His First Ball - Witi IhimaeraJust why it was that he, Tuta Wharepapa, should receive the invitation was a mystery to him. Indeed, when it came, in an envelope bearing a very imposing crest, his mother mistook it for something entirely different—notice of a traffic misdemeanor, a summons perhaps, or even worse, an overdue account. She fingered it gingerly, holding it as far away from her body as possible—just in case a pair of hands came out to grab her fortnightly check—and said, “Here, Tuta. It must be a bill.” She thrust it quickly at her son before he could get away and, wriggling her fingers to get rid of the taint, waited for him to open it.
“Hey—” Tuta said as he stared down at the card. His face dropped such a long way that his mother—her name was Coral—became alarmed. Visions of pleading in court on his behalf flashed through her mind. “Oh, Tuta, how bad is it?” she said as she prepared to defend her son against all-comers. But Tuta remained speechless and Coral had to grab the card from his hands. “What’s this?” she asked. The card was edged with gold: The Aide-de-Camp in Waiting Is Desired By Their Excellencies “Oh, Tuta, what have you done?” Coral said. But Tuta was still in a state of shock. Then, “Read on, Mum,” he said. To Invite Mr. Tuta Wharepapa To A Dance At Government House Coral’s voice drifted away into speechlessness like her son’s. Then she compressed her lips and jabbed Tuta with an elbow. “I’m tired of your jokes,” she said. “It’s not my joke, Mum,” Tuta responded. “I know you, Tuta,” Coral continued. “True, Mum, honest. One of the boys must be having me on.” Coral looked at Tuta, unconvinced. “Who’d want to have you at their flash party?” she asked. “Just wait till I get the joker who sent this,” Tuta swore to himself. Then Coral began to laugh. “You? Go to Government House? You don’t even know how to bow!” And she laughed and laughed so much at the idea that Tuta couldn’t take it. “Where are you going, Your Highness?” Coral asked. “To find out who sent this,” Tuta replied, waving the offending invitation in her face. “By the time I finish with him—or her”—because he suddenly realized Coral herself might have sent it— “they’ll be laughing on the other side of their face.” With that, he strode out of the kitchen. “Oh, Tuta?” he heard Coral call, all la-di-da, “If you ore gooing pahst Goverment Howse please convay may regahrds to—” and she burst out laughing again. Tuta leapt on to his motorbike and, over the rest of the day, roared around the city calling on his mates from the factory. “It wasn’t me, Tuta,” Crazy-Joe said as he sank a red ball in the billiard saloon, “but I tell you, man, you’ll look great in a suit.” Nor was it Blackjack over at the garage, who said, “But listen, mate, when you go grab some of those Diplo number plates for me, ay?” And neither was it Des, who moonlighted as Desirée Dawn at the strip club, or Sheree, who worked part-time at the pinball parlor. “You couldn’t take a partner, could you?” Desirée Dawn breathed hopefully. “Nah, you wouldn’t be able to fit on my bike,” Tuta said. By the end of the day Tuta was no wiser, and when he arrived at Bigfoot’s house and found his mate waiting for him in a tiara, he knew that word was getting around. Then it came to him that perhaps the invitation was real after all. Gloria Simmons would know—she was the boss’s secretary and knew some lords. “Oh,” Mrs. Simmons whispered reverently as Tuta handed her the crested envelope. She led Tuta into the sitting-room. “It looks real,” she said as she held it to the light. Then she opened the envelope and, incredulous, asked, “You received this?” Tuta nodded. “You didn’t just pick it up on the street,” Mrs. Simmons continued, “and put your name on it?” Offended, Tuta shook his head, saying “You don’t think I want to go, do you?” Mrs. Simmons pursed her lips and said, “Perhaps there’s another Tuta Wharepapa, and you got his invitation in error.” And Mrs. Simmons’s teeth smiled and said, “In that case, let me ring Government House and let them know.” With that, Mrs. Simmons went into another room, where Tuta heard her dialing. Then her voice went all la-di-da too as she trilled, “Ooo, Gahverment Howse? May ay speak to the Aide-de-Camp? Ooo, har do yoo do. So sorry to trouble you but ay am ringing to advayse you—” Tuta rolled his eyes—how come everybody he told about the invitation got infected by some kind of disease! Then he became acutely aware that Mrs. Simmons had stopped talking. He heard her gasp. He heard her say in her own lingo, “You mean to tell me that this is for real? That you people actually sent an invite to a—a—boy who packs batteries in a factory?” She put down the telephone and returned to the sittingroom. She was pale but calm as she said, “Tuta dear, difficult though this may be, can you remember the woman who came to look at the factory about two months ago?” Tuta knitted his eyebrows. “Yeah, I think so. That must have been when we opened the new extension.” Mrs. Simmons closed her eyes. “The woman, Tuta. The woman.” Tuta thought again. “Oh yeah, there was a lady, come to think of it, a horsey-looking lady who—” Mrs. Simmons interrupted him. “Tuta, dear, that lady was the wife of the Governor-General.” Dazed, Tuta said, “But she didn’t say who she was.” And he listened as Mrs. Simmons explained that Mrs. Governor-General had been very impressed by the workers at the factory and that Tuta was being invited to represent them. “Of course you will have to go,” Mrs. Simmons said. “One does not say No to the Crown.” Then Mrs. Simmons got up and telephoned Tuta’s mother. “Coral? Gloria here. Listen, about Tuta, you and I should talk about what is required. What for? Why, when he goes to the ball of course! Now—” Me? Go to a ball? Tuta thought. With all those flash people, all those flash ladies with their crowns and diamonds and emeralds? Not bloody likely—Bigfoot can go, he’s already got a tiara, yeah. Not me. They’ll have to drag me there. I’m not going. Not me. No fear. No WAY. But he knew, when he saw the neighbors waiting for him at home that, of course, his mother had already flapped her mouth to everybody. “Oh yes,” she was telling the neighbors when Tuta walked in, “it was delivered by special messenger. This dirty big black car came and a man, must have been a flunkey, knocked on the door and—” Then Coral saw Tuta and, “Oh Tuta,” she cried, opening her arms to him as if she hadn’t seen him for days. After that, of course, there was no turning back. The boss from the factory called to put the hard word on Tuta. Mrs. Simmons RSVP’d by telephone and— “Just in case, Tuta dear”—by letter and, once that was done, he had to go. The rest of his mates at the factory got into the act, also, cancelling the airline booking he made to get out of town and, from thereon in, followed him everywhere. “Giz a break, fellas,” Tuta pleaded as he tried to get out, cajole or bribe himself out of the predicament. But Crazy-Joe only said, “Lissen, if you don’t get there then I’m—” and he drew a finger across his throat, and Blackjack said, “Hey, man, I know a man who knows a man who can get us a Rolls for the night—” and Bigfoot just handed him the tiara. And boy, did Coral ever turn out to be the walking compendium of What To Do And How To Do It At A Ball. “Gloria says that we have to take you to a tailor so you can hire a suit. Not just any suit and none of your purple numbers either. A black conservative suit. And then we have to get you a bowtie and you have to wear black shoes—so I reckon a paint job on your brown ones will do. You’ve got a white shirt, thank goodness, but we’ll have to get some new socks—calf length so that when you sit down people won’t see your hairy legs. Now, what else? Oh yes, I’ve already made an appointment for you to go to have your hair cut, no buts, Tuta, and the boys are taking you there, so don’t think you’re going to wriggle out of it. By the time that dance comes around we’ll have you decked out like the Prince of Wales—” which was just what Tuta was afraid of. But that was only the beginning. Not only did his appearance have to be radically altered, but his manners had to be brushed up also—and Mrs. Simmons was the first to have a go. “Tuta dear,” she said when he knocked on her door, “Do come in. Yes, take your boots off but on THE NIGHT, the shoes stay on. Please, come this way. No, Tuta, after me, just a few steps behind. Never barge, Tuta and don’t shamble along. Be PROUD, Tuta, be HAUGHTY”—and she showed him how to put his nose in the air. Tuta followed her, his nose so high that he almost tripped, into the dining-room. “Voila!” she said. “Ay?” Tuta answered. Mrs. Simmons then realized that this was going to be very difficult. “I said, ‘Ta ra!’” She had set the table with a beautiful cloth—and it appeared to be laid with thousands of knives, forks and spoons. “This is what it will be like at the ball,” she explained. “Oh boy,” Tuta said. “Now, because I’m a lady you must escort me to my seat,” Mrs. Simmons said. “Huh? Can’t you walk there yourself?” Tuta asked. “Just do it,” Mrs. Simmons responded dangerously, “and don’t push me all the way under the table, Tuta, just to the edge will do—” and then, under her breath “—Patience, Gloria dear, patienza.” Once seated, she motioned Tuta to a chair opposite her. “Gee, thanks,” he said. Mrs. Simmons paused, thoughtfully, and said, “Tuta dear, when in doubt don’t say anything. Just shut your mouth.” She shivered, but really, the boy would only understand common language, “—and keep it shut.” Then she smiled. “Now follow every action that I make.” Exaggerating the movements for Tuta’s benefit, Mrs. Simmons said, “First, take up the spoon. No, not that one, that one. That’s for your soup, that’s for the second course, that’s for the third course, that’s for the fourth—” Tuta looked helplessly at her. “Can’t I use the same knives and things all the time?” he asked. “Never,” Mrs. Simmons shivered. “Well, what’s all these courses for?” Tuta objected. “Why don’t they just stick all the kai on the table at once?” Mrs. Simmons deigned not to answer. Instead she motioned to the glasses, saying, “Now this is for white wine, this for red wine, this for champagne and this for cognac.” Tuta sighed, saying “No beer? Thought as much.” Refusing to hear him, Mrs. Simmons proceeded, “You sip your wine just like you sip the soup. Like so,” and she showed him. “No, Tuta, not too fast. And leave the bowl on the table, don’t put it to your lips. No, don’t slurp. Oh my goodness. Very GOOD, Tuta! Now wipe your lips with the napkin.” Tuta looked puzzled. “Ay?” he asked. “The paper napkin on your lap,” Mrs. Simmons said. “This hanky thing?” Tuta responded. “Why, Tuta!” Mrs. Simmons’s teeth said, “How clever of you to work that out. Shall we proceed to the second course? Good!” Mrs. Simmons felt quite sure that Professor Higgins didn’t have it this bad. Then, of course, there was the matter of learning how to dance—not hot rock but slow dancing, holding a girl, “You know,” Mrs. Simmons said, “together,” adding, “and young ladies at the ball are never allowed to decline.” So Tuta made a date with Desirée Dawn after hours at the club. Desirée was just overwhelmed to be asked for advice and told her friends Alexis Dynamite and Chantelle Derrier to help her. “Lissun, honey,” Desirée said as she cracked her gum. “No matter what the dance is, there’s always a basic rhythm.” Chantelle giggled and said, “Yeah, very basic.” Ignoring her, Desirée hauled Tuta on to the floor, did a few jeté’s and, once she had limbered up, said, “Now you lead,” and “Oo, honey, I didn’t know you were so masterful.” Alexis fluttered her false eyelashes and, “You two don’t need music at all,” she whispered. Nevertheless, Alexis ran the tape and the music boomed across the club floor. “This isn’t ball music,” Tuta said as he heard the raunch scream out of the saxes. “How do you know?” Chantelle responded. And Tuta had the feeling that he wasn’t going to learn how to dance in any way except improperly. “Lissun,” Desirée said, “Alexis and I will show you. Move your butt over here, Lexie. Now, Tuta honey, just watch. Can ya hear the rhythum? Well you go boom and a boom and a boom boom boom.” And Alexis screamed and yelled, “Desirée, he wants to dance with the girl, not make her in the middle of the floor.” And Chantelle only made matters worse by laughing. “Yeah, you stupid slut, you want him to end up in prison like you?” At which Desirée gasped, walked over to Chantelle, peeled off both Chantelle’s false eyelashes, said, “Can you see better? Good,” and lammed her one in the mouth. As he exited, Tuta knew he would have better luck with Sheree at the pinball parlor—she used to be good at roller skating and could even do the splits in mid-air. So it went on. The fitting at the tailor’s was duly accomplished (“Hmmmmnnnn,” the tailor said as he measured Tuta up. “Your shoulders are too wide, your hips too large, you have shorter legs than you should have but—Hmmmmnnnn”), his hair was trimmed to within an inch of propriety, and he painted his brown shoes black. His lessons continued with Mrs. Simmons, Tuta’s mother, the workers from the factory—even the boss—all pitching in to assist Tuta in the etiquette required. For instance: “If you’re talking you ask about the weather. This is called polite conversation. You say ‘Isn’t it lovely?’ to everything, even if it isn’t. You always say ‘Yes’ if you’re offered something, even if you don’t want it. The man with the medals is not the waiter. He is His Excellency. The lady who looks like a horse is not in drag and you should not ask if her tiara fell off the same truck as Bigfoot’s.” Then, suddenly it was time for Tuta to go to the ball. “Yes, Mum,” he said to Coral as she fussed around him with a clothes brush, “I’ve got a hanky, I’ve brushed my teeth three times already, the invite is in my pocket—” And when Tuta stepped out the door the whole world was there—the boss, Mrs. Simmons, CrazyJoe, Blackjack, Bigfoot and others from the factory, Desirée Dawn and the neighbors. “Don’t let us down,” the boss said. “Not too much food on the fork,” Mrs. Simmons instructed. “The third boom is the one that does it,” Desirée Dawn called. “Don’t forget the Diplo plates,” Blackjack whispered. “And don’t drink too much of the beer,” Coral said. Then, there was the car, a Jaguar festooned with white ribbons and two small dolls on the bonnet. “It’s a ball I’m off to,” Tuta said sarcastically, “not a wedding.” Blackjack shrugged his shoulders. “Best I could do, mate, and this beauty was just sitting there outside the church and—” He got in and started the motor. Tuta sat in the back and, suddenly, Bigfoot and Crazy-Joe were in either side. “The boss’s orders,” they said. “We deliver you to the door or else—” Outside, Tuta saw the boss draw a line across their necks. The car drew away and as it did so, Mrs. Simmons gave a small scream. “Oh my goodness, I forgot to tell Tuta that if Nature calls he should not use the bushes,” she said. Looking back, Tuta never quite understood how he ever survived that journey. At one point a police car drew level on the motorway, but when they looked over at the Jaguar and saw Tuta he could just imagine their disbelief, Nah. Couldn’t possibly . . . Nah. His head was whirling with all the etiquette he had learnt and all the instructions he had to remember. He trembled, squirmed, palpitated and sweated all over the seat. Then he was there, and Blackjack was showing the invitation, and the officer at the gate was looking doubtfully at the wedding decorations, and then “Proceed ahead, sir,” the officer said. What a long drive, Tuta thought. What a big palace. And look at all those flash people. And they’re all going in. “Well, mate,” Blackjack said, “Good luck. Look for us in the car park.” And Crazy-Joe said, “Hey, give the missus a whirl for me, ay?” and with that, and a squeal of tires (Blackjack was always such a show-off), they were gone. He was alone. Him. Tuta Wharepapa. Standing there. At the entrance way. Inside he heard music and the laughter of the guests. Then someone grabbed his arm and said, “Come along!” and before he knew it he was inside and being propelled along a long hallway. And the young woman who had grabbed him was suddenly pulled away by her companion, and Tuta was alone again. Oh boy, he thought. Look at this red carpet. He felt quite sure that the paint was running off his shoes and that there were great big black footmarks all the way to where he was now standing. Then a voice BOOMED ahead, and Tuta saw that there was a line of people in front and they were handing their invitations in to the bouncer. Tuta joined them. The bouncer was very old and very dignified—he looked, though, as if he should have been retired from the job years ago. Nah, Tuta thought. He couldn’t be a bouncer. Must be a toff. The toff looked Tuta up and down and thrust out his white-gloved hand. “I got an invitation,” Tuta said. “True. I got one.” The toff read the card and his eyebrows arched. “Your name?” he BOOMED. “Tuta.” Couldn’t he read? Then the toff turned away in the direction of a huge ballroom that stretched right to the end of the world. The room seemed to be hung with hundreds of chandeliers and thousands of people were either dancing or standing around the perimeter. There were steps leading down to the ballroom and, at the bottom, was a man wearing medals and a woman whose tiara wasn’t as sparkly as Bigfoot’s—them. And Tuta felt sure, when the MajorDomo—for that was who the toff was—stepped forward and opened his mouth to announce him, that everybody must have heard him BOOM-- “Your Excellencies, Mr. Tutae Tockypocka.” Tuta looked for a hole to disappear into. He tried to backpedal down the hallway but there were people behind him. “No, you got it wrong,” he said between clenched teeth to the Major-Domo. “Tutae’s a rude word.” But the Major-Domo simply sniffed, handed back the invitation, and motioned Tuta down the stairs. Had they heard? In trembling anticipation Tuta approached the Governor-General. “Mr. Horrynotta?” the Governor-General smiled. “Splendid that you were able to come along. Dear? Here’s Mr. Tutae.” And in front of him was Mrs. Governor-General. “Mr. Forrimoppa, how kind of you to come. May I call you Tutae? Please let me introduce you to Lord Wells.” And Lord Wells, too. “Mr. Mopperuppa, quite a mouthful, what. Not so with Tutae, what?” You don’t know the half of it, Tuta thought gloomily. And then Mrs. Governor-General just had to, didn’t she, giggle and pronounce to all and sundry, “Everybody, you must meet Mr. Tutae.” And that’s who Tuta became all that evening. “Have you met Mr. Tutae yet? No? Mr. Tutae, this is Mr.—”And Tuta would either shake hands or do a stiff little bow and look around for that hole in the floor. He once made an attempt to explain what “tutae” was but heard Mrs. Simmons’s voice: “If in doubt, Tuta, don’t.” So instead he would draw attention away from that word by asking about the weather. “Do you think it will rain?” he would ask. “Oh, not inside, Mr. Tutae!”—and the word got around that Mr. Tutae was such a wit, so funny, so quaint, that he soon found himself exactly where he didn’t want to be— at the center of attention. In desperation, he asked every woman to dance. “Why, certainly, Mr. Tutae!” they said, because ladies never said no. So he danced with them all—a fat lady, a slim lady, a lady whose bones cracked all the time—and, because he was nervous, he went boom at every third step, and that word got around too. And as the Governor-General waltzed past he shouted, “Well done, Tutae, jolly good show.” No matter what he tried to do Tuta could never get away from being at the center of the crowd or at the center of attention. Instead of being gratified, however, Tuta became more embarrassed. Everybody seemed to laugh at his every word, even when it wasn’t funny, or to accept his way of dancing because it was so daring. It seemed as if he could get away with anything. At the same time, Tuta suddenly realized that he was the only Maori there and that perhaps people were mocking him. He wasn’t a real person to them, but rather an Entertainment. Even when buffet dinner was served, the crowd still seemed to mock him, pressing in upon him with “Have some hors-d’oeuvres, Mr. Tutae. Some escalope of veal, perhaps? You must try the pâté de foie gras! A slice of jambon? What about some langouste? Oh, the raspberry gâteau is just divine!” It was as if the crowd knew very well his ignorance of such delicacies and, by referring to them, was putting him down. In desperation Tuta tried some caviar. “Oh, Mr. Tutae, we can see that you just love caviar!” Tuta gave a quiet, almost dangerous, smile. “Yes,” he said. “I think it’s just divine.” So it went on. But then, just after the buffet, a Very Important Person arrived and, relieved, Tuta found himself deserted. Interested, he watched as the one who had just arrived became the center of attention. “It always happens this way,” a voice said behind Tuta. “I wouldn’t worry about it.” Startled, Tuta turned around and saw a huge fern. “Before you,” the fern continued, “it was me.” Then Tuta saw that a young woman was sitting behind the fern. “I’m not worried,” he said to her, “I’m glad.” The woman sniffed and said, “You certainly looked as if you were enjoying it.” Tuta parted the fronds to get a good look at the woman’s face—it was a pleasant face, one which could be pretty if it didn’t frown so much. “Shift over,” Tuta said. “I’m coming to join you.” He sidled around the plant and sat beside her. “My name is—” he began. “Yes, I know,” the woman said quickly, “Mr. Tutae.” Tuta shook his head vigorously, “No, not Tutae. Tuta.” The woman looked at him curiously and, “Is there a difference?” she asked. “You better believe it,” Tuta said. “Oh—” the woman sniffed. “I’m Joyce.” The music started to play again. Joyce squinted her eyes and Tuta sighed, “Why don’t you put on your glasses?” Joyce squealed, “How did you know?” before popping them on and parting the fronds. “I’m a sociology student,” Joyce muttered. “Don’t you think people’s behavior is just amazing? I mean ay- mayzing?” Tuta shrugged his shoulders and wondered if Joyce was looking at something he couldn’t see. “I mean,” Joyce continued, “look at them out there, just look at them. This could be India under the Raj. All this British Imperial graciousness and yet the carpet is being pulled from right beneath their feet.” Puzzled, Tuta tried to see the ball through Joyce’s eyes, but failed. “Ah well,” Joyce sighed. Then she put her hand out to Tuta so that he could shake it, saying “Goodbye, Mr. Tuta.” Tuta looked at her and, “Are you going?” he asked. “Oh no,” Joyce said, “I’m staying here until everybody leaves. But you must go out and reclaim attention.” Tuta laughed. “That new guy’s welcome,” he said. “But don’t you want to fulfil their expectations?” Joyce asked. Tuta paused, and “If that means what I think it means, no,” he said. “Good,” Joyce responded, “You are perfectly capable of beating them at their own game. Good luck.” Then, curious, Tuta asked, “What did you mean when you said that before me it had been you?” Joyce shifted uneasily, took off her glasses and said, “Well, I’m not a Maori, but I thought it would have been obvious—” Oh, Tuta thought, she’s a plain Jane and people have been making fun of her. “But that doesn’t matter to me,” Tuta said gallantly. “Really?” Joyce asked. “I’ll prove it,” Tuta said. “How about having the next dance.” Joyce gasped, “Are you sure?” Taken aback, Tuta said, “Of course, I’m sure.” And Joyce said, “But are you sure you’re sure!” To show her, Tuta stood up and took her hand. Joyce sighed and shook her head. “Well, don’t say I didn’t warn you.” Then she stood up . . . and up . . . and UP. “Oh,” Tuta said as he parted the fronds to look up at Joyce’s face. She must have been six feet six at least. He and Joyce regarded each other miserably. Joyce bit her lip. Well you asked for it, Tuta thought. “Come on,” he said, “let’s have a good time.” He reached up, grabbed her waist, put his face against her chest, and they waltzed into the middle of the floor. There, Tuta stood as high on his toes as possible. Oh, why did I come? he thought. Then the music ended and he took Joyce back to the fern. “I’m sorry I’m such a bad dancer,” she apologized. “I always took the man’s part at school.” Tuta smiled at her, “That’s no sweat. Well—” And he was just about to leave her when he suddenly realized that after all he and Joyce were both outsiders really. And it came to him that, bloody hell, if you could not join them—as if he would really want to do that—then, yes, he could beat them if he wanted to. Not by giving in to them, but by being strong enough to stand up to them. Dance, perhaps, but using his own steps. Listen, also, not to the music of the band but to the music in his head. He owed it, after all, to generous but silly wonderful mixed-up Mum, Mrs. Simmons, Desirée Dawn, and the boys—Crazy-Joe, Blackjack and Bigfoot—who were out there but wanting to know enough to get in. But they needed to come in on their own terms—that’s what they would have to learn—as the real people they were and not as carbon copies of the people already on the inside. Once they learnt that, oh, world, watch out, for your walls will come down in a flash, like Jericho. “Look,” Tuta said, “how about another dance!” Joyce looked at him in disbelief. “You’re a sucker for punishment, aren’t you!” she muttered. “Why?” Tuta bowed, mockingly. “Well, for one thing, it would be just divine.” At that, Joyce let out a peal of laughter. She stood up again. “Thank you,” Joyce whispered. Then, “You know, this is my first ball.” And Tuta smiled and “It’s my first ball too,” he said. “From now on, balls like these will never be the same again.” He took her hand and the band began to wail a sweet but oh-so-mean saxophone solo as he led her on to the floor. From Dear Miss Mansfield by Witi Ihimaera. Copyright ©1989 by Witi Ihimaera. ADDITIONAL INFORMATION BACK TO YEAR 10 |