Red Can Origami

by Madelaine Dickie

  Emmet turns his head, coughs once.

  —Unlucky for him, there was a bit of Irukandji caught on the side of the regulator. It got tangled up in his ballsac. Shoulda heard the screams!

  Ash and Keith are in stitches. You’re horrified. Up here there are boxies and Irukandji, and both kinds of jellyfish can kill.

  —Did he die?

  —Nah, he was alright. Moved back to Busselton. Anyway, the point is, it’s real wild country out there. If you don’t respect it, if you don’t know what you’re doing, then you can get into some deep trouble.

  The piano stops. There are a few exuberant yelps. Then the piano player launches into a galloping ragtime classic.

  —Speaking of deep trouble, says Emmet. Seems like this fucken mine’s gunna be a goer.

  He looks hard at Keith.

  —What’s the missus reckon?

  The Irukandji-on-ballsac hilarity of moments previous is now hived with aggression. Keith answers slowly.

  —We’re both pretty supportive in principle. You’ve seen the For Sale and For Lease signs around town. Gubinge is fucken dead.

  A seed pod hits the table and you all jump.

  —Kylie reckons it’ll be a good thing for Burrika, too. She’s been trying to get funding to run Burrika language lessons at the school for years. Gerro have got bags of money and are likely to bankroll something like that. What about you, Ash? Uranium too risky?

  —Glow-in-the-dark fish? No fucken thanks.

  Ash gives you an affectionate nudge.

  You shrug.

  —Always the impartial journo, eh? Bet you don’t even vote …

  You smile weakly. Not the impartial journo, you think. Not anymore.

  In your garden, the heat stalls under the mango tree. When you justify it to your sister, to your left-leaning girlfriends in Melbs, eventually to Ash, you’ll say it’s demeaning working for a deadshit like Jeff. Working on a country paper is career suicide. And I’m taking on a mining job with a difference, I’m an Aboriginal liaison officer, I’m working for Burrika, I’m working to lock in the best agreement possible for the mob and to make sure Gerro sticks to its promises and doesn’t allow any more heritage to be damaged. It’s ethical. And it won’t be for long.

  What you won’t tell them is that you’ve definitely felt the pressure from the local costs of food and fuel and electricity—everything’s so much more expensive than over East. And Imogen’s gouge for the tax office has meant there’s not enough in your savings to buy a four-wheel drive with a reliable radiator, let alone to throw down a deposit on a flat in Melbourne. Surely there’s nothing wrong with wanting a bit of money to get ahead, to set yourself up. You’ll make some coin, make peace with Noah, then you’ll get out before they corrupt you.

  You drink wine, drink coffee to kill the wine, drink vodka to kill the coffee.

  Steeled at last, you call Ash. His answering machine tells you he’s probably fishing. You call your sister.

  —Ava, it’s midnight! It’s Friday! Are you okay?

  Imogen’s voice is all sparks. It holds the drunken sequin shine of a Melbourne night. You forgot about the time difference, tell her you’ll call back tomorrow. But she detects your bleak tone; she knows where it can lead.

  —You’re not okay, are you?

  God, it’s been such a lonely, uneven year. Imogen continues, now bullying.

  —Have you had dinner?

  You shake your glass at the phone, an icy tintinnabulation.

  —Vodka’s not dinner, Ava. Do you need me to fly over? I’d love to if you’ve got time, but aren’t you working fifteen-hour days? Hang on; I’ll put you on speaker. Keep talking while I check out flights.

  —What about your work? And aren’t you broke at the moment?

  —I can work from home, and no, I’m not broke at the moment. I’ve got a new job, she says breezily. Three days a week, and double the pay. I just need good internet.

  You don’t tell Imogen that the internet here is shithouse. The prospect of seeing her, especially given you’ve got a few weeks before you start with Gerro Blue, is exhilarating. What would she think of it? The frangipanis and hibiscus, the mansions of white tin? You’ll take her to the fishing club. You’ll take her to that resort two hours south, the one with morning yoga and an infinity pool that smudges into sea.

  There’s a groan at the other end of the line.

  —Oh my God. Over a thousand dollars? Didn’t you say September was supposed to be shoulder season? I could fly return to Bali, or Fiji, or even Tahiti cheaper …

  A week and twelve hundred dollars later, with a crosswind sweeping a red conjunctivitis across the runway, Imogen’s plane glides unsteadily to land. You sweat in the shade along the palm-lined tarmac with a group of locals. All of you are avoiding the burning jags of light dropping between the fronds. From behind sunnies, you observe their minimal clothing: the bare feet, the singlets with bra straps showing, the bums buckled with cellulite and blazing with sunburn. There’s a bloke with a parrot on his shoulder, a bloke with missing buttons.

  When Imogen steps from the plane, black hair in big waves over her shoulders, wearing what your mum calls her ‘bondage heels’ and a tiny dress, she looks gorgeous and completely out of place. She smells like Issey Miyake and Qantas coffee.

  —I’m dying for a drink, she says, wrapping you in a hug. Jesus, Ava, you stink …

  The Beach Bar’s heaving with tourists, mostly white, and you’re lucky to get a table. On the sand below, a string of camels blocks the sun’s skid to sea. When the cocktails arrive, Imogen asks,

  —So what is it? Is it a bloke?

  —Yep.

  —Is he hot?

  —Of course he’s hot! But that’s not even it. I mean, he’s …

  —Is he Aboriginal?

  —Well, yeah, but that’s not the point. That’s not what I was about to say.

  —Mum would flip if she knew you were fucking an Abo.

  You’re embarrassed. Look around to see if anyone has heard.

  —Hey Im, don’t use that word.

  —What? Everyone uses fucking.

  —Not fucking, you idiot. The other word. Not up here.

  She rolls her eyes. The cherry from her martini is an irritated red against her smirk.

  —So, is it true what they say? Once you go black …

  The couple at the table next to you are listening avidly. They’re in their late sixties, probably looping the country in the seasonal migration of the retired, caught here longer than planned, maybe engine trouble. They haven’t said a word to each other since they sat down.

  —C’mon Im, I’m trying to be serious.

  The sky’s fading from high-vis to pastel, the sea’s turned navy with a lice-filled chop.

  —Sorry, Ava. Go on.

  When you finish, she clicks a shellacked nail on her empty glass and says, with her usual, flippant pragmatism,

  —It doesn’t sound like there was much of a future at the paper, not with that dickhead George.

  —Jeff.

  —Right, Jeff. And, given there’s not many jobs for journos up here, I think it was a smart move if you’re keen to stay. Ethically, well, sure there’s issues, but you’re on the inside, now. Maybe you’ll be able to help more if you’re on the inside. So this Noah …

  —Yeah?

  —Does he have a brother?

  The two of you fall into an easy rhythm. Imogen runs half marathons, tans herself at the beach and prepares dinners—pale eyelashes of onion through slow-cooked lamb, peanut sauce spilled over snow peas and spinach—a welcome change from plates of crackers and gouda. Ash asks the two of you for a night fish up the creek and starts flirting with Imogen the moment he sees her. She’s in a skin-tight dress that shows off her legs. Before leaving the house, you said,

  —We are going fishing, you know.

  And Imogen snapped,

  —Your point?

  Instead of dropping anchor at the mouth of the creek, Ash ste
ers you up one of the creek’s black octopus arms. Each arm unrolls for kilometres, salt water seething right up into the desert. The motor hums. On weekends, the creek’s busy as a car park, but you haven’t seen any other boats tonight. Ash kills the engine. The mangroves bubble and sough. It feels dangerous.

  The crab pots aren’t actual pots, more like nets around circular metal frames. Ash places a bloody hunk of meat at the bottom and gets Imogen to throw it over. There’s a buoy at the top, so you’ll be able to find it. Then you take off, set another four. When Imogen’s dropped the last one, Ash wheels back to check the first.

  Imogen pulls it up and swears. There’s a crab at the bottom, pincers snapping, seeking her skin in the dark.

  —He’s a big one! Put the net down on the floor, just here.

  Ash grabs the crab behind the claws.

  —Ava, quick, quick! Esky!

  Imogen pulls up another four crabs and they go into the esky too. Every time the lid opens, the interned crabs clatter the ice, claw for the air, claw for the salt and the sea and the thin, cool light of the moon. Claw each other.

  The esky’s full.

  Now the excitement’s died down, you become aware of the sandflies. Ash finds a can of repellent, then steers up another arm of the creek. He instructs Imogen to pitch the anchor at the fork of two tributaries. There are ribbons of moving mullet along the creek’s edge. Further away, you hear the explosive sound of fish smacking water. Ash hoots.

  —I reckon we’re on!

  You thread an inky gob of squid onto your hook.

  Imogen’s line’s already in and within moments she’s squealing, standing, going hand to hand without even being told. She hauls a fish into the boat.

  —What is it?

  Ash flicks on his head torch. The fish has scales like shells, the soft colour of blush.

  —Fingermark, says Ash, then his reel starts screaming.

  He leaps to his rod, flicks the ratchet and winds. The rod almost folds in half. Almost pulls him in. On the floor of the boat, the fingermark’s flipping, hitting an esky, hitting the tackle box, getting air.

  —Hold her there, Ash shouts over his shoulder, as something sleek and black thrashes alongside the boat.

  —Ah. Thought it might’ve been.

  The shark’s only a metre and a half long, but it’s incredibly powerful. Fascinated, you step closer, avoiding the baffled fingermark. The shark’s mouth is fixed in that classic, jagged moaning shape. Carefully, Ash unhooks it.

  And so it continues. The sea sweats fish after fish: mangrove jacks, mulloways, catfish, barracuda and a single baby barramundi. It’s incredible to believe a creek system so close to a town could be this healthy, could hold so many lives. Ash lifts the lid on the fish esky.

  —I reckon we’ve bagged out here, girls!

  By the time you get back to the boat ramp, the sandfly bites have swollen as big as ten-cent pieces, rimmed white and leaking yellow.

  —Ava, I’ll hold the boat if you want to do the trailer? Wouldn’t want you to get stung.

  You suspect his motives are otherwise, perhaps a cheeky kiss of your sis in the dark, but when he swings his torch to the sand you realise he’s right. The tide’s swept in a line of frilly blue stingers.

  —It’s pretty straightforward, eh?

  —Piece of piss. When you see the trailer going in one direction, turn the wheel the same way.

  It takes a few goes. It takes eight goes. The public lights over the boat ramp are a grim manganese. Nudging the trailer into the water, you think of the crabs in the esky. Their maundering eyes, their cold-slowed claws. There must be a better way.

  Later, you learn what it is.

  A screwdriver tapped with a hammer, straight through the brain.

  Ash’s half naked, making a plunger pot of coffee. Suddenly, sparks fill the microwave. He pulls out three teacups, each containing an inch of milk. They’re decorated with gold leaves. Probably not gold, but something else that turns a radioactive tinsel when cooked.

  —Sorry, he says. Coffee?

  —I’d love one.

  He pours you a cup, hands it to you, then farts. It’s like the opening of a beer can, a soft, fast hiss.

  —Lucky Imogen didn’t hear that. You’d be straight out of here!

  He grins, says,

  —I’ve been holding it in for hours.

  This always happened when you were younger. She stole your boyfriends. Or you stole hers. One of you would have to make that weird transition from flirting with a bloke to treating him like a brother. There’s no way you ever want Imogen to meet Noah.

  The airport’s quiet. In the air-conditioned waiting room, a mute television plays ABC News 24. Outside, in the shade of a mango tree, people laze over beers.

  —Can I get you girls a beer?

  —It’s nine a.m.! Imogen protests.

  —I’ll have a Coopers thanks, Ash.

  —Okay, then. A ginger beer for me.

  Lives governed by piss and piss-taking. Stay here long enough and that’ll be you too. You both watch Ash walk to the bar.

  —Sorry, Imogen says.

  —It’s fine. It was almost a thing, but then it wasn’t. We didn’t sleep together.

  —They say happiness is pursuit. Anyway, it’s your loss. We nearly snapped the backboard off the …

  —Imogen!

  —Kidding.

  And you think about your loss, the second she boards the plane, know you’ll go concave with loneliness. Imogen is oblivious, says,

  —It’s magic up here! Gubinge feels like an island almost, like it’s floating between the beach and the bay. I would really like to get Mum …

  That won’t happen. The beers arrive and you drink without tasting. Then she’s gone.

  [ why are the wicked so wily ]

  Gerro Blue flies you business class to meet Watanabe in Tokyo. You’ve always enjoyed the strange limbo of international air travel, especially when it’s for play: there’s the frantic tying of loose ends beforehand, the relief closing the lappy after that last email, the alluring rows of duty-free perfume—bottles like busts, like peaches, like guns—and the expectancy of the airport bar, the possibilities over a margarita. That man with the green eyes? Or him, Ned Kelly’s brother? A casual flirt, then bliss: seven, or fifteen, or however many hours reading, catching up on the television series you’ve been too busy to watch.

  It’s different travelling for work, and on this trip, there’s no time for entertainment. You’re reading up on everything you can about Gerro Blue in preparation for a lunchtime meeting with Watanabe.

  The meeting’s at a restaurant on the fourth floor of a shopping centre in Shibuya. You plug it into your maps app and catch the train, swallowing aseptic air, swallowing memory. The language is taking a while to come back and it’s as if there’s a slight disconnect between tongue and brain. An extra heartbeat, an extra pause. And it’s odd being here for only a few days, knowing there’s no time to create new stories or a sense of space.

  Zelkova trees flash past, bright with autumn. You thought you might miss the changing seasons living up north, especially after Japan, after growing up in Melbourne—thought the tropics were simply halved into wet and dry or, at a stretch, cut into thirds: the wet, the dry, the build-up. You didn’t imagine there could be a time of fog, a time of grassfires, a time when barni and barra are fat. In the Burrika language, there’s even a word to describe fishing in the cold drizzle that falls in July.

  Only this year, the week of winter rain didn’t fall.

  God, Tokyo is a galaxy away from Gubinge, with its skyline fleeced with fumes, its sick metal serpents of trains and traffic, its giant anime adverts arching and grinning. Gubinge, by contrast, is almost like a town in a time warp: flip history and it could be a once-colonial outpost of Japan, with its streets named Tanaka and Hanata, with its people still carrying Japan in their faces and frames. A colonial outpost now forgotten, abandoned by Asia’s most affluent super-city.
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  Watanabe is on the phone in a discreet booth. He’s wearing a suit. He gestures for you to join him and, knees cracking, you sit at the low table, drop your legs in the space beneath, feel the weave of the tatami mat through your pants. There’s the soft smell of freshly cooked rice. Watanabe hangs up and smiles.

  —How are you finding it, Ava? Is it good to be back?

  —It’s so good to be back! I don’t think I’ve really appreciated how much I missed it until now.

  —Japan’s like that. It stirs us gently. Though Tokyo—perhaps she’s not so gentle.

  It’s true: the constant baffling, dizzying, dazzling demands on the eye. Watanabe continues,

  —Over the last few months, I’ve been back and forth quite a lot. I’ve thought often of the Austrian writer Thomas Bernhard. He writes about people who swap city living for country living, says they must be equipped with incredible mental resources. He writes that the country robs a thinking person of everything. Anyway, do you mind if I order for us both?

  —Please.

  —Sumimasen! Watanabe says, grabbing the waitress’s attention.

  After she’s taken down the order, you ask,

  —So, what do you think? Does the country rob a thinking person of everything?

  —I once thought so, yes. As you know, in Japan, no-one lives in the country anymore. But since we’ve started working with Burrika, in a kind of country Mr Bernhard couldn’t have imagined, I’m coming to a different view. It’s perhaps a place that robs one who isn’t strong of mind or spirit. But there are also incredible riches …

  He is, of course, referring to cultural riches. You hope.

  Lunch arrives: steaming bowls of soba, and sake, poured elaborately and right to the brim. You kiss your drink, then ask,