The Songmaster (37 page)

‘Hey, man, you don’t have to be so threatening.’

‘I’m not threatening. I’m telling you.’ Jackson turned back to the open door of his vehicle and brought out a rifle. ‘You’re with those fucking Barradja people. You’re a fuckin’ city Abo, here with those lawyers everyone’s talkin’ about. I heard Steele let you lot take the local Abos onto his land. But you’re not coming on my bloody land. So you can stop snooping around. You go back and tell them to mind their own bloody business.’ He took a step forward, poking his finger in Barwon’s shoulder.

‘Listen, mate, there’s no need to carry on like this.’

‘Don’t call me mate, yer fuckin’ Abo. Yer not even the real thing. Yer trespassin’. Now fuck off.’ With his free hand he shoved Barwon backwards. Barwon swung wildly, his right fist connecting with Jackson’s ribs, causing him to drop the gun. In seconds, the two men were exchanging blows. Jackson’s huge fat fists jabbed at Barwon’s eyes and belly. He ducked, holding his arms in front of his face defensively until his shock was replaced by seething anger and he flung his fists in turn at the heavily panting Jackson.

The mining men stood by unsure of what to do, until Barwon landed a sharp jab to Jackson’s jaw and as he staggered the men leapt in, separating them. As they held Barwon, Giles Jackson lunged forward, flinging two heavy blows at Barwon’s head.

‘Hey, the man can’t defend himself,’ protested one of the miners.

‘Then let him.’ Jackson half grinned, his fists raised.

Kevin Perkins stood between Jackson and Barwon. ‘Get in your truck and get out fast, lad. Bloody fast.’

The two men holding him marched him to the truck and watched as he climbed in. Barwon said nothing and put his foot down in anger.

He drove fast, dangerously fast given the narrow, winding, dusty track. He was blind with fury at Jackson’s insults that jabbed at him worse than the assault and the way he’d been bundled out of the mining camp. ‘Bastard,’ he kept muttering. ‘Bloody bastard.’

A near collision with a kangaroo slowed him down, but the anger didn’t abate until he started to look for Rusty and Digger. Then it dawned on him that the two old men would have been putting up with behaviour like that all their lives. In the city he had been protected, remote from the worst aspects of white-black relationships, secure in his well-paid TV jobs. Even his looks, which this bastard said stopped him from being a real Aborigine, had made it
easy for him to be respected by his professional peers and the social circles he’d mixed in. He wiped a film of sweat from his lips, then spat out the window, trying to get rid of his anger in the dirt and blood that mixed where his teeth had bitten into his tongue.

Billy pulled up to Max and Judy’s house as the artists were having lunch. Ardjani was already in the yard, greeting friends, as Judy pulled out a chair for him in the shade and sent a teenage girl off for a plate of sandwiches. Queenie joined the other women to report about the trip and its consequences.

Beth embraced Judy and Max, Susan got a big hello from them both, and quick introductions were made for the first-time visitors to Bungarra.

‘So where is she?’ asked Beth.

‘Out looking for what she calls locations, with her guide,’ said Judy. ‘Art sites, places where the artists set some of the paintings. Checking things out. She doesn’t miss a trick, that one.’

Beth made more introductions around the table of women artists.

‘Sit down. Cup of tea, soft drink? Have you had lunch?’ asked Max.

‘We have tucker we brought with us. But I wouldn’t say no to a cold drink,’ said Beth, as they settled around two tables. The Bungarra
men were seated on the grass in the shade of trees in the front yard eating their lunch in their laps.

As Max took cold drinks from the refrigerator, standing under the house, Alan fired questions at Judy about Rowena.

‘Well, we’d never heard of her,’ answered Judy. ‘But she said she was a friend of Ardjani’s, met him in LA. She had been to Marrenyikka before and was on her way over there next to finalise arrangements about some film she’s making. It all sounded reasonable till she went a bit funny one night and . . .’

‘What do you mean, funny?’ interrupted Susan.

‘She got up in the middle of the night and was walking around outside, talking, almost crying, to herself, holding her head and carrying on. Max kept an eye on her until she went back to bed.’

Max continued, ‘Next morning she got up as if nothing had happened. Started talking to the artists about filming their work, taking them out to the places they’re painting. To the Bungle Bungles and so on.’

‘Did you express some concern at this?’ asked Alistair.

‘Of course,’ said Judy firmly. ‘We stepped in then and started asking her for a few more details. We explained we’re the art coordinators here and we’re responsible for the production of the work and what happens to it.’

‘How did that go down?’ asked Mick.

Before Judy or Max could answer, Beth gestured to the legal team. ‘Alistair, Mick and Susan are lawyers. We figured under the circumstances we might take advantage of their kindly offered expertise.’

‘Ah, I see.’ Max exchanged a frown with Judy before she answered. ‘Well, Rowena didn’t like us butting in.’

‘Did she show you any documents, say she had rights or anything?’ asked Alistair.

‘She told the artists if they signed a contract like Ardjani had, they’d get lots more money for their paintings. That’s when they had a meeting and decided to send Lucky and Queenie to talk to Ardjani.’

‘Rowena sounds devious and dangerous,’ said Alan. ‘We want to know exactly what she’s after.’

‘So ask her,’ said Judy. ‘I want her out of here, she’s pretty disruptive. We let her stay when she said she was a friend of Ardjani’s. And she played up to Lucky no end, but he’s a canny old bugger and he figured she was up to something.’

‘We just want to piss her off,’ said Max with a shrug.

‘I don’t believe it’s that simple,’ said Alistair.

Judy gave a questioning glance at Alistair and the others and turned to Alan. ‘So who’s this mob? These the people you said were going to stay at Marrenyikka?’

‘Yeah. A sort of cultural experience under Beth and Ardjani’s tutelage,’ said Alan.

‘Hang around Rowena for a bit, that’s what I call a cultural experience.’ Max rolled his eyes.

‘Well, until she returns, can we look at some of the work?’ asked Alistair, eyeing the canvases.

While lunch was laid out under Billy’s supervision, the others went under the house for a look at the finished paintings. Alan selected the works he felt were worthy of extended comment, keeping to issues of artistic merit and technique.

Over lunch the group settled down to a vigorous discussion about the art when a late-model four-wheel drive wagon pulled up beside the Oka. A handsome Aboriginal man in his thirties jumped down from the driver’s seat, tucked his designer safari shirt into his moleskin pants, adjusted the large shark tooth on the leather thong around his neck and strode round the vehicle. As he held the open passenger door, a woman stepped out in impractical black, the stretch jeans too loose for her slim frame. A T-shirt with gold writing on the front read, Chanel. A black baseball cap was pulled low, but strands of red hair fluttered around her face. She was wearing sunglasses, studded with coloured stones. A hand, festooned with scarlet nails, swept off her glasses with a flourish, and
she gave a wide smile. ‘Well, hellooo, we have company.’ She walked briskly into the front yard and seeing Beth, her smile tightened. ‘Ah, ha. Beth.’

‘Ah, ha. Rowena. We heard you were here, we’re visiting from Marrenyikka. Come and meet our friends.’

Beth did a round of introductions and Rowena introduced her flashily dressed Aboriginal driver. ‘Hunter Watson. Found him in Darwin and what a gem of a man,’ she gushed. ‘Guide, adviser, tour organiser, very bush savvy, and all round Mr Cool. Especially with that shark tooth I bought him. Very Crocodile Dundee, don’t you think?’

‘G’day. I’m very pleased to meet you all,’ said Hunter in acknowledgment, clearly a little embarrassed by the effusive testimonial.

‘Ardjani you know, of course,’ said Beth, as he came down the path from the shelter of the house.

Rowena spun around and walked towards him slowly with arms outspread. ‘Ardjani, dear friend,’ she said with great passion. ‘How lovely to see you here, and what a wonderful, wonderful surprise.’ She grasped his extended hand lightly in both of hers, lifting it up to almost chin level. ‘I’m here, I told you I would come. I’m on my way to Marrenyikka . . . to be with you. We have so much to do, Ardjani. So much.’

The white spectators watched it all in amazement. Bizarre was the word that sprang
to Susan’s mind. Alan barely disguised his disgust. Mick and Alistair grinned with delight at the first appearance of the vampire lady. Ardjani extracted himself from her grasp, tipped back his hat and scratched his forehead. ‘Rowena, we gotta talk about your film . . . and other things.’

‘Absolutely, but we have to show the world, Ardjani. Tell everybody. Otherwise how’re we going to make money? We are going to save Barradja songs and dances and ceremonies for generations to come.’ She spread her arms wide. ‘Your culture will circle the earth, embrace the world.’

Ardjani turned his attention to a plate of sandwiches. ‘Mebbe.’

It was the trigger for everyone to move, breaking up the tableau that had been almost hypnotised by Rowena’s arrival performance.

Alan walked over to Rowena and held out his hand. ‘Alan Carmichael. I represent most of the artists here. I understand you’ve been talking to them about using their work in some way . . .’ Before he could finish, she had wrapped her arms about him. ‘Oh, this is fantastic. Fortuitous. What they’re doing is glorious, amazing, so prophetic. They have to be in the film. It’ll be a great promotion for their work. Everyone that sees my film will want to own a Bungarra picture!’

Alistair strolled over and shook her hand. ‘How do you do. Alistair MacKenzie. Come and join us, tea and sandwiches. We’d all love to hear more about your film.’

‘Of course, of course you shall.’ Rowena took a piece of cake from the plate Billy held out to her. Then she paced around, talking rapidly, with the intenseness of a TV evangelist. At last Susan was the one to interrupt the American’s monologue about how fantastic it was that the world would get to learn about ‘the great spirituality of the Aboriginal people’.

‘So tell us how you met Ardjani. What’s your story, Rowena?’

Rowena paused and focused on Susan. ‘Excuse me?’

‘We’d like to know how this all came about. Seeing as we’re all going to be together over at Marrenyikka. Give us the drum.’

Rowena studied Susan, trying to assess the mood behind the bright words. ‘You’re all staying at Marrenyikka?’ she said slowly.

‘You bet. We’re doing what the rest of the world wants to do,’ said Mick cheerfully. ‘Experiencing Aboriginal spirituality.’

‘I see.’ For a moment Rowena’s high-octane energy faltered, but she quickly revved up again. ‘I had a vision, I had a dream . . .’

Veronica kicked Susan under the table.

‘. . . and in that dream I saw a snake . . . and amazing red cliffs and the face of a man singing . . . calling to me. It kept haunting me for months. Then I saw a colour spread in the
LA Times
magazine about an Australian art show, and there was the man and the place of my dreams. Ardjani and the Kimberley. I knew then
I was meeting my destiny. I found him and I came out here. And while I was here . . . I had an experience . . .’ Here she closed her eyes as if in pain, then continued, ‘I knew I had to go back to America and take this knowledge with me. But I got sick, and then it came to me that I would be cured if I came back here . . . and I must capture the essence of this man, these people and share it with the world.’

‘That’s very interesting. I’d say there are possibly a few sensitive areas to be worked out.’ Beth gave a tight smile. ‘A lot of the Barradja culture is secret, only for initiated men and women, secret business. Those sorts of things can’t be recorded. But a film about the Barradja lifestyle, their general beliefs, their art and history might be useful for them.’

Rowena looked like she had been slapped. She recoiled and her eyes narrowed to hard points. ‘You can’t tell me what I can and can’t do. My guides lead me. The elders have signed a contract. I have the sole right to bring the culture of these people to the world.’

‘So it would appear,’ said Alistair disarmingly. ‘I have some legal expertise and as I read the contract, which Ardjani was kind enough to show me, you have extensive publication copyright over many aspects of the Barradja culture. They can appear on film and video only with your agreement, and this may apply to recordings of music, even the reproduction of paintings . . . all these things seem to require your
involvement, approval, ownership somehow. Have I got it right?’

Rowena frowned. ‘If you put it like that, I guess so. The Barradja have agreed. They have put their destiny in my hands.’

Beth choked slightly as she took a sip of her drink. In the stunned silence, Billy calmly pointed to the untouched piece of cake she held. ‘You going to eat that cake? Or do you want a cheese sandwich?’

She didn’t indicate that she had heard him.

‘You don’t think such a contract is a bit over the top?’ asked Mick, casually.