December 1st and a large white Christmas tree had been erected in the lobby. Tinsel and baubles were strung along the reception desk. The whole crazy thing seemed to start earlier every year, and come round faster. I greeted Michelle, the early-morning regular on the front desk, and swiped myself through. Then I rode the elevator to the tenth floor, where JC and his team had their offices. Here too a Christmas tree had been situated in the waiting area, this one smaller, dark green and heavily adorned in gold. The meeting with the Chinese delegation was scheduled for 9 am. It was just after 7 am. I took care of some paperwork and emails in my office, then emerged at 8.45 am.
Frank Pringle was adjusting his tie in a mirror in reception.
‘You arrived early,’ he said.
‘I did, Frank. No rest for the wicked.’
He looked a little wired, Frank. Maybe it was a post-gym flush, or maybe it was a little white powder to start the day.
Moments later, two swarthy men with receding hairlines and pinstriped suits came through the doors from the lift lobby. One was the federal Minister for National Protection, Aiden Abbott, who had been in that first meeting I’d attended the day after I’d arrived. Aid-n-Abet—the most powerful man in Australia bar the prime minister. Some said even more powerful. Basically, anything that happened on Australian soil, or in surrounding waters, or wherever he chose to focus his gaze, was part of his portfolio. Abbott’s aide looked so like Abbott that I could only assume he’d been hired specifically for that reason. The man on his heels was Barney Viper, deeply conservative federal Tasmanian senator and puppet master of the Tasmanian Liberals; JC’s Maker, so I was told.
Viper had a trowel-shaped face with large teeth, a pallid complexion and an unsavoury reputation as a bully. He had also been blessed with a voice that belonged to a cartoon hyena. He was accompanied by Gavin Plumb, Tasmanian Minister for Infrastructure, who was almost as fat as JC but only half his height. Max called him Tweedle-Plumb. Forgive me if I don’t seem to like politicians, family aside.
The last to arrive were the Chinese. An older man in a dark suit and red tie was introduced as Gao Enzhu. He was accompanied by a younger woman, May Chen, and a young man whose name was simply given as Edwin. It seemed the older man was the representative of the Chinese government, and Chen and Edwin were aides but I immediately pegged May Chen as secret service. Edwin too. May Chen was the sort of lean, serene Asian beauty designed to reinforce all those stereotypes men had of Asian women. But I glimpsed a tattoo on the underside of her wrist, and when she held out her hand to me, her eyes were warm.
JC emerged from behind the closed door of his office at 8.55 am accompanied by two members of staff. He was wearing a navy double-breasted suit that only enhanced his impressive corpulence. I noted a silver dragon tiepin on his blue tie. The dragon appeared to have glowing ruby eyes. I wasn’t sure this was such a good choice in the present company, but maybe it had been a gift from a previous Chinese delegation.
A small forest had been felled to achieve the polished panels, table, sideboards, chairs and parquetry floor of the premier’s boardroom. Myrtle, sassafras, blackwood, Huon pine. Even the large video screen, upon which an artist’s impression of the completed bridge was hovering, had a timber surround. On the boardroom table was a silver platter of large Tasmanian-shaped biscuits, iced and topped with hundreds and thousands.
JC took his place at the head of the table with the view out over the river behind him. A mistake, I thought. First, he was partly in silhouette. And second, it was so enticing to look at the sparkling river and not at my brother.
It was the sort of day Tasmania does well. A little breeze was catching on the river’s surface, sending the morning light into paroxysms of pleasure. A few white clouds decorated the vivid blue Southern Ocean sky. It was a day that looked as if all would be well. Julian of Norwich, a nun who had taken a man’s name, as was customary at the time, had immortalised these words: All shall be well and all shall be well and all manner of thing shall be well.
If only it were true. Still, the words had been like a mantra through the devastation in South Sudan, the horrors of Myanmar, the ravages of Mosul, the savagery in Nigeria, the brutality in Turkey and … all shall be well and all shall be well and all manner of thing shall be well.
I drew my thoughts back into the room. JC was waxing on the significance of this meeting. He had our father’s wavy fair hair that had greyed to silver and the same grey eyes. He hadn’t always been a big man, JC. As a teenager, he’d been a rower, tall and well-built. Even into his thirties, he’d been fit. This morning he was articulate, charming, and a little dull. The benevolent leader with the best interests of his people at heart.
There it was again. Altruism. It was only ever a short step between believing you are the right leader to believing you are the only leader for your people. Mussolini in Italy, Hitler in Germany, Putin in Russia, Trump in America, Erdogan in Turkey, and now the Eternal Fragrant President of China. Left or right, it didn’t matter. We can rattle off a few bad women leaders over the years, but the list of deplorable men has been endless.
Frank Pringle took over from JC to walk everyone through the current status of the investigation into the bombing. There were a couple of leads but nothing concrete and no arrests. Apparently ASIO was now involved. Interpol, too. I would have thought there had been ASIO agents here since day one, assessing the scene, but I said nothing.
‘The federal police think it unlikely it was done from a Tasmanian base,’ Frank said.
Next, Tweedle-Plumb went through the logistics of the foreign workers. Their accommodation would be at a recently decommissioned refugee camp. The camp was out of town and surrounded by a six-metre cyclone-wire fence topped with razor wire. There was twenty-four-hour surveillance. The federal police were contributing extra security to bolster the Tasmanian resources, but it was hoped it wouldn’t be needed.
There was a short interchange between the older Chinese man, Gao Enzhu, and May Chen.
‘How much resistance are you expecting?’ May Chen asked in her Oxford English.
Viper spoke. ‘None. That’s why Doctor Coleman is here. We have employed her to ensure any dissent is nipped in the bud. Historically, Tasmanians are a peaceable people. That’s why Cadbury built its empire here in the early 1900s. Yes, we’ve had our share of protests, but they were drummed up by radical leftists. Ridiculous short-sighted protests by economic vandals. But the Tasmanian people want this bridge completed. The latest poll shows that overwhelmingly. Up another eight per cent since the bridge was bombed. Protesters are almost entirely made up of Bruny shack owners and channel residents. And the Greens. They’re no match for this government.’
May Chen translated this and the older man spoke. She listened and then said, ‘We think it would be unwise to underestimate the potential loss of public sympathy for the bridge—following the bombing—when Tasmanians are faced with a foreign workforce being bussed through Hobart to the bridge every day. Also, we must consider those working onsite. Such a sight, with foreign workers, has never before been seen in Australia.’
‘The hydro schemes back in the fifties,’ Tweedle-Plumb said. ‘They were built by foreign labour. Slavs and Poles and Krauts.’
‘But not Asians, Senator,’ said May gently. ‘And they were a long way from Hobart. Not visible to everyday Tasmanians.’
‘We had the Hmong people at Salamanca market for years before they moved to northern New South Wales,’ said JC. ‘Tasmanians liked them.’
‘But they grew vegetables,’ said May Chen. She and I exchanged a glance. This conversation wasn’t surprising either of us.
There was another exchange between May Chen and Gao Enzhu.
‘The Chinese government,’ said May Chen, ‘and our Eternal Fragrant President, would like this to be an opportunity for exchange with the Tasmanian people. Our government is proud to be participating in this project. Tell me, what efforts will be made to ensure that the integration of local and foreign workers is positive?’
The Chinese president had recently consolidated his power under the new title of Eternal Fragrant President and had appointed himself to the role for life. I couldn’t help but suppress a smile, imagining a spate of Chinese restaurants emerging: Eternal Fragrant Lotus Flower, Eternal Fragrant Floating Dragon, Eternal Fragrant Harmony …
But May Chen’s question about the integration of the workers was not about logistics. It was a cultural question. When the Chinese wanted to woo the world, they did it with culture. Plays, architecture, ballet, design, opera, art, film, poetry. Shame they’d killed a whole generation of creatives under Chairman Mao.
‘We have briefed our advertising agency,’ said JC’s PR person. He was a bearded young man in a pink shirt and deeper pink floral tie. ‘But these things take time. Obviously we will create good news stories.’
‘Shame it’s not footy season,’ said JC. ‘We could have a special match. Or table tennis? Could we have a tournament?’
May Chen smiled beatifically, to her credit. There was chuckling around the table from Tweedle-Plumb, Abbott and a couple of JC’s minions. Viper was humourless.
Aid-n-Abet said, ‘Yes, but it’s not simply a matter of advertising or PR. Am I right? I think we need to devise an appropriate community engagement strategy.’
Everyone but the Chinese nodded.
‘We could have an update on TasInvest,’ suggested JC. ‘Get the president back. Ace, what do you think? You’re on the ground.’
‘The question is time. The workers are about to arrive. The community is tense,’ I said. ‘Public sympathy for the bridge may be up, but overwhelmingly people believe investment would be better placed in other projects for Tasmania. Even among those for the bridge, there’s a distinct sense that they want this bridge to be a wholly Tasmanian project. They’re not happy about foreign labour. They’d rather the bridge took longer to build. If those people for the bridge but against foreign labour start seeing eye to eye with those against the bridge, that could become a very large group to neutralise.’
‘Why the fuck do Tasmanians have to be so bloody combative?’ said Abbott.
‘A lot of good people have tried to answer that, Aiden,’ said Viper. Aiden. Not Minister. Viper was a minion in comparison to Abbott, never given any significant role in the federal government even though the Tasmanian people kept re-electing and re-electing him. But here, in this room, Viper wanted everyone to see that he and Abbott were equals.
‘Mr Gao?’ said Abbott to the older Chinese man. ‘What would your government wish to see put in place?’
May translated, and there was a brief exchange.
‘We have taken the liberty of preparing some materials,’ she said. ‘Premier, if you will permit …’
‘Of course,’ said JC.
The young man, Edwin, walked over to the video equipment and began navigating the various remotes and devices. The electronic blinds were lowered, the room was dimmed and, within moments, a short film began playing on the large screen. This was such an impressive display of expertise with unfamiliar technology—I hoped everyone in the room realised they’d just been one-upped.
The words A Bridge between China and Tasmania appeared on the screen. The Eternal Fragrant President appeared and spoke of the importance of this project for China and Tasmania. The film was both dubbed and subtitled.
‘Hello, people of Tasmania. I loved my visit to your beautiful island during the wonderful TasInvest Conference. My eyes were opened to the beauty and bounty of your magnificent home. I wish my country to continue this important engagement with Tasmania. I wish to extend the support of the Chinese government to ensuring the prosperity of Tasmania. This sharing of workers, for the first time, is the beginning of a program of mutual economic exchange and cultural enrichment. A small delegation of Chinese workers will help to fulfil a Tasmanian dream to join Bruny Island to mainland Tasmania. But it will also join Chinese workers and their families with Tasmanian workers and their families.’
At this point there were cutaways of Chinese families playing with their children in a park, walking along a boulevard and sharing a family meal, and then there was an extended table with both Chinese and, presumably, Tasmanian people, sharing a meal together, playing cricket in a park and looking as if they were all having a fine time.
‘If such an exchange proves helpful to both Tasmania and Australia,’ the president continued, ‘then this will pave the way for a future where many things are possible.’
The film went on to outline the Tasmanian buses that had been acquired by the Chinese government for the duration of the workers’ stay. There was footage of the buses undergoing their makeovers, and an artist’s impression of the finished product: buses emblazoned with images of the completed Bruny Bridge. There were also illustrations of banners erected all the way from the Chinese accommodation into the city, and then down the highway to the bridge site—each banner emblazoned with the Chinese flag and the Australian flag side by side.
‘And to demonstrate our commitment to the people of Tasmania,’ the president’s dubbed voiceover continued, ‘the Chinese government will stage three nights of Chinese music and theatre, providing an opportunity for Tasmanians to share in some of the most loved stories from Chinese culture. To welcome the Chinese workers, the Chinese Buddhist community will perform a dragon dance ceremony through the streets of Hobart, culminating in a fireworks display and a feast at the Peace and Reconciliation Park at Macquarie Point.’
There was footage of a dragon dance complete with a glittering dragon weaving its way through the streets and awestruck children waving both Chinese and Australian flags. Then there was a magnificent eruption of fireworks.
The film concluded with an animated logo entwining Tasmania’s tiger logo with the Chinese dragon and the words: Together with Tasmania.
JC flicked his dragon tiepin and nodded. Frank nodded too. The PR person from the government looked a little confused. Aid-n-Abet and his aide both nodded. Viper smiled. May Chen and I gazed at one another as chess opponents might.
The platter of Tasmanian biscuits was passed around. JC took one and bit into it. Abbott asked if he could take some home to his children. Everyone laughed and Viper dispatched a staff member to make that happen. Tea and coffee was served. The bearded PR boy said something to JC, who waved his hand to brush him off.
‘How are the workers being flown in?’ I asked.
‘There are direct flights from Hobart each week to China carrying fresh milk. The workers are coming in on the return flights,’ said Frank.
Aid-n-Abet said, ‘And your government has signed a deal to acquire the additional steel to repair the bridge from Shoughan International under the Belt and Road Initiative?’
‘Onto ships next week and delivered by the end of the month,’ said Viper, ‘as I understand.’
‘Excellent. Really excellent,’ JC said, dusting hundreds and thousands from his fingers onto his plate, and wiping his hands on a folded linen napkin.
Tweedle-Plumb added, ‘There’s sufficient steel currently in the state, or in transit, to continue the build until it arrives.’
‘So, if there’s nothing else,’ said JC, ‘let’s get the journos in here, Frank. Mr Gao, Miss Chen, would you join us to outline the next steps?’
‘Sir,’ said bearded PR, ‘it would be good to review the materials and ensure they align with …’
I loved his attempt but he was a wet moth going downstream.
‘Time is of the essence, wouldn’t you say?’ said Viper. ‘No harm in getting this next step into the public arena. We can deal with tomorrow tomorrow. What do you think, John?’
JC put up his hands as if in surrender and said, ‘Agreed. Let’s not overcomplicate things, or slow them down. We’re all on the same page here.’
‘That we are,’ said May Chen. ‘We have also prepared extra dossiers for the media.’
The meeting dissembled. JC walked over. ‘Told you we had it sorted,’ he said.
‘They make doing business look easy,’ I said.
‘Makes your job much easier too, all this stuff.’ He prodded the red dossiers on the table with their embossed and entwined Chinese dragon and Tasmanian tiger logos. ‘Shall we talk later today?’
‘Yes,’ I said.
‘Come up and we’ll catch the news at home.’
‘Done.’
The last person I passed on the way out of the room was May Chen.
‘It’s very nice to meet you, Miss Chen,’ I said, holding out my hand.
‘Astrid,’ I said.
‘May,’ she said. ‘You are a conflict resolution specialist.’
‘I can see you are too,’ I said.
‘Let me give you my number,’ she offered. ‘I hope I can be of assistance throughout this time.’
She handed me her card. I promised to text her so she had my details too.
We both smiled and I left the building.