The Kwinkan

by Mudrooroo

  ‘I was so distraught that I took refuge in nature. I turned to the garden. The paths were strewn with powdered coral and marked out a square of sanity, around a huge tree in which birds were squabbling and squawking in happy, normal life. It may have been a banyan tree, for roots fell to reach the earth from all the branches and formed a bower which repelled me. Then the birds suddenly stopped their noise and settled down for the night. Bats replaced them to wheel about in their geometric flights. A giant moth flew past in a perfectly straight line, his wings flapping and not fluttering. From the sky to the tree and from the tree to the sky reached a silence which filled me with a foreboding as soft and as velvet as bat wings edged with claws. It penetrated me, made me ache to be away where the buildings rose on all sides in straight lines of sanity. How I wished just to be in a disco, or in a restaurant. None of these existed on this island. I was lost in a savagery which mocked the whole concept of culture. And yet, and yet standing next to me was one of those fashion arbitrators of that culture. Yes, she belonged to Europe with its ordered cruelties and not to these islands where her family had imposed a mockery of civilised savagery. Poly-this and Poly-that; Neo-this and a Neo-that. Oh I was thinking too much and not about the right things. Shouldn’t I have been seeking out the remains of Jackamara, really seeing what state he was in? But I couldn’t, I couldn’t. I was rooted to the spot, right next to that woman who had inflicted such pain and agony.

  ‘I glanced to where she stood resting on the low, stone wall protecting us from the edge of the cliff and any flights of fancy we might have. Her back was towards me as she stared over the ocean which gleamed, dark and as lustrous as her hair, and far down and away from me. A last ray from the disappearing sun leapt out to strike the side of her neck and the emerald necklace which she wore blazed as brightly as her eyes. I watched her body relax in that green fire. I came to her and saw it playing over her features. I gazed into her face and saw that her blood-flecked lips were thinner. Nervously, her teeth gnawed at the bottom lip. I felt that I wanted to take her in my arms, make her forget all the hideousness which she had witnessed. And all at once, the air was filled with a host of fireflies. They fluttered about her in a sparkling halo of fire. Her face lifted and she appeared a Madonna. It was then that she spoke, spoke in a hushed voice which lingered on the recent bloody scene.

  ‘ “Love, we humans are truly astounding, we really are. And if there were other peoples living on the stars and they knew of us, just imagine how they must despise us. We have tamed the world and put nature into chains, and then, we have whipped her. We have artists and poets, we have aesthetic pleasures galore, but what we dote on most of all is pain and the inflicting of pain. How wonderful we are: the torturers of the universe. We torture, therefore we are. Is this not true, my Australian, you who belongs to a nation founded on torture, bloodshed and genocide?”

  ‘Her nails raked my arm to gain my full attention: “Listen, listen,” she exclaimed, “listen damn you! The blood of murderers, torturers and victims flow through your veins, accept them all, or pick one and rejoice.” I couldn’t move; I couldn’t speak; I refused to countenance such things. “Please stay on my island,” she implored. “I’ll build fantastic pleasure gardens of horror. Please listen, please be kind to me. I need you I really do.”

  ‘She turned away to hide her tears and her body shuddered. No, I believe now that it was from suppressed laughter. I don’t know. I still don’t, for the next moment she turned to me with insults: “How disagreeable you are; how old, weary and dreary. You never reach out for me, never take my hand. I’ve had enough. You’re too cold a fish for my net. To think that I once fancied you ...”

  ‘At last I found my tongue and found myself stuttering out words in denial. On the verge of hysteria, in shock, over the edge; but she brushed me away with her own brand of emotion. “No, no, I don’t, won’t speak to you ever! You’re a drag; you make me miserable; you make all of us miserable with your prevarications and lack of understanding.”

  ‘Her voice shrilled on and on in an irritating keening. It whined out through the darkness like the uncanny cry of a vulture. A servant padded near and switched on lights to illuminate the area in which she was attacking me. What could I do but take it from this, this creature? Her voice shrilled on through the warm air, but the light revealed her to me in all her perfection. I stared at her, but her voice grated on my nerves. Her eyes, her lips, her neck, the heavy, red hair which she was always threatening to blacken, the fires of her desires, even her riches repelled me. I had to move away from her side. Her attraction threatened me with, with annihilation. I stared down the open neck of her soiled blouse. The swell of her breasts beckoned. How I wished to bury my face there. My fists clenched and unclenched, unclenched to clench. My fingers writhed. I ached to choke the life out of her. I wanted to strike out at this woman who was reducing me to an insignificant worm. I couldn’t control myself. I ran to her virtually frothing at the mouth. I grabbed her arm cruelly as she had done mine, and shouted out in a curiously high-pitched voice: “Shut up, shut up, shut up! No more, no more of this bullshit!”

  ‘My fist swung around and appeared to collide with her face, though I felt no satisfying thump of fist on flesh. She fell to the earth. Her pale face shone up at me and her dark eyes flashed with scorn. Quietly, she murmured: “Go on, kick me, that’s all you're good for.”

  ‘My rage vanished as quickly as the day had gone into the night. No sooner had it flared than it was extinguished. I felt ashamed at hitting a woman—as ashamed as when I had hit my first and second wives. I helped her to her feet, trying hard not to see the derision on her face. I knew that I was weak, weak, weak; but she had driven me to it. “Carla, Carla, Carla,” I cried out, for I still loved this woman.

  ‘She remained silent, neither turning towards nor away from me. I felt I was part of the mist rising from the ocean. I became as silent as that mist rising up the cliff face, wreathing the flowers, blurring shapes until they turned into the outlines of scaffolds. I smelt the rank odour of blood and spilt body fluids; I heard the sound of a gecko calling, calling to its mate. I needed this woman, but I knew what chance I ever had was gone. In defeat, I said: “Let’s go back to the house.”

  ‘ “Yes,” she agreed politely, “it is almost dinnertime.” And when we entered the mansion, there came the cool tone of her voice asking: “Shall you be going to Fiji on the next boat? It gets in tomorrow?”

  ‘I replied, “Yes.” And that was the last time I ever spoke to her. My sojourn on the island was over; but don’t stop the tape-recorder, there is more to come. More which will enlighten you to the strangeness and the manoeuvring which had gotten me into such a mess. All has not been revealed, and I, I shall reveal what I know. If this account is ever published, it shall be up to the readers to form their own conclusions. You see I had been set up ... Yes, I had been; but I shall end this segment of my life, get it out of the way. It must be investigated.

  ‘Perhaps, yes I assume that someone will read these memoirs and perhaps they will want to know, not about the illustrious Dr Watson Holmes Jackamara so much, but about what happened to that newly emerging nation. Did the islanders succeed in becoming truly independent with the help of the British and Australian Governments? Well, I’ll tell you what happened and what does happen. I wrote a detailed report on Lataoga and his freedom movement, all of it including his ideas on basic democracy. I posted it from Suva to a box number which I had been given and waited for an acknowledgment while I lazed about in a resort in an effort to rebuild my shattered nerves. A curt reply summoned me to Brisbane. I arrived and was shunted off to the old capital at Canberra where I was debriefed and where it was emphasised that I was and would remain under the Official Secrets Act. They offered me this job and here I have remained in this decaying town which was once the capital of Australia. Goodbye to the heady deals of yesteryear. My nerves could not stand any kind of pressure. Still, it is not such a bad position, the houses are now qu
ite cheap in Canberra, and I have a little business on the side; but I won’t talk about that. Then, well, to get back to that newly emergent nation, Lataoga is the Prime Minister and Carla of the green eyes and now black hair is the Minister for Tourism, Foreign Affairs and Industry. Soon after Independence, both came on an official visit to Australia. I received an invitation to attend the opening function of their new Embassy in Brisbane. I managed to reach the new capital and was amazed at how it had grown. I got in a taxi to go the reception and then my nerve failed me. I could not bring myself to enter. I joined the crowd outside the gates. Brisbane then had not gotten over its new status and crowds inevitably gathered to witness the arriving dignitaries at such functions. I watched our Prime Minister arrive in his black limousine. With him was Lataoga and Carla, and, and Watson Holmes Jackamara, the newly appointed High Commissioner to their nation. I was astounded by this. How could this man that I had almost seen beaten to death be hobnobbing with his torturers, with his chief torturer? And then I saw the person he was escorting. It was Miss Tamada. It was then that I realised that these people in front of me, from our Prime Minister down, had engaged in a huge plot which had been my ruin. It had started from that campaign for electoral office into which I had been inveigled; Jackamara, who was supposedly my bodyguard, had furthered the campaign with his story of the Gyinggi woman. The Prime Minister was privy to the plot and had arranged everything including my sitting next to the two women on the flight. Both had played their parts. How deep had the plot gone? Were even my debts, which forced me to contest the election, a part of the process to bring me undone? Sir, I have been the victim of a plot the ramifications of which are immense. It is impossible for a mere person to understand. Governments are involved; corporations are involved, and I have been ditched, cast off and made to suffer this job in this decaying town. How can I escape? How can I re-establish my life and my fortune? I fear that it is impossible, their machinations have not only ruined, but discredited me.

  ‘They done me in, mate. Again and again, they did me in ... I notice that you have never, never ever spoken into that microphone you keep shoving in my face. You are part of the plot, aren’t you? Speak up and into the microphone.’

  ‘No!’

  ‘How can I believe you, you who are the official biographer of this, this Jackamara? I’m sorry, I’m sorry, of the Dr Watson Holmes Jackamara who played a part in my downfall. Don’t deny it, he was there from the beginning gathering rewards and awards, while ashes were being heaped upon my head. Why was he made High Commissioner? Why was he given this juicy post? Why wasn’t I?’

  ‘Because, if you must know, although the former Prime Minister held you in high regard, he became concerned about your mental state. You were to be the chosen one; but to put it mildly you mucked up and came a cropper. You were supposed to be the counterweight to the Kitsune Corporation, and what did you do?’

  ‘What, what ...?’

  ‘You know that our economy was on the upswing, that we needed projects for our construction crews ... If it hadn’t have been for the Prime Minister’s genius in shifting the capital to Brisbane, we would have been landed in a recession, and this would have been because of your clumsy handling of what should have been a simple enough assignment. You had everything going for you and you blew it!’

  ‘But, but ...’

  ‘The Prime Minister had not realised the state of your health which appears to have deteriorated rapidly after your disastrous campaign for electoral office. To add to this, you succeeded quite early in the piece in alienating the woman, Carla. She found you detestable and despicable. She can be quite realistic when it comes to business; but she certainly did not take to you constantly lying to her.’

  ‘But, but ... there were attempts made on my life.’

  ‘It appears that you made an enemy of the captain of the inter-island schooner. He is a Scot and Scotsmen are not ready to forgive and forget. Then, though this is only a surmise, you offended the crew by calling them “Lascars”. You blundered from pillar to post.’

  ‘But, but how do you know all this? How do you, mate? How do you?’

  ‘I have interviewed a number of the people involved. As Jackamara’s official biographer, I am most impartial and collate the facts from as many sources as possible.’

  ‘But why, why was that, that Aborigine made the High Commissioner? Answer me that! Expose the facts! Your impartiality demands it. Your readers must know them.’

  ‘Dr Watson Holmes Jackamara is an exceedingly accomplished man in his field. This made him High Commissioner material. He was also on intimate terms with Miss Tamada of the Kitsune Corporation whom he had met in India many years ago and continued to keep up the relationship when she came to Australia. Also, his appointment was requested by Prime Minister Lataoga. He also was a longstanding friend of the former Prime Minister who was quite fond of him and called him affectionately his “Jacky”.’

  ‘I still declare that it was a plot, a plot to discredit and annihilate me.’

  ‘Perhaps, but if there was one, it was not against yourself. I can see that the Prime Minister made one of his rare errors in choosing you for such a delicate mission. Still, that is long in the past and should be forgotten. Now as to the matter of payment. You said that you desired cash?’

  ‘Yes, yes ... and is it all there? Still have some minor debts you see, and the job, a mere sinecure, doesn’t pay nearly enough ... but then I do keep my hand in with a few little speculations. I might be down, mate, but I’m not out. One day I’ll regain my strength and then you’ll see.’

  ‘Yes, yes, then we’ll see. I just hope that you take more care in future; but none of this is my concern. I wish to thank you for giving me your time. I must say that I did find your account frankly fascinating. It will certainly be an aid to me in illuminating the career of one of Australia’s greatest native sons ...’

  ‘Listen, mate, I find your attitude offensive and as for that famous native son you are whitewashing ... He needs it with his black skin and heart. I want to say that only a Royal Commission will satisfy me. Sir, there has been skulduggery. Yes, I declare, skulduggery, and it must be brought out. The people of Australia must know how their country is run and how foreign affairs are conducted. They must learn that I have been a victim of a plot vast in its ramifications.’

  ‘Yes, yes. Please could you make out a receipt for the money. Make it out personally to me. That will do. Thank you, and goodnight and goodbye.’

  ‘A Royal Commission, sir, that is what I want. A Royal Commission. Publish my account. Let the readers make up their own minds about the matter. I challenge you to lay these facts before the Australian public. I challenge you ...’

  THE END