a short story by Robert Michael O'Brien

Fetuli's puppy died tonight. It was a large though singular tragedy that was, among other things, to restore life's reality, waking me from what had been seventeen months of near paradise, adrift on an ocean of pain forgot.

I'd spent the day in the village of Angahä where I'd been working with the local primary school teachers, training them in new teaching methods, not the least of which is the abandonment of the rampant use of corporal punishment against innocent, if undisciplined and unruly, students. My job takes me all over the island of 'Eua, where I work to upgrade the level of education in each of its schools.

On this late afternoon, I was returning from Angahä, riding a very cramped and decaying bus over 'Eua's one road. With each meter traversed by the bus my spine received a jolt as the suspensionless bus bounced into one hole after another on the unpaved coral stone road. I sat smiling, looking at the window at 'Eua's scenery which to me is a perfection of opposing emotion. The field, trees, meadows, and hills are a kaleidoscope of psychedelic greens: each hue markedly distinct, individual, and independent. Without the slightest effort you become lost in this Eden of living green, emerging only long enough to be overwhelmed by its contrast to the deep blue of a sky unmarked, save by the occasional passage of clustered cottony clouds, white as virgin snow. The bus or my bicycle, myself, and my thoughts roll over this scenery day after day, only sometimes taking note of the tumbledown shacks, the dirty naked children, and the half-starved dogs and livestock that dot the landscape in the pockets of mud that line the road.

The sight of this poverty at one time used to unnerve me. But with time and experience came the knowledge of a Tongan people near unanimously well fed, meticulously clean, of abundant good cheer and unrivalled friendliness, a people of totally accepting of and at home in their environment. In time a sort of filter had grown over my eyes, changing the way I perceived poverty. In most cases the village environment, though sometimes appearing primitive and unlivable to the "pälangi," is neither. To be sure there are some circumstances that are both unhealthy and unpleasant to the eye, but the Tongans too are aware of these and not unmindful of the necessity for change. With that knowledge I found myself in my travels more able to concentrate mainly on the abundance of natural beauty.

So on this late afternoon, my thoughts confined themselves only to the unlabelled feeding of my own happiness. I stepped off the bus after a good day of work awash in the greens and blue and white of the 'Eua landscape. A cool fresh breeze striking my face, I stepped over the gate of a haphazardly assembled fence unsuited to its task of keeping livestock out of the compound of the "old" high school where I live. I walked down the broken path, stepping carefully to avoid the upraised stones, loose rock, and deep holes. The hundred yards from the road to my house is covered by a large field of randomly and infrequently cut grass marred by immense wallows of mud made by the pigs that the fence is "designed" to keep out.

As I approached my house, I began to hear the steady pounding of hammer against nail. I know that would be Fetuli working on the fence he'd begun yesterday. After a few more steps, I could see him at work. Fetuli is a twenty-two year old Tongan man, recently graduated from the Teacher Training College, and in his first year of teaching. By Tongan standards, he is perhaps considered skinny, but to me he is a tall and powerful man, above six feet, weighing probably two hundred pounds. His back was to me as I bent to pat his puppy, Neal, who'd run out to greet me. As I patted the dog, I watched Tuli work. He was barechested and barefoot, wearing only a lavalava, a piece of cloth which covers from the waist to below the knees. As he worked, I could see the network of his well-defined and tightly-packed muscles moving easily beneath his light brown skin. I found it hard to believe that the Tongans consider him skinny.

At my feet Neal had rolled over onto his back awaiting his much-deserved, so he thought, belly rub. I gave him an obligatory stroke or two, then shouted my greeting to Fetuli, who'd yet to notice my arrival. "Mälö e langa 'ä," I yelled. (Thanks for building your fence.) Tongans have a strange system of greetings. The conventional greeting is "Mälö e lelei," or "Thanks for your being good." The Tongans use this construction as an opportunity to endlessly customize their greetings to whatever the situation may be. If you see someone hoeing his garden, you can say, "Mälö e huo" ("Thanks for hoeing"). If you see someone sweeping their yard, it's "Mälö e tafi" ("Thanks for sweeping"). I still find this wonderfully eccentric and use it to my endless amusement: "Hey, Tuli! Mälö e tangutu lalo" ("Thanks for sitting down") or "Hey, Fetuli! Mälö e fohi siaine" ("Thanks for peeling the banana").

"Mälö e langa 'ä," I said again as I walked over to greet him. Tuli turned and offered his characteristic smile which show him to be a man of gentleness through and through. "'Io," he answered in response, which is quite simply "yes." We talked a short while, and then I, feeling inspired by his hard work and ashamed of the condition of my yard, continued on to my house next door. I changed my clothes and began to cut my grass. No lawn mower for me, nor for most Tongans; I whacked away at the considerable growth with my bush knife.

My work soon finished, and totally exhausted, I walked over to rescue Tuli from his own continuing labors. We sat on the grass in the shade of his outhouse, just outside the backyard area that was rapidly being enclosed by fencing. Around us lay the bits of assembled post and rotting planks he'd gathered for the task. All of our "neighborhood's" baby animals were playing around us, winding their ways through the scattered fence junk and fighting for their turns to sit on our laps. Nasi's two puppies, Rough and A.A., were there as were both Neal and Neal. The second Neal was my cat, after whom Tuli had named his puppy.

Fetuli works at the school on whose grounds we both live. With Tuli live two boys who study there, Toni and Tevita. Although both boys' real homes are in the same village, it was their parents' belief that staying with Tuli would be a good influence on them. I find it high praise indeed for a man so young to have such great respect in his village. Although he would prefer to live alone, Fetuli took on the responsibility with few regrets.

One of the benefits of having children in your house is that you can have them run errands for you. After talking for a short while, Fetuli sent Toni to get water in preparation for dinner. Toni left immediately, as Tongan children are prone to be frighteningly obedient, and the puppy, Neal, soon followed him. Poor Toni didn't know that Neal had followed nor did Fetuli or myself. The puppy had been on my lap when Toni left; I was, of course, rubbing his belly. (Neal's favorite thing was to have his belly rubbed. He was crazy for it, addicted. Whenever I sat on the ground or floor, a constancy here in the absence of chairs, Neal would hop on my lap, appearing from nowhere, roll over and wait confidently expectant of the bellyrub.) At some point Neal had rolled to the ground and wandered off. He'd never gone far and neither Tuli nor I gave it a second thought.

The water that Fetuli and Toni needed was in a cement rainwater tank (known here as a "sima") about two hundred yards distant. About halfway between our houses and the sima is the very traffic-free road. There is seldom a car or truck to be seen. Toni returned too quickly, his water jug still empty and his face stricken. He spoke from the other side of the yet-to-be-completed fence, "Mate 'a Neal. Mate 'a e kulï" ("Neal is dead. The dog is dead."). His voice was quiet, fearful, and sad. "Na'e ha'u 'a e me'alele." ("A vehicle came.") His voice was a gabble of suppressed tears.

A few heartbeats clicked by or else were skipped entirely, before Fetuli told him to return to the road and bring Neal back. Toni went off immediately and returned a few minutes later. I could hear him on the other side of a different fence, the one that separates the school grounds from the lands behind our houses. Soon I saw him moving through the spaces in the trees and brush along the fence. In his hand, which hung straight and stiff to his side was a dark shape, which I know was Neal. "Fie sio 'a Neal" ("I want to see Neal"), Fetuli ordered the boy, though his tone was soft with dread. Obediently, haltingly, Toni held up his arm, revealing that dark shape above the low fence. It wasn't pretty. The boy held Neal by the tail. His body hung limp, his haunches appeared starved, the bones sharp, pointed, and distinct beneatht he soft, thin, light gray fur. His often-rubbed belly, the source of all his delight and comfort, was torn open, and his innards hung in plain sight below a ragged gaping wound; a good eight to ten inches were exposed.

Fetuli's face was visibly effected by this sight, as was mine, I'm sure. Toni looked awful. We'd all really come to love that dog. We'd come to think of the two Neals as our common pets. "Li ki vao!" exploded Tuli, his voice choked by anger and despair; then, "Mama'o," this much more quietly. ("Throw him into the bush! ---Far away.").

Before returned, Fetuli told me that if I hadn't been there he'd have beaten the boy with a stick. "A large one," he'd said. He was angry that Toni had allowed the dog into the road. I spoke softly and explained that it wasn't the boy's fault. I further told him that the road is so rarely used that I wouldn't have thought it dangerous. I explained that Toni may not have even known that Neal had followed. Fetuli softened immediately. He is a very gentle and quiet man. I would not have thought that violence could exist within him. He said, "That's the difference between the pälangi people and the Tongan."

"What's that?" I asked.

"The Tongan is quick to hit. That is how we grow up, and that is how we react." Though Tuli's English is quite good, his sentences and phrases are divide by long silences as he searches his mind for the proper words. This, combined with his Tongan softness of expression, makes his dialogue sound like the discourse of an Asian mystic. "If the boy does not do right … we get a stick … If you were not here, I would get a stick … I would beat Toni … maybe five times." He meant, I assumed, that if I had not been there, he would have hit Toni; the anger and desire for hitting, I was confident, had passed.

I told him that I didn't think children should be hit under any circumstances and repeated quickly, "Toni may not have even known that Neal had followed."

"What if he did?" Tuli spat. His words, combining curiosity with venom, took me by surprise. I hesitated.

"If he did? Then he made a mistake. It is not a mistake he will make again." Then I said again that I would not have thought the road would be dangerous.

A strange calm came quickly over him, and I could see from his eyes and the rapidly changing look on his face that he was weighing, considering, and evaluating my words against his own thoughts. The time that passed could not have been more than a few seconds. Then in a voice that was appreciative, thoughtful, and somehow tinged with quiet shame, he said a remarkable thing, remarkable to me because of the rapidity with which it showed one of his fundamental views to have changed. "Thank you," he said simply. "I learned something today."

At that Toni returned form his gruesome task. He looked pained. Fetuli asked, "Fëfë mate 'a e kuli? Ko e hä me'a hoko?" ("How did the dog die? What happened?") Toni said he was already across the road before he knew that Neal had come along. When first he noticed, Neal was already in the road, and it was too late. Tuli asked him to go in the house.

It was now dinnertime, and we both had to go. I asked Fetuli not to punish the boy at all. I was reasonably sure now that a beating was no longer planned, but I thought that Toni needed sympathy now, not undeserved punishment of any kind. Tuli's response to this was a wordless pensive stare. I said my goodbyes and returned to my house in the twilight of another perfect 'Eua sunset.

A few hours later, after I'd eaten my dinner, Fetuli came to my house. "Fëfë Toni?" I asked. ("How's Toni?") I wanted to know if he'd been hit or punished, but also wanted to know how he was feeling.

"Sai pë" ("Fine"), he answered. "I did not hit him. I thought about what you said. I learned a lot today," he repeated. "When you left, we sat on the floor." (We were both now seated on my floor, and Fetuli gestured to the place next to him.) "He sat here. He had his back to me. Then I could see the beginning of tears. I could see he was crying. 'Why you crying?' I asked him. He said because it's his fault. I said, 'No. It's okay.' Then we both went to the night school together."

"I thought about what we talked about," he continued. "It made me think. We Tongans hit because we grow up that way. We do not think about it. It is like a part of us, inside. I thought about corporal punishment. And I think we only do it for ourselves. To make us feel better. It will no teach the child. We only do it for us. To make us feel better inside. It does not help the child."

I listened to all this, almost uncomprehending. I could not believe the speed with which he was able to totally reevaluate a behavior that he'd claimed to be a part of himself and every Tonga. We'd been separated by the space of only two and half hours, two hours of which he'd spent teaching night school. A total reevaluation of a deeply fundamental belief and a clear and cogent expression of his new view were all formulated in the span of two and a half hours. I was still reeling when he finished. "Thank you," he said. "Thank you for talking to me."

There wasn't much I could say in the face of all that. "You're welcome," I answered. We sat looking dumbly at each other for what seemed like hours, but was probably a matter of five or ten seconds. Then we both smiled.

During Fetuli's short but dramatic speech, I sensed a distance between us. The distance of formality that had been dissolved by our friendship had returned, and it made me uneasy. We were both feeling strange and awkward until that wordless smile returned us to ourselves. We talked now less formally and with less heavy heartedness at the loss of the puppy. We were just two friends again talking about nothing, working desperately to change the subject.

Trying to get back to the trivial, I mentioned how much I liked his shirt. I wanted to know where he got it. I'm not much for shopping, but I did want to get at least one crazy-looking South Pacific shirt before I returned to America. This shirt was blue and white with all kinds of geometric, curvilinear patterns all over it. Tuli told me that he had another one that was the same, but the patterns were in black and white.

Then I panicked. I suddenly remembered something I'd promised never to forget: Tongans are liable to give you anything you compliment. Fetuli knew I'd been in Tonga for almost one and a half years. He would know that I was aware of this custom. I was afraid he would know that I was aware of this customer. I was afraid he would think that I was trying to get his shirt. I became anxious and embarrassed in a way only those familiar to cross-cultural situations can truly understand. I was working myself into a tizzy over something I knew could very well have been of no consequence whatever. It is an odd and uncomfortable feeling, which is usually amusing in the aftermath. But not then -- right then I was groping awkwardly for a way out.

Fetuli, of course, immediately told me where he bought the shirt, but added that he had bought the last two. ("Here it comes," I thought. "Oh, my God!") "You may have the black and white one," he said. I laughed a small anxious laugh, my face, I'm sure, beet red.

"Why do you laugh?" he asked.

"Because I forgot that if you compliment a Tonga's property, he'll often give it to you, and I didn't want you to think that was why I said I liked your shirt." I was babbling. He looked at me in thoughtful confusion. "Do you understand?" I asked. His mouth began to move, forming words that never came out. He began to smile the same anxious smile that I was sporting.

"No," he said finally, a little giddy in his low-level anxiety. We both knew something strange was going on, but we both so misunderstood each other's respective worlds that we had no idea what exactly it was. (We still don't, and more than likely never will.)

"I know that Tongans sometimes give things if you say you like them," I tried to explain, my nervous smile growing.

"Yes," he agreed, still not knowing what I was getting at.

"I don't want you to think that was my reason for saying I liked it." Now he smiled broadly, more amused than confused by my obvious discomfort.

"That is the difference between the pälangi and the Tongan culture," he said.

"Yes," I agreed, not really knowing what that difference was.

"Don’t worry. Don't worry.," he reassured me. "I know that there are some people --Tongans--who will say, 'I like that.' People who you do not know very well. We Tongans, too, have different kinds of relationships. I know these people only hope I will give them this thing. No, we don't always give it. Don't worry. Don't worry." Then there was a long awkward pause as he studied my face, my eyes. "What's wrong?" he asked.

"I'm embarrassed," I answered. Although he was reassuring me that he felt close enough to me to give me the shirt, I was not at all sure he understood that, unlike the Tongan people he'd just talked about, I had not been asking for it. And this, after all, was the reason for my discomfort.

"That's the difference between the pälangi and Tongan."

Foolishly, I continued to try to make him understand a distinction which, to him, was of absolutely no importance. "In America when you tell someone you like his shirt, he just says, 'Thank you very much.' It doesn't mean you want his shirt. I don't want you to think that I was trying to get your shirt." To him this must have sounded like the rambling of an idiot.

"Don’t worry, Don’t worry." Now he was both amused and more than a little exasperated. "Sometimes we too only say, 'Thank you.' It's not the same with us. We're friends." I still don't think he was aware of the reason for my uneasiness, and if he was, he surely would not have understood it. He'd have thought me crazier still. In Tonga there's nothing unusual or improper about a friend asking his friend for a shirt, or anything else.

I should have realized that he was trying to repay me for what he'd perceived as my good advice. He was trying to find a way to thank me for our earlier talk, and I was making things very difficult. I knew that Tuli had but few shirts and was trying to find a polite way to let him keep it. I was grasping at straws and failing miserably. I explained that it would be too big for me, that I'd find one like it in my own size.

"Of course it will be too big," he answered, his patience stretched to breaking. "I'm taller. Maybe the sleeves will be too long. Wear it at home or when you sleep."

None of my poor excuses held any water, and in my effort to be polite, I was beginning to insult him. It was as though he needed me to have the shirt, and he couldn't understand why I didn't want to take it.

I changed the subject by cutting a watermelon. We ate half of it ourselves, and I offered him the other half to take home for Toni and Tevita. Resigned, he took the melon and said goodnight. Minutes, nay, seconds later he returned, "my" shirt in hand, grinning broadly. Defeated, I answered his grin with one of my own and accepted the gift with my thanks. I will wear it proudly.

Finally triumphant, Fetuli stepped out of my door and into the darkness, a benevolent soul and my instructor in the simple ways of friendship. I shouted my Tongan Farewell, though he'd long since dissolved into the comforting blackness of night, "Tuli ë!"

"'Iooooo ….!" Came the drawn-out and delicate response which echoed across the compound, stitching itself into the very fabric of my heart.

Neal, the puppy, is dead. In some small way, his life and death, like the skewered and crucified martyr of many centuries past, revealed for us a world that is at once all gentleness and violence, a concert of friendship and laughter and, in ignorance, a skeletal process of tears. The simple love and friendship offered unconditionally in life and raw and brutal horror of his undeserved death opened two sets of eyes to a world larger than their own experience. My own Neal now lies fast asleep upon my evening lap, his gentle purring vibrating throughout my body, massaging my world with his sleepy trust, his perfect ease and tender grace.

Goodnight and rest well, Neal. Wherever you are.

©1997 Michael O'Brien
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