Red Can Origami

by Madelaine Dickie

  —Protest concert?

  —I’ve only just heard about it. Green Gubinge are organising a concert a day or two before our mob get together to sign off on the agreement. Apparently, they’ve got some pretty famous kartiya musos coming up for it.

  —Shit.

  You’ll have to brief Watanabe and Mandy first thing tomorrow. Talk to Olivia.

  —Anyway, Noah says, there’s been all sorts of things in these letters. A list of the effects of radiation exposure. Swollen gums and blistering skin and spit with blood in it. A list of the cancers caused by radiation. I even got a letter from a Traditional Owner group in the Northern Territory, telling me we could fight this, that we didn’t have to sell our land for a few jobs.

  This gets the heart going.

  —Anyway, those letters were all civil enough. Until this one.

  He hands over a piece of paper, and as you skim the ugly font, the damning photo, you feel salmonella-sick. It’s straight-up blackmail:

  Gerro Blue’s little coconut. Black on the outside, white on the inside, and running fat on the white man’s money. If you vote in favour of the agreement with Gerro, we’re sending this to the police.

  In the photo, Noah’s crouching over a small package at the foot of De Beer Senior’s stone bust. There’s a lighter blazing in his left hand.

  Noah walks you back to the car. You pack in the camp chair, the Woolies cooler bag, and then you’re standing, a trembling foot of air between you. Noah closes the gap, winding his fingers into your hair, kissing you, taking the hurt out on your mouth, hungry and anguished. Then he lets you go. Shakes his head as if he can’t quite believe what he’s just done.

  Butterflies: you can’t quite believe what he’s just done.

  Noah says gruffly, breathlessly,

  —So, you wanna come camping in a few weekends? We’re gunna teach the little kids some dances.

  —I’d love to.

  —I’ll see ya at the meeting tomorrow then.

  —Sure, see ya tomorrow.

  With hands in pockets, with that rolling cowboy gait, he walks back toward the floodlights.

  The next morning, you get into the office early enough to watch the daily flight to Perth throw a crescent of shadow over the runway as it tilts mid-rise. If it weren’t for Noah, you would almost wish to be on it. The Burrika board are an intimidating group of people. More than half were sent to boarding school in Perth, then went on to university; the other half have powerful cultural authority, the knowledge of country, story and song.

  The bell on the door goes and you turn, surprised. It’s Liam. He’s never early, strictly a nine-to-five man with half an hour for lunch. Usually genial, usually mild, this morning he looks pissed off to see you here. There’s a slug of still-damp coffee on his shirtfront. He mumbles good morning, goes into his office, and locks the door.

  Probably wife troubles.

  Noah acknowledges you with a look as intimate as a kiss on the neck and then hardens his face. Watanabe launches straight into business: details of the agreement as a decoy to dodge Noah’s demand for an apology.

  Both parties agree to the terms around employment and contracting, environmental protection and rehabilitation, and a royalty rate. Everything’s civil. Everything’s going smoothly. Until Watanabe refuses to bend to the terms of the community benefits package.

  He inclines his head.

  —I’m sorry Mr Ishikawa, but the amount of money for this package is just too high. We’re only a small company and I am not lying when I say that we can’t afford this. I don’t want to promise something we can’t deliver on. I’m prepared to offer half of what you’re asking for.

  Noah makes a pressurised growl deep in his throat.

  —Do you think we want to be here, Mr Watanabe? Talking to you? Handing over our country to some foreign-owned company?

  The other directors scowl, murmur their assent. Noah raises his voice.

  —Do you think it’s just jobs and cash payments that matter to us? A few jobs and you can rip up our heritage, ruin our sites?

  He’s standing now, saying louder still,

  —If we lose our country, we lose our health! We lose our language! We lose our stories!

  He smashes his fist on the table hard enough to buckle the laminate.

  —That’s why this community benefits package is so important. Believe it or not, it’s even more important to us than a few jobs!

  Old Honeybird Grey stands next to him, turns her mean, seed-small eyes on Watanabe, says,

  —Our country, our law Mr Watanabe. In our law, he can put a spear la you. Straightaway!

  Noah puts a hand on her shoulder, says,

  —The way I see it, you either agree to our community benefits package and apologise to our board for the damage at Lalinjurra, or we walk away.

  There’s an excruciating silence. One by one, the directors push back their chairs. They stand in solidarity with Noah, in readiness to leave.

  Why is it, you wonder, that the apology as gesture, as symbol, is so difficult?

  Or perhaps not so difficult, when money’s at stake …

  —I am sorry for any damage at Lalinjurra. I understand that the site was—is—of deep significance to Burrika people.

  Silence again. One by one, the directors sit back down. Except Henry. Henry walks over to Noah, whispers in his ear. Noah nods. Translates.

  —When we dig up country to make this mine, what will we do when the Widawurls get angry?

  The board send you outside so they can discuss Watanabe’s new community benefits offer in private. The bay’s a roiled blue milk. Voices hurl from the meeting room, heavy with distress. Watanabe lights a cigarette and says,

  —It was written I should be loyal to the nightmare of my choice.

  Back at the office, another surprise awaits: Mandy’s sitting at your desk in a haze of hairspray and Dior, her fingers ticking against a keyboard.

  —Ah, good, she says, when she sees Watanabe. We’re on track, then.

  He nods and gestures to the conference room where Liam is already set up.

  —Ava, do you mind going on a coffee and lunch run for us?

  It takes a moment for the command to register. You’ve got plenty of your own work to do and you’re not employed to go on lunch runs.

  Mandy’s seductive smile is turning satanic and you’re not brave enough to take her on.

  —No problem.

  You grab your car keys and head to Chicken Delight, Gubinge’s gourmet answer to the big city dirty-bird chains. The mob refer to Chicken Delight as Chicken Fright because, true to its gourmet promise, there are often accidental twists to the meals—a beak, say, or a claw, a fly, a startled eye …

  On the way back to the office, coffees balanced in a tray on the passenger seat, chicken wraps snug in brown paper, you see Clement, walking down the steps of the Gubinge Visitor Information Centre. He’s due to head back to Boab Bluff on the two p.m. bus. You’d sorted his ticket. The bus leaves from the centre’s car park. As you slow to wave, you realise something’s wrong. Clement’s trousers are soaked at the crotch. The kartiya tourists swarming up and down the stairs are giving him a wide berth. You pull up, park.

  —Clement, what now?

  He doesn’t meet your eyes; his face is flushed with shame. The old man mumbles that he asked the staff for the key to the visitor centre toilets and they refused to give it to him. Told him the toilets were for tourists only and that Clement should use the public toilets on the other side of the oval. He told them, I am a visitor, I live out at Boab Bluff. I’m getting the skinny dog bus back today.

  Clement didn’t mean to piss himself.

  Something’s up with his prostate.

  —You want to come back to my camp for a quick shower? I can give Lucia a call, she might have some spare pants?

  Clement nods and shuffles around to the front seat while you juggle the wraps and coffees into the back. Once you get going, he cheers up a bit.

&nbs
p; —Manga, you drive like old woman. Y’know the accelerator’s the one on the right?

  Noah tears off the stingray’s tail with his teeth. Wings flap, blubber quivers, blood runs like vinegar. One of the kids looks at him imploringly. Noah nods. The kid moves forward with a spear.

  —We gunna eat it?

  —Course we gunna eat it!

  Noah tosses the tail, with its deadly barb, back into the creek. The fluoro blues are hallucinatory, as though seen through polarised sunnies or the shimmer of magic mushies. It’s the first chance you’ve had for a proper chat since the night at the netball courts.

  —So, Noah, did you find out who sent the photo?

  —Well …

  As he gathers his thoughts, you take in the akubra, bare chest and boardies. The boardies are low on his hips, low enough to see dark, tightly sprung curls.

  —Yeah, I think I have some idea.

  You wait for him to elaborate. He doesn’t.

  On the opposite bank, there’s a boat half sunk in the sand. A kid climbs up, balances on one of its edges. The tip of his spear tracks a salty, pan-sized treat.

  —Okay … and what about the agreement? Is it strong enough to recommend?

  —I think it’s almost as good as we’re gunna get. But geez, that boss of yours is a dickhead.

  —How do you mean?

  —He looks down on us. There’s a sort of arrogance … He’s the kind of guy who stabs backs, breaks necks.

  You wade out to unsnarl a snag. A jellyfish hits your ankle with a light sting.

  —So, how will you vote?

  Noah’s voice turns icy.

  —What is this shit? Did Watanabe put you up to this?

  You shake your head earnestly.

  —No, no way.

  Noah gives you a fierce, long look, then lets his face soften.

  —I don’t know. What I do know is that when this is all over, I’m quitting my position on the board, handing the station over to my cousin, and heading to Hawaii to drink pina coladas in the sun before the police chuck me in the slammer for blowing up public property. You coming?

  You send a fresh bait flying into the middle of the creek. Its fins are silver as razor blades.

  —Absolutely, you say.

  The dancing starts after dark. The men sit to the left, the women to the right. You’re between Lucia and Noah’s cousin, Myrtle, the woman you saw briefly in Newcastle. She has a unique face that blends the most classically beautiful elements of Japanese and Burrika women. She tells you the degree’s going well and that when she graduates, she’s dead keen on doing native title law so she can take on mobs like Gerro Blue.

  —What do you do? she asks.

  —Works for Gerro Blue, Lucia replies for you, grinning.

  —Oh God. Why?

  Because if I didn’t someone else would. Because I want to get set up. Because I wanted to work with Noah.

  —Because she couldn’t stand our slackhole of a boss at the paper, Lucia says.

  Myrtle laughs.

  —Must’ve been pretty bad, to go and work for the dark side …

  The headlights of a car are trained on a packed earth stage. The little kids have been tasked with picking up the hermit crabs and throwing them off the stage toward the fish and stingray frames. Near the front, Madge gets up and starts growling a bloke.

  —Munro, you git up there now! You git up to them dancers. ’ee time to start!

  Munro looks like he’s about fifty. Lucia nudges you.

  —Noah wanted his kids to be here tonight.

  You feel queasy, thinking about Noah’s kids.

  —But Katherine wouldn’t let them come. Didn’t want them to miss church on Sunday.

  —Jesus.

  Madge settles back down among a group of old women in long skirts. The woman next to her starts singing and the dancers come stomping from behind the hessian—men and boys. The boys look up at the men with big, shining eyes. Shyly, they imitate the men’s fluid movements. Other old women join the song, then break into cackles when Madge shouts,

  —Pick up them legs! Legs up! Don’t do the faces like that! You gotta do him like this!

  Madge makes a face and everyone laughs. From a seated position across the fire, Noah meets your eyes and holds them. This is no quick-burning driftwood lust. It’s doomed to smoulder. You think about his kids and look away.

  During the next dance, there are no cackles, no joking, no talk. The men’s feet beat like blood and the girls fall limp into the sand.

  —What’s this dance about?

  —Lalinjurra, Lucia whispers. The massacre.

  Afterwards, one of the men addresses the group. He’s wearing glasses and is slightly hunched.

  —I want to acknowledge that this next dance was taught to me by Madge’s husband. The last time we told this story, he was still with us. He taught me everything I know.

  Madge’s chest caves. Her frame buckles. And she starts sobbing. She sobs and sobs and her grief settles like a miasma; it chokes, it prickles hot in the corners of your eyes. You all feel it. You all share it. No-one speaks.

  Somewhere below, the tide soothes the sand.

  Noah comes to you in the night, sullen and dangerous. The jellyfish sting has kept you awake; it itches and sweats like an anklet of lantana. There’s no moon. Noah traces the line of your lips. His skin’s rough from work and wind. You let him feel the warning edge of your teeth. With his other hand, he’s sliding down your underwear. You feel like a teenager. You feel sick with lust. He sits up for a moment, unbuttons his shirt. You let your fingers run light, like water, down his sides. He arches, as if scalded, then with his nose skims a line from your breasts to your bellybutton, below.

  Afterwards it rains, unusual for September, just long enough for the frogs to sing, the mozzie dome to bead, the pillows to dampen. Just long enough so that you both open your mouths to taste it.

  —A secret, he says.

  —A secret, you agree.

  All morning, Liam’s paced between the glass walls of his cage, the tight axis of his neck giving off serious stress. Something’s up—something Watanabe doesn’t want you to know about. Mandy’s still around, though she’s not in the office today. Maybe key investors in the project have pulled out? Or perhaps one of the feasibility studies has shown that the mine’s not going to be as profitable as first thought? Or maybe there’s been a fuck-up. Call it a journalistic hunch, but you’d put your money on the latter. You bet the answer lies in Liam’s inbox …

  When he heads out for his half-hour lunchbreak, you slip into his office. The walls are papered with engineering diagrams and maps. On his desk, his wife Susie is framed silver with two obese daughters in graduation gowns.

  Liam’s emails are still open.

  You ease onto the seat, but just as you reach for the mouse, the screen fills with fat acrylic fish and starbursts of light. You tap the mouse and the screensaver disappears, leaving a password page. Susie123 shakes the password box red. You try Gubinge123, GerroBlue123. Nothing. Bugger. If only you’d been half a minute quicker. Maybe tomorrow.

  You meet Olivia, from Green Gubinge, on an iron-ore-bright back road cluttered with dugong bones. The bones are curved like the creamy frames of harps, though incongruous too, among the broken couches and televisions and washing machines.

  You’ve been meaning to catch up with her for ages so you can grill her about the letters and the posters, about the concert. But she’s talking too fast and angry for you to get a word in, she’s gesturing to a giant turtle shell.

  —Harpooned, drowned, butchered, dumped! All in the name of ‘culture’. It’s completely inhumane. Cultures should evolve over time, not regress. It’s disgraceful. And if this mine of yours goes ahead, then the river will turn into a graveyard too.

  Olivia’s hair’s a static electric mess and she’s wearing khaki. The other volunteers for the clean-up are on their way. The shire refused to assist, cried lack of funds, which isn’t that surprising, gi
ven the town doesn’t even have recycling bins … But still, it’s a good enough story, and if you were on the paper you’d probably be here talking to Olivia in sympathy. Instead, you’ve got some serious questions for her.

  —Why did you do it?

  She stops walking, plants hands to hips.

  —What are you talking about?

  —The blackmail letter to Noah Ishikawa. The posters.

  —I don’t know anything about a blackmail letter, but I thought the posters would have been obvious. A native title group shouldn’t be able to make a decision that’s going to affect the whole community. In case you hadn’t noticed, most Gubinge residents don’t want a uranium mine in their backyard.

  There’s sweat at her hairline now, subduing the loose strands. You say,

  —If you fuck up Burrika’s chance to lock in an agreement, they’ll get nothing.

  —Good. I hope that no-one gets anything. That no-one profits from this. Though some of us have profited already, right Ava?

  It’s as infuriating as talking to a call centre robot—her smugly programmed rhetoric, no flex.

  —Why do you think I took this job? I’m keen to make a difference too, just in a different way. From the inside.

  —Oh, yeah? So what difference have you made so far? What have you changed?

  That afternoon, among all that dusty, extinct seafood, you feel like you’ve done nothing, changed nothing at all.

  And then you find the report.

  Liam heads out at twelve and you beeline straight to his office, don’t even check to see if his car’s left its parking space out the front. His emails are open. You start scrolling. What date did he come in early and dishevelled and coffee-stained? Was it last Monday? Something’s happened, something happened around then.

  There—that must be it. An email with the subject line, Gerro Blue’s Radioactive Tailings Dam / Design and Construction.

  Just as the email loads there’s the terrible tinkle of the front door bell. Oh, fuck. Your fingers are slippery on the keys. You don’t look up. You click forward, punch in your email address, click send, minimise Liam’s inbox. Then you rush from Liam’s glass box to the photocopier.