Two papers arrive at the same time. I take them to my room and throw them on the stack of rolled papers. I’ve been stacking them again, in their rolls, unflattened, and later when I take one, the entire stack rolls off the dressing table onto the floor. I’ve been absorbed in my own shit again and neglecting the world’s shit.
I unroll one. There are photographs of the new president of the US, Richard Nixon, who looks a lot like my old school headmaster, so I hate the man before I can give him a chance to prove himself. The Beatles have a new album out, another plane is hijacked to Cuba, and there’s a story about Yale University’s plan to enrol women students next year. I can see Margaret Baker as one of the first. She arrives surrounded by photographers and walks calmly up the main entrance, closely followed by her lover and constant companion. Me.
Merkel drives into the driveway like the lunatic he is, tooting his horn, spinning his steering wheel, making great welts in the dirt.
You coming or what? he yells.
I am sitting on the veranda in front of my upstairs room.
What do you have in mind? I ask.
Get your shit and arse down here now.
I climb over the deck and slide down the post.
Merkel has the Land Cruiser moving before I have the door closed.
We’ll have a few drinks in the Jungle, he says. Then? Who knows? Who cares. We’ll fuck, wank, we’ll go visit Jimmy Irish.
When we pull into the carpark, we pull up alongside George Kanluna as he gets out of his Volkswagen.
George.
Howard. Jack.
Kanluna knows Merkel? What is it with this country? Exeter and Kanluna makes some sense, but Kanluna and Merkel? We walk into the Jungle Bar together, find a space in the lounge bar and order three beers. Merkel and Kanluna chide each other about some party they once went to when Kanluna had to drive Merkel home because he ran his vehicle into a ditch and got bogged.
You still can’t drive, says Kanluna.
Maybe not, but I always know where I’m going, says Merkel.
Down the other end of the bar three old blokes turn to look at us and one of them sneers. He looks like he thinks he owns the place. I sneer back at him. I have seen him before. He’s an office clerk at Byrne Brothers, an alcoholic and one of those blokes you don’t like as soon as you see him. What is he looking at? I don’t ask. There are certain kinds of people you don’t ask what they are looking at when you think you might know.
A couple of months ago I walked into his office because he had requested a bank statement in a hurry and our office boy was out on another delivery. He sneered at me then and he was sober, but he still stank of booze and smokes and I guessed he had a bottle stashed behind some files at the back of his office. Fuckhead is his name. Sorry, Farquahr.
You doing boys’ work? asked Farquahr.
Just delivering something, I said. You got a problem with that?
No. Just don’t make a habit of it.
Right then and there I wanted to punch the miserable shit’s face, knock all his teeth out and bury him in a sea of shit. But I didn’t. I turned and walked out.
As soon as the beers hit the bar Merkel orders three more.
Howard, says Kanluna, ease up, man. I have a meeting to attend later.
That may be so, George, but when you’re out with men you gotta drink like men, says Merkel.
All three of us throw our heads back and laugh. As I bring mine down I can see Farquahr sneering again.
What the fuck is Fuckhead looking at? I say.
Him? says Merkel. He’s a drunk piece of shit. Probably me.
We order three more and I say to the barman: And give one to the old prick down the end there.
What are you doing? says Merkel.
I’m making Fuckhead squirm, I say.
Good luck.
Kanluna picks up his glass and says: This is my last. I’m off to my meeting.
You don’t have a meeting, says Merkel. It’s that new woman you’re with, isn’t it? She’s got you by the short and curlies.
Kanluna coughs into his beer.
This may be so, but it’s better than living like you poor bastards.
Merkel yells down the bar: Three more up here please. We have an emergency.
Farquahr and his mates look up at us and the old man gets off his stool and yells: Why don’t you fuck off, Merkel, and take your coon mates with you.
Silence. I can feel the heat rise inside me, overwhelm me. I turn to look at Kanluna. His black face has changed colour. It has a fiery, red tinge about it. He launches himself out of his chair and lunges towards the other end of the bar. Merkel and I are close behind him. We don’t make it. A scrum appears in front of us and holds firm. Kanluna is yelling something in his first language. Merkel is yelling in a language I have never heard before and trying to climb over the top of the scrum. I try to crawl under it. A boot hits my cheek. The scrum collects us up and drags us out the back of the Jungle Bar. Behind us I can hear Fuckhead Farquahr calling out: And don’t come back in here with your coon mates, you fucking gin jockey.
I break loose and run back in.
What kind of people are you? I yell. What kind of shithole is this?
The hotel manager, Jamison, grabs me from behind: Come on, Muir. Or they’ll beat the shit out of you. Then he insists we sit at a table and that he buys us drinks.
We want to drink in there, says Merkel. We have a right and so does George.
Yes, of course you do, says Jamison, but Farquahr thinks he owns the place and today’s his birthday. He’s an old fool pissed. Can we cut him a bit of slack?
I’d like to cut the cunt’s throat, says Merkel.
You all right, George? says Jamison. I’m sorry about what happened in there and when Farquahr has sobered up–
That’s never, says Merkel.
I’ll have a chat to him and tell him if he ever says anything like that again he’s banned.
This sort of thing will not go on much longer, says Kanluna. Change is coming. Already we have a representation at government level and there are more changes coming, you know that, Jamison, I know that, Farquahr knows it too. That’s why he hates me now. His time is almost over.
Kanluna looks sad and angry and ready to kill Farquahr. I want to kill Farquahr for him.
You can’t go to a meeting like this, says Merkel. Stay and have a couple more until we all calm down.
Yes. I will. And I’m buying the next round and I will go into the bar to buy them and if Farquahr says anything I will kill him.
But he doesn’t go, because Jamison brings a dozen stubbies out and puts them on the table.
Here you are, chaps. Hope this makes you feel better.
It doesn’t. By the time we are down to the last couple Kanluna is talking bolshie, getting ready for the revolution, when his people will be running things and our people will be copping a beating.
That maggot better leave the islands before independence because if he doesn’t I’ll have him flogged, says Kanluna.
Merkel gets up and says he has to go to the toilet.
I look in my beer. It’s a glorious day in the highlands. My nose takes in the multitude of smells. My head is hot. My arms are buzzing. My guts are fuming.
Jack, says Kanluna, I have seen you someplace before.
Yeah, I say, up in Kia country. We had dinner with Tom Exeter.
Yes, but before this. I am sure of it. Yes, I remember, it was Margaret Baker’s birthday party.
Oh.
Kanluna doesn’t warn me, doesn’t hit me, doesn’t tell me to fuck off and leave Margaret alone because she is only suitable for Hogarth because he went to Timbertop, or Prince Charles because he was there too and it would still be okay even if he did fuck a girl who worked in a deli because he is a prince and she’s a princess. We sit in silence. I can feel the heat of Kanluna’s body as I lean forward to take another beer.
George, I say.
You’re not a communist are you?
No, but I do want independence for my country, that is what I want more than anything. If it means getting help from others, including communists, be that as it may. The tide is shifting and we cannot wait for the colonial authority. It was only last year that your Federal Government finally accepted Aboriginal people as full citizens.
You mean the referendum?
Yes, it was the final measure. They had been included as Australian citizens in 1949 when all of you changed from being British subjects to Australians but even then only the Aboriginal soldiers got the vote. The rest got the right to vote in 1962.
How come you know all this?
When you are fighting for your country’s independence you make sure you know what you are up against. All this was a part of your shame I also did not know until I decided to get to know my enemy. You took their land, then they fought for you, died for you, and you did not recognise them as full citizens of their own land.
Kanluna says you, but I know he doesn’t mean me. I hope he doesn’t mean me. I took no part in the poll and I didn’t take anybody’s land. All I did was get born there. I wonder what Foley thinks of it all. I don’t respond. I didn’t know any of this. I didn’t vote in the referendum because I’m still not twenty-one but I thought it covered everything and that it marked a great day in Australian history. My pink skin crinkles.
We sit back, drink. I wonder what Kanluna is thinking. I wonder if he is wondering what I am thinking. I want to tell him about me and Dorothy and May and Margaret and all the others and ask for his blessing, to know that when you leave out all the political talk that Kanluna is just like me, a man with needs, urges, desires. This means we fuck whoever allows us in, whatever their skin colour, their family background, school or religion. I want his approval. I want him to ease my shame.
The silence is broken by Merkel arriving back in a rush and yelling: Shit! We’re outta here. George, your car’s closest.
We run for Kanluna’s car as the bar door opens and a dozen men stream out yelling: We’ll get you Merkel, you gin-jockeying faggot.
We get to the car. We pile in.
Howard, says Kanluna.
Not now, George, yells Merkel. Just drive. I’ll tell you when we’re away. You’ll be pleased. I promise.
Kanluna backs out too fast and hits the car behind. He doesn’t stop. Men are still running for us and screaming. One breaks away. It must be his car. Kanluna turns out of town and drives until we come to a dirt track. He takes it. It’s a bumpy, noisy ride and our laughter rises and falls with the bumps.
Stop, George, yells Merkel. I can’t hear myself think and I gotta tell you what happened.
Kanluna stops.
I went to the toilet and Fuckhead was in there, so I kneed him in the back and he fell, banged his head and fell into the trough, right into his own piss.
George and I laugh at the image of the racist pig swimming in his piss, the piss of the bloke before him and the bloke before him and so on until he’s swimming in the piss of the entire country, of every race and every creed.
Did he shit his pants, and chuck his guts? I say. Because that would have made a perfect bath for the white prick.
You know me, says Merkel. The first thing I did was think of his safety and that maybe he needed some water on his head to bring him around. The tap was too far away so I unzipped my daks and pissed on his head. That brought him out of his faint soon enough, but just then some bloke comes in. Barely enough time to put my dick away and give him a good old hip and shoulder in the chest.
That was a bad thing to do, Howie, says Kanluna, but thank you. After independence you’ll be safe, I promise you, but pigs like Farquahr will pay a price for treating us like animals.
He’s harmless, George. There’s worse than him.
Maybe, but back there, in the Jungle, he had some support. Maybe all he does is shout out what the others are thinking. To them we are coons, always have been, always will be.
Then Kanluna, the strong man of the future, throws his head in his hands and sniffs. I think it’s a sob, not a loud crying sob, but a small quiet sob. Merkel and I sit still. Water wells up in my eyes. Nothing appears in Merkel’s. He looks out the window.
George, I say.
I’m okay. We’d better go home. I will drop you blokes off.
He drops Merkel off at his Land Cruiser, waits to make sure he gets away without a bar-load of angry whites kicking the shit out of him and then drives me back to the bank mess. You religious, George? I ask.
I am a Christian, he says. I go to church most Sundays.
Lutheran?
Yes. And you?
I used to be, not Lutheran, Anglican. I was big on Jesus.
He drives into the bank mess driveway and says: Why is it that not one of you bank johnnies have a car?
They won’t lend us the money, I say. We’re bad risks.
You know I got fired?
No. Are you looking for work?
No. I think I’ll go home, I say. Then I take my life in my hands and ask the question I have to ask. Margaret Baker: you know her well?
Of course, he says.
She’s a princess, George, I can see that. I wouldn’t touch her. I just wondered, you know, if you know what she’ll do with her life.
Margaret has done well in school and will study at a university somewhere, probably down south in Australia. She will study something useful for our country, maybe law. She will be an important woman.
Why is she so precious, George? What’s so special about Margaret, that everyone, black, white, wants to protect her?
Jim Baker, her father, is a big man, for both black and white. He is the man who brought peace to the highlands, between the Ubadi and the Managan. He walked into the middle of a pitched battle and stood there with his arms raised until all the men on both sides threw down their spears, bows and arrows and machetes. He is a man of great courage. And when he was a district officer, his administration was often called on to mediate between rival parties, black on black, black on white and even white on white. When independence comes, we want Jim and Margaret Baker to stay and many believe that Margaret is blessed with the best of both worlds, the black and the white.
Kanluna and I shake hands. His are large, firm. They are the hands of a man who does not have to prove his strength. I get out of the Volkswagen and walk up the steps. Kanluna drives off.
Inside they have set up the table tennis table and Haines is playing Paterson.
Come on, Prem, beat the shit out of the prick, I say.
Look, it’s the gin jockey come home, says Haines.
Something shifts in my guts. Seeing Haines, hearing Haines, changes everything. It wasn’t Haines in the Jungle Bar, he was nowhere near, but I could see him there, yelling at my friend George Kanluna, smacking him in the head with a table tennis bat, kicking him in the guts while he was down, my friend George, the only man I know who knows Margaret Baker and has not warned me to keep my distance, the only man I know who talks about something other than the next fuck, or where to get pissed and the only man I know who is fighting for something, not a free fuck or the right to wear your shirt out or flowers in your hair, but his country’s freedom.
Who you fuck today, Muir? Some fucking bush pig?
That’s all I need. I push Haines. He laughs. I push him again. Harder.
You’re pissed, he says. And now you want to fight? You’re a gin-jockey joke, Muir.
You are a fucking racist pig, Haines.
Yeah, so? There’s a reason, Muir. These people are rock apes. That must make you a rock-ape fucker.
No one speaks out against Haines. No one speaks at all. They stand, some are half-hearted laughing.
Come on, Jack, says Paterson. Leave Haines alone. You blokes were never going to like each other. Come on, have a game.
Fuck off, Paterson.
Paterson is trying to settle things down, to create a calm where there is a storm, but I haven’t time for calm. I have come out of a storm and now I want revenge. Haines is in front of me. He is the bank’s Farquahr.
Haines looks at me, sneers and says: You’re a sad fuck, Muir. You’re troppo, you’re fucking gins, you’ve been fired, and you’ve got no job, and now you’re pissed, you’re trying to pick a fight when you couldn’t fight your way out of a wet paper bag.
You’d know about wet paper bags, Haines, I yell. I’ll bet your room is full of them because every night you wank into one.
Haines throws his table tennis bat. It strikes my eye socket and rips at the soft flesh against the bone. He turns and struts away.
Someone yells: Fuck, Haines. You could’ve taken his eye.
You’re a gutless wonder, Haines, I yell. Come on then, you and me, outside, now, no bats, just fists.
Fuck off, Muir.
Jack, settle down, says Paterson.
Someone stands and moves towards me. I follow Haines down the corridor, up the stairs and stop when he stops outside his room. My face is hot, my brain is hot, my arms, hands, fingers, legs, feet, toes, dick, arse, everything, hot. I am shaking. I can kill this man, this thing. My cheekbone itches. My hand goes to it and comes away wet. I look at my fingers and see blood.
You cut me, you shit.
Get fucked, Muir.
In his eyes and those sneering lips I can see Hitler and Stalin and every Nazi racist bastard I ever read about, ever met, ever dreamt about. All of them, things. The heat has nowhere else to go but at the thing. I am all heat. The heat blows. I’m on him. I have the thing.