of you, though, as I’m interested in protecting you. Why wouldn’t they cancel each other out? And, yeh,” I went on fast, since that had probably been too honest again, and I didn’t want to wait for her to work it out, “I do think a man’s that way. I think he should be. If that’s wrong, I’ll be wrong. Maybe a woman’s protective of a man, too, did you think of that? Reading him, maybe better than he reads himself sometimes. Letting him be weak if he needs to be, since he can’t do it anywhere else but with you, and letting him know he’s safe doing it, because you have faith that he’ll be strong again soon. Isn’t that protection?”
“You’re confusing me,” she said. “I’m sure I don’t agree with you. I’m just not sure how to win.”
I laughed. “We’re even, then. How’s Fruitful? Speaking of protectiveness.”
“Bad strain. Like I thought. She’ll be on crutches for a while.”
“Not broken, anyway. That’s good. And cheers for dinner, by the way. It was awesome. Who cooked the main?”
“Me.” She looked disconcerted again, I thought, like she didn’t want me to know she’d taken care.
“What was in it that made it better?” I asked.
“Dunno. Crushed tomatoes, obviously, and maybe you noticed the parsley oil. Parsley mashed with salt in the olive oil. Gives it sort of a green taste, complements the tomato. It’s simple. Quick, other than the cooking time. Cheap. Lamb shoulder, that’s all, and frozen gnocchi. We had to do something positive, because the rest of our afternoon wasn’t. I thought we’d go clothes shopping. I thought it’d be fun. It wasn’t.”
“Overwhelming?” I suggested.
She shot a quick look at me. “Stop being sensitive. It throws me. Yeh, overwhelming. Too many choices. Too much new. We bought them each a pair of cute trainers, and that’s as far as we got. No worries, we’ll try again today, but that was why we had to come home and cook. Cooking, they know all about.”
“Well, cheers,” I said. “You made me dinner when I’d had a late night. Helped me, eh, especially because if I don’t eat, I get migraines. You could call that protective, if you like. Also, I’m getting the better of this so far. You’re using a place I wasn’t using anyway, and I get dinner.”
“Good,” she said. “We’ll do that, then. Though it’s not a fair trade and you know it. Also, why didn’t you tell me you were famous?”
“I’m not famous,” I said. “I’m a builder.”
“Gray,” she said. “You’re famous. There’s no hiding. There was never going to be any hiding. Anyway, Matiu told me. My friend. The one who’s coming tonight.”
“It was a long time ago. A lifetime ago.”
“And yet you wore your sunglasses in that restaurant. And your baseball hat.”
“Yeh, well, Wanaka. Are we done talking about this? Tell me something else. Tell me about how you arranged to get those girls out. Tell me about Uncle Aaron. Spy story, eh. Tell me that.”
27
Spy Story
Daisy
We ran along the road with the sandstone cliffs and the blue sea below us and the sun rising before us. The tide was high, the sea foamy. I could hear the crash of waves faintly, even up here, like the barely audible low-register rumble of elephants calling in the distance. A storm, out there, maybe, that would sweep in from the sea like a fringed gray curtain, lashing the waves to greater heights, battering the trees. I could watch it happen from the window in the tatami room.
That thought was much too attractive. This wasn’t my home. It wasn’t anything close. It was for a couple weeks, until Fruitful’s ankle healed enough for her to walk without crutches.
Gray was running, I realized, on my outside. The road side. I was sure that was intentional. I tried to be upset by it, and failed. It was like the yurt, like being around him in general. Too comforting to resist.
I said, “My Uncle Aaron is my father’s brother. Not my mum’s. My mum came from India. A spiritual journey, you could call it, because she found what she wanted and stayed. No relations here.”
I still missed her. I was dead to her, but I missed her.
“How about your father’s parents?” Gray asked.
“My Grandad is the Prophet’s brother.”
“Oh,” Gray said. “I see.”
“Yeh. Well. Uncle Aaron is different. Quiet, but he … goes his own way. Lets the stuff he doesn’t agree with wash over him, I think, and focuses on what he likes.