It began with a rolled-up newspaper, which she found in the bus on her way to work.

The canvas covering of the bus windows flapped noisily, sending in tiny sprays of cold rain.  Maria Rose pulled her jacket tighter around her slim frame and shivered in the damp and dreary bus.  As it swerved into the Suva bus-stand her eyes fell upon a rolled-up newspaper stuffed between her seat and the window.  Picking it up, she noticed that it was a week old.  She leafed through it and in the ‘Lifestyle’ section she saw an article on the wife of a senator.  This woman was a client of hers so she pushed it hurriedly into her bag with the intention of reading it at morning tea break.

Her morning at work was very busy, unlike the previous weeks, so she did not have much time to brood.  By morning tea-time she had sold a total of $120 worth of second-hand clothes.  While sipping her coffee she took out the newspaper and through through Wainikiti Waqa’s chatty article, Miliakere Tarau.  Finishing that, she browsed through the rest of the paper and was about to cast it onto the nearby pile of old papers, when a list of names on page 26 caught her attention.  It was a list of names of soldiers who had left for Lebanon.  She decided to try writing to one of them - any one - and see what would happen.  That, she thought might ease her loneliness a bit.

She made a further sale of $105 that day and Ranadi, the lady who managed the St Vincent de Paul shop at Oznam House on Raojibhai Patel Street was pleased with her work that day.  The young ladies from WESTPAC and the National Bank were also thrilled with the clothes that Maria had selected for them.  The senator’s wife had also called her that morning to ask for some big, loose tops and tights.  She explained that she was into aerobics and had no appropriate garments.  Maria promised her that she would look out for those clothes.  Her final customers, two young waitresses who also frequented the shop were debating over which pairs of jeans fitted them best.  Maria walked over, “Aliti, just turn around.  Oh no, it’s a bit too tight.  Why don’t you try these black ones?”  Maria said to the taller of the two.

“How about this, Maria?”  asked Talica turning around so that Maria could see her.
“Yes, that looks good, Talica.  It really suits you And that’s better, Aliti”, she said turning to admire Aliti in the black denim jeans.

After dinner that evening she borrowed a pen and some paper from her younger brother and took out the newspaper.  Placing the list before her, she decided to have some fun.  With her eyes shut tight, she counted to twenty, at the same time running her index finger down the list and up again until she finished counting.  Then she opened her eyes to see that she had stopped at soldier number 9 by the name of Private M. Prasad.

On her way to catch her bus the next morning, she dropped her letter in the mail box.

Her life then continued on its same uneventful course.  The other two sales girls, Sereana and Vaseva had boyfriends and were always talking about what they did the night before and all the fun they were having.  They tried to get Maria to date Apolosi, Sereana’s ‘cute’ brother who had just been deported from New Zealand, but it didn’t work out.  And since she just couldn’t bring herself to find her own boyfriend after Thomas’s treatment, she remained without one ...  Well, until the mysterious letter from Lebanon.

At first she wondered, “Who on earth would know me in Lebanon?”  as she turned the letter over.  But the name on the back flap looked familiar.
“Oh my goodness!  It’s the name in the newspaper.” She locked the door of her bedroom which she shared with her two younger sisters and with feverish fingers tore it open.  Slowly she read through the two page reply.

He thanked her for the surprise but very much appreciated her letter and the welcome news of ‘home’.  Since she was the first person to write to him, he said, he felt that she was already special to him and he sounded enthusiastic about keeping in touch.  His personal details also encouraged her to continue writing to him.  He was 24 years of age, unmarried and was of Indian and Fijian parentage.  His family were cane farmers in Seaqaqa and he was the youngest of the five Prasad boys.

When she sat down that evening to reply, she took out her new Parker Pen and delicately designed writing pad.  Ink flowed onto the lavender pages as she wrote of all the interesting things that were happening around her.  Somehow, she felt, she could let go of some of the loneliness that had hung over her the past few weeks and that it would be all right with him.  She then carefully folded the four sheets, sealed the envelope and went to bed, contented.

The letters flowed between the newly found friends and as contact became frequent, the contents became more personal.  As days and weeks passed and many letters in between, Maria’s interest in the Middle East heightened.  Coupled with her new found happiness was an underlying anxiety.  Soldiers had been killed in Lebanon and she was afraid.  But it was her happiness that shone through.

Sereana and Vaseva wondered about her.  One morning as she was wrapping neat parcels for her teacher-friend from Marist Brothers High School, Sereana said with a mischievous twinkle in her eyes, “Maria Rose who is he?”
“Who?”  returned Maria, without looking up.
“You look different, somehow, you know - so it must be a man.”
“No man, Sereana, just sleeping at the right time, eating the right ...”
“Maria, you are bluffing and it shows.  C’mon, it shows.  Who is responsible for the glow?” cut in Sereana.

Maria wasn’t willing to share her secret with anyone and so directed Sereana’s attention to several customers who were standing by with their choice of clothes.

“I’m going to find out, you wait and see.”

Later, Maria wondered whether her feelings were so transparent.  If they were, well, she couldn’t do much about them, especially when Michael said in his last letter that his contingent was returning in two months time!

At night she would lie in bed and try to picture Michael.  Through his letters she had come to visualise a strong and caring young man.  He sounded like someone who wanted to live a good life and achieve his aims.  Honesty and kindness rang in his words.  Never had she felt more certain about bringing the right man home to meet her family.  They would also see what she felt so sure of, deep down.  The kind of sentiment that her old grandma used to speak of when she said, “I can feel it in my bones.”

She wondered about him too, and what he thought of her.  As she thought about this late into the night, she knew that everything would be all right.  As long as she just remained Maria Rose, the girl who sells second-hand clothes.  She recalled how her friends used to tell her to get get a better job.  Vaseva and Sereana had often commented on her beauty, saying that she should try a more glamorous job.

“Maria, you should be an air hostess or something, not selling old clothes,” Sereana remarked to her one day.
“Why?” returned Maria as she swiftly sorted through a new bale of clothes.
“Because, you are tall, pretty, nice manners and um ...
“Aw come off it Sereana.  I love this job, so stop chasing me away, okay.”
“Michael,” she thought to herself, “I hope you’ll be happy when we do meet.”

For Maria, July seemed so far away.  On her calendar , she crossed out firmly the days of June .  Each day when she would return from work, she’d climb onto her bed and put a pen through the date on her calendar and count the remaining days.

It was mid-June, however, when the accident happened.  Stunned, Maria watched disbelievingly as Mere Lomaloma solemnly announced that a group of soldiers of ‘B’ Company stationed at Naqourah had been seriously injured in a bombing incident.  Among the names released was Private Michael Prasad.

Sleepless nights followed this terrible news.  She would stare wide-eyed in the darkness of her room, picturing Michael and other soldiers lying helpless against bullet-drilled walls of shelled out buildings.  She wondered painfully how such things could happen in the biblical land of milk and honey.

Her fears and anxiety gave vent to hours of hard work.  She worked through tea breaks and lunch breaks, marking newly opened bales and calling customers who were always amazed at her ability to keep aside clothes that suited them.

Then July came and with it, the much desired letter from Michael.  She read through his letter over and over again, crying and laughing in the knowing that she now had nothing to fear.  She could barely sleep, but this time for different reasons.  He was okay he said, was going to be home in two weeks time, and he was dying to see his “Rose who sold second-hand clothes”.  Maria smiled as she re-read the special parts of his letter in her mind.

In their final letters to each other before his return, they agreed they would meet in Sukuna Park.  Going to the airport, Maria felt, was fitting only for family, and besides it would be too public.  At Sukuna Park other couples would be there and no one would take any notice of them.  As for recognising each other, Michael suggested a dress code.  She would wear his favourite colour, blue, and he would wear a dark blue golf-shirt and black jeans.  To distinguish themselves from other people, they would both hold a rolled-up newspaper.

On the Friday that they were to meet, Maria took her new suit with her to work.  She dressed with care but could only just contain her excitement.  Her dark blue silk shirt was tucked into a matching blue pleated skirt which rose just above her knees.  As she left the shop, she had to prevent herself from running for the nearest taxi.  Her friends gazed at her open-mouthed as she walked up Raojibhai Patel Street.  She turned back and waved to them with her rolled-up newspaper.

Under the huge ‘Baka’ tree closest to the Y cafe, she sat on the concrete seat and waited.  Her heart palpitated each time she saw someone in dark blue golf-shirt, or in black jeans or just holding a newspaper.  It would settle again when she saw that whoever it was, did not have all three.  Just as her watch signaled four o’clock, she saw a man coming toward her.  He was wearing black jeans and had a dark blue golf-shirt and in his hand he was holding what looked like a rolled-up newspaper.  Without hesitation she reached into her bag and pulled out her rolled-up newspaper, and she saw that he was smiling.  As he came closer, she saw that he was actually holding a rolled-up magazine of some sort.  And he was of medium height and looked older than she had imagined.  He seemed to know her.

“You must be Maria,” he said as he came up to her.  She nodded and tried to smile, but disappointment was already stealing over her.
“Come with me”, he said adding as an afterthought, “please, you have to trust me.”

There was something in the tone of his voice that compelled her to follow him.  He took her into the cafeteria and guided her to a table in the far corner.  As Maria followed him and her eyes slowly adjusted to the dimly lit room, she saw a tall young man, with soldier-cut hair in a dark blue golf-shirt.  As he struggled to get to his feet with the aid of a crutch, she became aware that he was wearing black jeans and in his free hand he held a rolled-up newspaper.

Susan Sela