Here Come the Dogs

by Omar Musa

  REPORTER: So can you show us around a bit?

  SOLOMON AMOSA: Well, this is the basic set up. Pretty simple, as you can see. They do all their drills on this court, running, shooting, dribbling. Three-on-three games, five-on-five sometimes. It’s public property; so anyone who wants to volunteer, come on down.

  REPORTER: And this tent over here?

  SOLOMON AMOSA: A local party-hire shop donated this marquee; not every kid’s into basketball, you know. Here, you can hang out, have a yarn, learn to draw or paint.

  SCARLETT SNOW: You can rub the charcoal in with your thumb, see? Getting shadows right is the most important thing.

  REPORTER: So what do the kids think?

  TOBY McCARTHY: It’s real fun and gives us something to do and that. Otherwise, we might get heaps bored and that.

  MUHAMMAD KHAN: It’s got everything we need – hip hop, basketball, mates.

  SOLOMON AMOSA: I’m a uni dropout, you know, but I know about basketball and hip hop. I thought this could be the way I give back.

  REPORTER: And you do it for free?

  SOLOMON AMOSA: Yeah. I’m just here to help out, build a bit of a community. Community is important and I think it’s something we’ve lost a bit. My father always said you should think about we, not just I.

  REPORTER: And I’ve noticed the music never stops playing.

  SOLOMON AMOSA: Never. The beat goes on.

  REPORTER: Well, there you are. The beat goes on. Back to you in the studio.

  22

  Jimmy watches Scarlett from the side. If she notices, she doesn’t say anything.

  His eyes move down her hair to her shoulders, the shadow of stubble beneath her armpit, down to her ankles and painted toenails. He runs his thumbnail along his jaw. Mercury Fire bounds up to him and Jimmy scratches him behind the ears, speaking to him quietly, keeping his eyes trained on his brother’s girlfriend.

  Practice is underway and the kids are playing five-on-five, half court. Solomon is barking orders, strutting up and down the sideline. ‘Box out, Muhammad! That’s it!’

  Whenever criticised, some of the ethnic kids have started saying, almost subconsciously, ‘Oh, racist!’ Solomon calls a halt to practice.

  ‘Oi. Where did you learn to say that?’

  ‘Say what?’ says Muhammad.

  ‘Using racist like that.’

  ‘Dunno.’

  ‘You know you’ll get away with more shit if you call a teacher racist, ay?’

  ‘I guess.’ Muhammad is looking at his feet. Solomon raises his voice and faces them all.

  ‘I don’t wanna hear that shit, all right? I won’t fall for it. I don’t know what your teachers are like, but if I criticise you here, it’s about basketball, it’s to do with your attitude. Believe me, there’s plenty of racism out there, but you start crying wolf all the time, when the real shit goes down, who the fuck’s gonna listen? So don’t bring none of that shit here – no mind games, no feeling sorry for yaself. Just play ball. You hear me?’

  They all nod and the game continues. Jimmy is stunned and observes Solomon closely. Solomon, in turn, is watching the children with a sad expression, as if they have been failed somehow.

  A group of young men turn up in a black SUV with tinted windows, all in various jerseys. They clamber out of the vehicle like stick insects. The appearance of one in particular is causing a commotion – a tall, lean Aboriginal fella. Jimmy looks to Solomon and sees his jaw muscles pulsing and that he’s standing to full height. Jarryd Hooper must be back from America. There’s something different about him, something even more assured and slick than the boy Solomon faced all those years ago. He shouts to Solomon immediately. ‘We need another player. You up, bro?’

  Solomon doesn’t hesitate. ‘Yeah, man. Let’s do it. Kids – keep running those drills.’

  As Solomon walks across the court, Jimmy realises it is not Jarryd but his younger brother Jack.

  Jarryd had been Solomon’s nemesis on the basketball court many years ago. He was explosive and cocky, just like Solomon. They said he could dunk over two shopping trolleys and was headed for a professional career. Solomon wanted his blood. A huge crowd had gathered to watch to two wunderkinds face off in the division one finals. Right from the start, Jarryd was having the better game, his six-foot-nine wingspan and vertical leap almost impossible to guard. Solomon gritted his teeth and defended him even closer and was soon forcing Jarryd to make a few errors. In one play, Jarryd went for a lazy fadeaway and Solomon stripped the ball from him and took it up the sideline as Jarryd chased him. Solomon wasn’t to know it was the last time they would ever face each other.

  ‘Fundamentals, Solomon, focus on the fundamentals!’ his coach yelled from the sideline. Solomon ignored him and went into streetball mode, imagining the blonde hardwood was blacktop. He waited for Jarryd to catch up and get into position in front of him. Then he began to dance. He faked right. Jarryd didn’t bite. He hesitated to the left and Jarryd went for it completely, swiping for the ball. Solomon’s mask dropped, and in a harsh whisper he said, ‘Be a man. Go on, cunt. Get me. Be a man.’ He then crossed it back swiftly, with authority, and felt a surge within himself when Jarryd stumbled, his ankles twisting and unsure. Solomon drove to the hoop, went in for the dunk and, just as he pushed off his left foot, heard a sound as loud as a gunshot and felt the tendon corkscrew up the back of his leg. His world burst into flames.

  Now, almost ten years on, with Jarryd playing overseas, his younger brother Jack and Solomon bump fists. If he is wary of Solomon, he doesn’t show it. Jimmy is watching close, completely forgetting Scarlett’s presence. The kids ignore Solomon’s order to keep practising and gather around the side of the court, some sitting, some leaning on each other’s shoulders. Solomon is acutely aware of the audience. This is a test. A song is playing from the speakers – ‘Trillmatic’ by the A$AP Mob and Method Man, which is new but sounds like an early nineties song. It then drops into a Nas medley. The deadly, driving baseline of ‘N.Y. State of Mind’.

  From the start, it’s clear that Jack is even more of a prodigy than his brother. He has the sleek moves of a big cat. Solomon doesn’t try anything fancy. A few drives, a couple of shots from the elbow, one particular no-look pass that gets oohs and ahhs from the sidelines. He looks slow and is beaten easily off the dribble. With the game on the line, someone flicks an alley-oop over his head and he jumps but doesn’t come close to touching it. Jack appears on the other end, hovering against the sunset, his hand cupping the ball then crushing it through the hoop. Solomon is shining with sweat.

  He gets talked into a second game and this time he’s on Jack’s team. A few people complain but, after seeing that Solomon’s no longer a threat, no one argues too much. His teeth are bared, but not with aggression, just with simple, dumb pain and resilience. He’s warming now, though, enjoying playing distributor, second fiddle to Jack’s flash. The younger man’s razor movements are controlled and precise. The two seem to understand each other and are working together perfectly, separate parts in a mobile. Jimmy feels as if he is a witness to true beauty, an awakening, and Jack seems to feel it, too, having to say nothing, just communicating with his eyes. Solomon executes a pinpoint shovel pass between two defenders and Jack finishes the alley-oop smoothly.

  Toby looks proud and Muhammad looks disappointed.

  ‘Oi! Get back to doing those drills!’

  Jack claps him on the back. ‘Shit, cuzzo. You still got those moves.’

  ‘Nah, man. Has-been. Useless.’ Solomon sounds defeated.

  ‘Doesn’t look like it.’ Jack nods at the kids. Solomon slowly nods back. Jack approaches the kids.

  ‘You listen to this bloke. He was the meanest baller I ever saw. Used to torture my bro, no bullshit. He’ll teach you a lot.’

  Toby asks, ‘Why didn’t you go pro, Solomon? Like Jarryd?’

  The atmosphere becomes awkward. ‘Dunno. Injury . . . nah, guess I didn’t have it in me.’

  Jimmy can see t
he look in Solomon’s eyes is one of realisation – didn’t love the game as much as I felt sorry for myself, kid.

  * * *

  Lightning outside but no rain or thunder, the sky perfectly clear.

  Jimmy is lying on his bed, feeling flimsy, a photograph developing in a bath of chemicals. He’s about to fall asleep when his phone rings. Private number.

  ‘James.’ It’s a man’s voice, distant.

  ‘Who is this?’

  There’s no reply, just something like the sound of wind moaning over a gravesite or a limestone plane. Then there’s complete silence, as if the line has gone dead. Jimmy’s about to hang up, but then the man on the other end clears his throat.

  ‘Who is this?’ says Jimmy again.

  ‘James, I’m worried about you. About your future. You have a great honour, but also a great hatred. You think the worst of the world. I know you long to be taken seriously – we all do. But wilfully bearing the burden of hate is no way to live.’

  Jimmy recognises the voice. It’s his father’s. But it has a peculiar quality to it, as if filtered through water. It’s deeper and more formal than he remembers it. He does not reply and waits for the voice to continue. There’s a click and it does.

  ‘If they get recognised, mistakes are an important part of life; they enable us to change. Change in all its forms is unavoidable – peaceful change, violent change, inevitable change, change that cannot be expected at all. I was once standing on a plain facing a mountain. It was full of headless statues. The sky was black, no stars, no clouds, no moon, but I could see everything somehow. Everything was different shades of black. Then I saw a black river moving over the mountain towards me. It was moving very slowly and could only have been a few inches high. In hindsight, I think that river was the river of history. It was perfect and without ripple; it was like glass, and turned the whole plain into a mirror. But there was nothing to reflect in the sky. I heard a moaning and realised the statues were not headless at all. They were living humans; they were every person I had ever met. And we were all trying to move, but the river was up to our ankles, and it was tar.’

  The line goes silent again. It sounds like the previous message had been recorded and then played down the phone line. Jimmy laughs. ‘Look man. I have work tomorrow. This shit isn’t funny, ay. Whoever this is —’

  ‘You know who it is.’ For the first time, it doesn’t sound like a prerecorded message.

  Jimmy runs his index finger over his lips, eyes downcast. ‘Well, yeah, if it is, I don’t wanna talk to ya.’

  ‘I would have thought you’d want to talk to me more than anyone else.’ Jimmy is silent.

  ‘Tell me, James, do you know how to cook?’

  Jimmy’s caught off guard. ‘Um . . . Nah, normally I just eat takeaway or microwave meals.’

  ‘Next time we talk, I’ll teach you how to cook a curry.’

  Jimmy snorts. ‘Yeh, right —’

  The line goes dead.

  23

  A shear of sunlight comes through the window, caroms off a mirror and falls onto Solomon’s skin. Scarlett puts her hand on his shoulder and feels a shock of heat and sweat. He doesn’t move. Outside, a kid wheels by on a bike, crushing the scattered casuarina seeds and plums on the pavement. The day is already white hot. A man across the street is buffing a full-colour graff piece. A labyrinth of interwoven pastel letters. Each roll of paint erases them. A woman is hosing down the driveway of her new house, despite the water restrictions. Scarlett switches on her laptop and puts on the acoustic version of ‘You Know Who You Are’ by Oddisee. She turns it down low.

  Pinned biro sketches and photographs, built up over a few years. She peels a sketch back and it reveals two old Polaroid photographs, which she unpins. They’re both of a young Maori man with dreadlocks. In the first, he is standing shirtless out the front of the Early Bird bakery in Ponsonby, holding a potato-topped pie and grinning. His eyes are feminine and long-lashed. It’s the height of a temperamental Auckland summer, and around him pollen is drifting like gold dust. In the second, she’s holding him by the waist on the black sands of Piha Beach. Behind them is Lion Rock and two brave souls slicing through the surf. It has rained and the black sand is mottled as a jaguar’s back. She carefully puts the photos into a drawer, then shakes Solomon.

  ‘Hm?’

  ‘Solomon.’

  ‘Yeh?’

  ‘Wake up. Let’s go on an adventure.’

  ‘A what?’

  ‘Come on.’

  He showers and dresses, smiling at her spontaneity. Scarlett packs a thermos of coffee and two sandwiches. On the highway they pass an industrial suburb where local crews have run rampant on the freshly primed concrete. Solomon names the Ironlak colours as they pass them – Smurf, Guacamole, Pose Sushi, Sofles Violence. Daily Meds are playing on the stereo. The industrial wasteland soon gives way to scrub and then there are hills, spotted with granite tors, immense boulders and outcrops that bubbled up like a molten gift from the earth. They turn off the highway down a set of smooth valleys, where black cows escape the heat under gum trees and a single white colonial cottage stands far off. Their phones lose reception.

  They park at the end of a short gravel road off the main stretch, next to a sign that warns not to light fires. Scarlett slings her bag over her shoulder and stares at the trees, tapping on a front tooth with a red fingernail. Far off is the snarl of a dirt bike, but somewhere nearer they can hear a steady roar. They go down a trail through the bush and on either side are granite boulders, nobbled eucalypts and black she-oaks that wimple in the breeze. They emerge into a clearing and beside them is a waterfall, fifty metres high, each droplet visible and singular as a crystal on a chandelier, connected into a chain of water that lands on rock below before flowing off to pool in calmer hollows.

  Directly opposite them are sheer cliffs, segmented into squares and rectangles by rents in the rock, streaked with bird shit and waterstain. Almost impossibly, out of the rock, shrubs and flowers grow, interspersed by dead eucalypts, their branches blackened and sharp, pointing upwards like minarets. These were burnt during the bushfires ten years ago, and all in between is new growth. Another ten years uninterrupted, they would be crowded from sight. Despite the numberless tones and transformations of colour, there is a unity to the landscape. And above everything, a fierce, blue sky.

  Other people are there already – two women in hijabs, smiling as they take selfies, two bikies in sleeveless leather jackets leaning against a fence, and a redheaded man setting up a time-lapse camera on a tripod. Nobody speaks. Solomon motions for Scarlett to leave and she stares at him.

  ‘We just got here.’

  ‘Relax. Come ’ere. Supposed to be an adventure, isn’t it? My second in a week, actually.’ He smiles mischievously.

  She follows him back down the track. He jumps a fence. She looks at the no trespassing sign for a second then shrugs. They walk through the bush, watching for snakes, taking their time. Scarlett rubs her hands over the subtle bodies of eucalypts as she passes and breathes the aromatic air. When they arrive at water, they follow it and are soon at the lip of the waterfall. They can see the couples below them, and the valley where the creek runs. Solomon stands dangerously close to the edge of the waterfall, arms outstretched. He looks like he is going to dive off but instead he sits. She joins him.

  The summer heat has dried the moss on the rocks into white rosettes. A bearded lizard dances past them and over the edge of the rock into space. Solomon pours two cups of coffee from the thermos and sets them down. He takes Scarlett’s left hand and places it in a groove in the rock. ‘Feel that?’ he says.

  She nods, feeling the smoothness of it, the depth. ‘What is it?’

  ‘An axe-grinding groove. This is where the blackfellas came to teach their boys customs and to make axes out of stone. Grind the stone, wash it in the water as you worked, bind it, fix it with gum. They liked to use diorite. It’s a type of green stone.’ Scarlett looks at him sideways,
surprised, but says nothing and continues to rub the groove with her thumb. ‘And see down there? Those caves? That’s where bogong moths hang. Millions of em. Someone once told me when they leave the caves and fill the sky, it goes black, that’s how many there are. And hundreds of blackfellas would come up every year and feast on em. Imagine that. This country, right here, this feeling – must’ve been what it was like everywhere. So much beauty, so much loss. The land has a soul. You can feel it, right? A memory. I guess like all of us it wants to forget, but it can’t.’ He looks shy and splashes his hand in the water. ‘I dunno. What the fuck do I know?’

  She places her hand on his and points with the other. ‘Are there cave paintings down there?’

  ‘Nah. Well, there might be. Doubt it. Not many in this part of the country.’

  ‘Too bad. Still, it’s cool you guys learn about this stuff at school. My ex told me that Aussies barely teach any Aboriginal history.’

  ‘They don’t.’

  ‘Where’d you learn then?’

  Solomon doesn’t speak. It is as if he hadn’t heard. The waterfall roars and cockatoos screech high up in the leaves. Then he says, ‘Jimmy’s dad. He taught me.’

  ‘Jimmy’s dad?’

  ‘Yeh. After my old man died, Jimmy’s dad appeared. He just kept hanging around. He’d visit Mum when we were at school and mostly she’d tell him to fuck off; but sometimes she’d give in and he’d stay for a cuppa and have a yarn. There was something she couldn’t resist, even after all the shit he put her through.’