Fishing for Stars

by Bryce Courtenay

  ‘That doesn’t answer my question. It’s almost a column on the front page!’

  Marg sniffs, then in a haughty voice says, ‘Well, ten days ago, Nick, you were complaining on the phone that you’d been forgotten. I simply mentioned it to a friend.’

  ‘I wasn’t bloody complaining!’ I tap the paper. ‘This friend, he wouldn’t be the editor of this scurrilous rag, would he?’

  Marg Hamilton looks up, her chin thrust forward. ‘Well, at our fundraising dinner at Taronga Zoo last night I was sitting next to Guy Cooper, telling him about your offer to sponsor the frog-breeding program and he must have overheard. He’s also one of our directors . . . and well . . . it just slipped out about the accident. It was an upsetting day, and what with you lying here in hospital close to death . . . ’

  Saffron’s eyes dart from one of us to the other, taking it all in. She is receiving a gratis lesson in female manipulation from Marg bloody Hamilton.

  Billionaire Butterfly Collector & War Hero in Traffic Accident

  Sydney: Mr Nicholas Duncan, DSC, was injured in a traffic accident yesterday while crossing Macquarie St. Mr Duncan, 69, sustained a broken leg and multiple lacerations and is recovering in hospital.

  As Lieutenant Nick Duncan, RANVR, he served first with the Australian Naval Intelligence Services in New Guinea during the Second World War. Later he served as a radio intelligence operator with the American marines at Guadalcanal in the Solomon Islands. There he was awarded the Navy Cross for valour by the Americans after the famous Battle of Bloody Ridge in 1943.

  Recovering from malaria and battle fatigue, Duncan received the Distinguised Service Cross from General MacArthur.

  Bloody Ridge was the first major American land offensive against the Japanese and, together with the battles at Midway and the Australian victories at Milne Bay and Kokoda, it is credited with turning the tide against the Japanese in the Pacific War.

  Widely reported to be a billionaire, Mr Duncan lives in Vanuatu, a popular tax haven for the very rich. He has shipping and transport interests in several Pacific nations.

  Perhaps surprisingly, Mr Duncan possesses the world’s finest and most valuable collection of butterflies from the Pacific region.

  Mr Duncan was intimately involved with the international financier, Ms Anna Til, until her recent death. Ms Til was also known as Madam Butterfly, the name of an infamous house of bondage she established in the 1950s in Spring Street, Melbourne.

  I slam the paper down and glare at Marg. ‘I don’t imagine you’ve read this arrant crap?’ I snort angrily.

  ‘No, well yes, but I don’t usually read the Telegraph,’ she protests. ‘Don’t be angry, Nick. I mentioned your philanthropy and the fact that you’ve bequeathed your butterfly collection to the National Museum but they chose to ignore it. There will be harsh words to the editor, I promise. Although I don’t think at heart he’s a frog person.’ She hesitates momentarily. ‘By the way, darling, are you really a billionaire?’

  ‘And the drop of acid about Anna at the end. Your doing?’

  ‘Nicholas, how dare you! They must have dug up that part about the brothel from the newspaper archives. And I haven’t told them why you’re in Sydney.’

  ‘Oh, for Christ’s sake, woman! That’s not why I’m here. When will you get it into your stubborn head that we’re here for Saffron’s graduation; the rest, including looking up my arse, is purely incidental!’

  ‘Well, I do say!’ Marg exclaims, eyebrows taking off, expression suitably shocked, nose twitching. She glances over at the wide-eyed Saffron then announces, ‘Poor darling, your Uncle Nick most certainly won’t be there to see you receive your degree.’ She smiles sweetly. ‘Would you like me to come?’

  ‘No! You’ll be in Tasmania!’ I cry, too loudly and too quickly. Saffron has turned away so neither of us can see her expression, which I dare say isn’t too difficult to imagine.

  ‘Nick, you can’t go in your condition and the child should have someone there.’

  ‘Just you watch me,’ I yell. I point to my goddaughter. ‘Saffron has arranged a wheelchair with a plank for my leg!’

  ‘Clever girl,’ Marg sniffs. Glancing at her watch she adds, ‘Dr Light hasn’t been on his rounds yet. Who gave her permission? The cleaning lady?’

  I ignore the fact that she’s caught me out in a fib. Instead, exasperated, I sigh. ‘I don’t need permission. I’m just going! Okay?’

  Lips momentarily pulled tight, she doesn’t argue, then at last she smiles. ‘Well, I must be off; busy, busy, busy. I’ll see you tonight, Nick.’

  Saffron turns towards us, her face full of concern. ‘Great Auntie Marg, you must go to Tasmania, the old-growth forests are much too important.’ Then she adds, ‘Those Gunns people should be shot!’

  Marg looks pleased. ‘I’m glad you think so, dear. Obviously you’re not a protégé of your Aunt Anna.’ She reaches into her bag and removes a tissue and pats her lips. ‘Lipstick. Don’t want people talking, do we?’ She laughs then kisses me lightly on the forehead. ‘Well, it seems your Uncle Nick is to disregard all medical advice and have his own way as usual. Very well then, I’ll go to Tasmania with your blessing. You have my very best wishes, Saffron. We are all very proud of you.’

  Marg rises from the chair. ‘Thank you for the frog money.’ She stoops and pecks me on the cheek this time, whispering, ‘I do love you, Nick,’ then she kisses Saffron, slings her handbag over her shoulder and walks towards the door, at seventy-seven her step still light and her back ramrod straight. I think to myself, she must have inherited bloody good genes because she’s still a nice-looking woman.

  Marg turns at the door. ‘Oh, by the way, I spoke to Dr Freeman, and he may pop in to see you after he’s completed his rounds this afternoon. He’s the honorary at the clinic across the road, you know.’

  After she’s gone Saffron starts to giggle. ‘Thank you, Uncle Nick,’ she says, kissing me.

  ‘Go on, Saffron, be off with you. You don’t have to hang around an old man.’ Then I remember. ‘Fetch my wallet, Saffy.’ I indicate the drawer at my bedside.

  Saffron retrieves my wallet. ‘Uncle Nick, I don’t need any money,’ she says, adding, ‘I’ve saved up the money for the tat.’

  ‘Open it, I can’t with one hand,’ I explain. She opens the wallet. ‘See the Visa card in the first pocket? Pull it out and read it.’

  Saffron does as she’s told and her eyes grow large. ‘Uncle Nick!’ she exclaims. ‘It’s in my name!’

  ‘It’s your combined twenty-first and graduation gift. The credit limit should be high enough for a good time, and low enough to satisfy your family. Every year we’ll add a little until you’re thirty-five. If you can’t support yourself by then your mother will be thoroughly ashamed of you.’ I know Joe Popkin hasn’t spoiled his grandchildren and Fiery Frances and Joe Junior have been equally careful not to indulge them.

  Saffron is trying hard not to cry.

  ‘I can’t take the credit for it, Saffron. It was Anna’s idea.’

  Then suddenly she claps her hands. ‘I know just what to do! I’m going out to hire one of those electric wheelchairs and have a man fix a plank on it for your leg.’

  I feel a sudden lump in my throat and I’m damned if my eyes don’t start to lose focus. I point to the wallet. ‘No, no! It’s a lovely idea, but take my money for that, sweetheart.’

  Saffron looks directly at me. ‘Uncle Nick, how could you!’ A flash of something like anger momentarily crosses her pretty face.

  I laugh, trying to recover. Serves me right, it was arrogant of me. ‘Extremely generous, Saffron,’ I say quietly, suitably chastened.

  ‘Oh Uncle Nick, I love you so much!’ she cries suddenly.

  Relieved that I’ve been forgiven, I say, ‘G’arn, give me a kiss and then be off. Come and see me tonight and show me your butterfly tat.’

  ‘No!’ She laughs and then kisses me. ‘It will be all red and sore from the needle. You should have seen it last nigh
t! My arm was like one of those sausage balloons. You’ll have to wait for my graduation; the tat artist says it will be perfect by then.’

  ‘Okay, then tonight we’ll share our pain, and commiserate with each other. Be sure to bring me a large flat white; a good cup of coffee is better for pain relief than a shot of morphine.’

  She too turns at the door. ‘Oh, by the way, Uncle Nick, I’m thinking of getting a tongue bar. Don’t worry, it’s only for decoration.’ She giggles. ‘I promise I won’t get one that vibrates!’

  ‘Over my dead body, girl!’ I yell, grinning like an ape.

  ‘See ya!’ Saffron flicks her dark hair away from her face and departs, her laughter echoing down the hospital corridor. That young woman is learning too much too fast, I conclude happily. Oh, dear, how much I love the mere thought of women. Marvellous creatures.

  Tony Freeman’s head appears at the door shortly after four in the afternoon. ‘Got a moment, Nick?’ he asks, as if nothing has happened between us.

  I shrug my good shoulder and grin, slightly embarrassed. ‘As you can see, I’m not going anywhere.’

  He points to the chair beside my bed. ‘May I sit down?’

  ‘Sure, go ahead.’

  He seats himself and says, ‘Nick, I saw the piece in the paper this morning. Bloody Telegraph! Nobody needs that sort of gratuitous muckraking.’ He pauses then looks at me directly. ‘Your visit yesterday morning . . . it’s pretty clear that you’re not yet ready to talk. In fact, you may never be. But if and when you are, I’d like to think I could be of some help.’

  ‘Tony, I apologise for what occurred . . . ’

  Tony Freeman raises his hand. ‘Stop, Nick, there’s no need. But may I make a suggestion?’

  I grin, pointing to my leg in the air above me. ‘No way I can run from you this time.’

  He laughs. ‘You’re obviously a very articulate man. Sometimes it helps to put things down. Of course, it may not.’

  ‘What, write?’ I ask, surprised. ‘Where do I begin?’

  ‘Anna, write about Anna.’

  And bloody Marg Hamilton, I think to myself after he’s left. The yin and the yang, Princess Plunder and the Green Bitch, the two impossibly infuriating, frustrating, remarkable and totally loving females in my life!

  CHAPTER TWO

  ‘Nicholas, bondage is all I know how to do, and fortunately it is something that is always needed by those who can afford to pay. Besides, heroin is expensive.’

  Anna Til, Port Vila

  THE SUN GOES DOWN early and quickly in the tropics; one moment it is a great fiery ball on the horizon, the next it plunges sizzling into the sea leaving a tincture of brilliant colour that quickly smudges to dusk and as soon darkens into night.

  All this happened as we left Beautiful Bay and motored around Iririki Island, where I pointed out the British High Commissioner’s residence and the British Hospital to Anna. By the time we could no longer see the harbour lights, a full moon was rising out of the darker line that indicated open sea. Navigation was going to be easy in the moonlight and I cut the motor and hoisted the mainsail to catch the strengthening land breeze.

  Anna stood in the stern of Madam Butterfly leaning into the light wind that lifted her long dark hair from her shoulders so that it flowed behind her. Her slim silhouette, silvered in the moonlight, reminded me of the Spirit of Ecstasy, the mascot on the radiator of a Rolls Royce Silver Ghost I had once seen.

  My heart started to beat faster as I realised that I had been thinking of Anna as an innocent sixteen-year-old, whereas at twenty-four she was not only a sexually and intellectually mature woman but a damaged one, way beyond my mental grasp and experience. During the war I had been blooded and had fought and killed the enemy at close quarters, but what I had seen as a young warrior in the heat of battle was quite different from her experience of the mindless cold-blooded slaughter of prisoners and perceived enemies by the Japanese.

  As a captive she’d been forced to become the consort of the regional commander, Konoe Akira, the scion of a famous Samurai family, a frustrated professional soldier and a highly complex personality. Like many privileged Japanese men of his generation he was an aesthete as well as a sexual aberrant. Struck by Anna’s extraordinary beauty and the idea that she was still untainted – new clay to mould – he took her as his own possession and began with great care to instruct her in his peculiar proclivities and aesthetic.

  He employed the services of two retired geishas to instruct Anna in the ancient art of kinbaku, a highly sophisticated form of erotic bondage. Under their instruction she proved a fast learner and soon began to partially satisfy the needs of Konoe Akira. Gradually she mastered the divine rope and with it the subtleties of erotic massage so that she could meet his stringent requirements and completely satisfy and, more importantly, gratify him, her natural talent for sexual domination confirming in his mind that he had chosen well.

  The two geishas had initially been brought from Japan to establish and supervise the running of a Japanese officers’ brothel known as the Nest of the Swallows. It was here that only the most comely Dutch women and girls, some as young as thirteen, were forced to become comfort women. Upon arrival and for several days thereafter, heroin suppositories were forcibly inserted into the anus of any recalcitrants to make them compliant. They soon became addicts and the threat of withholding the drug kept the girls working and willing to service even the most perverted and bizarre needs of their officer clients.

  Konoe-san was too much of an aesthete to resort to such crude tactics. He saw Anna as a part of the order and perfection he craved in his life and set about carefully and slowly coercing her so that it became her desire to please him.

  Anna was by nature strong-willed and not easily influenced. She had been brought up in the Dutch Calvinist tradition and possessed a strong sense of right and wrong. This conditioning may have presented an even greater challenge to the Japanese colonel. Even so, he made no improper demands or threats. She lived separately and away from him, and outwardly seemed to have a freedom of movement denied to any of the other Dutch women prisoners of war. His demands, while absolute, took into account her intelligence and natural desire to learn, and he cultivated in her an innate sense of beauty, discipline and perfection, so that this unfamiliar tuition quickly transcended any sense of morality. If she were forced to comply with his demands, then he would later assuage her feelings with a fresh insight into the nature of his arcane discipline or some exquisite aesthetic pleasure. He was always careful to bend this young and pliant twig slowly, taking great care never to snap it or inhibit the flow of young sap.

  After nearly three years of conditioning and constant reinforcement Anna willingly became mistress to his needs, incapable of separating her personality from his commands and bizarre desires. His sudden vitriolic reprimands when she failed to meet his exacting standards would cause her great distress and as a result she would become even more determined to please him. Never for a moment did she think she was handmaiden to his perversion, but only that his ultimate gratification was her most ardent wish.

  Moreover, she came to believe that his insights into self-discipline and unyielding will were well worth the price of her bondage. More importantly, Konoe Akira instilled in Anna the idea that losing her virginity would mean the destruction of her perfection, that she would be impure and tainted forever, a beautiful portrait brutally slashed and destroyed. So graphic was this imagined sense of emotional and physical violation that it was to have repercussions throughout her life.

  I have since learned that it is not unusual for victims of a kidnapping to grow to identify with their captors. When I suggested to her that she was the innocent victim of her captor’s nefarious influence and that she had no alternative but to submit to the Japanese colonel’s authority, that she was truly, if unknowingly, motivated by a deep sense of fear and the need to survive, Anna was quick to disabuse me.

  ‘No, Nicholas, this is not true! Ja, perhaps in the begin
ning, maybe it is so; I do not remember because from mijn mind all that is going. But later, this is not so. I want always to please him. I cannot fail. I will do anything to please him.’ She looked directly at me and shrugged her shoulders helplessly. ‘If now he walks in the door it would be the same.’

  In the five years Anna had been in Australia, she had perfected her English and spoke with almost no trace of an accent. Naturally gifted with languages, she had a sound grasp of grammar, but when she became overwrought with me, and only it seems with me, she reverted to the slightly accented and syntactically incorrect English she spoke when we first met in Java. Thus I always knew when Anna was upset, whereas to others she appeared enigmatic. This helped her to become a formidable negotiator and opponent, someone who could risk everything while appearing to be completely calm, or punish a miscreant or avenge a betrayal without raising her voice.

  However, Anna’s war was not to end in the company of her patron. Konoe Akira was recalled to Japan three months before armistice to run a military academy in Tokyo and was replaced by the regional head of the kempeitai, the fearsome Japanese military police, as ruthless and efficient as the German Gestapo but even more brutal. They were a force separate from the regular Japanese army, who feared these vicious enforcers almost as much as their victims did.

  The new commander, Colonel Takahashi, felt a great malevolence towards his predecessor and had made it his business as head of the kempeitai to be informed about his private life. A commoner of no breeding, he resented Konoe Akira’s Samurai ancestry and privileged upbringing. His aestheticism he regarded scornfully as mere pretension, an excuse for his highbrow perversion. Learning that Konoe Akira’s beautiful young bondage mistress remained a virgin, Takahashi determined to deflower her so he could have the pleasure of informing the previous commander that he had personally ravaged her.