We clung to each other like the survivors of a shipwreck.

  Then I led him into the bedroom.

  “Fuck!”

  “Is that an order? You’ve not done this before, have you?”

  “You’re not the first.”

  “Liar!”

  I began to cry.

  He rocked me in his arms and told me it was all right.

  “I wanted it to be special,” I said.

  “It is special,” he comforted.

  “It’s not. It bloody hurt.”

  “That’s my fault, not yours. We’ll try again later,” he promised.

  But we didn’t try later. He went out to buy a bottle of wine, and I left before he got back.

  I gave people to understand I’d fallen down some steps. I didn’t know if anyone believed me, but they soon stopped asking questions and put it out of their minds. Which was more than I could manage. I told myself that Pip was just some thug who meant nothing to me, but my own argument didn’t convince me.

  Eventually, I could stand it no more: I had to see him again. So I went round to the flat.

  There was no reply when I knocked. A neighbor said they’d gone away.

  My sense of loss was overwhelming.

  A year later, I was in the area on business. Despite telling myself it was a waste of time, I walked up the three flights to Pip’s flat and knocked.

  There were footsteps; the door opened, and the young man standing there smiled at me.

  It wasn’t Pip.

  “I’m sorry. I must have the wrong address.” Overcome with despair, I turned and began to walk away.

  Then I heard it: the sound of a flute. I turned back.

  “Who’s playing?” I asked eagerly, trying not to build my hopes up.

  “Un moment.” The stranger disappeared back into the flat, and I heard snatches of an animated discussion.

  A woman came to the door.

  “Can I help you?”

  I repeated my question.

  “It’s a CD belonging to my grandson.”

  “Pip?”

  The woman stared curiously at me. “That’s my name. My grandson is Philippe. It can be confusing.”

  “Is he here?”

  “He’s gone to Germany with the orchestra. They’re due back at the end of the month. Are you Adam?”

  I said I was.

  Her expression softened. “He’s often spoken of you. Would you like to come in?”

  I was nervous; it had been a long time. But now the orchestra had returned to Britain, and I had to see Philippe, so I returned to the flat. As soon as Philippe opened the door, his eyes lit up. “Adam. I was afraid—”

  And then we were in each other’s arms.

  “I had to come back,” I said, as we lay in bed together. “When Edouard opened the door, I thought the worst—that you’d found someone else or that you’d disappeared forever. Even when your grandmother came to the door, I didn’t recognize she was the woman in the paintings.”

  “I didn’t think you wanted to see me again. Who could blame you? My companions had beaten you up, and I’d stood by and watched. I was frightened they might do the same to me.”

  “But they were your friends.”

  “No. I met them for the first time that evening. We’d had a few drinks together and were on our way to get a takeaway when they saw you. They were spoiling for a fight—anyone would have done. When your membership card to The Gay Blade fell out of your pocket, they had their motive. One that ensured I held my tongue.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me this before?”

  “I was ashamed and felt just as guilty as the others, maybe more so as I’d done nothing to prevent it. I felt as if I’d forfeited any right to your forgiveness.”

  “There’s one thing I don’t understand: what excuse did you give those two louts for not joining in?”

  “I said I didn’t want to injure my hands. I’d already told them I was a musician, although I let them think I was in a band.”

  “What now?”

  Philippe grinned.

  “I didn’t mean that.”

  “I was planning on going to my grandmother’s villa on the Côte d’Azur. She and Edouard are staying on here, so we’d have it to ourselves.”

  “You want me to come, too?”

  “I’m taking the bike. You can ride pillion.”

  The thought of straddling a powerful motorbike, my arms wrapped around Philippe’s waist, was both terrifying and deeply erotic. My cock hardened.

  This time our lovemaking was an intoxicating mix of gentle and rough, slow and frantic; kisses, caresses, playful bites. Spent, I lay exhausted for a few minutes. Then I turned over onto my stomach.

  Philippe kissed my neck. “It’s all right,” he whispered. “We don’t have to.”

  I knew he was referring to our failed attempt at sex a year ago.

  “It isn’t all right yet,” I said. “But it will be.”

  THE RED MALO (A POSTMODERN ISLAND ROMANCE)

  David May

  ’Aikane, now used to mean an honest and laudable friendship between two males, originally meant the vice of that burnt-up city.

  —Dr. Nathaniel Emerson, 1898

  When President Palin’s economic policies brought about the collapse of America’s infrastructure, leading to the US military’s evacuation from our islands, Hawai’i nei proclaimed its sovereignty, parliament reconvened, and our monarchy was restored after more than a century of occupation. With complex family systems that crossed cultures and color, and intermarriage being the norm, every kupa was seen as a vital part of the intricate and beautiful design that was to be Hawai’i nei. Only the missionary families left in droves, their fortunes built on stolen land that now reverted to the crown; the pineapple and sugar-cane plantations occupying that royal land were nationalized.

  In those heady early days of nationhood there was much work to do, and all able hands came to do it. Even those of high birth came to rebuild the ancient fishponds, to gather the wild chickens and pigs for domestication and even to plow the fields to grow our traditional crops of taro, sweet potato, breadfruit and bananas. Food there was in abundance, but it had to be managed, and Jonas Kekoa Pali’uli Mea’ike was one of those educated men who understood how we could best feed our people.

  The day I first met Jonas—after admiring him from a distance for some weeks—he wore a red malo of the finest kapa, indicating his status as a high chief. Many of us, which is to say the younger men, had, since the return of sovereignty, taken to wearing the malo, it being both practical and comfortable—but ours were made from whatever fabric we found. When rebuilding the ancient fishponds, as we were that day, our malo were often made from nothing more than the remnants of old T-shirts. Kapa was still precious and worn only on special occasions, or by those of high rank—like Jonas Mea’ike.

  Jonas was hapa, like most Hawaiians, with an ancestry that included ancient chiefs and chieftesses, missionary stock and a successful Portuguese sea captain who had retired to Hawai’i and taken a young ali’i wife who claimed Kamapua’a as an ancestor. They were a large clan known for their wisdom and generosity as much as for their beauty and wealth.

  On this day, Jonas was not just looking at the work being done under his supervision but was, at the moment I first saw him, descending into the fishpond to assist with some of the heavier lifting.

  “Kue!” I yelled. “Your malo be ruined, cuz!”

  He smiled as he looked at me, his teeth brilliant behind his beard, his eyes flashing laughter.

  “Thanks, li’l brah, but the malo is less important than the work.”

  With that, he lent his shoulder to the task at hand, adding his own considerable strength to ours. When it was time for lunch, and I was leaving with the others, a strong, gentle hand settled on my shoulder. I turned to see Jonas’s handsome face.

  “Eat with me, Kawina.”

  How he had learned my name, I didn’t know, but neither did I question him.

  “Mahalo. My honor, brah.”

  We sat together under a tree and shared the same meal as the other men: poi, pork, native bananas and pineapple, all eaten with our hands off of a banana leaf. We ate in silence. I wondered what he wanted, but my nature being that of a follower, I waited for him to speak.

  “You kama’aina, li’l brah?”

  “Yeah, brah. I’m born Kahuku. My parents stay here before I’m born.”

  He smiled.

  “You talk pidgin like you born stay here, brah.”

  “But I can talk like this too. I learned to speak my parents’ English at home and pidgin with my friends. But here where we work, pidgin stay.”

  Jonas laughed.

  “You’re educated?”

  I shrugged my shoulders.

  “By my parents mostly. I read a lot, but I no stay school long.”

  He laughed again. And then he said, “We need men like you, Kawina, men we can raise up and show the world, men of all colors…. I need a man like you.”

  The last phrase caught me unawares, and something sweet and wonderful jumped inside me, stirring my ule to attention.

  Mealtime over, the men dispersed. There were two shifts, one from dawn to late morning, the second from midafternoon to dusk. The midday hours were for rest, play and making love. Family obligations coming first, not everyone was expected to work both shifts. I normally worked both since I was, after an afternoon with my moe ’aikane followed by a nap, well prepared for that second shift. Only when my parents needed me did I miss either.

  Some of the men stripped off their malo to bathe in the ocean; others found a shady place to rest until the evening shift; still others, with whom I was often included, found a secluded spot for sport fucking. Jonas and I watched the men swimming and wrestling naked in the water, their hard, muscular bodies glistening with sweat and brine in the brilliant light of Hawai’i nei. I felt another stir in my malo, and would’ve rearranged myself but for the presence of the chief sitting beside me. I turned my attention back to him when I felt his hand on my shoulder; something deep in my gut jumped with as much excitement as my ule. I returned his gaze.

  “Shall we go for a walk, Kawina?”

  I nodded my assent and we headed down the shore, away from where the other men were playing or napping. His arm around my shoulder, I leaned slightly against his body as we walked, feeling the full strength and power of his hairy, muscular body, one decorated with traditional tattoos of ancient design as exclusive to his family as a tartan is to a Scottish clan.

  He spoke and I listened, though I can hardly remember now what we discussed. My heart and ule were too distracted to give him my complete attention. When we reached the far end of the sandy shore, he gently pulled me to him until our noses touched, a sign of intimacy between family members, friends or lovers.

  “Kawina, I…”

  Then he kissed me and I felt both our ule jump. His great arms wrapped around me. My heart raced.

  He looked at me, disconcerted.

  “We should get back,” he said softly.

  I followed. His arm was no longer around my shoulder; my hand was in his. We were silent until we came to where his car waited to take him home.

  “Aloha, kane nui.”

  “Ho’alohaloha, Kawina.”

  I watched him drive away before running to the water to clear my head and cool my body.

  “Don’ you know, brah?” a friend asked as I reached the water. “Kane nui gotta wife an’ ohana.”

  “Fo’ real, brah?”

  “Fo’ real, but dat don’ mean he don’ like you. He ask ’bout you, wanna know yo’ name an’ de kine. Yeah, de buggah like you, brah.”

  This news of Jonas’s wife and family was like a kick in the stomach, yet I hoped to see him again soon. I also knew that my heart was already his.

  The next morning I looked anxiously for Jonas but didn’t see him. I wondered if I had said or done something wrong, if I had offended him in some way and so lost him forever. A week passed and I thought I’d console myself with a tumble in the shade with my mahu friends.

  “No way, brah. You belong to ali’i, now. We don’ touch, brah. You kapu now.”

  “Brah, you think I’m Jonas’s boy? Where Jonas stay? I dunno. I’m my own man, brah.”

  “No, brah. You kapu fo’ sure. All de kine know dat.”

  “Yeah, brah. Soon you too high to work wit’ us in de fishponds. Once you got his ule in you, den you ali’i stay.”

  I walked away confused and hopeful, but wondered what my place would be in the life of a chief with an ali’i wife and a house full of children. By the old laws, I would be little more than a servant, a catamite. Things had changed, of course, but the powers and responsibilities of the remaining ali’i were still being debated by parliament, and I had no idea of where a haoli nobody like me could fit into the life of such a man. So pent up and with so much nervous energy to spend, I ran into the ocean, swimming as far out as I dared before returning to shore, too tired to worry about Jonas or the kapu that had been placed on me.

  Later that evening, just as I stepped out of the shower and was looking at myself in the mirror wondering if I should shave or grow my beard (men rarely shaved more than twice a week on Hawai’i nei, even among the ali’i), there was a knock at the door. I scratched the week’s stubble and went to answer in nothing but a clean malo.

  “Aloha,” I said to the stranger in the silk aloha shirt and khaki shorts standing on the doorstep.

  “Aloha loa nui. Are you Kawina Dawson?”

  “Dat’s me, brah. Who you?”

  “I’m sent by Jonas Mea’ike. You are invited to dinner.”

  I put on my nicest threads, such as they were: a not too ratty aloha shirt, beach shorts and the cleanest pair of slippahs I could find. I was a working boy from a working family; there was no sense in pretending I was anything else, so I went to dinner unshaven but clean. That was about all he should expect on such short notice.

  It had been years since I’d been in a car, even a small one. Normally I biked everywhere, or took the light rail train that circled and crossed over the island along the old highways. Private vehicles, even the most practical, were a luxury now; only a few of the ali’i and the monarch were seen in them and then only occasionally. It was not unusual to see even the royal family on public transportation with the rest of us, greeting us with informal smiles and an extended hand. Sitting in the seat next to the driver, I didn’t attempt much in the way of small talk. I just watched the passing view as the small car made its way to Kailua.

  The house was large for the islands and a short walk from the ocean. Facing the sea, it had been built to use our blessed trade winds to keep it cool year round. Once part of a large estate, I could see that the property’s former lawns were now dedicated to raising food crops for the household. Semiwild chickens and pigs wandered about the grounds, seemingly content with their lot. A low hedge of ti plants bordered the walk. Wild orchids and flowering vines grew wherever there was space, allowed to flourish for the sake of their beauty and the sweetness they lend the air.

  Just as I noticed the traditional kahili at either side of the great double door, it opened and out came Jonas in his red malo and an unbuttoned aloha shirt. His beard was freshly trimmed, accentuating a square jaw and high cheekbones. He opened his arms and held me close before brushing my lips with his own and touching his nose to mine.

  “Aloha, Kawina, and welcome.”

  “Aloha loa nui,” I answered, not sure of how I ought to address him—by his first name or by some honorific? The rules had yet to be written for our new nation, and we were still finding our way between ancient traditions and the expectations of civilization.

  His arm around my shoulder, he led me inside the elegant but simple home where we were greeted by a beautiful, statuesque woman in a tailored red silk muumuu, her hair brushed back and falling to her waist. She greeted me with a smile and two open hands that took mine.

  “Aloha. You must be Kawina.”

  “Yes, Nenehiwa, this is Kawina. Jonas, my wife.”

  Though my hands were still in hers, I made a small bow.

  “Aloha loa nui, wahine nui. I’m honored.”

  “Handsome and well mannered, Jonas. I see why you’re so fond of him. Come outside and join the luau and meet our other guests.”

  His arm still around me, Jonas and I followed Nenehiwa into the garden where a lanai had been erected in honor of the occasion. The other guests were sitting comfortably on pillows and mats around a dais where a man and woman sat, clearly the guests of honor. As soon as I recognized them, I knelt on one knee, my head bowed. There was a sudden pause in the conversation as my obeisance was made.

  “Please, rise, kane,” the king said to me. “Come here and give us your aloha.”

  I did as asked, Jonas’s firm hand on the small of my back holding me steady. The king rose, took my hands in his and touched his nose to mine.

  “This is Kawina, mo’i.”

  “So I see. And I think we must approve of him.”

  Conversation resumed and I was seated next to Jonas where a beer and a plate overflowing with food were brought to me. I ate nervously, looking around at so much finery and beauty. These were the ali’i and I was eating with them, listening to their chatter, wishing I didn’t look so shabby.

  “You look fine,” said Jonas as if reading my mind. “No one expects anyone to dress up. Mo’i himself is dressed in nothing but a malo and a shirt. Nenehiwa is only in her finest because of the occasion.”

  I nodded before looking him straight in the eye and asking:

  “Is it true I’m kapu, kane nui? That’s what they tell me at the fishpond.”

  Jonas leaned close and whispered in my ear: “Only if you want to be, Kawina, only if you want.”

  And then he kissed me.

  No one seemed to take notice of the kiss, least of all Nenehiwa. She was far too busy flirting with the several men seated around her. These were the ali’i, I reminded myself, and traditionally allowed as many spouses and lovers as desired.

 

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