4

5 July 1882

Tonight, a study was made of our friends that came closer to matching what I had hoped for them here. A scientist from Vienna, a musician friend of Monsieur Perouse’s by the name of Guido Adler, asked if he could record their singing. We were taken to a small room which featured as its only piece of furniture a brass phonograph. When I asked Herr Adler the purpose of the recording he told me he was interested in the development of music, and that he took as inspiration Darwin’s theories of biological evolution. After much teasing from Monsieur Perouse, he soon went on to make more sense. The study of music is about ‘the exploration of truth and the promotion of beauty,’ he said. This, I decided, was my motto for why we are in Europe, not just for people to discover the humanity in our friends through their beautiful music and dance but to search for the truth and humanity in themselves. I was grateful to Herr Adler for giving me these words to cling to.

Monsieur Perouse gently took Dorondera by the arm and steered her forwards to the phonograph. He asked her permission to tilt her head so that her face was directly over the large conical mouth, which she regarded suspiciously, yet she did not seem afraid. Bonny and Jurano looked on from the side of the room.

‘Can you sing for me please, Dorondera?’ Herr Adler asked in German.

‘What will happen?’ Dorondera asked me in her own language. She looked to Monsieur Perouse, who had so quickly won her trust.

‘He wants to catch your voice,’ I replied. I knew no Badtjala word for ‘record’.

Dorondera looked curious. ‘My voice?’ She held her throat and smiled nervously.

‘Yes. He will give it back.’ I laughed. ‘You will see.’ I placed my hand on her back and could feel that she had not secured her corset.

Dorondera regarded the phonograph again and stared down its long dark neck.

‘Sing the song of K’gari,’ my father said in Badtjala. ‘Monsieur Perouse told me he has never heard anything so beautiful.’

Dorondera again looked at the Frenchman, who was smiling warmly, although he had not understood anything my father had said.

‘It won’t take long,’ Monsieur Perouse added in his reasonable German. I began to translate, but Dorondera had understood.

‘Here, listen.’ Monsieur Perouse started winding the handle on the instrument and leaned close to Dorondera as he sang in French. ‘Now …’ he said, in German, pointing to his ears as he reversed the mechanical process and, making a point of keeping his mouth shut, replayed the recording. Dorondera clapped her hand across her mouth in disbelief.

‘And I can still speak,’ the Frenchman said with no hint of condescension. Bonny and Jurano had come to us and were touching the phonograph and theorising in Badtjala about how it might work.

Dorondera shut her eyes, drew breath and, leaning over the phonograph, began to sing. Monsieur Perouse smiled broadly, his flushed cheeks risen high with joy. Dorondera gently stamped her foot as the words flowed from her, and when I looked again at the Frenchman I saw tears on his cheeks.

Dorondera opened her eyes.

‘Thank you,’ Guido Adler said, bowing to ensure that she understood.

‘You have given us a great gift,’ Monsieur Perouse added. He kissed Dorondera on both cheeks, his face resting for a moment on the second side. I want to say I am not jealous, but my mother taught me it is a sin to lie. Bonny met my eyes, and I wondered how he would kiss me if he were allowed.