The Songmaster (36 page)

Ardjani was defensive. ‘The contract is not for our culture, it is for film, to make film of Barradja ways, dances and songs. We do a big corroboree before the old fellas die, and we keep it on the film to show the young people. Show people everywhere. This is good.’

Lucky pointed to the papers the two senior lawyers were quickly scanning. ‘This Rowena say now, she want sign up us artists. She say Americans pay us more money dan Australian art buyers, and she say we be in dat film, too. She say she got a fella goin’ bring in money people from America on jet plane here to buy our paintings. I say no way. We belong Alan’s business.’ Lucky shot a look at Queenie, who nodded emphatically.

‘That’s exactly right,’ said Alan firmly.

‘Do you have a contract, some agreement in writing with the artists?’ asked Alistair.

Alan shook his head. ‘Not much point. If there isn’t trust, it won’t work.’

‘We shake hands, and agree Barradja way,’ said Lucky.

‘Cripes. This is a frightening piece of paper,’ declared Mick. ‘Even from a cursory look, this American woman has got the Barradja to sign away all rights to any art form, whether it be written, in any physical form, dances, music, you name it. Ardjani, this is a lot more complicated than just making a film. I’m afraid she’s misled you.’

‘If physical includes painted or carved,’ asked Veronica, ‘why does she need to sign up the artists?’

‘They own the copyright to each of their works, she probably wants that signed over to her,’ said Mick.

‘That’s my reading of it,’ added Alistair.

‘It’s outrageous,’ exclaimed Susan. ‘Surely we can bust Ardjani’s contract to smithereens. And certainly Lucky’s right not to sign anything more.’

‘This Rowena woman bad one, she mad woman.’ Digger folded his arms after this pronouncement.

‘I call her the vampire woman,’ said Beth.

‘Vampire woman?’ echoed Veronica. ‘She’s certainly trying to bleed them dry.’

Alistair had carefully read through the four typed pages under the elaborate letterhead of a Californian law firm. ‘She’s no sucker, that’s for sure. This is a sweeping contract that gives her everything. Ardjani, I think we should meet this woman.’ He folded the contract. ‘She’s at Bungarra now, Lucky?’

‘Yeah. She already talkin’ to everybody. Max and Judy trying to stop her, while Lucky come here for help. We know Ardjani have big lawyer mob here. You fix her up, yeah?’ Lucky was pleased at the idea of returning with so many lawyers in tow.

Billy was flustered at this sudden shift in plans. ‘Bungarra is a big drive, that’s going to make it a long day. We’d better hit the road if you want to be back by tonight.’

‘Everybody bring a swag just in case. And some grub,’ said Mick.

‘Swag?’ Veronica looked at Susan who shrugged.

‘Sleeping bag, loo paper and mossie repellent, I suppose.’

Beth raised her voice to get everyone’s attention. ‘Bring your own water container, Billy and I will work out the food. Just dry stuff, the rest of Mick’s damper, cheese, tea, biscuits.’

‘Max and Judy will feed us,’ said Alan. ‘They can always manage to throw an extra spud in the pot.’

As the Barradja returned to their camp, Beth shook her head anxiously. ‘I hope we can straighten this out.’

‘You don’t sound too positive,’ said Alistair.

‘What’s Rowena really like?’ asked Susan.

‘Difficult . . . irrational,’ answered Beth soberly.

‘Struth,’ said Mick.

For once, Billy didn’t have to complain about the slowness of the group getting their gear into the van and jumping on board. Ardjani and Queenie went in Lucky’s four-wheel drive, while Lucky set himself up behind Billy in the Oka to guide the way.

Down the back of the van, Beth quietly outlined what she knew about Rowena to the three lawyers.

‘Mega-rich father, a movie mogul. She got infatuated with Ardjani, and “Aboriginal spirituality” as she called it. She’s screwed up her own life. She’s been in one of those trendy clinics to
recover from drug and alcohol abuse. She told me how, when she met Ardjani, she felt . . . how did she describe it . . . a calling to come to Australia and be with “pure people”. She said her trip had given her life new meaning, and one day she would come back to help them as her way of saying thank you.’

‘Hallelujah, amen,’ said Mick. ‘Maybe stealing their culture is her way of saying thank you.’

‘She told Ardjani that what she calls her guides had told her she had to tap into the power of his people, that she had some task to do and that she’d only find the answers here.’

Susan groaned. ‘Just another pyschobabbler. I don’t know where these American women get their ideas from. They come out here running motivational, inspirational, empowering workshops for two hundred dollars a pop. Sell their tapes and books and programmed crystals, and go back home to their ranches in Big Sur.’

‘I thought you women all burned your bras, and didn’t need any help any more.’ Mick looked surprised.

‘I think they’ve moved into a new era. It’s now we chaps who are supposed to raise our consciousness and relate to our feminine energy. Or something like that,’ grinned Alistair.

‘Rowena is a bit flaky,’ said Beth with a shrug. ‘But underneath the southern Californian new-age baloney is a mind like a steel trap. I don’t know how much is real, and what’s not.
She’s moody and you won’t be surprised to know she doesn’t like me at all.’

Lucky, enjoying the airconditioned comfort of the van, was discussing matters related to gears and the relative merits of four-wheel drive vehicles which, Billy had decided long ago, was the greatest gift white society had come up with, in Aboriginal eyes. Four-wheel drives and cowboy films, Billy told himself. The thought led him to ask, ‘You ever been in movies, the films, Lucky? Lots of blackfellas get parts in films nowadays.’

Lucky’s eyes shone and he sat tall. ‘Yep. Me movie star all right.’ It was a line the others couldn’t ignore and all attention shifted to the old man. With an actor’s appreciation of the moment, he turned to face his audience. ‘Yep, Lucky in movies long time ago. With Mr Chips Rafferty.’

‘Chips Rafferty,’ gasped Mick. ‘The man’s a legend. Knew him back in the early days. He had a house near mine, I gave him some legal advice once. Well, Lucky, you were certainly among the stars then. What part did you play?’

‘Stockman. Me muster cattle, go on long cattle drive,’ he said with pride.

‘You do anything important in the film, Lucky?’

‘Nah. All important things done by white fellas. They paint whitefellas black for important
stuff. Dat very funny, ‘cause whitefellas pretendin’ be blackfellas do funny things.’

‘Did you tell Chips?’

‘Yeah. He try to fix up, but they still keep paintin’ dem black.’

‘Oh, how things have changed,’ said Susan. ‘Have you been in any other films, Lucky?’

‘Nah. Savin’ meself for Hollywood,’ he said, grinning broadly.

As the Oka headed towards Bungarra, Digger, Rusty and Barwon drove off in the opposite direction to finish the hunting that they’d interrupted to return for the meeting. As the old truck rumbled over the bush track, Digger hung out the passenger side, peering at the ground. Suddenly he banged on the side, and Rusty slowed down.

Digger pointed ahead. ‘New track come up.’

Rusty hit the brake and stopped where the track they were following had been crossed by an obviously heavy vehicle. They sat still, letting the dust settle.

‘What is it?’ asked Barwon. Since they had set out, he had been unable to get much out of his travelling companions, except that they were going to cross a property called Boulder Downs. The truck moved on.

Barwon had enjoyed the early start and the experience of seeing the country come alive as the sun rose. He found the landscape more appealing
the further they went. He began to relax in a way he had forgotten lately, as if a strong sense of security and tranquillity was protecting him from the turmoil that seemed to constantly tear at his insides. The country was seeping into him . . . the colours, the shapes of the trees and the rocks and hills, the sandy dry beds of creeks, the sounds of the birds. In the beginning he had been swept up by the broad spectacle of what he was seeing. Now he was increasingly noticing the detail, and delighting in each new discovery of something small, but beautiful.

He felt a sadness that the Barradja people no longer owned the lands they had roamed for so many thousands of years. Obviously it wasn’t good cattle country, they hadn’t seen one head today, but at least the land still looked the same. Not like the coastal developments, heavily stocked farms and chemically polluted crops.

He was jerked from his thoughts as the truck stopped. Indeed, it was a little disappointing to find his companions had discovered only another set of vehicle tracks.

‘Where does it go?’ he asked, as they got out. He received no reply so he stayed silent as Rusty and Digger squatted down and carefully examined the dust, chatting to each other in the language Barwon didn’t understand, and wished he did. They pointed at things that Barwon couldn’t see.

‘This Boulder Downs?’ he asked, and both men nodded in confirmation.

‘We take a look,’ said Digger, and Rusty climbed on the tray of the truck and stood with his hands on a steel frame that ran over the cab. ‘See better,’ he explained to Barwon, who decided to join him.

Digger had driven slowly along the new track for about half an hour when Rusty banged on the roof. Barwon had seen it too, up ahead, a spiral of dust suddenly rising from the bush close by the line of hills that the truck was now following. It was clearly a vehicle on the move.

They got out and climbed up the ridge a little, and soon, in the distance, they could see it. They could hear it too, the steady throb of generators and drilling equipment. A row of tents and huts lined the clearing and a rough airstrip had been carved from the bush. ‘Jeez,’ exclaimed Barwon. ‘A bloody mining camp. What would they be looking for?’

Digger and Rusty squatted under a tree and Barwon sat down with them. ‘Gold. Diamonds. Minerals. We gotta take close look, Barwon,’ said Digger. ‘We not supposed to be here, off the track. But we got sacred paintings in this area, like the ones you saw yesterday.’

They walked back to the truck and as they reached it Barwon suggested an idea. ‘Look this could turn nasty if the miners get mad at your sudden appearance. But if I turn up, saying I’m from Sydney and I’m lost, they mightn’t be so upset. And I can probably find out what they’re up to from talking to them. So why don’t you
both wait here and I’ll go in alone, and when I come back, then we can decide what to do next.’

‘Good idea, Barwon,’ agreed Rusty, and Digger nodded. Barwon climbed behind the wheel and headed the truck towards the mining camp.

Three men worked at a lightweight drill rig on the back of a Land Cruiser. They paused in their task to squint into the glaring heat at the track that had suddenly disappeared under a cloud of dust. Over at the camp kitchen, a man in a cook’s apron, with a tea towel hanging from his trouser pocket, watched the truck approach. None expected an Aborigine, but the man who stepped from the truck sure looked like one, though certainly not a local. He was too slick, too tidy, his clothes too citified, thought the head driller, Kevin Perkins, in silent assessment. Only the truck looked authentic – dirty and battered. ‘Who the fuck is this?’ he hissed to his workmates.

‘G’day? How yer goin’?’ called Barwon affably.

‘Who the hell are you?’ Perkins growled.

‘Nigel Barwon. Just travelling through. Heard the racket. What’s going on?’

‘None of your business.’

‘Hey, no need to be nasty, mate. I’m just a tourist. And I’m a bit lost. Sorry if I’ve upset you or something.’

The mining boss gave Barwon a curious look. The Aborigine’s clear voice, good manners and groomed, handsome looks really set him apart.

‘Er, we just need to check a few things. We thought for a minute you might be one of the locals. They’re not allowed around here. We’ve brewed a pot, want a cuppa tea?’

‘Thanks. That’d be great. Terrific country out here.’

‘Where you from?’

‘Sydney . . . last stop. I’m just looking around. What about you people? You local?’

‘Nah, we go where the work is.’

‘And that is . . ?’

‘Mining exploration.’

‘Gold? Diamonds? Minerals?’

The men looked at each other. This articulate Aborigine was asking too many questions.

They had barely finished their tea, with Barwon still asking questions they didn’t want to answer, when another vehicle arrived. A short man, with a large beer gut that looked cement solid, jumped out bristling immediate animosity.

‘Who the hell are you? What’s going on?’ he shouted as he stormed up to the men.

Barwon put down his mug and rose, offering his hand, which the man ignored. ‘Nigel Barwon. Just travelling round the place. Taking a bit of a look-see at this part of the country.’

‘Well, you can take yourself right off my
property. I’m Giles Jackson and you’re on Boulder Downs, which I own and I say who comes onto.’ He walked over to Rusty’s truck. ‘Travelling round you say? Bullshit. Where’s your gear? Who sent you up here?’ He moved close to Barwon, looking menacing.