Just Good Friends by Rosalind James Page A

not?” she asked, confused, stepping down and
checking its surface. “Is it dirty?”
    “Nah. But it’s not done, in Maoritanga. Bums and food don’t
mix, for obvious reasons. And it’s one of those customs that’s crossed over. Bad
form even to lean against a desk here.”
    “Sorry. I didn’t know.” She flushed. “I’ve never heard that.
I hope I haven’t done it too much.”
    “That’s why I thought I should tell you, because you
wouldn’t know. I was shocked, first time I went overseas. I remember seeing a
TV advert, a kid sitting on a kitchen bench. My roomie and I stared at each
other, couldn’t believe it. Sometimes we don’t realize what a small country we
are, how few people share our own customs.”
    “A bench, though? Why would that be bad? Are there special
rules?”
    “Bench. Where you prepare the food. The work surface,” he
explained.
    “Oh. The light dawns. The kitchen counter. Yeah, I can see
if you had a rule about that, sitting on the counter would really be out of
line. Anything else like that I should know? You’re making me paranoid here.”
    “Only one I can think of like that is, don’t sit on a
pillow. Because the head is tapu . Sacred. Same idea. Bums and heads.”
    “Thanks. I’ll remember those.”
    “No worries. Let me take a shower and get changed, and we’ll
go have lunch. There’s a good café here. It’s my shout.”
    “You’re not buying me my whole lunch. We’re just taking
turns on the coffee.”
    “Right, then. We’ll decide it a different way. We’ll do it
proportionally, by income. And what d’you reckon, I’m still buying.”
    She had to laugh. “All right, big spender. My turn next
time, though. I’m hungry enough not to want to spend time arguing about it.”
     
    “You eat pretty well for such a little person,” he observed
after they got their meals, watching her begin to put away a large sandwich.
    “Hummingbird metabolism,” she agreed. “And Italian tastes.
Good combination.”
    “Long as you don’t get fat later.”
    “Never happen. My mom looks just like me. And there’s that
deadly charm again, talking about my getting fat.”
    “I don’t know what it is,” he sighed. “It’s dangerous for me
to start being honest with a woman, maybe. Losing my touch. But that’s your
coloring, eh. Italian.”
    “That’s it. That’s the temper, too,” she grinned. “Southern
Italian. Less than half, but it seems to be enough.”
    “I’m not much more than half Maori myself,” he said. “And I
agree, that’s enough.”
    “That’s what the tattoo is, right? Maori. Which I know
almost nothing about. Will you tell me? We’re fairly sheltered here. I can
block the glare of your beauty from your eager public.”
    He rolled his eyes, but pulled up his sleeve obligingly to
reveal the intricate design that covered his skin like a sleeve from forearm to
shoulder. “It’s a bit like a family tree, you could say. It represents my whakapapa—my
ancestors, genealogy, from the bottom to the top. Here are my parents, my
sisters”—he pointed to his upper arm—“and my own journey, on the shoulder. Everything
on a ta moko has a meaning. Luckily, though, it’s all done with regular inked tattooing
now. It used to be done with chisels, on the face, the buttocks, the thighs.
And it was scarring, not just inking.”
    “Ouch,” Kate winced. “I don’t even want to think about that.”
    “Tell me about your pendant,” she continued, when she could
drag her eyes away from the sculpted muscles of his arm, the curving designs
following their shape. “It has a meaning too, right?”
    “It’s greenstone—pounamu. New Zealand jade. There are different
shapes with different meanings, but you’ll see that most Maori wear them. Mine’s
a Hei Toki—an adze blade. A symbol of strength and control. My uncle gave it to
me when I went away to University, to remind me how to behave, I suppose.”
    “Why’s it all so important? I don’t