The Occult Persuasion and the Anarchist's Solution

by Lisa de Nikolits

  There were anarchy signs and posters stuck to the broken window, with only the spider-web cracks and the hole visible.

  I forced my feet to move with great reluctance, and as I entered the store, which was no more than a cramped, hot, airless, low-ceilinged room, it was hard to breathe. The place was encrusted with filth laid down by a century of sticky fingers. I wanted to run out and buy paper towels and cleaning products, but I knew this would not endear me to my new friends. To be honest, my new friends frightened me. I wasn’t sure if any of them knew how to smile. They were dressed in faded ill-fitting black clothes, the garments too loose or too tight. The clothes were speckled with rips and holes, not designer-style but worn to the bone, exhausted holes. The anarchists looked to be about anywhere from fifteen to forty, and the place was packed. There were only three chairs. I had no idea how this meeting of the minds was going to work.

  And the noise. Everybody was shouting at the same time. It was like a hundred auctioneers were all selling their wares at full lung capacity. This continued for half an hour. I flattened myself against the wall and felt a meltdown approaching, similar to my Hong Kong episode. If things didn’t change soon, I’d have to turn and run and who gave a fig about paper towels and cleaning products? I just needed to get the hell out of there.

  I had noticed a lovely pub as we walked down the main street. I could escape there, have a cold beer, enjoy some peace, and meet the others back at the hotel later. At a quick glance, the pub had polished checkerboard floors and a ceiling fan that whirled quietly. The red booths were both welcoming and kind, with large open windows that faced out onto the street.

  Meanwhile, I was stuck in this lockbox of hell and sweat was running down my face and my spine. I couldn’t see Jason or Martha or Sean, so I turned to leave. But just then, Jason climbed onto a table, raised his fingers to lips, gave a piercing whistle, and the room fell into a blessed silence.

  “We’re going upstairs,” he shouted. “Shut it, all of you. I mean it. This meeting’s now called to order. We’re going upstairs where you’ll load up your plates, sit on your bums, stuff your faces, and let the meeting commence. You know the rules.”

  There were rules? I thought “anarchy” meant no rules? Sean appeared next to me. He must have known what I was thinking because he whispered, “Jason had to make some rules or this lot would never come to order. Follow me, I’ll take you up.”

  The stairs at the back of the room thankfully brought us into a vast empty loft, three times the size of the area below. I calculated that the loft must span three of the buildings below us. The place was light and airy with all the windows open, and my heart finally stopped doing the fandango. However, hundreds more anarchists streamed in. I had no idea where they could have come from. There was no way they could have all been hanging out in the store below. But at least they had listened to Jason. There was a resolute silence and they were orderly.

  Sean lead me to a long table, and I joined the tail end of the lineup. The anarchists piled baked goods onto their paper plates like there was no tomorrow. A man I assumed to be Martha’s son was clad in chef’s whites, and he was busy replenishing the pastries from boxes he brought out from under the table. It was a good thing he had more because the anarchists were ravenous beasts.

  The aroma of butter, flour, sugar, cinnamon, vanilla, chocolate, and raisins baked to perfection filled the air. My mouth watered. I took a thick slice of banana bread, a vanilla cupcake, and a slice of lemon loaf with thick frosting.

  I sat down on the floor next to Sean, and we faced Jason and Martha who were standing at the front.

  “So,” Jason started, “Sid’s birthday. A big day for us all. The idea came from Liam Lemon over there. Stand up, Liam, and take a round of applause.”

  Of course it took Sean to nudge me in the ribs before I remembered that I was Liam since I was focused on my astoundingly delicious slice of lemon loaf. There was an awkward pause as I clambered ungracefully to my feet, carefully clutching my plate. Besides, I hadn’t sat on the floor since I was six years old, and my hips and knees were aghast.

  I folded back down after the anarchists had given me a dribbling round of applause. Granted, most of them, like me, had their hands and mouths full of cupcakes and date squares.

  “I have sent out the message and it has been widely accepted and well-received.” Jason continued, “and apparently several thousand—eight thousand at last count—people will be flying in to Sydney to celebrate with us. They know to stagger their arrival times over a few days, and they are keeping an eye on the website for details of the event. They are all coming, ostensibly, on holiday or to visit relatives or check out universities.” He looked around. “To reiterate and clarify in case you missed seeing the newsletter or the details have slipped your mind, we will start gathering at the bridge at five a.m. Sunrise is at six-thirty-seven a.m., and, by that time, we will be in place. We have from five a.m. until six-ten a.m., to get sorted. An hour and ten minutes should be enough time to climb the arch and put ourselves all over the bridge. Ideally, we want to be like ants, swarming the place. Those on foot will enter at the south end via The Rocks and those from the North Shore will come in at Kirribilli. For those of you with vehicles, the plan is to create gridlock on the bridge from both sides. All bikes, trucks, and cars are welcome. If you can borrow a car, then you should. Our goal is to turn the Sydney Harbour Bridge into a wall-to-wall parking lot.”

  I looked around. The anarchists were still chewing with concentrated focus and didn’t seem to be paying much attention. Some were going back for seconds and thirds, and Martha’s son was unpacking more food. I cleaned my plate and felt slightly nauseous from all the sugar. I wished I had a bottle of water.

  “The plan is also to have as many bodies on the bridge as possible. And everyone needs to bring as many bog rolls as they can. It’s light, so load up. Single ply, people, single ply. Our friend Mark … please stand up Mark.… He is our key man, literally. He’s got the keys to the bridge climb, and he’ll open it up for us.”

  Mark leapt to his feet. He was addict skinny, and when he grinned, he revealed the stubby brown remains of his teeth. At first impression, I wasn’t sure Mark was the most reliable of fellows, but that was Jason’s call.

  Jason continued. “Note, we will only be utilizing the east side of the bridge. The action is directed away from Paramatta, Planetarium, and Luna Park side. You will be facing the Opera House and Kirribilli. We want to get as many people up into the arch as possible. I will be sending out diagrams of the bridge again, and if you can, take a walk and do a recce in person. But do not draw any attention to yourselves by hanging around and looking suspicious. You know we’re under constant scrutiny.

  “And if you are going to climb up to the arch, be safe, because if anyone dies, it will work against us and our message. So, please, no deaths. You are responsible for your own safety. Mark has said that if you’re planning to climb the bridge, then it’s strongly suggested that you get a helmet with a flashlight, even though we will be doing this during the day. Order them online. Do not visit camping stores en masse.

  “At the hour of sunrise, a siren will sound, and we will unfurl our banner ‘Stop Shitting On Our World.’ This will run the length of the bridge and will be fifteen feet in height. We’re going to order it tomorrow, so if there are any mathematical geniuses here today, please stay back to chat with me after this meeting. I need help double-checking that our scaling is correct in terms of font size. The last thing we want to do is look like wankers by having a sign that no one can see or read.

  “The sign will hang for half an hour to make sure that the news helicopters can get good coverage. And then, I will sound the siren again. You can see why we will need to do this in silence. If you’re all yammering, no one will hear the siren. So, keep schtum and focus. The second siren is when we will unfurl our toilet paper to create the white wall of ignorance and
shame.

  “Now, here comes the most crucial part of the whole thing. The bog roll drop. It has to be perfect. Once again, we don’t want to look like wankers. Google Jeanne-Claude and Christo, and you’ll get an idea of what we want. We want artistic perfection. No less. You have half an hour while the banner is being photographed to prep for the bog roll drop. That’s way more time than you even need.

  “Huddle as close to one another as you can, really squeeze in, side by side at the railing. We will each drop a minimum of three rolls, more if you can. We have to create a solid white curtain, preferably from the arch as well as the from the sidewalk area. Make sense?” He looked around. “The white curtain of shame and ignorance. We will hold the white curtain of shame and ignorance for half an hour, which is a bloody long time actually, so be prepared for your arms to get tired. Maybe try it at home. Sounds daft, but we can’t be too prepared. And then, again at my signal call, we will all drop the toilet paper at the same time. And then one final siren call lets you know that the protest is done and you all leave. Any questions so far?”

  We all looked around at one another, and a few people shook their heads.

  “Good,” Jason said. “Mark is staying back after the meeting in case you’ve got any questions about climbing the arch. This room is booked for the night.

  “Now, onto wardrobe. I don’t know about you lot, but I’m getting dressed up for the occasion: tartan pants, safety pins, the works. If you don’t have tartan or red, then wear black trousers. Also, I want everybody to wear a black T-shirt with an anarchy sign on the back and front. Do not buy these online. Make them using white spray paint. Wear a colourful T-shirt under your anarchy T-shirt and as soon as the final signal sounds for the end of the protest, take off your anarchy T-shirt, drop it on the ground and walk away.

  “No one sticks around to chat, that’s crucial. If you do, you will get arrested and it will not be fun. And for God’s sake, don’t meet up after to have a few drinks and talk about what heroes you all were. Get as far away from the bridge as you can and look normal about it.

  “And here’s the most important thing of all: we do all of this in silence.” He held up his hand and the room, which had a swell of murmured chatter to it, fell deathly silent. “You guys were supposed to be quiet this whole meeting and listen to you already—a bunch of bloody sparrows! I know, the temptation to just whisper something is huge. I get it. But the power of silence is incredible. If we’re all running all over the bridge, making an ungodly racket, it makes us look disorganized, like a bunch of schoolkids let loose. We are not a bunch of schoolkids. We are adults with a serious message. Silence is ominous, meaningful, and dangerous. All good?” The room nodded in unison, and I was impressed by Jason’s cohesion.

  “And to that point, no running. You walk. Even when you leave, you do not run. Running indicates a riot or panic. We are not rioting. We are staging a world protest. Big difference.”

  I was flooded with a rush of pride that I was involved in this and that it had all started because of my suggestion. Jason still maintained the whole thing was my idea, and maybe I’d had the kernel seed for the thing, but his thorough attention to detail was deft and military in its precision.

  “In case you forget any of these details, you will receive them all again, sent in the usual way. All newsletter subscribers will receive two messages just like you did about this meeting; one with the details encrypted and a separate message with a script to convert that document into a readable file. This is nothing new. You guys know how it works. And while we want spectacular amounts of media coverage on the day, we do not want to tip off the police, so watch yourselves. No bragging beforehand, via verbal, or text or email. Don’t talk to anybody about this, Consult the website and only visit the bridge if you’ll be normal about it. No chat sites will be used in getting this set-up and not a hint on social media. The less noise out there, the better.”

  A single hand shot up into the air.

  “Yes, Nerissa,” Jason asked. Nerissa was a tall black girl, with long dreadlocks.

  “Why the bridge? Why not the Opera House?”

  “Because the bridge is easier to make happen. We thought about the Opera House, but it isn’t feasible.”

  “But Jeanne-Claude and Christo did more buildings than bridges,” Nerissa objected.

  “And they had permits and everything was legal and it took them months. We are illegal, we’ve got no time whatsoever, and we have to do it however we can. The bridge is the most viable option.”

  I hadn’t realized that Jason had looked at other options, and I felt slightly hurt at being excluded from that discussion.

  Another hand shot up.

  “Yes, Scott?” Jason asked.

  “Why don’t we cover images of colonialism like statues or QVB? Why the bridge when it’s really an Australian thing? We should be using this to protest against colonialism too.”

  “A very good point,” Jason replied politely. I thought that the boy was an irritating moron who should be swatted into silence.

  “What’s QVB?” I whispered to Sean breaking the rules of no talking.

  “The Queen Victoria Building. That big old shopping centre in the downtown core.”

  Right. It had been the first stop on Margaux’s map.

  “We wanted one pivotal icon to be the focus,” Jason explained to the boy. “And while QVB would have been that for sure, it also would be too hard to do, from a security point of view. And covering a bunch of statues would be too scattered and wouldn’t have the same impact visually. Besides, the bridge has easy access and although there are cameras, we’re all allowed to walk across it, and we’ll be able to take it relatively easily. And I do say relatively because you know the fuzz. They’ll be like an army of red ants as soon as the alarm is raised. This is why the rules of silence and no running are crucial.”

  Another hand was raised. I sighed. Why couldn’t these people just take direction and accept that Jason had considered things from all sides, as was clearly the case?

  “What will happen to the toilet paper?” A skinny little girl, who looked about twelve years old, asked.

  “It drops it into the harbour,” Jason replied.

  “But isn’t that bad for the water?” the girl asked.

  “It’s biodegradable and it’s a symbol. We have to use something. If we were going to be absolutely environmentally friendly, it would be a protest without a symbol. But we need a symbol, and it ties in perfectly to the message.”

  “But what about all the damage done to the environment with all that toilet paper that we’re essentially just going to waste?” A boy stood up, angrily. His acned face was burning, and he folded his arms aggressively and jutted his chin.

  “Sit down, please, Paul. The toilet paper would have been generated anyway, so we are just using it for a different purpose. We are using it as art to send a message. If anything, the environment will suffer for an even better cause than us wiping our bums.”

  A smattering of laughter rippled through the room, and Paul turned an even deeper red but he sat down.

  “And what about the pollution generated with all those extra people coming?” another man asked. He was older than most of the kids there, and he had the look of a fat, geeky creep. I pegged him as the sort who lived in his mother’s basement and played violent video games while scoffing greasy pizza. “Increased flights lead to increased carbon footprints. And tourists generate more garbage. They hire cars, which increases pollution. It all adds up, you know.”

  Jason sighed. “I do know. But all the people who are coming will be contributing to a protest that will be seen on a global scale. If we try to avoid any kind of expense, be it pollution or otherwise, we would do what we have done until now, which is nothing. We want to do something, for God’s sake, and this seems to cover all the bases. Any other questions?”

  I hoped
not, but another woman waved her hand around as if she was trying to hail a cab. She had frizzy, unkempt hair, and her front teeth were splayed yellow bricks. I wondered if she could actually close her mouth. She ran her tongue across her chapped, pouty lips and put her arms on her hips.

  “I don’t have enough money to buy toilet paper to throw into the harbour,” she said. “I barely have enough money to buy it for me.”

  There was a murmur in favour of what she said. A large contingent of hands shot up, and people started shouting in agreement.

  “Let’s hijack a truck of toilet paper,” one voice shouted out, and there were cheers.

  “We are not hijacking a truck,” Jason said loudly. “Don’t you recall what I said moments ago? Do nothing to draw attention to yourself. Nothing. Hijacking a truck full of toilet paper is calling attention to yourself! Think, people, think!”

  “Well, I can’t pay,” the frizzy-haired woman said, and shouts of support greeted her statement.

  “I’ll pay!” I yelled, and I jumped to my feet. Sean tugged me down.

  I sat down and waved my hand. “I’ll buy the toilet paper. For those who really can’t.” I was willing to spend however much was needed of my ill-gotten gains to support Jason.

  “Thank you, Liam,” Jason said. “All those in need of assistance with toilet paper, please raise your hand.”

  Three quarters of the room was a flurry of raised hands. And then, the rest followed.

  “Oh, come now,” Jason said, disgusted. “Most of you can’t spring for a few bog rolls? Let’s try that again. Put down your hands. Think about this for a moment. Think about the contribution you are going to make to try to change the world. This is an honour, to be part of this. Don’t be wankers. Those of you in need of real assistance, raise your hand.”

  There was a small show of hands, including the frizzy-haired woman.