The Songmaster (10 page)

Alan smiled as he looked at the many hues on the canvas. ‘It’s called Dancing Spirits At First Light. It’s the story of the baby spirits who live in the waters of the wunggud pond, waiting to choose their parents.’

‘I’d like to own this one,’ said Beth softly.

The mansion on Mulholland Drive in the LA hills was floodlit, and a would-be actor acted as valet, parking the stream of expensive Hollywood cars as they arrived.

It was a low-key party by Joseph Singer’s usual standards. But this was a different crowd to the movie people.

Rowena surveyed the eddying mass of wealthy art patrons, charity social set, and the merely moneyed. Slowly she moved down the curved staircase to the foyer and main entertaining area beyond the columns, potted trees and massive art pieces.

The last thing she felt like was being her father’s hostess. She was tired, drained of energy and restless.

The evening dragged. The invitation had been for six to nine, cocktails and hors d’oeuvres, a chance to mingle with some prestigious artists, gallery and museum heavyweights to celebrate the donation by Joseph Singer to the Armand Hammer collection of a series of artefacts and paintings. The curator of the Singer private collection had been ‘culling’ and the accountants had found a tax advantage to the donation which made room for further acquisitions.

It was past ten o’clock and Rowena slipped into her father’s library to escape, hoping that in the absence of the hostess, the guests might take the hint and leave.

She was in the room, closing the door on the laughter and tinkle of music and glasses, before
she realised a man was seated in a leather chair. He was elderly and rose stiffly to his feet.

‘Forgive me.’ He gave a slight bow. ‘Your father will be back in a moment, we were sharing a quiet brandy. I believe he is farewelling the other guests.’

Rowena sank into a chair. ‘He’s not farewelling all of them, there’s still a mob out there.’

He gave a slight smile at the phrase. ‘So you have been travelling, I understand.’

His clipped German accent, courtly manners, thinning white hair and moustache set him apart from the rest of the party.

‘I’m Rowena Singer by the way.’

‘Gustav Lubdek. I met your father some years ago.’

Rowena nodded. Count Gustav Lubdek. An industrialist who’d made a fortune post war, invested in films amongst other things. She recalled some reference about him being an art collector. ‘You are here on business for movies, art or . . ?’ She let her question hang in the air.

The count shrugged. ‘I am retired. I confess I collect the occasional piece, but things of rarity are . . . rare.’ His eyes moved across to a shelf where several objects sat by a row of books. ‘I am wondering about that . . .’ He pointed to a skull, stained a deep burnished brown and intricately painted in a dull red pattern. ‘Unusual markings. A little macabre but . . . interesting.’

Rowena paused, then seemed to make up
her mind to speak about it. ‘Yes. It’s mine. I brought it back from my trip to outback Australia. It’s Aboriginal.’

‘Ah. I have heard a little of this Aboriginal culture. Is it of interest?’

‘Yes. I understand the rock art is highly significant. It’s very powerful imagery . . . and possibly the world’s oldest. Especially in the Kimberley . . . where they talk about ancient, secret paintings.’

‘Is this so? This interests me greatly.’ He took a sip of brandy. ‘Are you returning to this place?’

‘I’m thinking about it. Why?’

He too came to a decision to be frank with his friend’s daughter. ‘I would be interested in acquiring some of this art. Perhaps we could discuss this further another time?’

‘I don’t see why not. I have some contacts out there with the Aboriginal people. If I can help . . . what did you have in mind? You should go there to see the rock art. It’s painted in sacred caves. There are modern painters there, however, whose art you can buy.’

The door opened and her father and another man came in. The count rose and gave Rowena an intense look and spoke in a low voice. ‘Do come and visit me if you are ever in Munich.’

‘Gustav, don’t tell me my daughter has an invitation to see your collection that you keep so secret?’ Joseph Singer had heard the remark.

‘Secret collection? What’s this? Sounds
intriguing.’ The third man, mellowed by champagne, was loud but Gustav Lubdek ignored him, turning to Rowena. ‘A pleasure, dear lady. Good evening.’

He farewelled the two men and had slipped from the room before any more was said.

Rowena had forgotten about the incident until later, when her father had asked about her conversation with the old count, commenting that he was a bit eccentric, supposedly owning one of the world’s great collections that no one he knew had ever seen. ‘It’s for his eyes only, they say. Vaults in a dungeon only he goes in and looks at.’

‘An investment? Or gossip. If no one’s seen it, who knows what he has? Maybe nothing.’

‘Such a cynical child I have. One hears things, Rowena. He collects, of this I have no doubt.’

Susan Massey, satchel in hand, dropped the knocker on the door of the semi-detached Redfern house.

He was dressed in jeans and a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up, and she saw immediately that Nigel Barwon was a man who would appeal to women. Slim build, dark curly hair and deep olive skin. But as they shook hands she saw his dark eyes were troubled.

‘Thanks for coming. I have coffee ready. Or would you prefer tea?’

‘Coffee would be great.’ She saw the cups set out with Danish rolls on a table near where a didgeridoo stood posed against the wall.

As he pressed the plunger in the coffee, she settled herself at the table and put her small tape recorder beside her notepad.

‘Do you play that didgeridoo?’

He gave a disarming grin. ‘Afraid not. The crew at the TV station where I used to work gave it to me as a farewell present when I told them I was thinking of going to the Kimberley to find my family. I guess they figured all we blackfellas can play one.’

‘Okay then. Let’s get down to business. As I’ll be representing you, trust and honesty are tantamount between us.’

He lifted a hand. ‘I understand.’

‘Then tell me what happened that night. Do you mind if I tape our conversation? It’s for my reference only.’

Nigel Barwon put his cup down and ran a hand through his hair. A sudden comparison with Andrew Frazer flew into her head. She pushed the thought away as he began to speak.

‘I met Shirley Bisson a few years ago. She was warm and vulnerable and I liked her a lot. Shirley invited me to lunch and, well, the friendship grew from there.’

‘You became lovers?’

‘Yes. Sure she’s older, she was almost fifty
then, but she’s also mature and sensuous and caring. So after a few months she asked me to move in with her. It was great. She spoiled me, she bought me presents and stuff. I never asked for them but it pleased her. She has a bit of money from her divorces. Deep down I think she felt she had to do those things to keep me around. But actually I wouldn’t have cared if she had no money. For the first time in my life I felt loved and looked after and I guess there was a bit of the mothering thing going on.’

‘Isn’t Beth something of a mother influence in your life?’

‘Beth is more of a mentor. She challenges me, tries to make me be better than I am. She’s a good friend.’

‘So back to Shirley. What did you do for her?’

‘The sex was great. She was relaxed and there weren’t any hang-ups and I know I satisfied her. She’s a sexy lady. And she liked to be seen about the place with an okay-looking younger guy on her arm.’

‘So she took you out in public, introduced you to her friends? What was their reaction?’

‘Some asked if I had any mates,’ he laughed. ‘But I was accepted, probably because I’d been on television, I knew how to handle myself socially and my colour seemed to give them a bit of a thrill.’

‘So when did the relationship go sour?’ asked Susan.

‘It didn’t. I started to get restless and talked of going back to the west. Shirley didn’t understand or want to know anything about that. She’d cry and say I’d never come back if I went to the Kimberley. The more upset she got every time I mentioned it, the more she ended up pushing me away even though she was trying to hold me. I started to feel like I was suffocating. So I finally told her I was going.’

‘And after all this time, why did you go back to her apartment?’

‘I still had the key to her apartment. Anyway, one night I had a few drinks and I wanted to see her.’

‘Break in? Why didn’t you phone her?’

‘I figured she wouldn’t want to see me. She probably wouldn’t want to start up anything that wasn’t going to continue. But I figured, a night or two . . . just for old times’ sake. I was feeling horny, I wanted to hold her, all of that stuff. I know it was selfish.’

‘But you broke in and scared the wits out of her and there was a fight. That’s a bit more than being selfish,’ goaded Susan.

‘I didn’t break in. I had a key. So she didn’t know I was coming. She didn’t want the key back, she always said the door would be open for me, any time. I guess she changed her mind when I really did leave.’

‘We’ll go through the events of that night. You let yourself in, it was nearly midnight and she was in bed . . .’ said Susan. Barwon picked
up the story exactly as Beth had related it to her. His voice was cool, the reporter’s objective calmness taught to him at the ABC. Until he reached the end.

‘I couldn’t believe she called the cops,’ he said, anger flaring in his voice.

‘It’s an interesting scenario. You could be laying charges against her,’ said Susan.

‘Oh, no. I wouldn’t want to do that. I just want to forget the whole thing. And you know what, I bet she does too. I think she just over-reacted. But now the police are involved it has to go through all the court stuff.’

‘Never underestimate a woman scorned, Nigel. But don’t worry, I think we’ll be all right.’ Susan turned off the tape.

His face cleared and he gave her a smile. ‘Call me Barwon. Nigel isn’t my real name. The nuns gave it to me. I prefer Barwon.’ Susan was struck again by his handsome features and far from being a womaniser, he seemed vulnerable and mixed-up. She could see how Shirley Bisson must have been besotted with him. ‘What is your real first name then?’ she asked.

‘Dunno, I can’t remember,’ he said, almost in a whisper, his manner changing as he looked down and clasped his hands between his knees. It was the gesture of a bewildered little boy and, for a moment, Susan had a sense of the immense sadness that lay behind the man’s facade. After a moment he recovered, and their eyes met. She saw that his were moist. He was close to tears.

‘I’d like to have a real name, one that truly belonged to me.’

‘Yes, it’s certainly a reasonable request,’ said Susan.

He took a deep breath. ‘That’s why I’ve got to go back to the Kimberley. That’s where I’ll get a name.’

Susan said nothing, did nothing, listening to his deep breathing that was close to a sob. Then quietly she began to pack up her notes and tape recorder.

‘Yes,’ he said vacantly, as if she wasn’t there. ‘That’s what I’ve got to do. Go home.’

S
usan decided to become better organised. Folders stacked in piles, notes and messages clipped together. A notebook at the ready so she wouldn’t lose important thoughts and notations on scraps of paper. Reference books in reach to one side. But within a week the stiff and regimented piles had all jumped into bed together, rumpling and intercoursing amongst each other under stray sheets and streamers of fax paper. Susan ignored the rebellion on her desk and worked on, happily surrounded by organised chaos.