The Gulliver Fortune

by Peter Corris

  "You can't afford to get a police record," Keriaka said after he'd argued for hours with Kobi. Kobi had wanted to join in a demonstration in Port Moresby against the dispossession of some squatters from a shanty settlement.

  "Why?" Kobi said.

  "Independence is just around the corner," Keriaka said. "You know that."

  "Independence!" Kobi blew smoke and sneered. "Exchanging white mastas for black."

  "Maybe. But the independent parliament could be interesting. Loloru will need to be represented."

  Kobi stared at the big, fleshy man. At five foot eleven Kobi was taller than most Bougainvilleans and a tall man in New Guinea generally. He had played football for the university team and that, plus his poor head for alcohol, had helped to keep him lean. Keriaka's Polynesian ancestry was displayed in his six-foot-two stature and eighteen-stone figure.

  "Parliament is for pricks," Kobi said.

  Keriaka nodded. "Pricks need watching."

  The Lolorus' newsletter was written in pidgin, English and several island dialects, and widely distributed throughout Bougainville. In it the movement claimed that if one-tenth of the money that was conceded to foreign capitalist enterprises on Bougainville by the administration had been allotted directly to the people, the island would be prosperous and yield four times the present tax revenue. The formulas had been worked out by Kobi Clarke, who had submitted a thesis to the university on the topic in 1973 and had been awarded the degree of Doctor of Philosophy.

  The Lolorus resisted independence, calling for a United Nations investigation of the injustice of the colonial carve-up of Melanesia. They burned the flags of Australia, Germany, Great Britain, the United States and Japan, in a ceremony on the waters of Empress Augusta Bay on the day independence was granted to Papua New Guinea. They boycotted the first election and burned Michael Somare in effigy after he became the first Prime Minister of the new nation.

  Jenny Clarke Sayers, now a graduate of the University of Queensland and married to an American law lecturer at the UPNG, took a job on the Prime Minister's staff, to her brother's disgust.

  "He's a puppet," Kobi said. "The strings are pulled by Canberra and Washington."

  They were sitting in the shady courtyard behind the comfortable Sayers house on the campus. "That's ridiculous," Jenny said. "You know nothing about it. He's a Niuguinian."

  Kobi lifted his hands in a gesture of resignation. He had never learned to trust women; he had respect for their judgment but not for their motives. He would think over what Jenny had said. Meanwhile they chatted about Sue, who was happy working as the assistant manager of a Port Moresby hotel in which Lily had an interest, and Harry, who was setting up a fish-processing operation in Lae.

  "They inherited the commercial instinct." Jenny refused a cigarette, although she had always been a keen smoker.

  Kobi lit up. "What did we inherit?"

  "The political instinct," Jenny said. She smiled at her brother who, she thought, looked older than his thirty years. I wonder what he does for sex, she thought. "I'm pregnant, Kobe. I hope I've inherited the maternal instinct from somewhere."

  Kobi congratulated her and went away to think. He was staying with a Bougainvillean family in Hohola, resisting the pressures on him to apply for promotion within the administration, to buy a house, to marry. When Timothy Keriaka visited him the next day and revealed a plan, it seemed like an omen, a predestined course. He told Keriaka what Jenny had said. Keriaka was an enthusiastic watcher of Hollywood westerns, which were popular in local cinemas around the islands.

  "More sheriffs got killed in the saloons than out in the street," he said.

  Kobi nodded.

  Dr Clarke took his seat in the House of Assembly in 1977 as an independent member for South Bougainville, but no one with any knowledge of PNG affairs was unaware of his connection with Loloru.

  Kobi turned away from the window and lit a cigarette. How wrong Jenny was, he thought. His political instinct was as uncertain as a rice harvest, as fragile as the shell money he had learned to make during a time in the Trobriands he now looked back on as idyllic. Everything had gone wrong and he was to blame.

  The Loloru political programme was confused, to put it mildly. Some members believed passionately in Bougainville separatism, others in a Melanesian federation that would become a force in the Pacific. Arguments raged about the status of the inhabitants of the Polynesian outliers—Tikopia, Rennel and Bellona—within such a Melanesian bloc. And what of the Fijians, with their many ties to Tonga? Holders of these different views were united only in their opposition to the enemy—the European and Asian wielders of economic power.

  It was the task of the educated Lolorus, Timothy Keriaka, Kobi Clarke and others, to resolve these questions, and they failed. Keriaka, himself part Polynesian, became heated when the racial and cultural questions came under discussion. Mora moved increasingly towards a militant, industrial-muscle position, claiming that, with the right funds and backing, he could bring capitalist enterprise in Melanesia to a halt. Kobi became enmeshed in parliamentary duties—committees, sub-committees. Increasingly he lost the feel for the grass roots politics that had inspired him. He found Mora crude and Keriaka insular.

  As well he was beset by personal problems. After his treacherous introduction to the pleasures of the body by Sally Chan, Kobi had gone into a long sexual hibernation. He had tried prostitutes in Moresby and Honiara with lamentable results. A promising relationship with a woman of mixed European-Chinese and Melanesian ancestry failed when Kobi was hopelessly impotent with her. On a visit to Sydney, ostensibly to attend his mother's wedding to Richard McGregor, Kobi conducted an experiment. He was incapable with Asian, Aboriginal and Maori prostitutes and randily rampant with their white counterparts.

  The discovery devastated him as much as Lily's marriage disgusted him. His mother now lived in Point Piper, a blue chip Sydney suburb, with a swimming pool, servants and a twenty-four-hour limousine service. Kobi got drunk at the reception and insulted his stepfather. He singled out the blonde wife of an advertising executive and fucked her in one of the many spare rooms in Richard McGregor's mansion, which adjoined Lily's. The combined value of the real estate was more than two million dollars. Kobi called for a taxi and left twenty cents for his mother by the phone.

  Back in New Guinea, Dr Clarke proved to be an unruly subject. His expertise and ability put him on various government committees, but his opinion was always dissenting and his behaviour usually disruptive. In the turbulence of economic and political change in the early 1980s, as Somare's fortunes rose and ebbed and the government wrestled with the problems of refugees from Irian Jaya, with international fishing disputes and urban crime, Kobi Clarke was merely an irritant. An effort to placate him with a minor ministry failed when he attempted to replace all expatriate officers in the department with locals. On an overseas tour he made statements in Britain about republicanism that embarrassed his leader in Port Moresby. On his return an increasingly conservative mood in Niuguini politics threatened to sideline Kobi and the Lolurus.

  Then came the scandal and the running and the strikes that turned into battles as bloody as the old raids before the white men came.

  Kobi picked up the telephone and spoke to the secretary whom the Vanuatu government had provided, along with this office and his comfortable apartment. He was under no illusions about the true loyalty of the secretary.

  "Would you please send someone to my home to fetch the Bible from the bookshelf in the living room."

  "The Bible, Dr Clarke?" The secretary had seen no signs of piety in Kobi; rather the reverse.

  "The Bible," Kobi said. "The good book. There is only one."

  He replaced the phone and thought back to the scandal and Josephine Timson. The whitest woman he had ever seen, Josephine was the wife of an Australian army officer on secondment to the PNG military as an adviser. She had white hair and eyes so pale it seemed unlikely that they could see. But they could, and they had fixed on
Kobi Clarke the minute he had come into range. His passion for her long, pale body was like the craving for a drug. Their affair was blatant, unlike the discreet dalliances with European women Kobi had conducted hitherto. But there were other husbands with grievances who joined Arthur Timson the night he came to the Gateway Hotel with a gun.

  Kobi still had nightmares about the shattering glass and the blood that spurted from Josephine's throat when the bullets hit her. He was wounded himself but he managed to get out of the house before the attackers set it on fire. After that it was running though the hot night, hiding in gardens and hasty phone calls. Then a night departure for Bougainville on a stinking copra boat, only to land in the middle of Mora's most extreme piece of adventurism. The Lolorus provoked a strike which divided the miners and resulted in bitter clashes between gangs of workers and strike-breakers hired by the management. Spending his days and nights in a haze of alcohol and guilt, Kobi fought alongside Mora without regard for his life or the welfare of the miners. Inevitably, it was a losing fight. The troops imposed control at the cost of a dozen lives, one of them Mora's. Kobi escaped into exile in Vanuatu.

  Kobi shivered in the air-conditioned office. He'd been in Vanuatu for how long? A year? It seemed like ten. Mora was dead and Timothy Keriaka was in Libya. What was expected of him? Suicide had seemed like a viable option to him for some time. What was he? A politician without a constituency. An economic theorist without any faith in theory. And who was he? A black man who could have sex only with white women. Why? He knew the reason lay back in his adolescence, with his mother and Sally Chan, and he hated the knowledge. But in a way the bitterness of the past kept him going. He entertained a fantasy he could not shake. Sometimes it seemed more real to him than the world around him. In the fantasy, he was at the head of the Hong business empire. He had total power and was in the process of slowly turning each and every one of the profitable enterprises into co-operatives which would work for the benefit of Bougainvilleans.

  A discreet knock came on the door and Kobi answered. The secretary, a handsome woman from Tana who was attracted to Dr Clarke and could not understand why he treated her like a piece of machinery, entered the room and put the Bible on his desk.

  "Thank you," Kobi said.

  The secretary nodded; her high-piled bushy black hair bobbed. She flashed her fine eyes at the tall man standing by the window. "You have a meeting with the Minister at twelve, Dr Clarke."

  "Thank you."

  The secretary could not understand how such an attractive man could be so boring. She had had practically nothing to report on him since she'd taken up her position. She would willingly have tried to alleviate his quite apparent sadness, and not just for the information she might gather.

  Kobi watched the door close behind her slim back. He sat down at the desk and pulled Boon's letter, the newspaper cuttings and the Bible towards him. The letter had come to him privately and by hand. Roderick Boon was aware of how things worked for political exiles in Vanuatu. Kobi read the articles over carefully. Then he reacquainted himself with the entries written in copperplate on the blank leaves at the front of the book. He was in no doubt that he was John Gulliver's grandson and that he could prove it. He sat back and the fantasy filled his head. Enough money and luck could make it a reality. It had been a long time since Kobi Clarke felt that he could tap into a source of money and luck, but he had that feeling now.

  'Harwich

  Seascape'

  49

  London, November 1986

  Jerry had used the key to Montague Cromwell's house several times since her discovery of the letter from Amnesty International; Ben's sense of security did not improve. After she found the first of Kobi Clarke's telegrams, Jamie Martin telephoned Montague. He told him that he and Jerry knew about the Bolivian and New Guinean heirs and were determined to see fair dealing.

  "Absolutely," Montague said. "Absolutely right. Everything should be perfectly above board."

  "What does Ben say?"

  "Haven't seen him for a few days," Montague said. He raised an eyebrow at Ben who was in the room with him, pouring an outsized Scotch. "But I think we're of one mind. By the way, would you like to meet this chap Faraday? He's arrived in London, you know."

  "I would," Jamie said.

  "Right. Well, Ms Gee and Dr Clarke are due in a couple of days, we'll all have a little pow-wow, shall we?"

  Montague hung up. Ben advanced on him, holding his glass like a weapon. "Are you crazy? What did you do that for?"

  "They know everything. You've been careless as usual. Your former bedmate's looked through your letters, it seems."

  "Shit! She's got a key. I forgot to get it back."

  Montague poured himself a more moderate measure of Scotch and lit a cigar. "Time for some thinking, Ben. Your brilliant idea of giving that interview really paid off. Now the cake has to be cut five times."

  Ben drank and did the mental arithmetic. "I make it four times. Faraday hasn't got a direct interest."

  "Correct, but I've had some bad news from the lawyers—it seems that they've had to make a settlement with some of the other Gullivers for the sake of keeping the peace and preventing any litigation. Five ways. And it gets worse. The lawyers are now saying that I have to extract my commission from consenting parties."

  "What the fuck does that mean?"

  "The Gullivers don't consent; Ms Gee and Juan La Vita do—tentatively, I may add. I doubt that the Russian and the gentleman from the Antipodes will. Say the painting fetches six million, we are now looking at at least ten per cent of two shares. Call it two hundred and fifty thousand, all up."

  Ben sat down heavily. Some of the whisky slopped out of his glass onto his trousers. "I was hoping for a lot more than that."

  "We need a lot more, laddie. I've spent money on this thing and I'm overextended in all directions."

  "What d'you mean?"

  Montague waved his cigar. "Business. I had expectations, so I thought. I . . . speculated."

  "You got into hock."

  Montague leaned down over Ben's chair. "Something has to be done. Two hundred and fifty thousand will be swallowed up like that." He snapped his fingers. "As things stand, there's nothing in this for me, and that means nothing for you!"

  "Christ," Ben said. "You've really screwed it up."

  "You bear part of the blame. Martin was the wrong man to hire and Jerry was the wrong girl to fuck. You should have had a policy of containment."

  Ben finished what was left in his glass and stood up to get more. He brushed his father aside and laughed. "Containment. You don't know what you're talking about."

  "Maybe not," Montague said. "I didn't have a rich father to pay for an expensive education."

  "You paid bugger all. As often as not, Monique had to cover your cheques."

  "The fact remains, you've got the education and you know what the words mean. Perhaps you understand bankruptcy, as well as spinelessness and alcoholism."

  For an instant Montague thought Ben was going to throw the glass at him. He stood his ground, flinching inside. He knew he needed Ben for a deviousness and ruthlessness he did not possess himself. Ben fought for control. He knew he shouldn't have another drink. For one thing, it would confuse him about when to take his medication and when to eat. But he needed it. A small one. A judicious sip and he felt better. He faced Montague who was standing stock still with most of the colour drained from his face. "Don't worry, Dad. You've put too much into this to come out empty-handed. I'll think of something, I promise."

  Montague Cromwell, Jerry and Jamie Martin were at Heathrow when the Qantas flight carrying Georgia Gee and Kobi Clarke got in. Lou Faraday said he would have liked to be there but he had to 'see a guy about a TV thing'.

  Georgia and Kobi had met in Sydney and arranged to travel together. They interrupted their conversation only to pass through customs with their light luggage. They began talking intently again as soon as they were through the arrivals procedure. Montague,
who had studied the photographs Georgia and Kobi had been asked to submit, strode towards the handsome, determined-looking woman and the man with the dark wavy hair, broad nose and slightly slanted eyes. His skin was no darker than an Englishman's after a holiday in Spain.

  "Ms Gee," he said. "And Dr Clarke. Welcome."

  Jerry and Jamie moved forward and there were handshakes and smiles all round. Jerry gazed with open admiration at Kobi Clarke, who wore a dark suit, discreetly striped shirt and a plain silk tie. He was freshly shaven and looked as if he had slept well, which wasn't likely after an economy class flight on Qantas. Jamie Martin found his penchant for commanding women gratified by Georgia Gee, whose loose trousers, shirt and jacket were crumpled and whose makeup had faded, revealing the lines of intelligence and humour around her eyes and mouth. She's no fool, Jamie thought. If Montague and Ben have something sly in mind, it better be good.

  Kobi Clarke relieved Georgia of a bag as they walked towards the taxis. He said something in her ear and she smiled. Montague Cromwell was somewhat deflated by this display of colonial sang froid. After the bags were placed in the taxis Kobi Clarke arranged the distribution of the travellers in a way to which no one could object and which seemed logical. He would ride with Georgia and Jerry, leaving Montague and Jamie to follow in another car.

  He's a politician, Jamie thought. Manipulation of people is second nature to him. His view was confirmed when Kobi approached Montague and placed a reassuring hand on his shoulder.