The Songmaster (24 page)

Six hours later, they pulled into the Kimberley Moon Motel. A tourist coach waited in the driveway and an airport shuttle bus was parked behind it. ‘The first plane gets in at three, another at six, I gather we’re all meeting for dinner.’

‘That’s right. I think I’ll jump in the pool and have a shower and shampoo and walk around town. Alan, thanks again for letting me go with you yesterday. It was fascinating. I wish Veronica had been there.’

‘Yes, a journo would have got something out of it, I reckon. Still, you can tell her about it. And don’t forget, we’re going into the land of some of the oldest art on the planet.’

Rowena Singer stepped from the taxi and gazed at the double-storeyed stone house. It faced the Ludwigstrasse in a quiet section of Munich, cold, formal, impersonal. As was the manservant who ushered her into the small drawing room where she waited to be received by Count Gustav Lubdek.

She sat on the edge of an antique chair and reached for a heavy book on Persian carpets. Turning the pages she saw the brilliant rug beneath her feet was a mid-nineteenth century Kazakh.

The door opened quietly and the count came to take her hand, kissing the air above her fingertips. He sat opposite her.

‘It is good to see you here, my dear. I hoped you would come. I have been doing a little research about the ancient art of Australia since we spoke in Los Angeles.’

‘I’ve been thinking about it also. I’m returning to the Kimberley. Perhaps I can be of assistance to help you acquire a special piece for your collection.’

The collector smoothed his thin white moustache. ‘Yes. A very special piece. I believe I know what I’d like to add to my collection, my dear. I’ve spoken to my dealer in Zurich, but he tells me it will not be easy to obtain. However, he does have an extensive network of, how shall we say, operators.’

The manservant carried in a tray with a silver coffee service and set it down, pouring strong coffee into Dresden cups. When he left the room Gustav asked about her plans, seeking precise details about the relic she’d displayed in the study of her father’s house.

‘I stumbled on this place on a ranch called Eagle Rock, but I don’t know if I could find my way back again. However, I’ve heard one of the local pastoralists runs tours for wealthy Americans and Europeans.’

‘Can you arrange for two of my associates to take such a trip. It’s very important for me to have someone, like you, I can trust. My people prefer to travel in a group of tourists. It saves unnecessary questions. Later I will explain to you what it is I would like to acquire.’

‘I will make the bookings for one of these tours to the Kimberley as soon as possible and fax you the details.’

‘And, Miss Rowena, your fee for helping me?’ He gave a slight smile, raising an eyebrow.

Rowena returned his smile. ‘We discussed in Los Angeles my dream to make a documentary of a Kimberley tribe. I hope, since you are interested in ancient Australian culture, you will help to fund my project.’

A fatherly smile on his lips, the count gently held the shoulders of the woman whose troubled eyes fascinated him, and he pressed a kiss on her forehead.

‘It would be a privilege for me to help you document such an important culture,’ he murmured.

‘And . . .’ she added, ‘I would love to see your collection.’

They rode in a small elevator to cellars below the house that led to a nuclear fallout shelter. The security of this private domain was immediately apparent. She watched Gustav jiggle the combination on the double door lock.

He flicked on spot lighting and she couldn’t help but gasp. Nineteenth and twentieth century fine art filled the gallery. Renaissance paintings and impressionist pictures covered the walls. A gothic altar piece dominated one corner, attracting Rowena who was unaware that these had
come from Jewish collections acquired by Nazi chieftains.

An easel draped in black velvet stood as centrepiece of the room and, when Gustav lifted off the cloth with something of a magician’s flourish, Rowena recognised a Picasso. She’d read it had disappeared from a museum in France. She made no comment, but caught Gustav’s amused eye.

She walked away from the old count and began to study a small relief. ‘It’s from the amber room of the Tsar’s summer palace in St Petersburg,’ the voice behind her explained. ‘The walls were panelled in amber, set with little reliefs such as this.’

She moved to a collection of primitive Cambodian Khmer art from Angkor Wat along with large stone figures and heads stripped from Inca sites in South America.

‘I appreciate you showing me this. It’s wonderful. I understand why you would want to add something from ancient Australia,’ she said.

‘I rarely allow visitors in here, my dear. It is the ultimate pleasure of possession, to be able to gaze in solitude at such beauty whenever I so choose. Now you can understand the trust I have placed in you.’

‘Who has bought these for you?’

He answered frankly. ‘I have a German dealer in Zurich. He hears when other collections are quietly sold back onto the market. They’re sold through what we call the grand storehouse.’

‘What’s that?’

‘Not its official name, my dear. The world’s secret riches are housed in a warehouse in Geneva. Swiss banks and private security firms store their valuables there. My dealer has taken me into it. It is quite an experience. I am told one could find in there Mobutu’s fortune, treasures from the Marcos collections, Holocaust gold, all manner of private acquisitions.’

Rowena had noticed his use of the word to cover the illicit hoardings of eccentric, wealthy individuals. As the elevator returned them to the upper level, she felt the task of acquiring a valuable piece of Aboriginal art did not seem so impossible.

‘I will be in touch with details of our Kimberley project,’ she told the old man, as he farewelled her in the hall.

‘I hope you, too, accomplish your mission in that wild land.’

The manservant swung open the solid front door. ‘I hope so too. Goodbye, Gustav.’

The Ord River settlement of Kununurra was a town geared for tourists with a casual way of welcome from its obviously close-knit and cheerful community. Shopkeepers liked to chat, tell stories and offer advice and directions. Susan bought a pair of woven string sneakers made in France, and a canvas fishing hat made in China with an attached fly veil that covered
her face and the back of her neck. It even had a drawstring should she want to be sure nothing got near her eyes and mouth. She found the main supermarket and picked up more fly and mosquito repellent, sun block and, on a whim, a couple of packets of Minties.

Going through the checkout, she looked at the soapie stars on the covers of the women’s magazines that suddenly seemed another world away. With a grunt of frustration and derision, the woman in front of her scooped up her few purchases and went to another line. As Susan put hers on the conveyor belt to wait her turn, she saw why the woman had moved away. Holding up the system was an Aboriginal man and his son.

The man was swaying, dropping and fumbling for money. Two cartons of cheap wine in plastic bags were in front of him, while he was trying to pay for a few groceries and a pile of sweets and chocolates. His eyes were red and rheumy, his voice slurred, and he reeked of alcohol. The checkout girl, looking bored and long-suffering, simply waited. Helping the old man, with patience and kindness, was his son. He was about seventeen, well built, nicely dressed in a clean T-shirt with the logo of a football team across it. He wore neat shorts and good running shoes. His dark curly hair was well cut and he looked healthy, bright and handsome.

‘Here, Dad, let me get it out.’ He took the wallet and pulled out the cash and handed it to
the girl. The transaction completed, the boy handed the bag of sweets to the man, took the other bags with one hand and put the other under the shaking man’s elbow.

‘Where’s me grog, Pete, don’t leave it, Pete . . .’ he stuttered.

‘I’ve got it, Dad. You’ll be right, come on now.’ He was well spoken and respectful. Susan stared at the pair, a lump in her throat at the tenderness of the boy, ignoring everyone while treating the old drunk that was his father with affection and kindness.

The girl began ringing up Susan’s purchases and she turned back to the cashier. ‘Is that his son?’

‘Yeah, bloody pathetic isn’t it. Pete’s captain of our footy team. He’s real talented. Been on TV shows and everything and his old man’s a pisspot. Like most of them.’

‘Your football star seemed very thoughtful.’

‘Yeah, well he’s got money and gets out of here to travel and stuff. His old man drinks his pension and whatever Pete gives him. Pete’s one of the lucky ones. If he couldn’t play football he’d probably be down the pub too. Anything else?’

Susan shook her head. She felt on overload, with so many different impressions hitting her from the minute she’d met Alan at the airport. She went back to the motel room, turned on the airconditoning and lay on the bed.

A
breeze was beginning to cool the twilight. Lights in the motel revealed families watching TV. Susan passed the laundry area, a women’s social centre of whirring machines, romping children and lines of washing. Young people lounged around the outside bar.

Dusty cars and campers, parked nearby, would carry these resting adventurers to faint dots on maps, and what would they see? How far off the thin red line of the road map would they venture? Would they go home having really seen – seen with every sense – this remote chunk of the continent? Would they want to camp in the middle of nowhere with a group of Aborigines?

She walked along the cement path, lined with glowing bougainvilleas rooted in red dirt, up the steps, and through glass doors lettered in gold, Wanderlust Bar.

It was every bar of every large motel resort in holiday Australia. Large counter, tables and stools filled with happy drinkers. Unmemorable decor, loud music, TV in the corner, the smell of Chinese food from Digby’s Restaurant adjoining, photos of crocodiles and boab trees silhouetted against a sunset. She headed into the beer garden where a smaller bar area was less frenetic.

Veronica stood and waved, a beacon rising from a cluster of people at tables that had been pushed together. Susan felt she was walking in slow motion, these last steps protracted, a feeling that once she joined this group she was committed to going forward with them.

Veronica gave her a hug and then Susan saw Beth smilingly hushing the rest. ‘Our lost lady lawyer Susan Massey’s here, everyone. Where’s Alan? What did you do with him?’

‘I have no idea. We got back from Bungarra well before dark.’ She looked round at the blur of faces. This was like the first day at school, but Alistair MacKenzie and Judge Mick Duffy greeted her effusively.

Billy, introduced as their driver, was a stocky, ruddy-faced farmer. Then there were two unfamiliar women. One was a small lady, who must have been close to eighty. The other was around fifty, elegant, with a polite but formal manner. She was dressed in pressed white linen slacks and white silk shirt. Thinking of the devastating red dust she’d seen the day before, Susan wondered what the rest of Rosalie Ward’s
Kimberley wardrobe contained. Beth explained, ‘Rosalie is joining us for dinner before flying back to the property she and her husband own a little to the north of here. Rosalie has turned her homestead into a showplace.’

‘Way out there?’ commented Alistair.

‘We have been featured in several quality magazines,’ Rosalie said calmly.

‘A spread in
A Country Life
obviously justified the effort then,’ said the judge drily.

‘And this is my friend, Esme Jordan,’ said Beth. The older woman firmly gripped Susan’s hand. The sparkle in her eyes made Susan warm to her immediately.

‘Are you coming with us, Esme?’

‘Not this trip. Been some time since I was in Barradja country. My work has kept me in my nest here in Kununurra. I spend most of my days desk-bound. Writing. But I’ll get out soon enough.’

‘Esme is an anthropologist, philosopher, lecturer and all-round wise woman. Taught me heaps.’ Beth squeezed the old woman’s hand. Susan immediately wanted to know more. Esme looked like an adventuress from the turn of the century. A long skirt, embroidered blouse, and a lorgnette hanging on a fine gold chain. Her hair was looped in a high bun with a hairpin stuck through it.

‘Want another of those triple orgasms that you’re drinking?’ asked the judge with a wink.