Becky Manawatu does it again

Every now and again, a book comes along that is so good, it’s hard to describe without resorting to cheesy clichés. Auē by Becky Manawatu was that book for me – and, given its critical and commercial success, I know I’m hardly the only person to feel that way. It was brave and full of heart, and – as a wannabe novelist myself at the time – hugely inspirational to read a book by another wahine Māori that expertly wove tikanga mō Te Reo Māori throughout the narrative in a seamless way. I encouraged everyone I knew to read it, even my colleague who didn’t read anything except racy bodice-rippers, and probably only agreed to make me go away. But they all loved it too, even the colleague, who came into work one day, swore at me for breaking her heart, then thanked me for pestering her into reading it. Auē, we can all agree, was that sort of book.
Finding out about Manawatu’s next book triggered mixed feelings. The idea of finally seeing what the Kai Tahu author would write next was exciting, but underneath that still sat the shadow of a worry: what if I didn’t like it as much, and that somehow changed how I viewed Auē? We’ve all been there before: the book by a much-loved author that doesn’t capture the same magic as whatever you read before, or is lame or boring or gives the reader the distinct impression the author is pumping out books to a formula. But my fears were completely unfounded. Kataraina isn’t a lame follow-up at all. It’s been over a week since I finished it and now it’s settled in my mind, I can confidently say it moved me every bit as much as Auē.
Kataraina is the story of Kat, Ārama’s aunt from Auē. As noted on Kataraina’s blub, Kat’s voice was silenced by abuse in Auē, and Kataraina represents its reclamation. And the book does this incredibly well, in part due to Manawatu’s beautiful prose and mindful pacing. The book follows Kat through various parts of her life: her childhood, her relationship with the abusive douchebag Stu, through snapshots of her experiences with her siblings and mother and nan. These moments aren’t presented in order, but are told so skillfully that nothing about it feels accidental. Against this sits another story, one of a woman and a swamp, that occurs both long ago and in the present. This woman is Kat’s ancestor, and has an important association with the swap Kat loves – the very same swamp that is an integral part of Kat and Stu’s story.
This storyline might be described as having hints of magic realism had Kataraina been in a different sort of book. But here it merely embodies the whakataukī, “Kia whakatōmuri, te haere whakamua”: going forward while looking backwards. It captures the concept of how, in Te Ao Māori, time is not a linear construct. This is also echoed in other parts of the book. “Some of us were not born when this began,” one chapter set four years before the shooting reads, “but our ‘we’ has no beginning, will not end.” It’s a timely reminder that we are in a moment in New Zealand’s literary landscape where Te Ao Māori concepts need not be presented like some quaint and amusing oddity to have broad appeal.
A small note: before starting Kataraina, it’s worth refreshing yourself on the plot of Auē. As much as I’d loved Auē, it was still over four years ago that I’d read it, and there were plenty of details that had slipped from my mind. Rereading Auē made Kataraina even better, as it brought beauty and depth to Kat’s story. Kataraina doesn’t feel like a sequel of Auē in the traditional sense, and the idea of it being a mere spinoff seems to cheapen it somewhat – it’s not quite that, either.
Kataraina is less plot-driven than Auē, but has more structural and narrative depth. The two books are intrinsically intertwined in a way that strengthens them both.
In Kataraina, as with Auē before it, Manawatu displays a real knack of turning fictional characters into three-dimensional beings. This is true for all of the characters that form part of Kat’s story, as well as Kat herself. A person is the sum of their experiences, and Kat’s past has dictated her present due to an inability to break the cycle of being poorly treated by men. She is a victim, but also shows a deeply subversive streak as she fights back in the small ways that she is able. She spits in Stu’s sandwiches; she reacts sarcastically to Stu telling her to wind down her window when ordering drive-thru; she gets involved with the neighbour. Watching Kat exercise the tiny amount of agency she has adds depth to her character.
Even in Stu we see glimmers of vulnerability – he knows he is not a good man, and wants to be better, at least in the abstract. “I don’t want to be shot,” he tells Kat. But he remains an abusive douchebag and ultimately cannot save his own life. This can leave the reader feeling sorry for him. While having pity for such a man isn’t particularly comfortable, it demonstrates Manawatu’s skilful telling of the story in a way that avoids the goodies and baddies trope.
Another character in the book is the swamp itself, which links the past to the present in a way only the whenua can. The descriptions of the swamp feel both real and respectful, in particular the mentioning of plants. At the back of the book are some suggestions for further reading about the plants of Kai Tahu as well as the wetlands, underlining Manawatu’s love of the land that is evident in the book.
But the thing that takes Kataraina from being a very good book to something unique and special is, in large part, due to its brave, unflinching story of what Kat endures. Men committing violence against women is not a new phenomena, especially men hurting the women they are in intimate relationships with. Yet this is still something that is extremely difficult to confront in a way that actually helps the survivors of such abuse. And it is all too easy to look the other way – like Kat’s Mum, Colleen, who sees Stu filling their freezer with pig as evidence of him being a good man, as if goodness and badness are as simple case of either/or rather than a spectrum, laden with nuance.
One of the most poignant parts of the book for me was Colleen’s mental ticker of excuses for Stu’s behaviour, and how she “manufactured trust” in him by reciting certain facts about his actions and character because “she needed him to be a good man.” Even when trying to help, too many of us might also be like the character Pare, who tries to assist Kat, but is not able to do so. This sits heavily on her. “I should have tried harder to find you,” Pare later says to Kat. “I should have come for you.” But she couldn’t – Kat had pushed her away, a safety mechanism too often employed by victims of abuse, especially if the abuser has managed to disconnect the victim from their support structures.
We might self-mythologise about being the saviour of a loved-one in Kat’s situation, but lying within Kataraina is an important reminder: we might just as easily be like Colleen and Pare. Kataraina gets under the hood of the culture of domestic violence, and lays it bare. This is all achieved with an ethereal vibe that seems like it ought to be incongruous with what Kat endures, but still works very well. It’s this vibe that also stops the book from too heavy to bear. And I sincerely hope this book finds its way into the hands of people who need to read it to understand that they are not alone – both the victims of abuse, and those in their immediate orbit.

 
Kataraina by Becky Manawatu (Mākaro Press, $37), the sequel to her celebrated debut novel Auē, is available in bookstores nationwide. ReadingRoom is devoting all week to coverage of this new novel. Monday: an opening chapter. Tomorrow: the second of three reviews.