Short story by Michael Botur
Your editor leans forward in his chair and laces his tiny fingers on his desk. He’s a neat, upright, trim 55 year old who runs marathons and never sleeps. The clock – which you’ve been checking every five minutes tonight – has limped past midnight and the streetlights are leaking in through the windows, lighting up an office that’s 99 per cent dark apart from your glowing monitor. And your boss’s. You’re supposed to be over at Gonzo, sweating through your suit jacket, keening your ears, spending your tiny paycheque on glasses of wine to get the senior reporters pissed enough to spill their secrets. Anything to get ahead.
The clock passes 12.29. May as well call it 1am. May as well call it next week. You’ve been in the newsroom for two days now, well, two dates, at least. You’ll get out of here when you get that scoop, but first you have to stand in front of a cynical critic’s dark desk til you win the argument. The sharpest mind in the city is trying to tell you that whether you actually defamed the All Blacks by publishing a quote you don’t have a recording of, or whether the All Blacks’ PR fuckwit is just bluffing about suing the paper, either way you have to back down. No proof of quote? Apologise and retract and save the jobs of everybody in the building. It’s a Schrödinger’s Cat-type deal, he’s yelling, not quite standing, though his bum has detached from his chair. You’re yelling back that if we’re going to use a terrible analogy like Schrödinger’s Cat, sir, then the analogy tells us the fact is as right as it is wrong, SIR.
‘Call their bluff, sir. Please. Bullshit them. Tell them I got a recording. It’s half-true. It’s a superposition. It’s as true as it is untrue.’
Weekend editor Mike O’Donnell leans back in his chair, his fingertips almost touching the spines in the bookshelf behind him. ‘Don’t Schrödinger me, son. Our scientist friend said the cat would be living and dead in equal parts until it is observed. Want me to fetch my dictionary of quotations and bop you over the head with it?’
‘Sorry, sir, but I got a duty to correct inaccuracies. The way people use the analogy isn’t even what Erwin Schrödinger intended. He was talking about the superposition of wave particles and– ’
‘STOP, son, stop.’ Your editor still hasn’t broken eye contact. ‘Kindly file your last story and fuck off to the pub, cadet. And don’t forget to use that Dictaphone of yours. I don’t care if you’re talking about boobs with your little polytech bum-buddies. Record EVERYTHING.’
It’s now 12.35 Saturday night – no, Sunday morning – and he has to hit the APPROVE button on the paper at 2am so it can be proofed at 3am and loaded into trucks at 4. ‘Go on. I’ll get the All Blacks on the phone. I’ll handle D-Day.’
‘But it’s NOT Defamation Day and it’s NOT accurate for three time IRB Coach of the Year Steve Hansen to deny he did indeed say to me on the phone when he was in a huff that he wouldn’t have selected Sonny Bill Williams had he known Sonny Bill wouldn’t play matches during May and June each year on account of his religious beliefs. Just because my Dictaphone wasn’t switched on and recording, doesn’t mean he didn’t say it, sir.’
Mike O’Donnell, winner of two Canon Media Awards, laces his fingers and begins talking slowly. ‘If. We. Publish. A. Potentially. Defamatory. Quote. Which. Cannot. Be. Verified. We’ll. Have. Astronomical. Sunday. Sales… .’ He raises his hand and shows you his palm. ‘BUT. It. Will. Be. SALES. Of. Our. Final. Issue.’
You stand there a second longer, waiting for him to tell you you did well today.
‘Didn’t I tell you to take your passionate arse to the pub already?’ He crumples the Sunday Slime into a ball and biffs it at your head. ‘And if you see that bunch of pinkoes who comprise our so-called opposition government: buy a future minister a drink. Hit up that flakey Bourne Whatsisname for some gossip. The ethnic one. The nice gay fella. The man’s full of stories. Might get yourself a real scoop.’
Heels clopping on floorboards. Chinking glasses. Palms slamming on tabletops. Snorting espresso machines. Screaming hens. Widescreen rugby. Cheering fans.
You search the three floors of Gonzo, creeping side-on past that BBC correspondent guy and his entourage, and that high school wunderkind from Shortland Street people won’t shut up about, and even Bourne Tamakaroro, the eccentric and radical leader of Students Speak, the army of 200,000 student voters who every politician must court or risk losing votes to. He stands on a couch, sloshing his margarita on the upholstery and reciting Rimbaud to a gaggle of admirers. His voice is commanding and his eyeglasses are made from sustainable ebony and there’s no looking away from the big-bellied mincing Bourne Tamakaroro. Even when you head into the urinal, his preaching follows you through the door. Just last week you saw him take a fistful of grocery vouchers and rain them from the balcony onto the homeless people below, calling ‘Eat, my lovelies, eat!’ while his entourage applauded. You eyeball yourself in the mirror and pledge to get a story out of him. Bourne Tamakaroro is generous and talented and articulate and a million times braver than you. Maybe the story IS Bourne Tamakaroro. He’s too good to be true. He radiates Fake Identity + Made-up Name. Taking him down occupies your thoughts for just two seconds before his tra-la-la-ing fades as the gang of senior reporters yank you into their hunched corner meeting. They’re each clutching three drinks because it takes so long to get served at the bar on Saturday nights. You bring up their names from your brain’s database. These are your gods. There’s Manukia the crime reporter, Jayson on arts and culture, Cooke who got kidnapped in Timor Leste and ended up with all those awards. Glass and Raines have their arms draped around one another’s shoulder and are doing a limerick about what a cunt the Prime Minister’s press secretary is, kicking up their legs in a can-can and sloshing their pints.
You’ve cleared your throat and you’re about to say something stupid when Cooke burns your face with sour cigarette breath.
‘LATE ENOUGH FOR YA?’ she yells over the din, ‘WHAT ARE YOU, 21? BEDDY-BYES FOR YOU, MATE.’
Cooke only got out of the newsroom at ten minutes before midnight after doing 15 hours. She keeps pushing her silver-streaked curls aside to squirt eye drops in. You’ve worshipped Cooke ever since the school internship when your job was the flip through the electoral roll for her. ‘I thought O’Donnell was never gonna let you go, little bro. Thought I might have a child kidnapping scoop.’
You find more gunk to clear out of your throat. ‘NOT THAT WE CAN EVER EMBARRASS THE PAPER. YOU’D NEVER WORK IN JOURNALISM AGAIN.’
‘It’s barely journalism as it is,’ complains Glass, two-time runner-up Maori Affairs reporter of the year.
‘It’s so annoying when you’ve got dirt on someone and you can’t use it. Like, I’ve got this quote from that All Blacks coach guy that’d probably get him sacked for discrimination. But they’ve just won 33 games in a row and they put all these wraparound cover ads in the paper and… .’ You sigh. ‘Sometimes it’s, like, just less stressful to give up and say you’re wrong about something, even when you know you’re right.’
‘From the mouths of babes comes bullshit,’ Jayson says. ‘Little Boy: NEVER let anyone who’s not a journo tell you you’re wrong. I get the government, hell, the opposition, all of them trying to grab the steering wheel on a daily basis, dude. That Bourne Tamakaroro, Mister Future Minister for Ethnic Communities with his bow ties and Moriori blessings, that cunt from the Chathams busting out show tunes in the corner?’ Jayson squits beer through his teeth towards the huge gay man in the bow tie singing opera on the sofa. ‘You find some dirt on Mr Moriori, what he’ll do is he’ll pull you into one of his orgies, right, you’ll meet everyone. Like, EVERYone. Posh and Becks, Rihanna, fuckin Vladimir Putin. EVERYone. Next day you’ll be praising the cunt. Don’t accept junkets; don’t bow to threats. You think I would’ve got the Pulitzer Pacific Fellowship if I’d sacked it every time some PR Nazi tried to staunch me out?’
‘He’s not Moriori.’
They tilt their heads at you like you’re a talking toddler.
You gulp. ‘It’s not really a Moriori name. I’m no expert but, like, it’s the name of some famous Moriori kid who died like 300 years ago. It’s like a nom de guerre like Stalin or something. It’s made-up, I’m pretty sure.’
There’s a silent second before they all burst out laughing. Cooke shrugs on her coat and Manukia checks his watch and everyone agrees it’s late.
‘You’ve just done a two-dayer, kid,’ Glass says, hugging you. ‘You gotta switch off. C’mon. Tamakaroro’s just having a drink with some friends. He’s harmless. You don’t have to destroy him.’
‘Go doorstep some one percenters instead,’ Manukia says with a wink.
‘What’s doorstepping? And what’s a one percenter?’
They look at one another. After five seconds’ silence they explode into laughter.
‘Young Padawan: you’re in for a treat.’
Doorstepping means knocking on the door of the hysterical, sobbing, frying pan-wielding mother of a Filthy Few gang member who was blasted with a shotgun on the Tauranga expressway and slammed into ‘cheese-cutter’ wire, severing his helmet from his body, which continued to slide down the expressway for another hundred metres, propelled by the headless hand gripping the throttle.
You could do a story on the Transport Agency’s decision to purchase cheap, sharp, deadly steel wire from a country that’s supposedly trade-embargoed. Or you could take a sick day and spend all your pay on petrol to find a human angle.
You need the scoop from the dead man’s mum bad enough that you knock on her door a second time after she slams it in your face. When she reopens the door, she has morphed into a chainsmoking stepdad wearing a leather vest on bare skin. His face is covered in green letters and his squinting eyes are mummified with smoke. You try to keep your voice level as you introduce yourself. He ignores your questions, clomps past you in his steel boots, unchains two huge pink and white pig dogs, sticks two fingers in his gums and whistles.
The pigdogs chase you to the car. Their claws leave four-fingered scratches in the paint.
You cool down with a can of Fresh-Up at a dairy in Papamoa, pressing the dewy can against your temples while you listen to your heart rate slowing.
‘Guess they’re a bit sensitive bout their kid bein a flamin faggot,’ says the old wood-skinned white man behind the counter, arms folded in his flannel shirt.
‘What? What did you say, sorry?’ You press the red button on the screen of your cellphone. RECORD.
‘Oh, yeah. They’re dripping with shame, that family. You musta known he was a poofter? His dad told the Few and he got his patch tooken then they shot his arse. Didn’t deserve to die, in my humble opinion, but a poofter’s a poofter. Dollar-eighty for the can, mate.’
You race back to the home and hover on the driveway stones, foot on the accelerator. You wind your window down a crack while the dogs’ noses snuffle and steam up the glass. The stepdad doesn’t deny he asked the Few to sort things out. ‘Ropata’s fault for being bent,’ the stepdad says. ‘One of your bum-chums, was he?’ The stepdad rests his can of bourbon on your bonnet while you wave your cellphone around, hoping you can trap his words. ‘We got laws against that kind polluting shit up. How come you care so much?’
You race to an internet cafe at 120 kilometres an hour. You can’t type quickly enough so you just get Manukia on the line and dictate it to him then send the audio files from the cellphone clenched between your legs while you wobble across the motorway. You HAVE to file the scoop before anyone else does.
Gang Dad Killed Gay Son is a page one story which lives for a week before dropping off the first three pages. It leads to a national march of outrage and an inquiry into how police handle hate crimes. It begins a trend of reporters confronting tough guys about homophobia in gyms, jails, locker rooms. Within two weeks there’s a trend sweeping the country of gangsters pledging their clubs are Hatred Free and putting on poker runs sponsoring Rainbow Youth and posing in anti-bullying photos with cops. Everyone’s hashtagging #ForRopata.
There is a tone creeping into the emails of public relations practitioners. They used to tell you every request you made to any limb of the government was subject to the Official Information Act and a response would take 28 days. Now they seem afraid. They give you what you need within the first day. They pre-emptively apologise for things you didn’t even know they were guilty of.
The newsroom is almost always a hundred backs turned against you in an endless office wide as a warehouse. It’s almost always slamming phones and rattling keyboards and old men sucking their papercut fingers. Except now they look up, wink and smile. Mike O’Donnell whistles as you tiptoe past his office. He tells you he looked up the quote, the Schrodinger thing. You were right and you were wrong, son.
There’s Ngaruawahia kuia with the drinking problem who meets you on the summit of her maunga and tells you, in the dripping bush, that she stained and faked ancient-looking records and her entire hapu is made-up. There’s the scoop with the Police admitting they hacked into the Facebook of the anti-1080 protest organisers. There’s the white supremacists building a castle in Queenstown who let you hand round DNA swabs and everyone gets tested. Vindex – their leader, apparently, who narrowly missed out on being elected to parliament for the Clutha-Southland seat – claims to be purer than his girlfriend and she smashes a bottle on his head and everyone laughs and brawls. It’s a week of worry before the results come back. Not only was their leader brought to the country as a refugee from his native Angola, his supposedly pure Afrikaner blood is actually one eighth Mbundu.
Every story is huge for a morning, but by the midday bulletins, Newshub and Newsroom and RNZ have made your work look old, darkening your words with the shadow of their scoops. It’s always time to move on to the next story.
Christmas-through-to-New Years is a six day shift. You spend most of it stalking Vanessa Hosking and her club of young rich kids on Twitter, trawling ten year old tweets for dirt, epithets, slurs, political incorrectness. The Sunday Slime let you up in their corporate box for the Joseph Parker fight but you spent the night trying to snap a photo of the tiny R-KOI tattoo behind the ear of the Ponsonby Princess. R-KOI means Rich Kids of Instagram. Ar-Koi, Arkois: the term used to be insulting. Now it’s been reclaimed and used as a weapon against critics. The rich kids love to pretend to be persecuted. It makes them feel like the black people they love to be photographed with. The scoop is that their R-KOI membership fees go towards an investment pot, and that investment pot has been put into a venture fund with extremely high returns because that investment fund has been put into fluticasone and salmeterol oral inhalers, leading to a doubling of the price of inhalers. People in crowded homes with bronchiectasis have to pay $30 for a prescription which used to be free. The rich kids are killing the poor. You file your story, crawl under your desk at 4am and parachute into sleep.
Fire at the airport. Norovirus in the Beehive. Korean popstar threatening to jump off the Sky Tower. A factory owned by an MP’s sister is polluting the pristine water of a marae downstream. You phone and type and yawn and Google. Latte, long black, Americano, green tea, black tea, Pepsi, vodka and Red Bull, Burger King, Burger Fuel, Murder Burger, Velvet Burger. There’s your bespectacled face slumped and melting into the palm holding your head above the keyboard. There’s a tweet – brief as a firefly, before it’s deleted – inviting influential people to a party at Bourne’s Bordello. That’s the second time you’ve heard the phrase ‘Bourne’s Bordello’ in two weeks. The so-called Bordello is a crumbling mansion, its bricks held together only with a green net of ivy. Reverse searches of Facebook and Twitter confirm this. The mansion is up where Grafton meets Remuera and the ivy castles can look down on the harbour.
The big loud teddy bear is standing on a street corner with a bottle of red wine in one hand and a bottle of tequila in the other. Bourne Tamakaroro – weekday immigration advisor, weekend opera singer and board member of the country’s largest brown pride activist group Colourful People, schmoozer, commentator, occasional chat show host and emcee, columnist and hugger – invites one and all into his house party. People in furs step out of Ferraris; people in Starter jackets stumble out of the bushes of Auckland Domain.
‘Come for kai, come for company!’ Bourne is yelling at the street like Santa Claus. Polls suggest his party could be securely in majority when election results are returned three months from now, so long as Bourne personally schmoozes everybody in the country.
You join a train of people Bourne blesses as they file into his mansion. You’re each greeted with some sort of kiss on the forehead and inward breath, vaguely like a hongi misplaced. It is impossible to have a private conversation with Bourne, he’s busy hoisting Miley Cyrus above his head and twirling her around while she shrieks, so you hang out with his house instead, admiring the art, the walls, the pillars, the stonework.
After you embarrass yourself trying to explain to Lorde and her little sister what you are doing here, you go and hang out in line for a toilet instead. Six toilets in the palace, all occupied. You’re jostled by literati and cognoscenti, art dealers, novelists, reviewers, actors, leftist politicians, plenty of transgender and LGBTQ+ people. David Tua is demonstrating right hooks and left hooks to Beauden Barrett in the library. Alan Duff is reading from his novel to five netballers sipping spirulina. All beautiful, all influential, all under Bourne’s spell. There’s a trio of Kanak activists, a Cook Island prince, that anti-war peace activist playwright from Uruguay who sat on top of a flagpole and swallowed laxatives then drizzled runny shit on the ANZAC monument. That astronaut, whatsisname. MasterChefs, Survivor outcasts, Next Top Models, and three Bachelors, with girlfriends.
The night is rushing by like a movie on fast-forward. There’s too much sex and ecstasy happening in the rainbow waters of the spa pool and your glasses fog up so you move to the basement. You find yourself in a rec room with samurai swords across the walls, and a gang of people from Sticky TV playing Strip Ping Pong. ‘You’re soooo not gonna get a headline out of Bourne,’ says Lorelei Ross, Commonwealth Games 1500m bronze medallist, sagging and swaying. ‘Bourney boy can be whoever he wants to be.’
Bourne stumbles into the room, pauses, belches Do-Re-Mi, says ‘Oh, hallo!’ and puts his drunken hands tightly on both your shoulders. He sniffs you, cranes his head 90 degrees and decides, ‘You’re harmless,’ kisses you on both cheeks, ducks into the nearest bathroom with that novelist-slash-rock singer from Wellington and you see the two of them embracing, but then Bourne pushes his friend with one hand, steadying his fly with the other before washing his face, pushing a paper towel into his nose and gums and exiting, refreshed.
You hide behind a curtain until you’re certain the host has gone outside, then dash into the bathroom and lock the door. You pick up the last few crumpled white paper towels hoping Bourne’s is the top one. Your hand stammers with disgust as you fold the snotty, moist paper and tuck it into the hand pocket of your suitjacket.
You buy a Glad Bag of weed off that bitchy columnist, shake the drugs out, leave the party as the sun is coming up over Remuera with a sealed plastic bag of mucous, germs and human DNA.
According to Chapter one of his memoir, the six foot three inch tall extrovert who refers to himself as the Great Brown Hope comes from a hardy people who live on chilly islands on the edge of the world. According to his memoir, Mr Tamakaroro is the sole descendant of the sole survivor of an 1835 Moriori massacre. He’s the essence of the revival of a maligned indigenous people now that his father and mother have passed on.
But he isn’t and has’nt and they don’t. You’ve got a feeling, and that feeling could swing the election. When the courier package arrives from DNA Diagnostics, now that they’ve tested the jizz-soaked tissue, you tear it out of the delivery man’s hand. No time to sign.
Bourne’s mtDNA haplotype is Scandinavian and Balkan; his uniparental Y DNA haplogroup is entirely Irish. There’s a drop of Ashkenazi Jewish in him. Nothing Polynesian. Except for his beard, which is presumably dyed and curled, the leader of Colourful People is Northern European. He’s white. Veeeery white.
The flight to the Chatham Islands costs $1200. That’s two weeks pay gone instantly. You should be packing a jacket but you’d rather freeze to death than miss this scoop. The flight is jerky, terrifying, and a little urine trickles out of your dick when the plane lurches to one side, buffeted by winds in the middle of the ocean. The real thing you’re worried about is Sunday Slime getting aboard the plane. This is your story. You will not fuck it up.
The door squirts chips of rust as it opens. The wind punches your head then reaches down your socks to tickle your ankles. You take three steps before squelching in a puddle.
‘You’ll need a good set of gumboots round here mate,’ the pilot says, kicking the belly of the plane to indicate you should open it and pull your own bag out.
There’s no taxi but it’s not far to walk to the pub-hotel in the village called Waitangi. It’s warm inside and there are manly women, or men with breasts, it’s hard to tell, hunched in Swanndris against the bar with TAB race slips and twenty dollar notes in their hands.
‘Tēna koe,’ you shout over them. You have to say it twice to be heard by a crusty woman with jagged chunks of paua shell in her earlobes. ‘I’m wondering if there’s a marae I can visit? For the Moriori people?’
‘If you want, yeah, Te One marae’s up the road. Been closed for a while now, though.’
‘How can I find some Moriori elders?’
‘You’re looking at em.’
‘Oh. Um… I just thought there would be, like, a tribal village?’
‘Hey Candice! You had half the village inside you last Saturday didn’t you, ya cheeky wench. Nah, in all seriousness: all the Maoris’ve got a bit of Moriori in ‘em. Folks all muck in together.’
You fish out your phone, hit record and hold it in front of the bemused lady/man. The wind is shrieking outside and the fireplace belches.
‘Listen, what brings me here is I’m doing a story about a guy from these parts, or so he claims – famous dude by the name of Bourne Tamakarororo?’
‘Bwrrrn, you want. He’s ain’t native.’
‘He’s not from here?’
‘He’s from here, just not one of them natives. Maoris.’
‘Not Maori… So he’s Moriori?’
‘What? Shit no.’
It sounds like the woman has said Bowron or Bowen. ‘His name, though, it’s Bourne, surely?’ you correct her. These islanders seem to have the wind burrowing in their ears constantly. The manly woman sees the horse she’s bet on come in fourth, shakes her head, yells at the TV then takes a mouthful of her pint.
‘You’ll be wanting Deano Courtenay. His old man.’
You pinch the bridge of your nose. Fucking hillbilly. ‘Not Courtenay. Tamakaroro. The family I’m looking for, this is going to sound stupid, I guess, the son’s like this flamboyant kind of socialist leader? Big six foot two guy with a beard and hipster glasses? Always singing at garden parties? He’s gay? He’s on the Labour list and he’s going to be given a fairly significant portfolio when his people come into power in Wellington next month…?’
‘He’s gotta stop telling porkies pretty quick-smart then, don’t he. Take it up with his old man.’
The island is so flat and cow-trodden you can see the Courtenay homestead 15 minutes before your quad bike jerks to a halt on the crest of a hill where a man and his dogs are shouting at cows.
‘Yo,’ you say, voice thin with exhaustion and travel wobbles, switching the engine off. ‘Are you Bourne Tamakaroro’s dad? I’m a journalist, from Auckland, sorry, hi, haven’t introduced myself and, um, shit: I guess I came all this way to, like, meet the man’s family? If he’s going to be a future cabinet minister? Sorry to dump all this on you but, like, we got an election on and I guess I’m here to do a profile on his origins and stuff?’
Fuck off he might say. What the hell are you doing on my land? or Go back where you came from. Instead Bourne’s dad whistles at the dogs, orders them to take control. ‘Mainland’s 600 miles thataway,’ he says, frowning, then a smile dawns on his face, radiating from his few teeth, ‘You must have some tired legs on ya. Let’s get you a cuppa.’
Dean Courtenay’s creaking, shadowy Victorian manor is filled with oil portraits. The portraits all have a film of dust on them and the walls are dotted with borer. Dean explains who the Courtenays, Carlsens and Poniewoziks on the wall are and how they came to the Chathams via Dunedin, Jakarta and Cape Town, and Europe before that. The boy’s mother would explain if she were here, but she isn’t, Deano says. The entire second manor is for her spirit to occupy.
‘Bowe was real keen on letting Mumsy have the place. When his mother died, it changed the boy profoundly.’
‘Ayup. What’s our boy callin himself these days then?’
‘Um, Bourne. Bourne Tamakaroro.’
‘Heeeee’s actually quite important? Are you following the news? His team are going to form a government. They’re going to win the election.’
‘Is that a fact? Boots off, if you wouldn’t mind.’ A cow licks the window as Dean gives you a tour of the house, he in slippers, you in socks. ‘Boy never writes. I hear about as much from him as a beetle’s fart. Doesn’t even ring on his mum’s anniversary.’ A needle of wind pokes through a gap in the walls, fluttering the pages of a stack of newspapers. You trudge up the stairs.
In the attic is Bourne’s bedroom, let perfectly intact. It’s obvious Deano would glady have his boy back. There’s no hatred in the man, just remorse.
The room is in the attic and it’s filled with books. His son, whose name is BOWEN, he insists with irritation, read too many spy novels when he was a lad. TV used to be shit out here, Deano explains, so Bowey Boy reached for the most exciting books he could get his hands on. John le Carre, Frederick Forsyth, Ian Fleming and Robert Ludlum. ‘Jason Bourne and whatnot. Big influence. Boyo never had nobody to play with. Most likely it’s cause he was too pooftery. He still like that, do you know?’ Mr Courtenay doesn’t look as strong as he did outside. He leans in, one loose suspender of his dungarees flapping towards you. ‘That’s how come you’ll see so many Barbie dolls in this toy chest right thur.’ There are dolls, frilly hair ties, ponies and pink skipping rope, and there are plastic box-set models of the Beehive, the Reichstag, Whitehall, the White House and the Kremlin. The wind follows you around the creaking room. You keep having to duck so you won’t whack your head on rainbows and moons hanging from the ceiling. You look out across trampled muddy grass, cabbage trees sizzling in the wind and a frenzied ocean taking foaming bites out of the beach.
‘Can I just sit in his room for a bit? D’you mind? It’s just, like, I’m getting some epic inspiration forming right here forming in my mind.’
‘I think it’s time, I think it’s time,’ the father agrees, ‘You’ll be wanting to read this.’ He tilts his head towards a Dinky Diary. The diary is all pictures and stickers and silliness, but the 10 year old Bourne, or Bowen, has crammed it full of extra ruled pages.
“I’m beginning to see the world as full of haves and have nots,” the writer has recorded. “If you’re not careful, the newspapers will have you hating the people who are being oppressed and loving the people who are doing the oppressing.” Malcolm X, eh? A picture of the young activist is forming. Subjugated peoples are on the mind of the painfully conscientious 13 year old boy wincing over his social studies homework, huddled in an oilskin and balaclava, counting his precious free seconds of self-expression before he has to go back out to dogs and mud and yelling.
As you slide into Bourne’s homework desk and pull your laptop and tablet out to take copies of all his diary entries, his father brings you a tray of tea, biscuits, water, milk, spoons, even jam, which he tells you is a real treat on the island. Stir some jam into your tea and it’s damn near good as a milkshake, he reckons.
Shadow stains the land and the sun cools its belly in the sea. The room becomes blue and you find your nose occasionally touching the cold pages of the diary as you enter Bourne’s high school mindscapes. Bowen, that is.
I don’t want to be Bowen any more. I don’t want to be Barry neither. I want to be re-born. I HATE HATE HAAAATE IT HERE. god aaaargh I want 2 scream. This island = death camp. I HATE HATE HATE school. If Jason Bourne were here he would totally stick a limpet mine on the pool & blow off 1 side so the whole thing totally floods.
I’ve been playing Two Truths and a Lie at school + THE BOYS HAVE NO IDEA EVERY DAY IS A LIE FOR ME!!! I hate hate hate being here no one understands me
By age 17 – three diaries later – the plot is explained in full.
From today on I am Queequeg from Moby Dick. I’m a mystery brown island man. I’m the last of my kind. I’ll just tell everybody what I am cause nobody questions you anyway and all those old white fogeys remind me of DAD DAD FUCK YOU DAD.
Roger Taniora keeps picking on me at lunch time on the netball court but I’m counting down the days til he’s history. Got my scholarship + in 2 months I be at Rongotai in Wellington and I’MMMMM going to be a PREE-FEEEECT cause my dad told the school I’m queeEEEErrr and they said I can be a role model for rainbow youth and seriously I’m going start the revolution so yayyyy YIPPEe!!
You fold the diaries closed only when your last candle blows out and Deano insists you come down for the best smoke eel supper on the island.
The old white fogey talks about rugby over dinner. Rugby, and only rugby.
The week is a grinding, plodding trek between marae, dairy, hostel, kitchen tables, the TAB, the dock and the council office, trying to squeeze a damning quote out of somebody who feels aggrieved by the deception of the Chathams’ most famous export. You can’t get anyone to see it that way, though. They don’t see the Courtenay kid’s farm diary as a document that’ll put a different party in power and change the course of history for the next three years. People mostly shrug and ask if you’ve got yourself a good pair of gumboots yet. You oughta stick around and work here, they tell you. Best seafood, best views. Free roots from that sheila Alison. Scampi boat needs a cook. Motel needs a cleaner. DOC’s always looking for someone to shoot white tailed deer.
The pilot gets the plane started and runs the engine. It’s the sound of escape, the sound of landing your story. You tell the pilot you need more time. You’re going to send your story out ahead of you. The story will land before you do. It’ll explode and you’ll walk off the plane onto a red carpet.
First you have to file your story. The library with the public computers is in a shipping container – computers down the front, books and puzzles down the back. You get a login and begin a story which will take down a government. On the walls is a want advert asking for “Some brainbox who can spell good” to publish the island newsletter for $200 a week including accommodation and food up at the Solomons’ pad. Applicant must supply own gumboots, the ad says.
Whatever. You’re not usually supposed to suggest headlines for your story but you can’t resist. Minister’s Colourful Race Claims begins with paragraphs tossing Bourne up in the air as Ethnic Affairs Minister then smashing the claim away with the revelation that Bourne’s ancestry doesn’t include Moriori, Maori or anything ordinarily considered colour.
You fill the story with two explosive truths – his father loves him, and that he lied about his ethnicity.
You adjust it on the screen, proofread and correct typos three times, then hunch your arms.
You email the story to yourself. It can wait.
You go for a walk. Now that the sniper’s target has been fixed on the man’s skull, it’s the perfect time to ring Bourne for comment. You step out into a desert of flax rappling in the wind. The hood of your jacket flaps against the phone creating slamming sounds.
‘So I’m just over on the Chatham Islands right now.’
‘Mr Tamakaroro? I’m that journalist who was at your party? You still there? So I’ve been checking out your story and there’s a few gaps. HelloooOOO?’
‘Honey, I’m at Wearable Arts. My time is precious.’
‘I just wanted you to know that I’ve talked to your dad, he’s helped me understand your genealogy… I read your journal, Bourke. He showed it to me.’
‘Yes, annnnnd? I have people to entertain, Mister Reporter.’
‘I just want you to know I have proof that you’re not a Person of Colour. And you’re not Moriori. And you’re not a Tamakaroro.’
Bourne is silent and you have to double-check he is still there. He takes a huge sigh and responds in a voice so quiet you’re not sure you really heard him.
‘I was tired. Tired of me.’
‘You do understand this is on record? You’re saying you were tired? Of claiming to be from another culture? You’re agreeing you’re not … all those things I said.’
‘I do understand.’
‘And you… want this to end your career?’
‘No sir, Mister Reporter. I’d rather you didn’t end my career. That would be rather inconvenient for the thousands of people I help day to day. I’d rather my life continued as it were.’
‘But you’ve positioned yourself as something you’re not?’
‘I could say the same about you.’
There’s a lot of silence, but Bourne, or Bowen, the boy from the quiet motherless bedroom looking over the howling sea, is comfortable. He’s weathered a lot in his life, you suppose.
A senior Labour Party candidate has admitted lying about his race.
Bourne Tamakaroro, who was promised the Minister of Ethnic Affairs seat in the government’s new cabinet, has admitted he changed his legal name in 2000 after leaving his home near Waitangi, Chatham Island. Mr Tamakaroro, whose birth name is Bowen Dean Courtenay, claimed to be a representative of the Moriori indigenous Polynesian culture and used this claim when leading the Colourful People lobby group and campaigning for the controversial 50/50 brown-white split within Labour Party candidates….
You wait for the dial-up internet to attach your story.
You drum your fingers on the desk. Bourne – Bowen, whatever – isn’t fighting back. It’s frustrating.
You tell him you’re phoning off, now. Time for some edits.
Mr Tamakaroro claimed to be a representative of the Moriori indigenous Polynesian Melanesian culture and used this claim when leading the Colourful Coloured People lobby group, which knew about Mr Tamakaroro’s lie when he was appointed its spokesperson.
Much better. You stretch what you know out to 800 words and hit SEND. If your editor prints it, you’ll be a hero. With criticism flooding into a minister-sized hole, you’ll be responsible for taking down a government. And on the day the story breaks, if Labour wants to rip the story to pieces, you’ve left them some good hand-holds – because you’ve just filed Schrödinger’s Scoop. You’ve inserted rookie mistakes about the Moriori people, fabrications about how much Colourful People knew, invented quotes and misquotes, got names wrong. You’ve exposed your newspaper to getting sued into annihilation, taking attention away from the truths in the story. Bourne will die or thrive. He can fall on his own sword if he wants. Everything is possible at once. The life in the box is simultaneously alive and dead.
There’s a humming outside. The battered shipping container hums rhythmically. The pilot sticks his head in. He’s sucking a bottle of Listerine.
‘I’m heading out. You coming?’
‘Last thing: I’m still hoping to get the most senior Moriori on the island to confirm the tribe is outraged?’
‘You’re looking at him,’ the pilot says. ‘Are we off or what?’
You shrug your bag onto your shoulder, email yourself a copy of the story and log off the computer.
The steps to the plane are a couple of stacked pallets floating in mud.
You can still be a stranger if you get out of these islands promptly.
Or you can dump your bag on the wet gravel instead.
‘Not getting on?’ the Moriori pilot asks, ‘Gonna stay with us, are ya?’
‘I just… .’ The wind whips your words away. Bourne’s tiny, feeble voice tickles your ear. I was tired. Tired of me. ‘Do you know where I can get some gumboots?’