House of Many Gods (41 page)

———

S
HE WOKE AT FIVE, PLACED HER LUGGAGE AT THE DOOR, AND WHEN
the cab arrived, she went downstairs. Outside, she saw Lopaka paying off the cabbie, sending him away.

“Wait! What are you doing?”

Seeing Gena get out of their car, Ana stepped back. “Don’t try to stop me, Gena. Don’t.”

She called out to the cab disappearing round the corner as Lopaka carefully picked up her bags.

“Don’t touch them,” Ana cried.

Gena moved forward with her arms out. “Ana. It’s okay. We want to drive you to the airport.”

She watched Gena take Lopaka’s crutch, watched him struggle into the seat behind the steering wheel. Then reluctantly, Ana slid into the backseat. Once they were moving in traffic, Gena turned round and took Ana’s hand.

“We sat outside your place all night. Afraid we’d miss you. Ana. We’re here to
kōkua
. We love Niki, too. I only wish we could go with you.”

“Who told you I was going? Rosie?”

“She called us hysterical when it finally sank in. You
are
doing the right thing. It’s just … we’re concerned for you.”

Ana glanced up at Lopaka. In early-morning light, his black, curly hair hung oily and disheveled, his big,
‘upepe
nose and forehead appeared gray like granite. He looked exhausted and mean.

At Honolulu Airport they checked her luggage and followed her through security to her gate. People wearing name tags,
EASTERN TOURS
, seemed to be gathered in a group. Two Chinese American couples, a Hawaiian couple, three women young enough to be students, assorted other locals.

She glanced at her itinerary. “I guess I’m with them.”

Gena moved close. “What happens when you get to Los Angeles?”

“Two-hour layover, then straight to New York City.” She checked her itinerary again. “Then it says we switch to Finnair.”

“Finland? Are you sure?”

Ana nodded. “In Helsinki we switch again to … Aeroflot. A one-hour flight, then we land in St. Petersburg. Eight days there, then an overnight train to Moscow.”

Gena seemed to panic. “Ana. Do you have any idea what you’re getting into? You don’t need to do this.”

“Yes. I do.”

“But, what will you do when you get to Moscow?”

“Go to his address. Go to where his friends are.”

Gena left them for a while, and Lopaka sat down beside Ana. Since they picked her up, he had not said a word. There was nothing she wanted him to say. Everything between them had been said.

Now she recalled the scene in front of her building as they piled her luggage into the trunk of the car. The practiced harmony with which Gena had taken Lopaka’s arm crutch as he slid behind the steering wheel, her silent, concentrated overseeing as he settled in, dragging his damaged leg in after him. She recalled how, on cue, they had nodded to each other, tacit acknowledgment that he was comfortable, before Gena handed him the keys and closed the door. And the way she quickly opened the back door, placed the crutch strategically on the seat so as not to obstruct his vision in the rearview. Then she had guided Ana into the car.

It had taken only three or four minutes, but in those minutes, she had witnessed a timeless ritual: two people so attuned in rhythms, thoughts, habits, that they moved together automatically with no need for words, or touch. They had seemed then like dancers, each step fluid and assured, each recognizing that they could not perform this human dance alone. It was the first time she had seen evidence of their deep, maturing love.

Gena returned with a thick carnation
lei
, placing it carefully round Ana’s shoulders.

She whispered in her ear. “I’m so damned proud of you. Please, be careful!”

Ana placed her hands on Gena’s cheeks, her face still dark and beautiful, but softer now. Life was slowly erasing all the harshness.

“Take care of him,” she said.

Hearing the boarding call, she moved to stand in line. They stood beside her as the line slowly advanced, and she suddenly thought her heart would burst. Her face began to tremble. She felt her legs begin to go. It was then that Lopaka reached out and took her arm, holding it steady and firmly until she felt his strength flow into her. Then, very gently, he pulled her from the line so they stood in a private space.

He lifted her chin and spoke softly as their eyes held. “I ever tell you I carried your letters all through ’Nam? I knew them by heart, they saved my life. I have them still. Ana, remember Aunty Emma. She had real
mana
, the gift of healing, and when she died she passed it to you in the Ritual of
Hō
 …”

Even as he said it, he blew softly in her face.

“Do you understand? You were
meant
to rescue, and to heal. Take that
mana
with you. It is very powerful. It will keep you safe.”

He took her in his big, bronzed arms, and held her tight against his chest. He pressed his lips against her head.

“I am so proud of you. You who I have loved in ways we never spoke of. And I will always love you. Always.”

His words gave her the strength to go. She turned back once and waved, then moved down the pleated passageway.

S
HE WOULD REMEMBER EVERY DETAIL OF THE TAKEOFF, WATCHING
her island and her coast diminish. In those hours she saw for the first time the immensity of what encompassed her small world. At Los Angeles Airport, she hung close to her group as they pushed through darting, feinting crowds.

Then someone touched her arm. “Ana.”

Dreamlike, she turned to her mother’s voice. “Rosie called me. I flew down from San Francisco.”

Ana opened her mouth to speak, then closed it. Silently, her mother moved along with Ana’s group until they found their gate.

“You’ve got almost two hours. Come and sit down.”

Ana held back, confused. “You’re not going to talk me out of this.”

“No. I’m going to try and help you. You won’t find your friend alone, in Moscow.”

In a trance, she followed her mother to a café along the concourse. For a moment they sat watching a man out on the tarmac semaphoring with batons. A huge plane looming, responding to his movements. Then gradually, the crowds, the din, fell back. She turned to her mother whose lips were moving, languorous and full.

She was wearing a smart khaki suit, sheer stockings, and high heels. Her hair was now tinted, a show of vanity and vulnerability that made her seem less formidable. She leaned forward so Ana smelled that same haunting perfume. And she realized that somewhere in the long-lost
years she had forgiven the perfume with which her mother’s letters came.

Anahola was discussing Russia, the conditions there.

“Yes. You’re safe on a tour, it’s not Communist Russia anymore. But, understand, you’re not going to a resort. Conditions are appalling for the average Russian. They’ll try to hide this from you, show you only tourist sights. There is a man named Eric Dancer. I’ve already given him the names of your hotels. Hopefully, he will set wheels in motion. His father, Hubert, was a physicist, my husband’s best friend.”

Ana had no idea what she was talking about. It occurred to her that her mother was fighting hysteria.

“Eric is in and out of Russia. Imports, exports. And … sometimes he helps people get out.”

“You mean he works for our government.”

Anahola shook her head “Let’s say he’s an … entrepreneur. He does favors, people pay him back. He will contact you, Ana. Trust him. Yeltsin’s government is collapsing, they’re tightening emigration. Unless your friend has contacts, Eric is his only hope of getting out.”

She dabbed her lips with a napkin, trying to sound calm. “This Niki sounds like an honorable man. You’ll probably be saving his life. But to go off to Russia … all alone! My God, you’ve never been out of the islands.”

Ana stared at her. “Neither had you.”

They fell silent, wishing they could rewrite all the angry words they had exchanged, the looks that had rejected an intimacy so longed for.

“I thought of going with you, but I know you don’t want my interference.
Mine
, least of all. Actually, I’ve wanted to go back since Max died …”

Ana let her chatter on, it seemed to calm her somewhat.

“…  Rosie told me about Niki’s film. Ana, he doesn’t need the testimony of Russian physicists. People know they’re dying from contamination. They’re dying in every country, that’s how my husband died. His film needs to end with a message that’s the opposite of despair.”

She hesitated, as if about to ask a favor. “I was thinking … maybe Niki could shoot footage at this research clinic in Honolulu that I help fund. It’s called the Hope Institute, where children damaged from radiation are fighting to survive. They bring them there from all over the world. I would help him in any way I can.”

Ana listened, trying to grasp the deeper implications of what was said.

“I’m not offering to do this just for you. I’d be doing it for these children, and for my husband, Max. For once, please try to rise above your resentment toward me and see the larger picture.”

While she talked, Ana studied her mother’s face. Lips a bit thinner. Tiny time-lines fanned the corners of her eyes, but she was still lovely. Ana wondered if her child would favor her.

She checked her watch and stood. “It’s time to go.”

Then she sat down again. “I have to tell you something. I found my father’s grave. It made me feel more … real.”

Anahola looked down at her lap. “I should have married him when you were born. But then, my own parents never married. Obviously, I was
their
mistake.”

Ana slowly shook her head. “It seems we’ve both gotten a lot of mileage out of that word
childhood
.”

They walked the concourse in silence, not noticing how people stared because they were so striking, so similar, except for Ana’s lighter skin. At her gate, she saw the tour group had swollen now to almost twenty people.

Her mother suddenly took her aside. “Let me meet you there.
Please
.”

Ana gently pulled away. “I’ll be okay. You and I … we’ll always have our history. But seeing you reminded me how strong I am.”

She stepped across the chasm of unsaid things and took her daughter in her arms.

“Ana. You have no idea how strong you are. Yet, in some way … I don’t feel you’re saving this man’s life. He’s saving yours.”

PART FOUR
E PULE I KĒIA MANAWA
 
Now Is the Time for Prayer

M
OONLIGHT LAY ACROSS HER FOREHEAD LIKE A HAND
. I
T MADE
the passing landscape bone. The train took a slow, languid curve and she saw her reflection in the window like a remnant of her soul. She leaned her head there, as the Red Arrow to Moscow ratcheted softly through the night, its long, low oboe chords sounding deeply wounded.

The compartment was stifling, suffused with a rich, crotchlike odor. The walls glimmered yellow, like soft human skin. Slumbering in their bunks were three virtual strangers from the tour. Ana took her pulse, thinking how close to the outer world her blood was circulating. But she no longer knew what world she was in, having left all borders behind.