The Ultimate Aphrodisiac

by Robert G. Barrett

  ‘TV?’ said Brian.

  ‘Yes,’ said Milne sagely. ‘I’ve arranged a satellite hook-up with CNN. I have to give Clooney a reply. One President to the other. So to speak.’

  ‘You should just tell the lying prick to get stuffed,’ said Brian.

  ‘Not just yet,’ said Milne. ‘But I intend to.’ He started putting things back in the esky. ‘Come on. Let’s get cracking. We’ll leave our uniforms here.’

  ‘Okay.’

  They changed out of their coveralls and back into their shorts, then picked up their bags and left the temple the same way they came. Back at the Jackaroo, Milne offered Brian the keys.

  ‘You want to drive?’ he said.

  ‘Righto,’ said Brian. ‘What are you going to do? Get some sleep?’

  ‘No. I’m going to write my speech.’

  Brian got behind the wheel while Milne took a notebook and biro from the glovebox and made himself comfortable next to the window. The President loaded one of his own cassettes into the car stereo and as Brian started the engine Lee Kernaghan started twanging and picking ‘Country Girls Do’. Brian slipped the Jackaroo into drive then came back between the two temples and headed for Key Harbour.

  After flying through the sky at unbelievable speeds, Brian expected it would be as boring as — as driving a car. But it was fun bush-bashing the Jackaroo through the jungle. He swung past a stone wall laughing to himself at what had been the wildest day of his life. And this was only the start. The music played and Brian bumped along under his seat belt while Milne worked on his speech. Every now and again the President would sit up and stare out the windscreen as if seeking inspiration, then start scribbling away again. Before long they reached the industrial estate to find it locked bolted and barred, the farm machinery put away and not a soul in sight.

  ‘Looks like everyone’s knocked off,’ said Brian.

  Milne looked up. ‘Yeah. Working in Lan Laroi ain’t the Burma Railway.’

  ‘How much a week does the average punter make?’

  ‘Three hundred and fifty bucks,’ said Milne.

  ‘Is that after tax?’

  ‘There ain’t no tax.’

  ‘What a system,’ said Brian.

  ‘Yeah,’ grunted Milne, and continued with his speech.

  Brian bumped along through the jungle, bipped the horn at some families outside their houses, then they were back at the Presidential Palace parked on the grass; the trip seemed like it was over before it started. Brian switched off the engine and turned to Milne.

  ‘So what’s doing now, Ron?’ he asked.

  ‘I’ve got to rehearse my speech and get it taped,’ replied Milne.

  ‘Well, unless you need me to produce it, I might head down to Windmills for the late.’

  The President seemed preoccupied. ‘Good idea,’ he said. ‘How about I meet you in the kitchen at six?’

  Brian went to his room and got into his board shorts. He threw a towel into his overnight bag then walked down to the board rack. Again he chose the Tracker. The trailer was easy to clamp to the back of the mountain bike and he got it all together out on the grass. With the surfboard secured, Brian adjusted his cap and sunglasses and pedalled off. When he hit the main street he thought he might as well check out the local shopping plaza while he was at it; starting with the bakery. There were a few people about, they all smiled and bowed their heads. Brian smiled and bowed back and left his bike outside.

  The bakery looked just like any bakery; ovens at the rear, three people in white behind the counter, and stacked on trays were loaves of bread, rolls and wholesome cakes. That was it. Brian smiled at the people and walked up to the supermarket. It could have been a supermarket in Cuba. It was roomy with a high ceiling and wooden floors, and it wasn’t so much what they sold, it was what they didn’t. There were no soft drinks, no chocolates, no biscuits. No chips, cordial, magazines or breakfast cereal. There was a meat and fish cabinet, plenty of fruit and vegetables, some groceries and stacks of clothes; mostly made from hemp. And everything was either fifty cents or a dollar. A pair of hemp jeans was a dollar. A kilogram of oranges was fifty cents. Booze was a dollar a bottle. An ounce of pot in a hemp paper bag was a dollar. Brian didn’t notice any souvenir postcards or tea towels. But a dollar would get you a white T-shirt with the Lan Laroian flag on the front.

  He did notice the woman behind the counter was Uvoodoo, the woman he’d danced with on his welcome night. She was all smiles when she saw Brian and greeted him in her soft voice. She was dressed in a plain red hemp dress, had some feathers in her hair and only a little make-up. Brian said hello, paid fifty cents for a bag of dried bananas and left to check out the bank. Inside it looked like a bank in a spaghetti western; three vacant-looking tellers in white hemp tops and trousers standing behind bars on the counter, a big black clock with roman numerals, and a huge vault at the rear. Except instead of rifles and .45s, there was a rack of three sub-machine guns behind the counter: black metal, with a wooden handle, a folding stock and a short stovepipe barrel. Brian guessed they must be some of the Dux 51s Milne was talking about. The tellers recognised Brian and suddenly came to life. Brian returned their greetings and had a few words, then walked back to the bakery and got on his bike.

  As he pedalled off chewing on a dried banana, several thoughts occurred to Brian. Living rent free, with government subsidies and earning three hundred and fifty dollars clear for a twenty-hour week. And at those prices, not counting what they could help themselves to in the fields, the average Lan Laroian wasn’t on a bad wicket.

  Brian pedalled alongside the harbour past the yacht and the tugboat moored at their jetty. Two sailors were on the tugboat’s stern cleaning the cannon; they saw Brian and waved, Brian waved back and pedalled on. The bumpy road was level and the bike was brand new. After ten minutes of easy pedalling and waving as he went past, to any people standing around the odd house snuggled amongst the trees, Brian pulled up on the slope overlooking the break. The afternoon sun was shining through the clouds, the windmills on the headlands were turning slowly in the gentle offshore breeze and Brian had a momentous decision to make. Whether to surf the perfect two-metre lefts or the perfect two-metre rights? He hadn’t tried the Tracker on the lefts. Brian waxed up, strolled down to the water’s edge and paddled out.

  After half a dozen glassy waves bowling over his head, Brian was thinking it was kind of strange getting a perfect break all to himself. It had only ever happened once. For an hour at Neilsen Park in Sydney Harbour during a freak swell, before word got out it was working and he was joined by half the eastern suburbs and had to come in. And that was just a fairly good surf, nowhere near perfect. Brian was having a ball at Windmills, the lefts were immaculate and the Tracker ate them up. But it would have been better with someone to share it with. Brian missed Milne’s company. His only company was a pod of dolphins, two turtles and a school of kingfish. The whale sharks must have moved out to sea. Oh well, mused Brian as he glanced up at the sky, then turned to pick up another perfect wave. I suppose you can’t have everything.

  The sun started drifting towards the ocean and Brian thought he may as well rack his cue. Just before he got his last wave, Brian reflected on the day. Did that really happen? If he had a talk to someone, and they asked him, how was his day, what could you say? Fairly quiet. Just flew down to Antarctica, then over to Pakistan, nearly went to Hawaii but we changed our minds and flew back to a temple for coffee and sandwiches. On the subject of talking to someone, Brian thought he’d better ring home and tell his sister he’d be staying longer than he intended. He didn’t know what he was going to tell his his mother. She’d erupt when she found out where he was. Brian caught his last wave in then put the Tracker in its trailer and pedalled back to the Presidential Palace, where he hosed the salt off the board, placed it carefully in the rack and left his bike in the warehouse.

  He had a shower and a shave, then changed into his shorts and a clean blue Billabong T-shirt. As he was kicki
ng his feet into his thongs, Brian yawned and stretched, finding he was a little tired already. He walked down to the kitchen. Lengi was at the stove, Milne was seated having a beer and wearing a green shirt and a yellow and white tie over a pair of faded board shorts. He looked uneasy. Brian returned Lengi’s smile, then turned to the President.

  ‘What’s doing, Sawi?’ he said. ‘You going somewhere?’

  ‘I’ve just finished putting my speech down on video,’ said Milne. ‘What a prick of a job.’

  ‘You took long enough,’ said Brian.

  ‘I’m all right in the disco. But I’m hopeless on TV,’ said Milne. ‘Even when I have to make an announcement to the island, I stuff things up. My loyal subjects have been known to throw tomatoes at their TV sets when I come on.’

  ‘Only rotten ones,’ said Lengi.

  ‘Any more beer in the fridge?’ asked Brian.

  ‘Yeah. Help yourself,’ said Milne. He looked at his watch. ‘We’re going to send this out shortly. You want to have a look?’

  Brian got a beer and opened it. ‘Yeah, all right. This should be good.’

  ‘Don’t give me the shits.’

  Milne got up and Brian followed him into the office. Keleu and Airu were in there, wearing green hemp dresses and flowers in their hair. They were busying themselves around a bank of monitors, getting ready to boost Milne’s message out via the satellite dish on the balcony.

  ‘Hello, Keleu. Hello, Airu,’ said Brian.

  ‘Hello, Takatau,’ said Airu.

  ‘Hi, Brian,’ smiled Keleu.

  Brian wasn’t sure whether to go and give Keleu a kiss on the cheek or what. The way she smiled at him, he felt like whipping her little hemp dress off and giving it to her there and then on the spot. He let everything slide and drank some beer instead.

  ‘So what’s happening?’ asked Brian.

  ‘We are waiting on a time frame for the satellite,’ said Keleu. She pointed to an LCD display on a monitor next to the VCR with Milne’s video in it. ‘It is just about time.’

  Milne pointed to some chairs in front of a TV. ‘Grab a seat and watch this. Tell me what you think.’

  ‘Okay,’ said Brian, sitting down next to Milne. ‘How come you had to video it first?’

  ‘There was no chance of me putting it down live to air,’ said Milne. ‘I’d never remember the words, and there’s no autocue. Anyway, here we go. See what you think.’

  Airu worked the controls on one monitor as Keleu watched the LCD count down on another monitor before she pushed the button. The TV screen went blue for a moment, then the President appeared at his desk wearing his shirt and tie and with his hair neatly combed. On one side behind him was the Lan Laroian flag. On the other, the world globe. Milne looked good. And with a little make-up he looked nowhere near thirty.

  ‘Citizens of America and the world,’ he started, speaking slowly and clearly. ‘My name is Ronald Milne. President of the Republic of Lan Laroi. Recently, our island received a message from the great and wise one across the seas. Clifford Clooney. President of the United States of America. The great one was voicing his concern about the prisoners being held on our island, and the rescue mission to free them. Myself, the great chiefs of the island, and the citizens of Lan Laroi deeply regret the unfortunate incident with the rescue mission. We are still not sure what happened. And we don’t believe it was our fault. However, we are looking into it. In the meantime, the great chiefs of Lan Laroi understand the great one from across the sea’s concern for his people. Therefore, after discussion with their allies, the great chiefs have agreed to hand the prisoners back to President Clooney and the people of the United States. Then I will surrender myself to the American government as instructed. Naturally, island protocol must be adhered to first. Then everything should be finalised by Friday next. It will be sad to leave my island. But the people of Lan Laroi bow to the wishes of the great one from across the seas. Because he is both truly wise and powerful. Thank you. God bless the great one. God bless America. And peace and joy to the people of Lan Laroi.’

  The tape finished, Milne smiled at the girls then turned to Brian. ‘Well, what do you reckon?’ he said.

  Brian took a sip of beer. ‘Not bad,’ he nodded. ‘But you should have written your name and address on the soles of your shoes before you did it.’

  ‘Yeah?’ asked Milne. ‘Why’s that?’

  ‘Because you were that far up his arse, it’s the only way anybody’d know it was you. “Great and wise one from across the seas”,’ scoffed Brian. ‘Piss off will you, Ron. Clooney wouldn’t know if Quasimodo was up him, ringing bells in his ear.’

  ‘Astutely put, Takatau,’ conceded Milne. ‘But we got an old saying on the island. You catch more pigeons with honey than you do with vinegar. I’ve just lured CC into a false sense of security.’

  ‘You’ve done something, all right,’ said Brian. ‘He’ll be batting himself off on the White House lawn when he sees that.’

  ‘That’s what I want him to do,’ said Milne. ‘And next Friday I’ll send him a different message.’

  A smile started to spread across Brian’s face. ‘I have to admit, Ron, I do see your point.’

  ‘Good,’ said Milne. ‘I thought you might.’

  Brian finished his beer and dangled the empty bottle. ‘So what’s doing now?’

  ‘I’m going to get out of this collar and tie. Then we’ll have dinner. You hungry?’

  ‘I am a bit,’ said Brian. ‘Have you had dinner yet, Keleu?’ he asked her.

  Keleu shook her head. ‘No. We will join you as soon as we finish here.’

  ‘Okey doke,’ said Brian, standing up. ‘I’ll see everybody at dinner.’

  Brian walked down to the kitchen, dropped his empty in the rubbish then got another beer. He started to have a friendly talk with Lengi, but she was a little hard to understand. When he looked at her eyes close up, Brian could see the dear old thing was stoned to the gills. He left her in peace and sat down. A few minutes later Milne walked in wearing the same board shorts and an old grey T-shirt. He got beer from the fridge and sat down opposite Brian.

  ‘So, how was the surf?’ he asked.

  ‘Good,’ said Brian. ‘I attacked the lefts on the Tracker.’

  ‘You’re getting to like that Tracker, aren’t you,’ smiled Milne.

  ‘Yes,’ admitted Brian. ‘It’s got a vibe about it. Plus it flies. But I got to admit, I missed me old surfing buddy.’ Brian clinked his bottle against Milne’s.

  Milne clinked back. ‘Don’t worry, Takkers. I’ll be out there tomorrow afternoon.’

  ‘Hey. I checked out the local shopping centre,’ said Brian. ‘The price is right. But shit! You’re a bit low on stock.’

  ‘True,’ agreed Milne. ‘But have a look at the kids when you go past the school. They’re a bit low on tooth decay. And if you have a look in the hospital. They’re a bit low on diabetes, asthma, obesity, heart disease. All the other good things in life.’

  Brian raised his beer and gave Milne a grudging look of approval. ‘You’re right,’ he said. ‘I didn’t look at it like that.’

  Keleu and Airu walked into the kitchen. Airu got a beer from the fridge and Keleu got two glasses. They sat down at the table and shared the beer between them.

  ‘Did you have a good day, Brian?’ Keleu asked.

  ‘Yes thanks, Keleu,’ replied Brian. ‘Sawi and I went out to the ruins.’

  ‘That is the second time you have been out there together,’ said Airu.

  ‘That’s right,’ nodded Brian.

  ‘What did you do?’ asked Keleu.

  Brian glanced at Milne for a second. ‘Not much,’ replied Brian. ‘Just looked around. Took some photos.’

  ‘You sure you weren’t out there doing the woo moo,’ said Airu.

  ‘The what?’ said Brian. He noticed Keleu was giggling behind her hand. Milne had looked away, shaking his head.

  Airu turned to Keleu. ‘They were doing the woo moo.’

/>   ‘What’s this woo moo?’ said Brian, looking at Keleu, now giggling like she was going to wet herself. ‘What’s going on?’

  ‘Hey Takatau,’ said Airu.

  ‘Yes Airu.’

  Airu dropped her voice. ‘You’re not a pooftah are you mate?’

  ‘What?’ said Brian.

  ‘You’re not a pooftah are you?’ Airu turned to Keleu. ‘I think they are.’ Keleu was giggling too hard to reply.

  ‘Don’t take any notice of them,’ said Milne. ‘I’ll put a chair over both their heads in a minute.’

  ‘No Airu,’ said Brian. ‘I’m not a pooftah. I’m too heavy into the old mwanga for that.’

  Keleu suddenly stopped giggling. ‘Where did you learn such a word, Brian?’

  Brian pointed with his bottle. ‘Out at the temple. It was carved into one of the walls. It said, “If you’re in Lan Laroi and you want a good time and plenty of mwanga, ring President Milne’s office and ask for Airu”.’

  ‘What?’ said Airu.

  ‘They got that right,’ smiled Milne.

  ‘And they spelled your name correctly, too,’ said Brian.

  ‘You are both disgusting men,’ said Airu.

  ‘What do you expect from a couple of Australian poofs?’ shrugged Brian. ‘Hey Airu?’ he said.

  ‘Yes, Takatau. What?’ she asked thinly.

  ‘You and Keleu don’t drink from the furry cup, do you?’

  Before Keleu and Airu got a chance to reply, Lengi started serving up dinner. She might have been stoned out of her tree, but it didn’t make any difference to her cooking; if anything, it was better than ever. Clam chowder and sweet paprika, pork rissoles with saffron and asparagus, followed by coffee and almond and lemon biscuits. When he’d finished Brian got up from the table, walked over to the stove and gave Lengi a gigantic hug.

  ‘How good was that?’ he said to others, when he returned to the table.

  ‘You like my mother’s cooking, Takatau,’ said Airu.

  ‘Yes,’ replied Brian, patting his stomach. ‘Very much indeed.’ He turned to Milne. ‘Hey, talking about mothers, I’d better ring home and let them know I’m all right. Okay if I use the phone?’