‘Please, your lordship, Sao I’amafana’s is over there!’ Semisi replied, pointing weak-wristedly at their faletele.

  They tried not to laugh as the interpreters clambered up the high front paepae and into an empty faletele. After some discussion the younger one came onto the paepae and called to Semisi, ‘Please, your Lordship, there is no one here!’

  ‘Tell him!’ Poto ordered Semisi, who glanced at Tavita who nodded.

  ‘Please, your lordship, his lordship Sao I’amafana was killed by your epidemic,’ Semisi replied. Tavita and Peleiupu moved to either side of Poto, who was sitting in her favourite chair. Semisi sat down behind them.

  The interpreters reached the top of the steps. Hesitated. Smiled. Tavita recognised the older one: Peliia Lelua, well-known aide to the Governor, and son of a famous pastor. The interpreters looked around. No one invited them to sit down.

  When no one bothered to welcome them, Peliia asked, ‘Please, who am I speaking to?’ He was supremely confident because he was backed by the government and in his own right a high-ranking tulafale. No one replied. ‘Ah, we have come to inform you that important representatives of your government are visiting your village to help you.’ He waited. Still no reply. ‘Mr Mallard, secretary to the Governor, and Sergeant Mackintosh, his aide, are here to find out how you have fared during the epidemic. They want to help you. We want to help you.’ Again no reply. ‘Is there a problem, sir?’ he asked Tavita.

  ‘Before you enter territory you will not be able to defend, I must tell you that we do have a problem,’ Poto interjected. The interpreters looked disdainfully at her and nodded. ‘The problem is, you are only messengers of the important papalagi officials. That is the problem.’ The insult wounded, deeply, and Peleiupu knew that Peliia couldn’t believe Poto had the gall to ignore his rank, his title, his power. The younger one, son of an ali’i, was also wounded; he shut his eyes and pretended he hadn’t heard Poto. ‘So if you want to speak with the Ali’i of Satoa, go and fetch your papalagi masters, sir!’

  ‘Oi, auoi, kafefe, such insulting behaviour!’ Peliia exclaimed. ‘No one speaks to Peliia in such a manner. No one!’

  ‘Don’t you realise you are speaking to le Tofa a Peliia Lelua?’ the younger one intervened.

  ‘Go and fetch your masters!’ Tavita said. ‘Don’t forget, sirs, we are the government here.’

  ‘Get the hell outta here!’ Semisi’s voice erupted in English from inside the store, where he’d retreated with the other relatives who laughed.

  The tension broke. The interpreters scrambled to their feet and backed off the veranda, with Peliia muttering threats, and Semisi’s and his friends’ crackling laughter chasing them.

  Poto asked Tavita if he was going to welcome them in the faletele. Tavita asked her what she thought.

  ‘No,’ Peleiupu heard her anger speaking. ‘No, Mama. They have killed almost all our people.’ She started weeping. Poto hugged her.

  Tavita summoned Mikaele and the other well men of their aiga. Other Satoan men arrived also. They sat on the veranda floor alongside Tavita and Poto, and waited for the government party. No mats were to be put out for their visitors; no speeches of welcome or ava either, Tavita ruled. A total denial of proper practice and hospitality. Some of the matai were uncomfortable about it. ‘They are murderers,’ he told them. ‘They have murdered our loved ones.’

  When the three policemen came up the front steps, no one said anything. The policemen examined the group and withdrew to stand beside the steps. The interpreters entered, saw no mats, and sat to the side. Holding their helmets and wiping their faces with large white handkerchiefs, the papalagi smiled and, seeing no mats or chairs anywhere, looked at their interpreters, who refused to look up at them. When the papalagi met Poto’s unwavering stare they sat down and tried their awkward, painful best to sit cross-legged.

  It was customary for the hosts to speak first, so the officials and their interpreters waited, and waited, and waited. The papalagi kept glancing at their interpreters, who refused to stop gazing at the floor. Eventually the chunky Mr Mallard, with the massive thighs and legs and chunky hairy arms, asked his chief interpreter, in English, ‘What’s happening, Joe?’

  ‘Mr Mallard, sir, this village has very different ways from the rest of Samoa,’ Joe, or Peliia, replied in English. ‘It is for us, the guests, to speak first.’ An outright lie. Peleiupu glanced at Tavita and Poto; like her, they were trying not to reveal that they understood English.

  ‘If that is the case, should I speak first, or should you open our discussions with a speech in Samoan?’ Mr Mallard asked.

  ‘Sir, I beg you to speak first. This village is of simple people who are very impressed you have come,’ the younger interpreter suggested, sure that ‘the simple people’ didn’t understand a word of English.

  ‘What do you think, Sergeant Mackintosh?’ Mr Mallard asked his companion, who was trying not to drown in the heat.

  ‘Quite frankly, sir, I’m getting impatient with all these ceremonies and speeches. Jesus, they take up hell of a lot of our valuable time. It’s all right for them — they’ve got nothing else to do all day but sit round and orate!’ Mackintosh replied.

  ‘That is enough, Sergeant. I know you have better things to do, but it is our duty to help these people. Like us they’ve lost loved ones in this awful epidemic. They’re suffering still.’

  Joe straightened up and announced, ‘Your lordship Sao and the aiga of Satoa, Mr Mallard, the second most important person in your government, is going to speak to you!’

  Mr Mallard licked his thin lips and, deepening his voice, said, ‘The dignitaries and chiefs of Saytoarr, I come to see how you have fared in the hands of this cruel epidemic …’ He stopped. Joe translated into Samoan what he’d said. ‘…I bring with me the greetings of your Governor, who is in great sorrow because he knows of the enormous suffering you, his people, have been through …’ Joe translated that. From inside the store erupted a high-pitched fart that trailed off into a long sweet note. They pretended they hadn’t heard it. ‘… Our Almighty Father, I am sure, has been with you as He has been with us, comforting us in our grief and pain …’

  Peleiupu noticed that Joe’s translation was deviating from what Mr Mallard was saying. ‘… Our Governor, who loves you, is also very angry with the disrespectful way you have welcomed his representatives this beautiful morning,’ Joe translated. Mr Mallard continued: ‘We are very happy to be with you; we want to help in any way we can. We want to prove to you that your government has as much love for you …’

  Joe’s translation: ‘We feel insulted, we feel trampled on. This is not the way true, full-blooded Samoan aristocrats treat guests. True Samoans are full of generosity and hospitality …’

  ‘Mr Mallard, I think you should stop your arrogant servant from insulting us further!’ Tavita interjected in English. Joe blinked repeatedly and kept swallowing. ‘Yes, Peliia, I can speak English, even though I am an ignorant afakasi from the back!’

  ‘Joe, what’s happening?’ Mr Mallard asked.

  ‘Yeah, Joe, what have you been saying in Samoan to these people?’ Mackintosh chorused.

  Joe was obviously used to wielding power and manipulating the relationship between the English-speaking government and their Samoan-speaking wards. He controlled the process because, as go-between, he controlled the two languages. He recovered his composure quickly. ‘Sir, we try our best for to protect you and our Governor from these half-castes’ insulting welcome to you,’ Joe explained in English. ‘In all other villages, sir, you have been received properly, the true Samoan way.’

  ‘That’s correct, Joe,’ Mackintosh said, turning to Tavita. ‘Sir, whatever your title is, you and your people have been very disrespectful to your Governor and your government. It may be because you are not true Samoans …’

  ‘That is enough!’ Tavita interjected, in English. ‘Sao I’amafana was my grandfather. Your epidemic killed him and my grandmother and hundreds of our people.’

  ‘Our epidemic?’ Mr Mallard exclaimed. ‘Our epidemic, sir? Please explain yourself.’

  ‘This is all I’m going to say, then we want you to leave our village.’ The sergeant, the interpreters and the police closed in on him but Tavita continued. ‘The S.S. Talune, which brought the epidemic to Apia, should’ve been stopped. The Governor knew that ship had the sickness on board.’

  ‘That is the most dangerous lie I’ve ever heard!’ Mackintosh snapped. The interpreters glared at Tavita. ‘Where did you get that information from, sir?’

  ‘Our discussion is over,’ Tavita declared. The police stood threateningly behind the interpreters. ‘You must leave now.’

  ‘This is insulting half-caste behaviour!’ Joe tried to incense his masters. ‘No true Samoan ever treats you and the Governor this way, sir!’

  ‘No, sir, no full-blooded Samoan treats the government this way,’ his companion echoed.

  ‘That’s enough!’ Mr Mallard said. ‘Sir, I know you and your people have suffered greatly,’ he said to Tavita. ‘We too have lost loved ones.’ There was genuine sorrow in his voice. ‘I am very sorry if our … our officials have insulted you …’

  ‘Sir, that is not the way. We must be firm with them,’ Mackintosh interrupted.

  Mr Mallard glanced at his aide. ‘Sergeant, you may be used to speaking to your underlings that way, but you will not speak to me or these people that way. Understand?’ Mackintosh looked away. ‘Sir, may I have your name, please?’ Mallard asked Tavita.

  ‘Toanamua Tavita, that is my title.’

  ‘His real name, it is David Barker, sir!’ Joe intervened once again.

  Dead silence as Mr Mallard swung to his interpreter. ‘Sir, you have insulted the people of Saytoarr enough! Get up now and return to the boat. Go on, up!’ The policemen stepped back and their presence hurried Joe to his old feet. ‘You too, Sergeant.’ Mackintosh staggered up. ‘Wait for me at the jetty.’

  They all watched as Mackintosh and the others retreated from the veranda. ‘May I ask, sir, how many of your people passed away in the epidemic?’

  Tavita looked at Peleiupu. ‘About half of our population,’ Peleiupu said.

  ‘I am very sorry. That is more than in other villages. Nothing I can say will ever heal your pain and anger, so I won’t try. Perhaps one day I will be able to help you. Please let me know if you ever need help.’ He struggled up. ‘By the way, the epidemic is almost finished in Apia. It is also receding from the other villages we have visited. God has been merciful.’

  The haze that covered the bay was glowing with the morning light as it shimmered up into mountains of cloud that filled the sky. Peleiupu opened her bedroom windows and let the breeze wash over her face. More and more people were recovering, though there was still the occasional death, and fewer people were getting sick. Peleiupu made the mistake of looking out at the bay again. For an instant her heart stopped: the haze was the shape of I’amafana’s smiling face. She sucked in air, gasping. Lefatu and Maualuga, were they still safe? She stumbled, breathless, to her bed and, lying down on her back, cupped her hands over her mouth and nose. Panic attacks, hyperventilation Malie had diagnosed when she had suffered her first attack in the clinic. Breathe! Breathe! You must live for your other children. Her guilt at being alive threatened again but she knew now there was a purpose to that: the reconstruction of Satoa and her aiga and business.

  She hadn’t been in her office for weeks. She opened the windows, the breeze rushed in and foraged among her books. She browsed, touching and turning the pages and reading random paragraphs, enough to take her into that other world of the imagination that the epidemic had kept her away from …

  Iakopo and Semisi brought in her breakfast: fa’alifu fa’i, koko and papaya. ‘It’s good, Pele, that you’re on a diet because that’s all we have to offer you!’ Semisi joked.

  ‘That’s all we can afford, eh?’ she joked back.

  ‘Yeah, nothing left in the warehouse, little left in the store,’ he said. ‘By your instruction, we’ve shared everything with the people in need — which is everybody.’

  ‘Not the way to do business, eh? Giving away your goods,’ she quipped.

  Semisi was suddenly sobbing. ‘I miss him, miss him!’ he cried. His friend Feleti had died the week before. ‘He was such a beautiful person, Pele!’

  She held him. ‘Yes, Semisi, he was. But we have to keep on going.’ She felt stupid saying that. ‘We’ve all lost people we love dearly.’ She started crying too. ‘We have to be brave. We have to rebuild our lives.’ She straightened him up and wiped away his tears. ‘I need you to help me and Tavita get our business and family back on our feet. We can’t help Satoa if we don’t do that.’ He nodded his large head.

  While they waited for Tavita, Poto and the other elders of their family to gather, Peleiupu got Semisi to give her an inventory of their business. They had no goods to sell — but there were no customers either; their bakery was shut — no flour, no bakers; they had no copra; their plantation was feeding Satoa for free; they had only £803 in cash. ‘Nothin’ comin’ in, Pele,’ Semisi concluded. They didn’t know what had happened to their other stores; they had a boat that was not earning anything; most of their key people had died in the epidemic; and most of the population, because of the epidemic, would take a while to recover as customers and producers of copra, Peleiupu added.

  Later while they ate with the others, that was the inventory Semisi conveyed to them. Peleiupu kept two things from them: her plan to relocate their business headquarters to Apia — she didn’t want to upset Poto yet; and her large secret savings accounts in Apia, which she would use to refinance their company.

  ‘What are we going to do?’ Semisi asked.

  Poto, as usual, spoke first. ‘First, I’m more concerned about your sisters and their families than making money.’ Peleiupu did not flinch at that deliberate hurt. ‘We have to find out what’s happened to them. They’re your sisters, Tavita!’

  ‘We’re going to do that,’ Tavita replied. ‘But we may not have enough money to pay for fuel for the boat so we can visit my sisters.’

  ‘Pele’s right, Mama,’ Semisi defended Peleiupu. ‘And we’re all exhausted and grieving, so let’s not get bitchy with one another!’

  ‘Who told you to speak like that to me?’ Poto threatened.

  ‘That is enough, Mama!’ Mikaele said. Poto looked away from Peleiupu, nose in the air.

  Siniva, who usually said little at their family discussions, cleared her throat. Peleiupu glanced at her. ‘Mama, Tavita and Pele are right. We have to rebuild the business, or what you and Papa Barker built may be lost. And we won’t be able to help our village.’

  ‘I apologise if I am again the problem in this family.’ Peleiupu heard herself hitting out at Poto. ‘I know I am married into this family so I’m not entitled to the same rights as all of you. So I’ll keep quiet.’

  ‘See what I’ve told you, Tavita?’ Poto countered. ‘See? Your wife thinks she rules our family!’

  ‘Mama, that is enough!’ Tavita ordered.

  ‘No, I want to hear what else your mother has to say!’ Peleiupu demanded.

  ‘That’s enough,’ Mikaele intervened. ‘The whole village is listening.’

  ‘I don’t care if they’re listening — let them listen,’ Poto said. ‘Better teach your spoilt wife to respect me, your mother!’ she ordered Tavita.

  Relatives were outside the windows, trying to appear as if they were not watching them. Peleiupu didn’t care — all she wanted to do was hurt Poto, and it was wildly exciting, exhilarating. ‘Tavita, you teach your mother to respect me!’

  Tavita smashed his fist down on the arm of his chair. ‘A’e, I’ve had enough of these creatures called women!’ he exclaimed.

  ‘What did you say?’ Poto demanded.

  ‘Yes, why are you criticising women?’ Peleiupu echoed Poto. Tavita sprang up.

  ‘If it wasn’t for a woman you wouldn’t have been born!’ Poto shouted.

  Before Peleiupu could continue slashing him, he wheeled around and started storming out. ‘These creatures called women should all be cast into the sea!’ he shouted.

  ‘And why are you looking at us like that?’ Poto turned on Mikaele.

  ‘He’s another man, that’s why!’ Peleiupu slashed him too.

  Mikaele rose slowly, and Peleiupu was suddenly aware of his bulk filling the room. ‘You bloody women are valea!’ he said. ‘Bloody crazy!’ He lumbered out of the room. Once outside he shouted at their relatives, ‘Get away from here. You all owe your miserable lives to Poto and Pele.’ Peleiupu started laughing, Poto started laughing, Semisi started laughing and, as they laughed together, Peleiupu became aware of her son gazing into her face, puzzled but grinning with happiness.

  It was so good to be alive and laughing in the face of the epidemic: ready to go on living and rebuilding.

  Afterwards Poto sent Iakopo to bring back Tavita and Mikaele, and in front of their family she acknowledged Peleiupu’s leadership by asking her for her plans for saving and developing their business.

  They needed a source of quick revenue, Peleiupu explained. During the epidemic people couldn’t harvest their copra, so throughout the country there was an enormous crop of fallen coconuts that they had to harvest before the other companies did so. Quickly she outlined how they were to do that. To get money to run their boat so the harvesting could be done throughout Savai’i and their other stores could be restored, she suggested they harvest their crops in Satoa and sell them at the Apia market where, because of the epidemic, there were large shortages of food. ‘We have to do it now before our competitors can start,’ she urged them. ‘Five large cargoes of foodstuffs should return enough money to reprovision our Satoa store and pay for the boat to visit our other stores.’

  ‘Don’t forget to stop at Manono and see how Naomi and Pate and their children are,’ Lalaga reminded Peleiupu when she heard about this. ‘And go to Fagaloto, too, see how Ruta and Lefatu are.’ Her plea was laden with fear.