Etiquette for a Dinner Party (13 page)

'Close your eyes,' she said, when we got to her door. She led me in. 'Now, open.'

Her room was dark, like a magical fairy cave. There were Christmas tree lights hanging everywhere. They started above her door, and went right around the room. There were more of them dangling from the centre of the ceiling.

'Oh my God . . . this is so cool . . .'

'Dad did it for me.'

Gabrielle switched on the light, and I saw that the lights snaked their way down to a bare light bulb. The wallpaper was faded and coming off the walls. I wanted my room to be just like this: no pukey, frilly lampshade, no flash wallpaper. Just the lights.

In the corner was an old wooden dresser with a big round mirror. There was a little white chair in front of it with a pink velvet cushion for the seat. I sat on the chair and looked at all her make-up.

This was not play make-up, the sort you get from aunties at Christmas. There were little black cases with eye shadows, every colour you could think of, and each had a little brush. On the lids were gold swirling writing saying Max Factor and Helena Rubenstein. There was a row of lipsticks — at least ten — with colours going from pale pink to deep red, like blood.

'Sit still,' said Gabrielle.

She knelt down beside me and looked across the range of lipstick shades. Then she chose one of the little tubes. She painted my lips red, without a single smudge.

'Is this your mother's make-up?' I asked, when she was finished. I couldn't stop staring at myself in the mirror. If you ignored the hair I looked more or less like Judy off The Chicks.

'Some of it,' she said. 'But Dad bought most of it for me.' She was already onto the next thing. Blusher.

'Is he here?' I'd just remembered that he was supposed to be, according to what I told Mum.

'He's around somewhere, out on the farm probably. Hold still.'

We got so involved in the make-up, I forgot about the business of heaven. I got a bit of a fright when she brought it up. 'Come and see Mum,' she said.

We went down the hallway. Gabrielle pushed open a door.

'Are you sure we should go in?' I whispered.

'Yeah. You don't have to whisper, you know. She's asleep. Nothing wakes her up after the morphine.' Gabrielle's voice sounded the same as it did that very first day, when Erin was asking all the questions. Flat and hard, like the line you draw with a ruler at the end of an essay.

You know how I was surprised when I first saw Gabrielle's room? Well in Mrs Baxter's room the surprise doubled. Her room was like Gabrielle's — and I mean
exactly
like it. Except the curtains were open and the fairy lights were switched off. The same strands of lights crawled around the walls and down the light cord. There was a dresser with make-up on it, but it was all tidy; you could tell none of it had been used since they had arrived.

Mrs Baxter was asleep. A blanket of crocheted squares covered her, with wool blankets peeping out underneath. Her head was turned towards us. She looked like Gabrielle. She had pale skin and blonde hair that was wavy and long. It spread across her pillow like cream Pick-Up Sticks when you drop them at the start of a game. Her face was calm with no wrinkles whatsoever and her mouth was smiling. She reminded me of the statue of the Virgin Mary at church.

'She's already in heaven,' said Gabrielle. 'Even though she's still alive, her mind is in heaven. That's why she looks so happy. That's what Dad and I think.'

'Yep.' I didn't know what else to say. I felt a bit funny about things, but I thought they were probably right. .

From then on, Gabrielle and I did everything together. After school, it was her place or mine. Mum was really nice to her. She didn't mention the earrings and I sort of forgot that Gabrielle even had her ears pierced. Usually, when Gabrielle came to our place, Mum would make two of whatever we were having for tea and she would give one to Gabrielle to take home. Once, she gave Gabrielle a bag of her old clothes, longs and cardigans mainly. This cracked us up, me and Gabrielle. As if Gabrielle would want ugly hand-me-downs, when her dad bought her the coolest clothes.
As if
. I saw the bag of clothes in the drain down the road when I was biking along, a few days later. I got off my bike and hid it, in case Mum saw it and changed her opinion of Gabrielle.

A while later, I asked if Gabrielle could stay the night at our place. Mum said no. Don't ask again, she said, because the answer will always be no. She had that look which says, Don't ask any more questions. I was a bit annoyed, but not really because our place was boring compared to the Baxters'. So instead Gabrielle asked if I could stay at her place. Her father said no too. We never really figured out what that was all about. I didn't like to say that it was probably because they were sharemilkers.

Gabrielle got her dad to buy her a Mr Pierre wig, a long black one. We cut a bit off the bottom then we used Gabrielle's heated rollers to curl up the ends. I put on her purple minidress and a pair of her Beatle boots (it turned out she had
three
pairs — black, white and brown.) She did my makeup, paying special attention to the eyeliner, and then I slipped the wig on over my recently tidied up but still disgusting hair.

There they were — The Chicks — staring back at us from the big round mirror in Gabrielle's bedroom. Suzanne ran out of the room, and came back with two spoons.

'Here you go Jude. One, two, a one two three . . .' 'I love you, Timothy, I love you Timothy, I love you Timothy, you're just the guy for me . . .' I was her, Judy.

'I look into your eyes, do I see truth or lies, my heart cries out for love, what are you thinking of?'

We sang and sang, and when we got to the end bit, we sang together.

'Timothy, fancy-free, be good to me, Timotheeeeee . . .' When we finished, I was laughing so hard I was crying too. We sang some more hits, then Gabrielle brought it up. Ear piercing.

'I'm not allowed,' I said.

'But what if you just got it done? They couldn't fill the holes back in, could they.' She had her earring box in her hand and she picked out a tiny bundle of sparkling shiny earrings. She let them trickle back into the box, like droplets of water.

'Yeah but I'd have to go to town.'

'No you don't. I can do it for you. With ice and a needle. You numb your ear with the ice, then push the needle through. Then you put a cork on the back to hold the needle until the bleeding stops. It's easy.'

'Oh my God. The pain.'

'It hurts for a minute, then it stops.'

'I'll think about it,' I said. I don't know if it was the whole thing of thinking about pain, or what, but the ache in my stomach started to come back.

By the beginning of September, it was Outside Even When Raining. The teachers had had enough of winter and said that a bit of rain never hurt anyone.

Us girls had had enough of things too. By us girls, I mean the lot of us. Gabrielle and I were best friends by then, but we generally played with Erin and Julie and the others. We were sick of the jungle gym and hopscotch and the other baby games. The boys must have also been fed up with bullrush and tag rugby, because sooner or later at morning tea and lunchtime they would come looking for us, and we'd all just hang around together talking.

I was thinking a lot about high school next year. About what it would be like, whether we'd all stay friends. It was hard to imagine we wouldn't but no one actually brought it up.

One lunchtime, we were hanging around over by the implement shed. The sky went really dark all of a sudden and next thing it was pouring. John Beveridge had the key to the shed because it was also the sportsgear shed and he was sports captain. We all went in there, pulling the door shut behind us. It was so dark you couldn't even tell the difference between eyes open and shut. Gabrielle reached out and held my hand.

We were all laughing for a few seconds, then someone said, what's that? There was this sound from high up somewhere. Kittens. Charlotte had had her kittens.

Someone pushed the door open so we could see. John climbed to the back of the shed, where the tarpaulins were, and brought the kittens down. They were in an old jersey that must have been chucked up there. We gathered around. Three tiny kittens, all of them black like Charlotte.

Erin went to pick one up.

'No, don't touch them, the mother won't come back,' someone said.

'That's birds, stupid,' said Erin. She stepped back though, leaving them snuggled together.

We all moved in close around the jersey. Outside, the rain was falling fast and heavy, and little waterfalls were coming off the edge of the roof. We crouched down; I could feel John's arm pressing up hard against mine. It felt hot through both our shirts. I let my body lean in towards his, just a little bit. He didn't move away.

'We could name them,' I said.

Everyone said yes, and then the names started. Someone wanted Rob, Chip and Ernie, off
My Three Sons
. But what if they weren't all boys, someone else wanted to know. Which was a good point.

We got on to other TV shows and more or less agreed that the names should suit boys or girls. There were some quite good suggestions, such as Robot from
Lost in Space
.

'How about Judy and Suzanne?'

Gabrielle was crouched down, on the opposite side of the circle to me. Her voice sounded soft and quiet, like it did on her first day at school when she introduced herself. I looked up from the kittens, we all did. We all looked at her. She was staring straight back at me. Just at me — she didn't even look at anyone else, so it was me who had to say it.

'Can't be. They might not be girls. And there's three, not two.'

The boys all laughed then, and Erin said: 'Yeah.
Duummmbb . . .'

'It should be Judy and Suzanne.'

Butter voice, flat voice. Not another sound; no playground noise, no skipping rope whipping the asphalt. Just the rain and Gabrielle's flat, dull voice.

I looked back down at the kittens. I couldn't get over how they were exact miniatures of their mother. Their eyes were shut and I wondered how they would be feeling, surrounded by the noise of us. Just hearing — not being able to see or have a say in what their names should be.

A hand reached into the middle of our circle. Gabrielle's hand; in the shadow of the shed its paleness seemed purple. It picked up one of the little kittens. Her other hand appeared. It went around the neck of the kitten and it squeezed. It squeezed while the body of the kitten twisted round and round. Like the two hands were wringing out a wet sock. The kitten made no sound at all. Then, the hands dropped the kitten on the ground and it was just a clump of still, black fur.

The other girls started to cry. Gabrielle looked at me with a smile that I didn't understand. I hoped that John wouldn't move his arm away, and he didn't.

John headed back to work — Cool catching up, Sammy
—
and I stood outside the Masonic for a bit. He was nice, John. A nice, settled, Paeroa boy. I blinked my way back to the middle of the day.

Gabrielle Baxter and the two girls were coming towards me. The girls each carried a plastic bag with Glamour World stamped on the side. I stared at them, trying to pick their father. But all I could see was Gabrielle's pale skin and big brown eyes.

As I walked towards Gabrielle, I smiled. She was still different: older, for sure, but still beautiful. Already I knew how it would be: the hug, the Oh my God it's you!

I couldn't wait. I was just about to say, Hello Gabrielle Baxter when she turned towards the girls.

'Hurry up,' she said. 'Get a move on.'

She looked straight through me as we passed each other. She didn't recognise me at all.

Three years and a lifetime in Paris. And late one night, after a lovely rowdy dinner and too much wine, you say: 'Let's have a hangi.'

Yes, everyone says, yes! Pascal and Sabine, Xavier and Mariel, who have no idea about a hangi, what is involved. But tonight, finally, you declare an ache for your own earth. So yes, let's have a hangi, I say. Let's drink to that.

We agree that Paris, with its sacred lawns and profiterole stacks of dog shit, is no place for a Maori feast. Where, then?

I turn to Pascal. 'It will have to be at your house in Bourgogne. That's the perfect place.'

You explain to everyone the fire, the stones, the wet cloths, the long preparation of food. The talk turns to escargot. So where else, for a hangi, but Bourgogne?

It is April, late afternoon on a warm Friday. Pascal and Sabine pull up outside our apartment in the tiny pedestrian street with the convent at the end. They have driven their rusty old Mercedes up the kerb and across the footpath, scattering homeward-bound nuns like a throw of knucklebones. Pascal toots, hand flat on the horn, until we appear at the doorway with our weekend bags. 'Hurry up — the traffic is building up. On y va.'

'Bastard Parisians,' he says, weaving through queues of vehicles. He loves this moment each week, when the tyres hit the cobbles of Porte de Gentilly clacketyclacketyclack and he is on his way home. Dire Straits pumps out of the stereo and he sings along, cigarette in his mouth, face beaming. He doesn't know where one word ends and the next begins: '
MONEEEYYFOR NUZZENGANDYOU CHICKSFORFREE'.

'Just like you Pakehas singing "Pokarekare Ana",' you say quietly. This is the first time you have said such a thing to me and I feel the cut of it.

Cars ooze out through the A6 toll gate. We are all more relaxed now, the sky is losing light and the traffic flows fast. Sabine turns around in her seat. 'So, this weekend we organise the hangi, yes?'

'Yep,' you say. 'Plan it this weekend, do it on the first of May. Two weeks' time. Good idea?'

We all agree this is a good plan.

'You know, the village is looking forward to it very much,' says Pascal.

I see your eyebrows flick upwards. 'Choice, mate,' you say. 'Cool . . . ah . . . how many will come, do you reckon?'

'Oh, not so many, maybe fifty, maybe sixty. But don't worry, everyone will help. This is what happens at a French feast. Everyone helps.'

Sabine has called ahead and made a reservation for us to eat at the tiny bar in Talcy. We arrive just after eight o'clock and it is full. We push past scooters and cars parked on the footpath and open the door.

A steamy scent rushes at us, retelling the day: beer, sweat, garlic, wine, smoke and roast chicken. Men stand at the zinc counter with their arms waving, voices an ebb and flow of seamless debate. Families sit at tables laden with food. There is a dog waiting patiently at the feet of a young boy, eating the food that drops from a fork.

'Salut Pascal, Sabine, et les Kiwis, come, come.' We exchange kisses with Pierre as he takes us to the last empty table. 'You are all hungry, I think, after the drive and the traffic. Bastard Parisians . . .' Pierre shakes his head in disgust. 'So, what are we eating tonight?'

We place our orders and Pierre returns with our wine and beer. He takes a chair from the next table and sits between you and Pascal. 'I hear we are having a hanging.' His eyes are wide with excitement and he rubs his hands together.

'It's a hangi,' you tell him, laughing. 'Haaanggee. It's a traditional Maori meal, cooked underground.'

'Fantastic! Well, you know, I want to help. So I will look after the vegetables for you. You know . . . maybe . . . sautéed potatoes, leeks, peas, green beans . . . enough for how many people, do you think?'

'Thank you, Pierre, thank you, but you don't prepare the food like this for a hangi. It must be raw. It goes into a hole in the ground, in baskets onto hot stones. You cover it with wet cloths and earth, and it cooks by steam.' I explain the concept. 'That's how it happens, isn't it, Rob?' I say to you: you say nothing. You stare at your beer and I wonder at this new thing of yours, this ability to switch your humour on and off.

Pierre sits back in his seat, big arms folded against a barrel of a chest. His eyebrows knit into one. He is not convinced. 'I don't understand. What about the flavour?'

'But exactly. The steam and the earth give the flavour to the food. It has a unique taste. It is a New Zealand speciality.' Pascal leans forward proudly, keen to support the project. His hands are upward and open wide. 'It's a fantastic thing, Pierre, really. It's very natural, a beautiful way to eat.'

'Hmm.' Pierre reflects on this for a moment, eyes down, then pushes his chair back and stands up. 'Okay, if you say so . . . anyway, bon appetit.'

Our meals arrive and we tuck in.

'Well done Pascal,' you say. 'You know about the hangi. Are you sure you haven't had a sneaky one you're not telling us about?'

'But no, of course not! It's just obvious, you know. If you are going to have a hangi — a special meal from New Zealand — you have to do it the proper way. The Kiwi way.' He washes his escalope down with a mouthful of wine. 'Between you and me, the French are not so adaptable to other ideas, when it comes to food.'

Pascal wanders off to talk at the bar. 'You know,' he says when he comes back, 'I was just chatting to Jean-Luc. About the hangi.' He cracks the sugary surface of his crème brûlée. 'And he thought of this idea. You could put a pot of, say, boeuf Bourguignon into the hangi. And then, while the other things are cooking, the meal will just be bubbling away, you know, just like normal. So you have hangi boeuf Bourguignon.' His eyebrows are up, mouth a wide grin. 'How about that?'

'It won't work.'

I hear an edge in your voice.

'But why not?'

'Because you don't have boeuf Bourguignon in a hangi, that's why.'

'Of course not. But not a bad thought, all the same.'

'You know, Pascal, with the hangi we could have escargot.' Sabine has been quiet until now. 'As an entrée,' she adds quickly, glancing your way.

'That's a good idea,' I say. 'We do the hangi, you guys do the escargot . . .' I am keen on this. Very keen.

'No, no. Anna,' says Pascal. 'Listen. It is our pleasure to gather the food and prepare for this hangi. You will be chef on the day. Then you will work. Voilà.' .

You and I cannot talk about why we are in France. My job, your determination to be with me. Instead, we talk about the need for a hangi list.

It is after midnight. We are in Pascal's spare bedroom, in the old stone cottage that is his weekend home. This is the darkest room I have ever been in; more black than the inside of my eyelids.

'You don't make a list for a hangi,' you say.

'I know that. But it's easier if we leave them a list. Otherwise they won't know what to do.'

'It'll sort itself out. Christ. Whoever heard of making a list for a hangi?'

'Well, how else do we do it? We've talked nothing but hangi all day, and we're no further ahead. Someone comes up with another crazy idea and . . .'

'Look. I'll come down here a couple of days before, and do it all then. Honestly, it'll be fine.'

'This was your idea.' My words hang heavy in the dark.

'Coming to France wasn't.'

Then you are asleep. .

Three days out from the hangi, and you've gone to Bourgogne. I am in the Paris apartment alone when the phone rings.

'Hi Anna, it's Sabine, calling from Talcy.' She sounds excited as we exchange greetings. 'I'm at the bar. Anna, we have so many snails, it's wonderful. They are hanging in the tree in a sack. They have been fasting for five days and now they are disgorging in the salt. They will be ready for the hangi.'

'That's fantastic, Sabine.' I have seen disgorging. I try not to think about the stalactites of slimy snot dripping down from the bag. 'They will be beautiful, I know.'

'Yes, they will be. Delicious. Anna. I am really just ringing to talk to you about the chicken.'

'The chicken.'

'Yes. There is a big crowd here tonight. Well, you know, big for Talcy. And we are arguing. So I thought I'd just ring you. Everyone is getting organised for the hangi. And they want to know. For the chicken. Do you think poulet Provençal, or something local, maybe coq au vin?'

I close my eyes. 'Sabine, is Rob there, by chance?'

'Yes, yes, he arrived today . . . oh, you mean, at the bar? No, Pascal is here, but not Rob.'

'Could I speak to Pascal please?'

'Of course, wait . . .'

'Hi Anna, ça va?' Pascal's excitement bounces down the phone.

'Ça va, Pascal. Listen. What's this business about chicken?'

'Don't worry, Anna. I have already told them, no French dishes in a hangi. I will tell them again. Really, we are just playing with ideas, thinking about some of the possibilities . . .'

'Pascal, there are no possibilities. Really, this type of thing just won't work in a hangi . . .'

'I hear you, Anna, please, don't worry about it. I will sort it out.' There is a buzz of conversation in the background — I hear the words 'marinade' and 'brochettes de porc'. 'See you Saturday morning. You are coming on the train, n'est-ce pas?'

'Yes . . . Pascal — can you get Rob to ring me please?'

But he is gone; the line is an empty buzz.

That night I have one of those dreams that leave an open wound for days. I relive our final twenty-four hours in New Zealand — the farewell hangi that your people gave for us. I sit again with our friends, peeling potato and kumara and dropping them into the big yellow plastic bucket filled with cold water. The sun on my back is real, so warm. We are laughing at you men as you dig, preparing the hangi pit. You pass the spade frequently, feigning generosity when we can see you are all exhausted from the digging and keen for another beer.

Next, we are standing around the steaming mound of dirt. You gently scrape away the soil from the sacking and the cloths. I watch you, already a leader among your people. And then I smell it: the steam and the dirt and the food combined; there is no other smell like it in the world. It is the smell that I remember first, when I wake next morning. .