The Disappearance of Anna Popov

by Gabriel Farago

  ‘Pigeon?’ interjected Cassandra.

  ‘Yes. Apparently, the young couple had a tempestuous relationship. The boy ended up here with his grandparents and spent his early childhood at the Mission.’

  ‘And all this is going to help us understand the picture here?’ asked Rebecca, pointing to the bark painting. ‘Where’s the connection?’

  ‘I’m not sure yet, but we’ll find it, trust me,’ replied Andrew quietly. ‘I have an idea ...’ he mumbled to himself.

  ‘I wonder how the painting ended up here,’ said Rebecca.

  Standing just outside the room, Sister Josephine overheard. ‘Sister Dolores gave it to us recently,’ she said, ‘just after her son, Mungo, died. She disposed of everything that reminded her of him.’

  ‘Did she say anything about the painting? How she obtained it, where it came from? Anything at all?’ Jack asked.

  ‘No. Sister Dolores has Alzheimer’s – quite advanced, I’m afraid. She can remember events from thirty years ago in surprising detail, but she would by now have completely forgotten that she has just spoken with Mr Simpson.’ Sister Josephine shrugged. ‘The ravages of old age. I don’t think she’d be able to help you. She couldn’t tell us anything about the painting when she gave it to us, except that it reminded her of her son.’

  It had turned ominously dark outside and the rumbling of thunder could be heard. Andrew looked out the window.

  ‘Could we borrow the painting?’ he asked, turning to Sister Josephine. ‘It’s very important. You have my assurance that we’ll return it safely.’

  ‘Of course, take it with you. As you can see, it’s just one of many in here we have to sort through. We still have a long way to go with our little gallery.’ Sister Josephine glanced anxiously at Andrew. ‘Better hurry,’ she said. ‘I don’t like this change in the weather.’

  ‘I don’t either,’ said Andrew, remembering the cyclone warning. ‘If we don’t take off now, we could be trapped here for days.’

  51

  Never Never Downs, 4 March, 5 p.m.

  The storm was closing in fast. For several days, large banks of clouds heavy with moisture had hovered above the Timor Sea. Looking like an army of Orcs ready to invade the parched land, it gained momentum and crossed the Kimberley coast. Nature was waiting for the signal to unleash the torrential rains as it had done for eons during the cyclone season. A small change in air temperature in the Admiralty Gulf was all that was needed. An age-old spectacle was about to begin.

  Andrew tried to outflank the storm by flying east, but it was moving in too fast. ‘We won’t make it back to Fitzroy Crossing,’ he said, tapping the fuel gauge. ‘We’ll have to land.’

  ‘Where?’ asked Jack.

  ‘Right there,’ replied Andrew, pointing down to a cluster of buildings barely visible through the driving rain.

  ‘What’s that?’ asked Rebecca.

  ‘A cattle station owned by a mate of mine. It has an airstrip and fuel, and we need both – urgently.’

  ‘That’s reassuring,’ said Rebecca, looking pale. For the last hour she had anxiously watched the spectacular lightning show rage around them. The storm was racing in from the north, turning day into night. ‘I must have been out of my mind to get into this jalopy,’ she said under her breath.

  ‘Did you say something?’ asked Will.

  ‘No, I’ve nothing to say, China, except to tell you that this is definitely the last time I’m traipsing along with you guys through the Outback.’

  ‘C’mon, you’re having fun, admit it – right?’ said Jack.

  ‘Fun? Did you say fun? We’re trying to outrun a cyclone, we’re low on fuel, the old plane is being tossed around like a ping-pong ball in a toilet bowl and we have to land somewhere in this godforsaken wilderness or perish. If that’s your idea of fun, buster, you can keep it.’

  ‘Research can be dangerous. You know that,’ continued Jack undeterred, a mischievous smile creasing his face. ‘We authors often put our lives on the line for our readers. Our publishers rarely appreciate that,’ he added haughtily, patting Rebecca on the arm.

  ‘Don’t give me that crap! It’s me you’re talking to, not one of your starry-eyed fans.’

  ‘This is better than being couped up in a Manhattan glass tower with your posh literary mates, admit it,’ said Will cheerfully. ‘One day you’ll thank us, you’ll see.’

  ‘I doubt it. I may not live that long.’ At that moment, a bolt of lightning exploded right in front of the plane, illuminating the inside of the small cabin with a ghostly light.

  ‘Shit, that was close!’ said Will, holding on to the seat in front of him, his knuckles turning white.

  ‘Shut up, guys, and brace yourselves,’ interrupted Andrew curtly, trying to line up the plane for landing. ‘I’m flying by the seat of my pants here – I can’t see a bloody thing!’

  ‘That’s just great,’ said Rebecca, reaching for Cassandra’s hand. ‘At least if we’re going down, we’re going down together.’

  ‘We’ll be fine,’ said Cassandra, ‘it isn’t our time.’

  ‘I hope you’re right,’ said Rebecca, closing her eyes.

  Flying almost blind, Andrew barely missed the tin roof of a shed before touching down in the mud and skidding to a halt in front of a tree at the end of the makeshift runway. He took a deep breath and turned off the engine.

  ‘That was a little too close even for my liking,’ he confessed quietly. ‘Welcome to Never Never Downs, one of the most remote cattle stations in the country.’ Andrew had to raise his voice to make himself heard. The rain drumming against the fuselage was deafening.

  ‘Can I open my eyes now?’ asked Rebecca.

  ‘Don’t bother, you can’t see a thing,’ replied Jack, staring out the window.

  ‘We can’t just get out of the plane and leave it here,’ said Andrew. ‘The wind’s too strong. It would tip it over in no time. I’ve seen it happen before. Wings snapping off like toothpicks. We’ve got to get the plane under cover.’

  ‘What’s that?’ asked Will, pointing into the gloom.

  ‘A pair of headlights I’d say,’ replied Jack. ‘The cavalry coming to our rescue?’

  Driving an old Land Rover without a roof, doors or windscreen, Hamish McGregor arrived with two Aboriginal stockmen.

  ‘Stay in the plane,’ he shouted. ‘We’ll tow you to the shed over there.’

  The two stockmen jumped off the back of the Land Rover and secured a steel cable to the front of the plane. Slowly, the plane began to roll forward.

  There was just enough space for the plane in the shed behind the two aircraft belonging to Never Never Downs.

  ‘I watched you come in, mate,’ said Hamish, slapping Andrew on the back. ‘Didn’t think you’d make it. This is the worst storm we’ve had in years. What are you doing out here? Your message was a bit cryptic.’

  ‘It’s a long story. I’ll tell you later over a beer,’ replied Andrew, lowering his voice. ‘But first, meet my friends here.’ Andrew introduced the owner of Never Never Downs. Hamish McGregor, a giant of a man in his sixties with a knuckle-crushing handshake and a smile that could light up an orphanage, shook hands with each of his new guests.

  ‘Let’s go over to the homestead,’ he said. ‘The Missus is waiting with tea and scones. Sorry about the weather.’

  ‘Sounds wonderful,’ said Jack, turning to Andrew. ‘You certainly seem to have friends in all the right places, mate.’

  Rebecca put her arm around Cassandra, and together they hurried across to the homestead through the driving rain.

  ‘Get the painting, Jack, I want to show it to someone here,’ said Andrew.

  Jack reached into the back of the plane, wrapped the painting into an old blanket and ran after the others.

  ‘You’re full of surprises, Andrew Simpson. You must have been a hell of a detective, that’s all I can say,’ said Jack, standing dripping wet under the awning. He thanked McGregor’s wife, Margaret, for handing him a towel a
nd began to dry his wet face. ‘Emergency landing – bullshit! You sent him a message, didn’t you? He was expecting us. You planned to come here all the time – admit it.’

  ‘What if I did?’ replied Andrew.

  ‘Why here? What else did Sister Dolores tell you, eh? Who do you want to show the picture to?’

  ‘You’re a perceptive bastard, aren’t you, Jack? Bloody journalists! It’s just a hunch.’

  ‘You risked our lives over a hunch?’ said Rebecca, who had overheard the exchange.

  ‘I had no idea it would get this rough.’

  ‘What hunch?’ demanded Jack, following Andrew into the dining room.

  ‘You’ll find out soon enough. If my hunch is right, you won’t be disappointed, trust me. Bring the painting.’

  52

  Never Never Downs, 4 March, 7 p.m.

  The old homestead – constructed in the 1890s by Hamish McGregor’s grandfather using local stone, and lovingly restored with much of the original furniture still gracing the rooms – spoke of a turbulent past. Never Never Downs was one of the few cattle stations in the region still being run by the same family since the first white settlers arrived in the Kimberley. Its isolation and remoteness, which during the early years had made life almost unbearable, had recently turned into an unexpected boon and source of considerable income: ecotourism.

  Most of the cattle had been sold off long ago. They kept a few Brahmans – to give the place authenticity – and the sheds which once housed farm machinery and stables, had been turned into luxury accommodation oozing Outback character and charm. With its own airstrip and small planes to fly in the guests, discerning overseas tourists looking for a unique Australian Outback adventure could be met at the airport at Broome or Kununurra and find themselves sipping champagne in the pristine Kimberley wilderness within a few hours. In a world where time was at a premium, the well-heeled ecotourists were prepared to pay a small fortune for the experience. Hamish McGregor and his two sons had turned an outdated, languishing cattle station losing money into a great economic and ecological success and a ‘must see’ destination for the rich and famous.

  Remote and different was definitely ‘in’.

  Most of the Aboriginal drovers had moved on but there were still a few ‘oldies’ who had lived on Never Never Downs all their lives. The women helped in the kitchen and took care of the household chores. The men maintained the buildings and acted as guides, taking the tourists to see Aboriginal rock art which was one of the main attractions of Never Never Downs. One old Aboriginal, Muddenbudden, a revered Bunuba elder who was almost blind, was the storyteller. He would join the guests by the fire after dinner and tell stories of Dreamtime heroes and the plight of early settlers, and describe the drama of first contact between the white pastoralists and the Aborigines defending their land and way of life.

  Muddenbudden was very popular with the guests, and had featured in several travel shows and TV documentaries. It was Muddenbudden who Andrew had come to see.

  Because Never Never Downs was closed during the rainy season, accommodating the new arrivals was no problem. After a hearty meal in the old homestead which was now used only as the dining room, common lounge and library for the guests, Andrew broached the subject of Anna’s disappearance with their host.

  A few years earlier, the McGregors had opened an art gallery on the property to support a small but influential artists’ colony. Staff accommodation – obsolete since the departure of the cattle – was now used to house Aboriginal artists and their families. In a studio attached to the gallery, houseguests could watch artists at work and talk to them about their culture and their craft. The artists made all their own colours using techniques handed down from generation to generation. This made their work unique and highly sought after, not only by the tourists, but by galleries both in Australia and overseas. Several of the larger paintings had found their way into the boardrooms of multinational mining companies. A recent exhibition in New York – Dreamtime Artists of Never Never Downs – had received much critical acclaim.

  ‘Andrew has something to tell us,’ announced Jack, striding into the room with the bark painting under his arm. He walked across to the fireplace and placed the painting on the mantelpiece. Despite the harrowing flight and the storm raging outside, everyone began to relax. As experienced hosts, Hamish and Margaret knew how to put their guests at ease. All heads turned expectantly towards Andrew.

  ‘I have a confession to make,’ he said, standing up. ‘As you’ve probably worked out already, coming here was no accident.’ Andrew paused. Sitting by herself in the back of the room on a faded old leather lounge, Cassandra was watching him. The revelation came as no surprise to her.

  ‘Also, I hope you don’t mind, but I’ve told Hamish and Margaret all about Anna and what brought us to the Kimberley. As you are about to find out, their participation in our search for Anna is essential. I don’t believe we can take the next step without their help. Here’s why.’ Andrew paused and took a sip of wine, the silence in the room deafening.

  ‘It all has to do with this here,’ continued Andrew. He walked over to the fireplace and pointed to the painting. ‘There was something else Sister Dolores told me ... It didn’t make any sense to me at the time, but when I saw this painting at the Mission, things began to fall into place.’

  Andrew paused again, collecting his thoughts. ‘Sister Dolores’s son, Mungo – Pigeon’s uncle – was a talented painter who made a good living out of copying the Aboriginal rock art found around here and selling the bark paintings to galleries in Broome and Darwin. Pigeon and Mungo were very close, and the boy spent many a month in the bush with his uncle, helping him find new rock paintings in this vast, remote wilderness. When I questioned Sister Dolores further about her son, she told me he’d recently joined his ancestors. We know she has Alzheimer’s. Her answers to my other questions regarding her son were incoherent at best, except for this: when I asked her where her son had lived, where he’d painted and who his friends were, she told me to ask Muddenbudden.’ Andrew paused again.

  ‘Who’s Muddenbudden?’ Jack asked quietly.

  ‘You’re about to meet him,’ replied Andrew. ‘Hamish, would you please show him in?’

  The years had not been kind to Muddenbudden, but he certainly had presence. Looking frightfully thin and frail, like a lonely reed waiting for winter in a frozen pond, his body was bent and his limbs twisted. His beard and sparse hair were as white as the first snow and his face creased like old boot leather. Milky-grey cataracts covered both his eyes, robbing him of most of his eyesight. As a Bunuba elder, a Jalngangurru, he was revered by the local Aboriginals as one of the last great law men of his generation. What he lacked in physical strength, he more than made up for mentally – he was as bright and alert as a man half his age. With a phenomenal memory and a surprisingly strong voice, he radiated authority and intelligence, commanding instant respect.

  Andrew pulled up a chair in front of the fireplace and helped the old man sit down. ‘We meet again, Muddenbudden. It’s been a long time,’ he said.

  ‘You sound just like your father,’ replied the old man, raising his hand. ‘Going blind has helped me see. At times I can see the past and the future at the same time. You have come here to right a great wrong. I know,’ continued the old man. ‘I saw it in a dream. I have been expecting you.’

  ‘What do you make of this?’ whispered Rebecca, squeezing Jack’s arm. Jack shook his head, but said nothing. Sitting on the edge of her seat, Cassandra watched the old man intently.

  ‘Sister Dolores told me that you and her son, Mungo, were like brothers,’ began Andrew.

  ‘Not like brothers. More like father and son,’ Muddenbudden corrected him. ‘He came here often to visit me. He was a wonderful artist with a great gift. He could copy the sacred paintings created by our ancestors like no other. He understood their meaning. He could feel the past and connect with the Dreamtime ...’

  ‘Where did he do his pai
nting?’

  ‘He spent months in the bush,’ replied the old man, ‘copying the originals. I used to guide him to the best locations.’

  ‘What happened to his paintings?’ asked Andrew.

  ‘He sold them here in our gallery,’ said Hamish. ‘They were in great demand, not only by our guests but from art dealers as well. They used to come here regularly to buy his paintings.’

  ‘What did he do with the money?’ asked Jack.

  ‘We have a small store here,’ replied Hamish. ‘He would buy supplies from us and disappear again for weeks at a time. We had no idea where he went. He was a loner, but quite a character – gregarious, well liked and full of charm. You never knew when he would turn up.’

  ‘Would you recognise his paintings, Hamish?’

  ‘Absolutely.’

  ‘Please take a look at this,’ said Andrew, pointing to the painting on the mantelpiece. ‘Is this one of his?’ Hamish walked over to the fireplace, put on his glasses, and examined the painting.

  ‘Did he work alone?’ asked Cassandra quietly from the back. Hamish turned around, surprised. ‘Funny you should ask that,’ he replied. ‘There was this rumour ...’

  ‘What rumour?’ asked Andrew.

  ‘That he had an assistant ...’

  ‘How come?’ interrupted Jack impatiently.

  ‘Because some of the paintings were quite different and signed by someone else. Just like this one here – see?’ Hamish pointed to the bottom right corner of the piece of bark. ‘Look.’

  Jack walked over to the painting and ran his finger along the signature in the corner. ‘It looks like “Lucrezia”,’ he murmured. ‘I didn’t notice this before. How odd.’

  ‘Paintings signed by this artist were greatly sought after by the dealers and, well, as you can expect, those ones got a much higher price than the ones painted by Mungo,’ said Hamish. ‘Everyone used to tease him about it.’

  ‘Did he say who the other painter was?’ asked Will.

  ‘No. He was very secretive about that. I think it was a bit of a sore point.’