professor. For instance, you may be attracted by the person’s intelligence and personality …’ This time, even the Christians laughed.

  ‘So for nearly all of you, it’s all lust and sex and more sex?’ he concluded.

  Evelyn Ragg, daughter of a wealthy architect, who’d already published a much-heralded essay entitled ‘Gender Politics in the Poetry of James K Baxter’, gazed directly at him, and said, ‘Of course, and it’s lust and sex and more sex until it all becomes humdrum and boring, then the next raunchy guy comes along and lust raises its undeniable head again!’ He was surprised she was capable of such frankness.

  ‘So all these couples who supposedly marry for love and vow to be together forever are just …’ he challenged her.