Here Come the Dogs (19 page)

23

A shear of sunlight comes through the window, caroms off a mirror and falls onto Solomon's skin. Scarlett puts her hand on his shoulder and feels a shock of heat and sweat. He doesn't move. Outside, a kid wheels by on a bike, crushing the scattered casuarina seeds and plums on the pavement. The day is already white hot. A man across the street is buffing a full-colour graff piece. A labyrinth of interwoven pastel letters. Each roll of paint erases them. A woman is hosing down the driveway of her new house, despite the water restrictions. Scarlett switches on her laptop and puts on the acoustic version of ‘You Know Who You Are' by Oddisee. She turns it down low.

Pinned biro sketches and photographs, built up over a few years. She peels a sketch back and it reveals two old Polaroid photographs, which she unpins. They're both of a young Maori man with dreadlocks. In the first, he is standing shirtless out the front of the Early Bird bakery in Ponsonby, holding a potato-topped pie and grinning. His eyes are feminine and long-lashed. It's the height of a temperamental Auckland summer, and around him pollen is drifting like gold dust. In the second, she's holding him by the waist on the black sands of Piha Beach. Behind them is Lion Rock and two brave souls slicing through the surf. It has
rained and the black sand is mottled as a jaguar's back. She carefully puts the photos into a drawer, then shakes Solomon.

‘Hm?'

‘Solomon.'

‘Yeh?'

‘Wake up. Let's go on an adventure.'

‘A what?'

‘Come on.'

He showers and dresses, smiling at her spontaneity. Scarlett packs a thermos of coffee and two sandwiches. On the highway they pass an industrial suburb where local crews have run rampant on the freshly primed concrete. Solomon names the Ironlak colours as they pass them – Smurf, Guacamole, Pose Sushi, Sofles Violence. Daily Meds are playing on the stereo. The industrial wasteland soon gives way to scrub and then there are hills, spotted with granite tors, immense boulders and outcrops that bubbled up like a molten gift from the earth. They turn off the highway down a set of smooth valleys, where black cows escape the heat under gum trees and a single white colonial cottage stands far off. Their phones lose reception.

They park at the end of a short gravel road off the main stretch, next to a sign that warns not to light fires. Scarlett slings her bag over her shoulder and stares at the trees, tapping on a front tooth with a red fingernail. Far off is the snarl of a dirt bike, but somewhere nearer they can hear a steady roar. They go down a trail through the bush and on either side are granite boulders, nobbled eucalypts and black she-oaks that wimple in the breeze. They emerge into a clearing and beside them is a waterfall, fifty metres high, each droplet visible and singular as a crystal on a chandelier, connected into a chain of water that lands on rock below before flowing off to pool in calmer hollows.

Directly opposite them are sheer cliffs, segmented into squares and rectangles by rents in the rock, streaked with bird shit and waterstain. Almost impossibly, out of the rock, shrubs and flowers grow, interspersed by dead eucalypts, their branches blackened and sharp, pointing upwards like minarets. These were burnt during the bushfires ten years ago,
and all in between is new growth. Another ten years uninterrupted, they would be crowded from sight. Despite the numberless tones and transformations of colour, there is a unity to the landscape. And above everything, a fierce, blue sky.

Other people are there already – two women in hijabs, smiling as they take selfies, two bikies in sleeveless leather jackets leaning against a fence, and a redheaded man setting up a time-lapse camera on a tripod. Nobody speaks. Solomon motions for Scarlett to leave and she stares at him.

‘We just got here.'

‘Relax. Come 'ere. Supposed to be an adventure, isn't it? My second in a week, actually.' He smiles mischievously.

She follows him back down the track. He jumps a fence. She looks at the no trespassing sign for a second then shrugs. They walk through the bush, watching for snakes, taking their time. Scarlett rubs her hands over the subtle bodies of eucalypts as she passes and breathes the aromatic air. When they arrive at water, they follow it and are soon at the lip of the waterfall. They can see the couples below them, and the valley where the creek runs. Solomon stands dangerously close to the edge of the waterfall, arms outstretched. He looks like he is going to dive off but instead he sits. She joins him.

The summer heat has dried the moss on the rocks into white rosettes. A bearded lizard dances past them and over the edge of the rock into space. Solomon pours two cups of coffee from the thermos and sets them down. He takes Scarlett's left hand and places it in a groove in the rock. ‘Feel that?' he says.

She nods, feeling the smoothness of it, the depth. ‘What is it?'

‘An axe-grinding groove. This is where the blackfellas came to teach their boys customs and to make axes out of stone. Grind the stone, wash it in the water as you worked, bind it, fix it with gum. They liked to use diorite. It's a type of green stone.' Scarlett looks at him sideways, surprised, but says nothing and continues to rub the groove with her thumb. ‘And see down there? Those caves? That's where bogong moths hang. Millions of em. Someone once told me when they leave the caves and fill the sky, it goes black, that's how many there are. And hundreds
of blackfellas would come up every year and feast on em. Imagine that. This country, right here, this feeling – must've been what it was like everywhere. So much beauty, so much loss. The land has a soul. You can feel it, right? A memory. I guess like all of us it wants to forget, but it can't.' He looks shy and splashes his hand in the water. ‘I dunno. What the fuck do I know?'

She places her hand on his and points with the other. ‘Are there cave paintings down there?'

‘Nah. Well, there might be. Doubt it. Not many in this part of the country.'

‘Too bad. Still, it's cool you guys learn about this stuff at school. My ex told me that Aussies barely teach any Aboriginal history.'

‘They don't.'

‘Where'd you learn then?'

Solomon doesn't speak. It is as if he hadn't heard. The waterfall roars and cockatoos screech high up in the leaves. Then he says, ‘Jimmy's dad. He taught me.'

‘Jimmy's dad?'

‘Yeh. After my old man died, Jimmy's dad appeared. He just kept hanging around. He'd visit Mum when we were at school and mostly she'd tell him to fuck off; but sometimes she'd give in and he'd stay for a cuppa and have a yarn. There was something she couldn't resist, even after all the shit he put her through.'

‘He beat her?'

Solomon shakes his head vigorously. ‘Nah, nah. I don't think so. There might have been the threat of that, but I don't reckon it ever happened. More like a constant torment, she said. Jealousy. Saying she'd lived the life of a whore before him. He used to take her credit card and buy and buy and buy. A closest full of unworn clothes. A hoarder. Mum told me once that he grew up real poor, so she kinda forgave him for all of it, you know? Until my dad came along and said enough was enough.'

‘Your dad knew him?'

‘Hell, yeah. They were best mates. When Dad first got here from Samoa, they worked in the same kitchen. He even gave Jimmy's dad the
nickname The Prince, because he said he was descended from royalty. At first it was affectionate, then it became a bit of a gibe. Then Dad started to notice how his stories weren't consistent, how manipulative he was, how he treated Mum. The cunt wasn't even by her side when Jimmy was born. So Dad began to console her, like, just as friends. The rest is history.' He smiles, looking away.

‘But when did he tell you about the waterfalls?'

‘So one day, after Dad died, The Prince comes around and he's real excited. He tells us there are these waterfalls just out of town, only a forty-minute drive. He said he'd take us there. We'd never heard of any waterfall near the Town, thought it was another bullshit story of his; but for some reason Mum says we should go with him, so that was it. When we got here, he could name every plant, every bird. He told us as an Aboriginal man it was important to know the language of your forefathers, even if everyone said it was dead. Flowers –
gambarra.
Ironbark –
thirriwirri.
Stone –
gurrubang.
He showed us these axe-grinding grooves.'

‘So Jimmy's dad's Aboriginal?'

‘Doubt it. He said he was at the time, but.'

‘What do you mean?'

‘Aw, man.' Solomon exhales and speaks slowly. ‘Jimmy's dad . . . is a mystery. Nobody knows what his background is. Sometimes I wonder if he even knows. A born liar, like I said. He changes his story all the time. The next time I met him he said he was Pakistani. When we were kids, he said Greek. Once the story was even that he was Irish.'

‘Pretty different, aren't they?'

‘Totally, but his looks are ambiguous – he could pass for anything. A chameleon.'

‘Like Jimmy,' Scarlett nods.

‘Exactly. The weird thing, though, was that all the shit he said about the land, the names of trees, this place, I looked it up and he was spot on. And later with Islam – he knew it all. I still don't get it. But back then, to me, it was kind of a novelty. I never liked him, but I realised I could learn shit from him if I just listened.'

‘And Jimmy?'

Solomon laughs, but it sounds like a snort. ‘I can't begin to tell you about the hatred Jimmy has for his old man. The
shame.
It consumes him. Always has. A lifelong obsession. To find out what his ethnic background really is.'

‘He can just do a DNA test, surely.'

‘That's what I say. But to him, it's more than that. He wants to hear it from his dad's mouth. And Mum could never understand why; why wasn't he content just to know her race, why did he have to know his dad's? But Jimmy couldn't let it go. Not knowing what he is has become what he is.'

‘Wow. That's a paradox. Like your only home being homelessness.'

‘Exactly.'

24

Jimmy is thinking of every movie he's seen about prison and wonders if anyone has escaped from this one. The security guard can't stop yawning. The jail smells freshly painted and the overwhelming feel, beneath the boredom and mundaneness, is of fear. Jimmy passes through security and is told to remove his belt. He gets thumb-printed and searched. He wonders if someone might check up his arse. Do they actually do that in jail? He hopes he wiped properly. The security guard pulls the two photos out of his pocket and examines them, suddenly attentive. One of the photos he hands back, the other he holds up. ‘What's this?'

‘Um. Art.'

‘Did you get a permit for this?'

‘Yes.' Jimmy tries to hold the guard's eyes but can feel himself wavering.

The security guard examines it again and then bends it back and forth, back and forth. Jimmy wants to snatch it from the cunt.

‘It's a present . . . A special present for my friend.'

‘Looks like graffiti to me. Graffiti's illegal, mate. Not allowed in here, I'm afraid.' The man smiles.

‘But I —'

‘Sorry.'

Jimmy looks away so the man can't see that he's on the verge of tears. He drags his feet as walks into the meeting area, shoulders slumped, but smiles when he sees Aleks.

There's glass between them.

‘What's going on, mate?' Jimmy shifts in his seat uneasily.

‘Same shit.'

‘Been doing anything fun?'

‘Fun?' Aleks smiles. ‘Nah, just trying to sort shit out. Bloody lawyer finally came through. Ten thousand bucks later. He'll get me out of this mess, but.'

‘Dope.' Silence. Two other men are talking with low voices. Jimmy grins crookedly, then quotes one of their favourite lines from
Chopper.
‘Well, ya really landed on ya knees, didn't ya, mate?'

They both laugh so hard they're nearly crying. The security guard comes over and quiets them. Rubbing tears from his eyes, Aleks says, ‘So, what 'bout you?'

Jimmy raises his eyebrows, grins and produces the remaining photo.

‘Bullshit! Fuck, that looks nice, bro. Muscle car! Dodge Coronet?'

‘Yep.'

‘Fark. Where'd you get the cash?'

‘Saved up. Drove it here even. Goes like a dream.' Jimmy's never looked so proud.

‘Fark me dead. Good on ya, cuz.' They sit grinning.

‘Solomon loves it.'

Aleks stops smiling. Silence, then, ‘Any good music coming out?'

‘Heaps. Young gun from Melbourne called Dr Flea. Raven. Prime. Bunch of gangsta shit from Sydney.'

‘Gangsta shit, huh?' Aleks looks away.

‘Yeah. And there's heaps of tours happening. You gonna be out for the Sin One show?'

‘Should be.'

‘Me and Solomon gonna try go but he's always with his new missus.'

‘How's Solomon?' Aleks is still looking away, seemingly distracted by something on the wall.

‘Good. He's trying to start this youth basketball team. Dunno. Never seen him like this before.'

‘Good for him.' Aleks looks back and Jimmy can see that he's hurt.

‘He wanted to come, bro. Serious.'

‘Yeh.' Silence again.

‘So. Made any mates in here?' Jimmy asks, at last.

Aleks is about to snort but then he looks thoughtful. ‘Actually. My cellmate. Sudanese bloke. Tried to top himself a while back. He wouldn't stop crying, bro, for hours. Eventually calmed him down, got the story out of him. Walked all the way across Sudan, in and out of reffo camps. Poor bastard swallowed ten condoms of heroin in exchange for a plane ticket. Got caught in Sydney airport, shat the bubbles out. They gave him a bunch of time, then they're probably just gonna deport him.'

‘Jesus. No wonder the poor cunt tried to top himself.'

‘Tell me about it. Been talking to him every night, telling him everything will be all right. He's good to talk to, brother. Good listener.'

Jimmy doesn't know if this is a dig at him and Solomon, so he doesn't reply. They both sit thinking, then Jimmy smiles. ‘We did a piece for ya. Security guard confiscated it.'

‘Cunt.'

‘I know, ay?' Jimmy shakes his head. ‘Was gonna be a surprise.'

‘All good, brother. Cheer up. Where?'

‘You know that place on the edge of town? Fuel depot?'

‘Ooooh, good spot. Killer,' says Aleks.

Jimmy, with his right fingertip, draws the piece on the glass, going through the process, explaining the colours, the fight with the seccas. Aleks lets the piece appear in his mind's eye. It is radiant, shining outwards like a multicoloured sun.

‘One bottle down, another bottle down, GO!'

Jimmy is sitting by himself

a glowing metropolis

He thinks it looks like something

He stands up

They're all dressed in suits,

having been to a wedding.

He hovers at the edge of the group

The man is gym-built,

the tux fitting like cloth pinned over blocks of stone,

‘This is Amosa's brother!

Amosa was the best basketball player ever, remember?

So athletic he could've been in the 1st XV.

A Samoan who doesn't play footy.

First time for everything, ay?'

The man raises a beer to the light,

He continues,

‘Where is Solomon?' someone else asks.

‘Fuck Solomon,' says Jimmy.

Jimmy is watching a leggy, tanned brunette

holding a glass of red wine

A creature from a world Jimmy has no passport to.

The clean-cut bloke whispers out the side of his mouth:

Jimmy scrolls through his phone then stumbles over.

It takes her half a second

She asks anyway, ‘What school did you go to?'

Jimmy replies and she nods,

before turning her head,

He looks puzzled,

holding out a picture of the Dodge on his phone

in one hand like a child cupping a butterfly.

She continues to stare away,

He puts the phone back in his pocket

He feels someone run up next to him.

Jimmy shrugs the hand away.

The game's wired,

But Jimmy strides ahead with one purpose in mind.

He goes down a set of stairs

The beat

‘I'm the man of the year!' he yells.

Jimmy's in line for burritos

whose head is nearly at the height

Jimmy's eyes are closing,

who turns sharply

Jimmy is suddenly looking into a pair

Sin One.

Before he realises it,

he's shaking the man's hand,

reeling off his favourite moments from Sin One's career.

Instead of freaking out,

the enormous man smiles kindly,

‘Wanna sit down, bro?'

Jimmy nods.

‘What's your name?'

‘Jimmy. Well, James.'

They begin to talk.

Sin One tells Jimmy

he can see pain in him,

but resilience too,

that he has to work hard

and leap the hurdles in front of him.

Sin One tells him of his own struggles in America,

where people treated him like an idiot or second-class citizen,

reminding him constantly that the US

was the mecca of hip hop.

Jimmy tells him about his troubles with his father,

about buying the car.

He scrambles in his pockets for headphones,

and plays one of his beats for Sin One,

who bobs his head.

Sin One tells Jimmy that he is true hip hop,

someone who has made something from nothing,

made beauty from the bricks.

Jimmy grabs a napkin,

a perfect white square with a cactus logo on it,

and hands it to Sin One.

Sin One signs it with a flourish,

and the ink soaks into the paper,

On the way home,

Jimmy can't help smiling

and keeps reaching into his pocket

to touch the napkin.

He tries to remember

the reason Sin One named himself that –

it wasn't a graff thing,

even though it sounded like one.

It was something about the original sin of Australia.

In the morning,

Then he remembers the signed napkin

It isn't on his bedside.

He leaps up,

unsteady, still a bit drunk,

and begins to turn his room upside down looking for it.

Eventually,

he finds a similar napkin