The Persimmon Tree

by Bryce Courtenay

  I began the process of finding Anna in an obvious manner. I called Marg. Who else? ‘Marg, who do I contact in Canberra to see if Anna Van Heerden came into Australia?’

  ‘Department of Immigration and Customs,’ she replied, then laughed. ‘You will remember Bert Henry, the first day we met? Thank God he’s long retired.’

  ‘Yeah, but do you know someone I can — or you can — call, so I don’t have to go through all the red tape?’

  She phoned back several days later. ‘No luck, Nick. No one of that name has ever entered Australia.’

  It was a dead end, another disappointment. Perhaps Madam Butterfly was purposely avoiding me. How could that be? I was certain she’d try to come to Australia; after all, we’d promised each other that we would meet here and she knew how to contact me through the Archbishop of Perth.

  The little bloke, anxious to get under way with the salvage operation, was less than impressed when I told him I had to go to Java and expected to be away at least a month. The account in the bank had reached an astounding twenty-five thousand pounds and he was panicking that what he called the ‘Eternal Revenue’ would somehow come looking for what he also referred to as the ‘stash’.

  I had located most of the big salvage sites in the Pacific, using my own observation and getting Belgiovani to ask on the Intelligence network, posing the question as if some official plan existed. The main Japanese source of non-ferrous scrap metal was Rabaul where, after the peace treaty had been signed on the decks of the Glory, I’d done the survey myself.

  We also possessed an important asset in the form of ex-Major Peter McVitty, who had been my senior officer during my time in New Britain as an erstwhile member of the coastwatchers’ detachment. As a civilian he was still heavily involved at a senior level in ANGAU, the Australian New Guinea Administration Unit. This organisation was busy re-establishing Australia’s post-war colonial administration in the islands.

  Peter was in an ideal position to ‘facilitate’ and to influence the outcome of a great many things and, at my suggestion, had taken an interest in scrap metal. Not many people had woken up to the potential bonanza offered by the wreckage of war. Even fewer had the necessary resources, skills and equipment to handle the task. With Peter scrutinising the tenders and making use of all the bureaucratic and legal quibbles available to a skilled lawyer, many of our competitors’ tenders were rejected.

  Peter McVitty, once a lawyer and now turned post-war bureaucrat, had agreed to help under two conditions: that he benefit personally from the result of our salvage operation, and that we use his brother Stan for our legal work. Stan was the head of the well-known, respected and somewhat silvertail Melbourne law firm McVitty, Swan & Allison, which had been established by their father in the early 1920s.

  This sort of jiggery-pokery wasn’t my area of expertise and I referred it to the little bloke, who was fairly busy milking the last of the quartermaster advantages to be had in Brisbane before repatriation to the States. Stan McVitty proved reluctant to come to Brisbane, claiming that he was much too busy with important clients and couldn’t spare the time. The little bloke wasn’t accustomed to being treated in an offhand manner and took a fair bit of umbrage as baggage down to Melbourne with him, hitching a ride in a military plane. He would later recall the experience.

  ‘He fat, he bald, he got dis long nose and one o’ dem crocodile smiles like Father Geraghty. When I tell him what we want to do he ask, “Scrap metal? Are you sure you know what you’re doing?”’ Kevin mimicked. ‘Den he says again, “Scrap metal! It’s hardly the kind of thing a senior partner would handle.” Den he look at me an’ he shrug an’ sigh, “Oh well, as my brother Peter is involved, I daresay we’ll have to take you on.” So den I ask him where he fight in da war? I’m trying ta be sociable, ya know, nice, smiling, ’cos I don’t want dis guy ta see I think he’s a fuckin’ asshole. “Flat feet, old chap,” he says wit dat crocodile smile. “Some of us had to stay back to mind the farm.” Nick! Dis ain’t right! We dealin’ here wit a fuckin’ draft dodger!’ Which, coming from the little bloke of ‘I want ya ter unnerstan’ —’ fame, was perhaps just a tad hypocritical. If the judge hadn’t given him the choice of joining the US Navy or going to prison, there is absolutely no doubt the little bloke would have ended up as a very artful dodger.

  ‘Mate, we’re stuck with him; we’re going to need his brother, Peter. You’re going to have to let the crocodile continue to smile.’ In fact, Kevin’s ‘Crocodile’ — as we all came to term Stan McVitty — promptly handed the legal ramifications of our business to a junior, one of the few female lawyers in the country. Miss Janine de Sax called Kevin and asked if she could fly up to Brisbane to get a proper brief. Kevin agreed and asked me to sit in on the meeting together with Joe Popkin.

  It was a frantic period for my two American partners, as neither knew when they’d be repatriated. I was proving my worth as the third musketeer by buying essential equipment. Before I was demobbed and when still in New Britain I’d purchased two eighty-foot wooden coastal boats and a landing craft, mooring them in Rabaul. All three were virtually brand-new and I bought them for a song since the local American ordnance officer, a nice bloke, Captain John Tulius, seemed happy to get rid of them. A day later I met him in the officers’ mess and bought him a beer. ‘I hear you were with the 1st marines on Guadalcanal?’ he asked. ‘Won the Navy Cross at Bloody Ridge?’

  I laughed and replied with my by-now practised rejoinder: ‘Wrong place at the right time.’

  ‘Can’t let that go unrewarded. What say we make it two landing craft with spare engines, same price.’ You can say what you like about Americans, but in Nick Duncan’s war I never met a bad one. As it turned out we’d underestimated the amount of stuff lying around and the extra landing craft eventually proved a godsend.

  Based on this single piece of sheer good fortune I was appointed the purchasing officer for the company, but not without a lesson in the art of buying from Chief Lewinski. Our needs ranged from a couple of bulldozers, welding equipment, spare parts, generators and a small crane for lifting heavier items right down to other items such as clothing for our crews and workers. Heavy construction was Joe’s department and expertise, but a black American sailor couldn’t be seen bidding at an American army disposal auction. So he’d do the spotting and the pricing and I’d do the fronting up at the auction. Da Chief called me, together with Joe Popkin, into his office and began by congratulating me on the purchase of the two boats and landing craft, especially the spares. ‘Joe here will tell ya, spare parts are everythin’, Nick. Always see ya get spare parts. Jeeps break down in the jungle — ya wanna know ya got the parts to fix ’em. Same wid a boat at sea. But first ya gotta know the auction system, son.’

  ‘Yes, thank you, Chief. I haven’t a clue. I’ve never attended an auction in my life,’ I admitted.

  ‘It ain’t the auction, it’s what happens before that’s important, Nick.’

  ‘Ah, there’s a process before?’ I asked naïvely.

  ‘Well, it ain’t official, son.’ He turned to Joe. ‘Ya pack six dozen cold Bud and a small tin wash tub wid ice in the Packard, Joe. When ya get to the depot find a nice place to stand where the potential buyers pass by. Joe, ya standin’ in ya navy uniform and ya yellin’ out, big grin, nice polite, “The US Navy wud like to buy ya a beer, gennelmen.” Soon ya got yourself the main crowd, all wid a Bud in their hand. Then ya establish the ground rules.’

  ‘Ground rules, isn’t that what the auctioneer does?’ I asked.

  Chief Lewinski smiled. ‘These’re the non-official ground rules, son, known in the purchasin’ and procurement business as “the prior arrangement”. Ya decide amongst yourselves who wants what and how much each wants to pay. After that, it’s just a matter of mutual respect.’ Joe grinned and I looked concerned. The Reverend John Duncan’s son was getting into collusion, an area I knew nothing about and in which I wasn’t
over-keen to advance my knowledge. Sensing my reluctance Chief Lewinski continued, ‘Nick, there’s enough for everybody. Ya don’t want some cockamamie auctioneer to get himself a big bonus for exceeding the estimates. Uncle Sam don’t need the cash, ya do.’

  I must say there has to be a dishonest streak in everyone. It worked like a charm as we bidders arranged amongst ourselves who would get what and what the chosen one was prepared to pay. I guess it was collusion, but in a good cause: ordinary blokes, some battlers, guys recently demobbed and doing a little planning for their future. Few of us had very much disposable income, and we were benefiting from Uncle Sam’s largesse. ‘Ain’t nobody got hisself hurt ’cept da man wid da white beard and da big hat decorate wid da stars ’n’ stripes,’ Joe said happily each time we returned from a successful auction.

  But if we were learning fast in the area of procurement, what the three of us didn’t know about the law and the rigmarole involved in setting up a company was practically encyclopaedic. The meeting with Janine de Sax was to change everything. She proved to be smart as a whip and nice to boot, but more importantly she was totally discreet. Her immediate advice was to use a tax haven. She outlined a scheme to set up a holding company in Port Vila, the capital of New Hebrides, which was now administered jointly by the British and the French as a condominium. ‘No tax of any kind and well away from the prying eyes of the Australian Government,’ she advised, then added, ‘I hope you don’t mind, but I’ve incurred some expense on your behalf by consulting with a top young barrister named John Kerr with whom I was at university. We sought a second opinion with a Sydney colleague, Garfield Barwick. Both are agreed that if domiciled there your company will be immune from Australian law and therefore taxes.’ She looked up, a trifle concerned. ‘I hope you don’t mind; it seemed money well spent on lawyers’ fees.’

  Joe drove her back to the airport in the Packard and Kevin and I had a beer at the Bellevue. Sally, by the way, had long since left, sailing as a war bride, married to an ex-US Navy doctor who was to set up a practice as a neurosurgeon in Boston. The funny part was that while I’d been introduced to him the night we’d attended the dinner dance at the officers’ club and he’d sent over a bottle of French champagne, I couldn’t for the life of me remember his surname. Whatever the married Sally Forsythe now called herself, I hoped she’d be very happy.

  ‘Now dat what I call a lawyer,’ Kevin said, fixing himself a cigar. ‘I’m tellin’ yoh, Nick, dat one smart lady. Dat Crocodile smilin’ asshole, he gone done us a big, big favour.’

  It was then that I told him I’d be away for a month at least and was going to Java to find Anna.

  ‘Wassa matta wit you, Nick? Yoh got broads fallin’ all over demselves ter get to yoh.’ He pointed at the bar. ‘Nobody could get inta Sally’s pants and yoh done it widout buyin’ her a drink, nylons or chocolates — sweet fanny! Bren Gun says ya a born natural magnet fer womankind. Now ya gonna go to Java to find yerself some li’l girl yoh only know’d three weeks when yer catchin’ fuckin’ butterflies, who been under da Japanese occupation fer years and — who da fuck knows what happen to her in da meantime? Maybe she ain’t even wit us no more. You crazy or somet’in’, buddy?’

  ‘Kevin, I’ve got to go. I made myself a promise.’

  ‘Den un-promise yerself, fer fuck’s sake! Yoh hear what I’m sayin’, buddy?’

  Naturally I went straight to Marg Hamilton. I took the plane down to Melbourne, where I stayed at the same boarding house where the Virgin Mary’s mother worked as a day cook. She welcomed me like a lost son and still smelled the same — of fried onions and Johnson’s baby powder. Mary was already in New York. ‘Her family, the whole mob, they live in a compound. It seems the father is someone real important and doesn’t want his kids to leave him. Ain’t that nice, Nick?’ she informed me proudly.

  I’d previously booked a table for two upstairs at Florentino’s, and was already waiting and rose to greet Marg when she was ushered to my table. She kissed me. ‘My goodness, Nick, fancy “Flory’s”. You have come up in the world.’

  I blushed. ‘I wanted to take you somewhere good, Marg, so I phoned our lawyer and she suggested here.’ I looked around at the murals. ‘I’ve never been in a place as nice as this before.’

  ‘You must have a bombe Alaska for dessert, it’s their specialty.’ She looked up at me. ‘Lawyer, and a “she”?’ Her eyebrow just slightly arched with her query.

  I told her about the salvage idea and about Janine de Sax. ‘She would have been a partner in the firm by now, but she has two children, two girls, and refuses to work eighteen hours a day every day of the week,’ I said to impress on Marg that she wasn’t some two-bit shyster lawyer.

  The waiter came and we ordered, steak for me and fish for her — no accounting for people’s taste, even that of the beloved Marg. I’d eaten enough fish sailing the mission boat as a kid to last me a lifetime. ‘Marg, I want you to help me get to Java. To find Anna,’ I said as soon as the waiter had departed.

  There was silence. Some silences are just silences. But this one was heavy and hung in the air like a dark cloud. Her red lips were drawn in a pucker and her eyes downcast. I could see she was upset and shaking with anger. ‘No!’ she exploded — just the one word, loud and hard so that people at other tables turned to look.

  ‘Why?’ I asked. She was going to marry Rob Rich, I still adored her, but our relationship was long over.

  Then it came out slowly, carefully. ‘Nick, I fell in love with you within minutes of entering the office when that ridiculous old man from Customs, Bert Henry, was interviewing you as if you were a dangerous alien. You were brown as a berry and where your tangled mass of hair parted at the back of your neck your skin was tender and vulnerably white. You were an astonishingly beautiful young boy in faded shirt and shorts, both virtually in rags — but clean rags. You’d sailed halfway across the Indian Ocean in a tiny boat, avoiding the Japanese and caring for a wounded American sailor. Your innocence was palpable. I loved you almost from the first moment. When you said, with a shy smile, that you were a butterfly collector, I nearly wept. Then I watched the beautiful boy be hijacked by Rupert Basil Michael Long, who quickly and expertly exploited the fact that you were obsessed with finding your father. I witnessed your sadness when Anna, your first love, failed to arrive in Darwin. Then I watched my beautiful boy go to Guadalcanal and when he came back he wore medals for bravery but his soul was corrupted and his beautiful young body was broken. He went back and he found his father. It was the same brave heart and determination that had sailed across the ocean, but it was a different man. The butterfly man had lost his innocence. I didn’t care, you were alive, Nick. You’d made it through to the end. My beloved boy was safe. Yes, you were still my beloved boy, even though by then I’d found my true partner. But the young, improbable love of that part of my life was back, battered, hard-eyed, but back.’

  She stopped and looked at me and I thought she was on the point of weeping. ‘No, Nick, there is civil war in Java. The Dutch who ran with their tails between their legs from the Netherlands East Indies now self-righteously want to claim it back. It’s a nasty, brutal little war where white men are the enemy. The Indonesians, as they’re calling themselves, have a right to their independence, but that is not a matter for you or me. Anna, if she is still alive, will make her own way out. There is an active refugee program. If she isn’t there then you are just as likely to be caught in the crossfire.’ She suddenly looked furious. ‘No, no, no! I will do nothing to help you! In fact I will do quite the opposite. I will do everything I can, everything Rob can, to prevent you going!’

  ‘Marg, please; I didn’t mean to upset you. I’m truly sorry that I asked you.’

  ‘And what the hell does that mean in Nick-speak? That you’ll find another way to get there? Like finding your father? Nick, grow up! Your Anna is probably dead. If she isn’t, she’s permanently and psychologically damaged
. Even if you found her, you’re not the same Nick and she’s not the same Anna. War changes everything, everybody. Anna’s particular war under Japanese domination may have scarred her forever, destroyed her life. For God’s sake! This isn’t a pair of lovers running into each other’s arms in slow motion against a backdrop of the setting sun.’

  ‘Is that your last word?’ I asked, not happy at her chastisement.

  ‘No! My last word is “No!”’

  The waiter arrived and put down our plates in that manner waiters have when they sense a quarrel — perhaps they’re trained to be invisible and obtrusive at the same time. Marg Hamilton rose and threw her napkin onto the table. ‘I don’t feel like fish!’ she declared, then stooped to pick up her bag and gloves and walked out of Florentino’s, past the murals and down the stairs.

  The steak looked delicious, but I didn’t eat it. I sent it back. When the waiter looked concerned, fussing and protesting and offering to replace it even though it was obvious I hadn’t touched it, I glared at him. ‘Bring me a bloody bombe Alaska,’ I growled.

  ‘I’m sorry, sir, we do not serve bombe Alaska on Monday. It’s the dessert chef’s day off.’ He reminded me of Fernando at the Bellevue. ‘May I suggest crème caramel?’

  ‘No, you may not! Bring me the bill,’ I demanded in a more mollified voice. Being back in civilisation wasn’t all it was cracked up to be.

  I found a café in Bourke Street just down from Florentino’s and ordered a toasted egg and bacon sandwich and a milkshake. Still upset, I asked the little sheila with rat’s-tail hair and acne who was serving me, ‘What’s crème caramel?’