THE SONG MASTER

by Di Morrissey

  ‘No. That mob over there are keeping him there. He wants to work here with the others. They say it’s too much trouble, so they come and get stuff for him to work on there. It’s only a few minutes’ drive. But they keep saying he’s not up to it. I have my doubts about what’s going on,’ said Judy.

  ‘I reckon he does the outline and the others are doing the painting and getting him to sign it,’ said Alan. ‘His hands aren’t this steady any more. The work is too firm and sure. Young hands did this, I think.’ He straightened up. ‘I can’t take the risk, Judy. Unless we can document it, we can’t sell it as an authentic Lucky Dodds painting. Tell those women if he is working, Max must go over and watch him and film him. Otherwise they won’t get the proper money.’

  ‘They’ll siphon it off to people like that bastard who was here the other day,’ sniffed Judy. She turned to Susan. ‘There’s a dealer always hanging round, buys for private collections as well as several galleries who don’t check credentials too closely. Sends a lot to Japaaan as well.’

  ‘But don’t you look after them exclusively?’ asked Susan.

  Alan shrugged. ‘They understand that, but this guy has been buying stuff from them – for peanuts – for twenty years. They think he’s a friend and they don’t like to say no to a friend. Sometimes they give him stuff unsigned, other times they get relatives to do the work, they sign it, and don’t think they’ve done anything wrong by me because they didn’t paint it. Exclusive and copyright are hard concepts to interpret.’

  Max took several beers out of the fridge and handed them around as he turned on the computer and showed Susan how each artist had an illustrated biography with photographs of them working on each painting, which was catalogued with the story as told by the artist.

  ‘I had no idea it was so sophisticated,’ she exclaimed.

  ‘Aboriginal art is highly sought after by the international art market. I don’t think local institutions realise just how highly regarded it’s becoming,’ said Alan. ‘I have to deal with art bureaucrats here who are so up themselves. They’re protective of their petty power positions and they don’t always recognise the scope and quality of what these people are doing.’

  ‘That must be frustrating.’

  Alan grinned at Susan. ‘I’ve stopped beating my head against a wall. The international heavies either walk in my door in Flinders Lane or I take it straight to Chicago, Paris or New York. But it is a shame some of our most significant work is leaving the country.’

  Max yawned and turned off the computer. ‘Business is business. Let’s do the dishes.’

  Susan ate one of Max’s special breakfasts of eggs, bacon, tomatoes and toast fried on the barbecue in the fat from last night’s meat. She sat in the garden savouring the smell of the fire and the strong coffee brewing for Alan. He’d risen early and walked the few hundred metres to the house where Lucky had stayed with relatives. He planned to have a quiet chat with the old man about his work to ensure it was done under some sort of protective supervision.

  He returned and headed for the coffee pot. ‘It’s not espresso, but it smells good.’

  ‘Fruitful meeting, or was the old man exhausted this morning?’ asked Judy.

  ‘He’s still sparking along. I think he’s better than those women let on. We had a chat, so, we’ll see.’ He turned to Susan. ‘Ready to hit the road?’

  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.

  Esme handed over her glass. ‘A gin and tonic will do nicely thanks, young man.’

  The group laughed as the retired judge, now in his seventies, headed obediently to the bar.

  ‘So what have
you been up to, Susan? Scouted out the lay of the land?’ Alistair MacKenzie was dressed in jeans and a designer T-shirt looking like a clean scout on his first day at camp.

  ‘I’ve had a fascinating time. I met Alan Carmichael, the art man, at the airport and he took me to Bungarra to meet the Barradja artists. It’s an incredible world. I do hope we get to see more of the art, especially the rock art.’ Susan turned to Veronica. ‘You would have loved it.’

  As if on cue, Alan appeared. His greying hair, thick and unruly, had been smoothed in place. Freshly showered, he wore a clean white shirt with the sleeves rolled up and black jeans with Italian black leather boots. Veronica gave Susan a look across the table. They had some serious catching up to do later.

  The QC was impressed Susan had met Lucky Dodds. ‘He’s a national treasure. I have one of his paintings. Bought it years ago, couldn’t afford him now.’

  ‘You collect a bit of art, do you, Alistair?’ asked the judge.

  ‘Here and there. What about you?’

  ‘Nope. I had a collection of barbed wire for a bit. And knots. I’m great at knots.’

  ‘Barbed wire?’ asked Veronica with raised eyebrows. ‘Knots?’

  ‘My oath. You’d be amazed at how many types of barbed wire there are. Different styles and patterns. Going back to the old days. My last wife went and chucked it out. So that was the end of that.’

  ‘I heard you were writing your memoirs, Mick,’ said Alistair. ‘You had a colourful life before coming to the bar.’

  ‘Yeah. Well we won’t go into that. Gave the memoirs idea away. Too many people could’ve sued. Seemed a bit of an ego trip anyway.’

  ‘Now, Mick, that’s no excuse. You’ve been part of the legal history of this country, you should tell the behind-the-scenes of some of it. Expose some of those moralising do-gooders for the power-crazed greedy manipulators they really are,’ said Beth.