Ishmael and the Return of the Dungongs

by Michael Gerard Bauer

  ‘I know just the guy,’ I told them.

  40.

  LEAVE IT WITH ME (TWICE)

  On Monday morning before school I went to see Mr Barker in his office. In the end I didn’t even have to ask him if he would help with the concert. As soon as I’d finished explaining what had happened to the Dugongs his eyes started to dart about and then they stopped and zeroed in on me. ‘They can have it here,’ he said. ‘In the gym. Need to run it by Brother Jerome, of course … and three to four weeks could be tricky … but not impossible … Leave it with me.’

  That night Mr Barker rang to say that Brother Jerome had given his approval and that not only was the gym available, but because the end-of-year assembly/mass/prize-giving/speech night/extravaganza thingy would be held there a few days later, most of the stage, lighting and sound would already be in place.

  But my father still wasn’t convinced. ‘He’s a deputy principal, for crying out loud – a teacher-not a band manager or a concert promoter. He’s way out of his depth.’

  Dad finally agreed under protest when Mum pointed out that when it came to managing the Dugongs, Mr Barker didn’t have a whole lot to live up to.

  Just two nights later we were all in the lounge room – Dad and the rest of the Dugongs, Mum, Prue and me – watching Mr Barker pull a typed sheet of paper from his briefcase and lay it on the coffee table in front of him. It was a progress report on the arrangements for the concert.

  ‘Right, as I said, the gym’s available and most of the staging, lighting and sound will be set up. We’ve got plenty of volunteers from staff and students to help operate everything – and they’re used to handling musical productions and rock eisteddfods, so that’s all under control.’

  ‘What’s it costing us to rent the hall?’ Uncle Ray asked.

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Nothing? How’d you swing that with the boss?’

  ‘I convinced him we wouldn’t be out of pocket – in fact we stand to generate a reasonable profit. We’re making parking available on the lower oval for a small fee – Mr Guthrie and some of the Year Ten boarders will be organising that. No alcohol will be allowed inside the gym but the Parents and Friends have a licence to operate a bar on the tennis courts. In addition to the bar, they will be manning a food and drinks stall outside in the playground. They also intend to run raffles throughout the night and sell a range of college memorabilia. Zoe Tarango is coordinating all that for me. As for the overall ticket sales, I propose that ten per cent of the total earnings go to the college to help cover any additional costs.’

  Dad looked around at the other band members, who nodded in stunned silence.

  ‘Look, that sounds … great,’ Dad said, ‘but are you sure you know what you’re taking on here? A rock concert can be a bit … wild. It’s a big ask.’

  Mr Barker looked steadily at my father. ‘You haven’t had the pleasure of attending one of our gym dances, have you? Six hundred hormone-ravaged teenagers let loose in semi – darkness. Perhaps I could put you down as a volunteer parent supervisor and you could experience it for yourself.’

  Dad was quiet for a moment then he tapped the sheet of paper on the coffee table. ‘What’s the next item on the agenda?’

  ‘Let’s see,’ Mr Barker said, ticking off a few points, ‘Publicity. Now as far as that goes, I’ve taken the liberty of putting together a feature article about the band and the reunion concert for the college newsletter. It goes out tomorrow to over 1200 families, so that’s a start. I’ve included a leaflet as well for people to display in shops, workplaces etc. Now I’ve also provided a copy of the article to the St Daniel’s Old Boys Association, and they are contacting all their members in the print media and radio, so we should get a fair bit of free coverage there. Not sure about television, but I’m working on that. Obviously I’ve emphasised the change of venue and made it clear we would honour any tickets that have been sold previously or refund money if necessary.’

  Mr Barker stabbed another tick on the sheet.

  ‘Right, the next thing is that Carla Lagilla from the Art department is keen to get her students involved, so they’ll be creating posters and a backdrop for the stage area. She also wanted to know if you would be agreeable to her designing and printing a special commemorative T-shirt that could be sold on the night to help raise funds for a big Art excursion that’s arranged for next year.’

  Dad glanced around again. Everyone was staring at Mr Barker as if he’d just parted the Red Sea.

  ‘No … No problem … That’d be fine … Great.’

  Another tick.

  ‘Now then, naturally Mr Carlson and the Music department are right behind us. They’ve arranged for a private rehearsal room to be made available for the band at the college any time over the next three weeks as well as equipment if you need it. There was also a suggestion that if you had time, a few music students might be able to sit in on some practices, and perhaps you could speak to a couple of the classes – but that’s entirely up to you. On the night itself Mr Carlson has lined up the school big band as well as two of our best student rock groups as support acts. We thought they could play from seven till around eight, then you would go from eight-thirty. How does all that sound?’

  Dad spoke for all the stunned faces and shaking heads in the room. ‘Amazing.’

  ‘Good, well that about covers everything I wanted to say at this stage. There’s still a lot to be done, details to iron out, but I think I can say that we’re on target.’ As Mr Barker began to gather up his stuff the stunned faces softened into smiles.

  ‘Look, Mr Barker … Phil …’ Dad said, ‘you’ve done so much already. It’s unbelievable. We sure could have used you twenty years ago. How can we ever make it up to you?’

  Mr Barker looked up. ‘Just do two things … and that will be more than enough,’ he said. ‘Play the concert …’ and then he reached into his briefcase and pulled out an old vinyl album with a fading photograph of the Dugongs on the front cover, ‘and do me the honour of signing this.’

  When all the Dugongs had written their names and messages on the album cover, Mr Barker clipped his briefcase shut and said his goodbyes. But as he was about to leave, he hesitated. ‘You know, there is one other thing you could do for me if you wouldn’t mind.’

  ‘Name it,’ Dad said.

  ‘Well, it might sound silly … but it’s just … When I’m speaking to people about the band and the concert, it can get a bit confusing when I say I’m the Deputy Principal of St Daniel’s … so I was wondering if you’d mind at all … if just for the time being, just until after the concert … I might officially refer to myself as … the manager of the Dugongs?’

  Dad didn’t need to check with the others this time. ‘We wouldn’t want it any other way,’ he said.

  Mr Barker bobbed his head in a way that for a disturbing second reminded me of Razza, and then something extraordinary happened to his face. It let itself smile.

  If Dad or any of the other Dugongs had any lingering doubts about Mr Barker, then they were all swiftly knocked on the head over the next couple of weeks. As well as advertising posters for the reunion appearing everywhere, the local radio station began plugging the concert and a popular afternoon TV program did a special feature on the band. With less than one week to go before the big night, over a thousand tickets had been sold-more than double what the group had ever dared to hope for.

  But Mr Barker wasn’t the only one who was getting things organised. I had finally decided to take Prindabel’s advice and ‘do something’ about Razza. That was why after school one day I handed Ignatius a large envelope with Sally Nofke’s name printed on the front. Inside it were three things: a leaflet advertising the Dugongs’ reunion, a double pass to the concert and a note from Razza that simply said ‘I’m sorry’.

  After I explained all that to Ignatius he held the envelope in his hand and frowned. ‘Do you really think this will work?’

  ‘Not sure. All I know is that Razza will
be there-so will Bill and Scobie – but whether Sally turns up … who knows?’

  ‘Maybe he should have written something more than just “I’m sorry”?’

  ‘Maybe, but it was hard enough getting him to do that much. He reckoned it was just going to end up in the bin anyway. Look, Ignatius, just get your sister to take it to school and pass it on to Sally Nofke, OK, and we’ll hope for the best.’

  ‘Right … sure,’ Ignatius said vaguely as he continued to frown down at the envelope. ‘Leave it with me.’

  So that’s what I did.

  But there was something else that I left with Ignatius that day. Tucked inside Sally’s envelope was a smaller one with Kelly Faulkner’s name on it and inside that was another leaflet advertising the reunion, another double pass to the concert and another note – from me this time-that simply said ‘I’m sorry’.

  You see, my father wasn’t the only one who had everything riding on the return of the Dugongs.

  41.

  ONE PLUS ONE

  The night of the Dugongs’ reunion concert was cloudy and humid. Razza and I had spent most of the day helping Mr Barker get things set up before sitting in on the band’s final run-through. They sounded good, too, but I was still worried by the look of quiet panic in Dad’s eyes.

  When we returned that evening about a half an hour before the first of the school groups kicked off, a large crowd was already spilling into the playground and more were filing up from the bottom oval car park. While Mum and Prue went with Dad straight to the rehearsal room, Razza and I decided to head inside the gym. We were checking some of Ms Lagilla’s posters when a familiar voice came from behind us.

  ‘Leseur … Zorzotto … there you are.’

  We turned to see a lanky form dressed in a school uniform squinting at us.

  ‘Ignatius, what are you doing here? I didn’t think you were into rock music.’

  ‘I’m not. I’m one of the volunteers they’re forcing to help out at the car park. Just finished my shift. Now I’m on the merchandising stall – thought I’d bring some of the Pi Club T-shirts along to sell.’

  There was a pause. I think both Ignatius and I expected a comment from Razza at this point – something along the lines of, ‘You brought Mathematics T-shirts to a rock concert? What’s your next marketing venture, Prindabel? Selling Barbie dolls to the Marines?’

  But nothing came. Ever since the incident with Sally it was as if someone had pushed Razza’s mute button. I was about to say something when a large group of people drifting into the gym distracted me.

  ‘Razza, look.’

  I pointed towards the back of the hall where Sally Nofke was having her ticket checked. Behind her were her parents and behind them was Kelly Faulkner. My heart bounded from a giant springboard and shot in the air. Then I saw Brad and it belly-flopped straight back into an empty pool.

  Sally moved further inside and waited for the others.

  ‘She came …’ Razza said as if he was in shock.

  Ignatius leant forward and whispered disturbingly close to my ear, ‘Is that her?’

  I nodded.

  ‘But she’s … she’s …’

  ‘I know.’

  He turned and had another look.

  ‘And she’s intelligent.’

  ‘Uh-huh.’

  ‘And she likes Orazio?’

  Here we go again.

  Just then Sally looked right at us and gave a quick wave. Then she spoke briefly with Kelly and her parents before threading her way through the crowd in our direction.

  Ignatius glanced around nervously. ‘Ah, Orazio … there’s something I should probably tell you.’

  He reached forward and grabbed Razza by the arm.

  ‘Hey, man, what’re you …’

  ‘No time to explain – just listen to what I’m saying. Agree with her, all right? Whatever she says – just go along with it. You did it, all right. You did it. It was all your idea. Got that?’

  ‘Prindabel, what the hell are you …’

  But it was too late. Ignatius had scurried off and Sally was zeroing in.

  ‘Well, Razz, I’ll leave you to it, OK? Good luck.’

  A pain stabbed in my bicep. Razza had a death-grip on my arm. ‘No, Ishmael, wait – I need you, man … Please.’

  I had no idea what good I could do hanging around, but the look in Razza’s eyes told me I wasn’t going anywhere.

  Sally made her way to us and we exchanged a few awkward greetings. Then she turned to Razza. ‘Thanks for sending the tickets … and especially for … you know … the other thing.’ She smiled coyly and looked at the floor.

  ‘The other thing,’ Razza said, leaning in a little. ‘Right, yeah … the other thing … And that would be the … um … the …’

  Sally looped her long dark hair behind her ears and looked quickly at me. I edged away a little and pretended to be absorbed in watching the crowd.

  ‘Stop trying to embarrass me,’ she said. ‘You know what I mean … the poem.’

  ‘Oh right,’ Razza said, throwing back his head and nodding confidently, ‘the poem. Yeah, of course … The poem … Right … That other thing.’

  Sally gave a little laugh then her dark eyes fixed on Razza. ‘It was … so sweet,’ she said quietly with a slight shake of her head, ‘… and so clever.’

  A manic smile tried to smother the utter confusion on Razza’s face. ‘Really?’

  Sally looked down and her black hair fell forward across her cheeks. ‘It was the nicest thing anyone’s ever given me … I keep it with me all the time.’

  Razza’s manic smiled eased back a few notches. ‘So … what … You mean … you’ve got it here now?’

  She blushed and gave a little nod.

  ‘Can I see it?’ Razza asked eagerly.

  Sally looked up and wrinkled up her cute nose. ‘What would you want to see it for?’

  ‘Well, I just … You know, I thought … that um … that ah …’ Suddenly more pain surged through my arm and I found myself being yanked sideways, ‘… that maybe Ishmael here would like to read it.’

  Sally frowned even more.

  ‘Yeah, I know it’s a bit … weird … but the thing is I’ve been telling him all about it … You know, about the poem and everything … but it’s not the same unless you actually read it … So I thought if he could just have a quick squiz at it that’s all …’

  Sally seemed uncertain. ‘Well, I guess so … if it’s all right with you.’

  ‘Sure. Ishmael and me are mates-we share everything, don’t we, Ishmael?’

  I couldn’t really disagree – Razza had his hand on the back of my neck and was practically nodding my head for me.

  Sally reached into the back pocket of her jeans, pulled out a slip of paper and passed it across. I unfolded it and with Razza peering over my shoulder, we read together.

  To Sally …

  ONE PLUS ONE

  You’re the balance to my equation

  The answer to my sum

  You’re the X that I’ve been seeking

  My prime number – number one.

  You’re my complementary angle

  The sine of my cos tan

  But I’m just a vulgar fraction

  Until you have to understand

  That I won’t be completed

  Till you tell me that you care

  Then I’ll be your circumference

  And you, my πr2.

  Now I’m no mathematician,

  So please tell me if it’s true

  That one plus one together

  Can equal me and you.

  Razza and I stared at the sheet long after we had finished reading it.

  ‘That’s … just great Razz,’ I said finally as I handed the poem back to Sally. She smiled and she bit her bottom lip. I thought only Kelly Faulkner could look that beautiful. Razza, on the other hand, looked completely miserable. He was also mumbling something.

  ‘Sorry?’ Sally asked, still smiling.
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  ‘I didn’t write it.’

  Her smile fell away as if it had lost the will to live.

  ‘The poem … It’s not mine … I didn’t write it. I wish I did … but … I can’t lie to you … I suck at Maths … and everything else.’

  A shimmer began to appear in Sally’s eyes just as it had the night of the debating semi-final. I could hear Prindabel’s voice screaming in my head, ‘Do something!’

  ‘Ah … No, look … Razza’s just being modest, Sally … What he’s really trying to say is that he had some help with the poem … with the Maths stuff. A friend of ours, Ignatius … Ignatius Prindabel … You know, Cynthia Prindabel’s brother … Well, he’s right into Maths and Razz told me just now how he helped out with the terms and everything … But you know, the main ideas … the meaning of the poem and what it says … Well, that’s all Razza’s work.’

  Sally and I both looked at Razza.

  I waited but I didn’t get any support. ‘That’s right, isn’t it Razz? … The ideas in the poem … You know, what it’s saying and everything … That comes from you, right? I mean, that’s not Prindabel talking, is it? That’s what you think, right?’

  Razza looked at me doubtfully. ‘Well yeah … but …’

  ‘See Sal, it’s just like I said, he’s being way too modest. He’s always like that. He’s famous for it here at St Daniel’s. Zorzotto the Humble, we call him.’

  Sally blinked the shimmer from her eyes and smiled. ‘Well, that’s all right – it’s definitely the thought that counts.’

  The beginnings of a smile also appeared on Razza’s face. ‘Look, Sally, about the other night … at the debate … I’m sorry … Man, I was like a total doofus.’

  ‘That makes two of us … I guess we should get on really well, hey.’

  They were both wrapped up in a communal grin-a-thon, so I figured it was time to beat a hasty retreat.

  ‘Well look, I’m gonna go down to the rehearsal room to wish Dad good luck.’