13

I try to put myself in Bonny’s place. To see all of this through his eyes. To imagine it through Dorondera’s eyes, too.

It is the warm season again but not like summer on K’gari. In Paris it is hot, with rarely a cool breeze and with no chance of cooling off in the ocean or in the lakes that Beeral made so Princess K’gari could see the reflection of the sky. The river is dirty. Brown. Bad for swimming and fish. Good for hiding if you are the Melong. The mud from the horses has dried and become a foul dust that covers a person’s skin and fills their nose, entering their lungs so that the next day, should they cough, which is a certainty, their handkerchief is stained.

When he is not performing a dance or singing with Dorondera, Bonny sits inside his enclosure and watches the people eating and drinking at the tea house opposite. Sometimes, when Louis’s back is turned, he speaks to the French audiences in Badtjala.

‘What does it feel like to be watched?’ he says. He calls them to the fence, reaches out and, smiling, touches them, their arms or their hands. ‘What is it like to be touched?’ He removes their hats. ‘Why do you wear such foolish things?’ He strokes their hair and smiles. Sometimes the visitors throw food into the enclosure and, depending on what it is, Bonny throws it out again.

He asks Louis angrily when they will be going to England and, as always, Louis responds, ‘Soon.’

I wish I had the power to shake Louis, or to blow a fierce wind as Beeral, I believe, sometimes orders Can-o-bie to do, but this is not within my power, and it is not my story, nor Louis’s.

So, to resume my telling. Again, I whisper the tale directly into the air so that it might reach the ears of those who are listening, now and into the future. Shhh, listen, I say.

When Dorondera dances, she holds a hand across her heart where I imagine it aches for her uncle, and when she has had enough she again turns her back to the crowd. I hear people say it is part of the dance, or her custom, to turn away, but it is not. They mistake her quietness for shyness, instead of grief. It is clear to me that Dorondera no longer wishes to be admired by strangers and no longer cares for the rules set out for her here. She wears a white ribbon in her hair. I think she is pleased for Monsieur Perouse’s attention. He has become her friend and has told her the ribbon looks beautiful against her dark hair. When she has had enough of the crowds, Monsieur Perouse guides her into the quiet of the make-believe Aboriginal hut, which was built by Parisian men. Monsieur Perouse it seems to me is a kind man; I have never seen him try to touch Dorondera’s breasts as some in the audience have attempted to do. When men in the crowd ask Dorondera, with sign language, to expose her chest ‘like the African performers’, she shakes her head.