The Fruit Picker

by Bea Eschen

  Jessica pushed him away hard. For a moment Grant lost his balance but caught himself quickly. He picked a mango off the highest branch without problem.

  “Thank you, Grant. Next time you keep a distance from me, do you hear?”

  “No problem!” He was pleased with himself.

  Jessica continued unperturbed.

  “Then, carefully place the fruit with their stems into the crates. Please be careful not to damage other fruit with the sharp points of the stems and do not overfill the crates as the stems may break off when you stack them.”

  The mangoes, called Kensington Pride, looked magnificent − big and green with a light blush on one side. Jessica tested one mango by cutting it down to the seed. The yellowing inside told her that this was the right maturity stage. Also, it was time to pick the mangoes now while the flesh was still firm to avoid them being eaten by bats.

  Bats? Sebastian remembered his granddad’s superstition about bats. As a child he had been told that when a bat flies into your home the devil would be behind you. What nonsense he told me, he thought and shook his head.

  “Why are you shaking your head?” Aaron asked.

  “I just thought about my granddad and what nonsense he told me about bats,” Sebastian answered, not wanting to go into the details.

  “You know, when I think of bats I see bloodsucking vampires before me,” Aaron said.

  “Luckily they only come out at dusk. There’s plenty of time to make a plan.” Sebastian said.

  “Do you mean the vampires or the bats?” Aaron asked, confused but amused.

  “Both.” Sebastian said ironically.

  “Very funny.” Aaron smiled.

  Jessica looked at them impatiently.

  “Sorry,” they apologised and focused on her instructions again.

  A big trailer filled with empty crates was parked next to them, which would be picked up three times during the day and taken to the packing shed. There, another team would process the fruit. Stems would need to be removed by snapping them off by hand while the fruit was immersed into mango wash. The mango wash would neutralise the harmful spurt sap. The mangoes would then be placed with the sap hole down into other crates lined with plastic pockets ready for delivery to the fruit dealer.

  “Now this is serious business, people!” Jessica said with an earnest expression. “We will check your team for correct picking techniques that can affect the quality of the fruit. If you handle the fruit roughly it will show abrasions, cuts, scratches, punctures, creases, and wounds. We cannot sell damaged fruit, and if we have to, we will have to sell it at a much less price. So, if we find your team consistently delivering damaged fruit, your team will be split and we will distribute you onto other teams individually.”

  Sebastian and Aaron glanced over at Grant. They were sensing trouble ahead. Right on cue Grant asked:

  “Is our team getting a chance in the packing shed too?”

  “Yes, the teams rotate every two weeks.”

  “And why is my team starting with the harder shift?”

  Jessica looked surprised. “But you came here to pick fruit, didn’t you?”

  “Yes, yes, was just wondering why my team has to start with the harder shift.”

  “We have to start somewhere,” Jessica said. “Besides, you haven’t even picked, and already you have decided that this is the harder shift?”

  “Just because it’s out in the sun and exhausting work.”

  “Well Grant, once you get to the de-stemming and packing you’ll find exhausting work too. After all, it is physical work you chose to do.”

  “Okay.” He gave up. Sebastian and Aaron sighed with relief.

  Grant was right. It was exhausting work, but after the first couple of days the team had built their routine. They took turns with using the secateurs and picking stems as blisters formed even through the gloves that turned out to give only little protection. The blisters let their palms burn but eventually turned into horny skin. None of them was used to work under the scorching sun and in the hot wind, and their skin turned red in the first days. Sebastian, who had a particularly white skin, looked at himself in the mirror at nighttime and thought he looked funny. Big white areas showed around his eyes from wearing sunglasses yet the rest of his face was tomato red. I look like one of those professional skiers, except I don’t ski but pick fruit, he thought. After a long and relaxing shower he applied layers of moisturizing cream that disappeared into his burnt skin. Every inch of his exposed skin tanned to a medium coffee-brown within days yet he looked consistently fairer than his work mates who had all taken on a dark brown complexion after the first fortnight had passed.

  They had early nights, feeling drained and dehydrated despite drinking plenty of water during the day. A cold beer on the idyllic veranda in the evening made them marvel at the beautiful night sky. Being away from city lights and during new moon this was an unforgettable viewing experience. The Milky Way was visible as an arching dim glowing net of hundreds of billions of bright and dull stars that intermingled with each other into a nebulous whole. They could also make out the four bright stars of the Southern Cross that, as Jessica told them, changed position during the year and was now changing into an almost upside down position. She also told them that the Southern Cross had many aboriginal names. Because there were many tribes spread across Australia, star systems had different interpretations too. To the fishing communities around Arnhem Land the Southern Cross and the pointers illustrated a stingray being chased by a shark. In the desert regions of central Australia, the Southern Cross meant the footprints of an eagle, while the pointers were his throwing stick and the coal sack his nest. For over forty thousand years, the Aborigines had built an astrological knowledge system they followed into their social, cultural and religious life. They passed their knowledge down verbally from one generation to the next as a living system that they still adhere to today.

  For the young fruit pickers it was a lot to absorb. They were learning about a world that looked different to the worlds they came from and a culture they hadn’t known. Sebastian took time to write long emails to Magda. He described his impressions of this foreign continent; he talked about Aaron and Grant and the people he was working with, his work, his burnt skin, and his feelings. He told her how grateful he was for her understanding, and how good she was in her heart to accept and love him the way he was.

  Being away from the pressures of his parents he was dismantling the prison he had built around himself in the past. Seeing his life from a different viewpoint, he was becoming curious for knowledge and happy to take risks for new experiences. He was embracing every day as a new chance to grow.

  When Sebastian’s team had their turn in the packing shed, tension between them grew. Grant was throwing the mangoes instead of transferring them into the crates gently. He also didn’t take care snapping off the stems. Each time the sap oozed out of the sap hole damaging the fruit. The skin browning and damages were visible the next day and Jessica called in a meeting.

  “At least ten percent of your mangoes have damages. I don’t know who of you the culprits are, but if this doesn’t stop we will have to separate your team.”

  “It’s Grant.” Aaron was almost whispering, but he looked determined.

  “You Asshole.” Grant walked over to Aaron with his fist drawn back ready to give him a punch in the face.

  Sebastian reacted fast. With one leap he was behind Grant getting hold of his outstretched arm. Red-faced and deeply embarrassed, Grant turned around and grabbed Sebastian hard by his shirt. In this moment Sebastian prepared for his blow, which hit Grant directly on the nose. He lost balance falling back in shock and surprise with his nose bleeding profusely.

  “You gay pig!” Grant screamed at him.

  Sebastian went white in his face. Did he hear right? Not that he was trying to hide his homosexuality. There was one young man in the other team he was immensely attracted to and Sebastian had openly admitted it. But calling him a
gay pig was too much. He prepared for another blow, this time aiming at Grant’s left side of the face.

  “Stop this right now!” Jessica screamed at the top of her voice.

  Everybody froze.

  “Come with me, Grant!” It was a command.

  Grant, humiliated as he was and holding his nose, followed her like a defeated dog, leaving a trail of blood.

  He left the next morning to catch the plane to Darwin. Jessica still offered him a chance to improve on his picking and handling technique, but he declined. He admitted the laborious work in the heat was not for him. They shook hands and wished each other well before he left. Except for Sebastian. He was watching Grant’s departure from his room window. He was feeling good about himself because he had learnt to stand up for being gay. Looking at the red dust cloud of the big Jeep as it left, the team didn’t hide their feeling of relief.

  Ten weeks into the picking season, Jessica gave Sebastian and Aaron a new job. They were to deliver the crates to the fruit vendors. Sebastian was the only one with a full drivers license and could drive the small truck with the refrigerated container to the delivery stations where they were to unload the crates and pile them up inside the storage facilities. It was hard work lifting and carrying the heavy boxes filled with big mangoes, but they enjoyed having lively discussions when commuting between their destinations that sometimes were long distances of dusty road apart. They saw kangaroos and emus and other wild animals they didn’t know. On their return to the plantation at dusk they admired large roosts of fruit bats dangling upside down off the tree branches while some of them were flying around in search of food.

  The Murder

  Farah stands for joy, happiness and cheerfulness, and Farah had all of that. She was the most cheerful person Arief had ever known. She had been inherently happy and the sun of his otherwise sad life. Now she was dead. Burnt to ashes and nothing remained except her grave and his memory of her and their unborn child.

  Arief had loved Farah, his wife, who died of a heroin overdose four weeks ago. He was standing at her small hidden grave in the bush on the outskirts of Darwin. According to Garuda Megawati, her brother, she had committed suicide, but Arief didn’t believe Garuda. He blamed his brother-in-law for her death. Arief hated him.

  Two years ago they came to Australia to escape imprisonment in Indonesia on serious drug-related charges. The trio immigrated on false passports that had been easy to get within their circle of friends. Maintaining good connections in Indonesia and China had always been Arief’s strength. Within Garuda’s drug syndicate, known as the Eagle’s cartel, Arief was a well-respected man. Without him and his connections, drug supplies would swing over to their rival drug dealer, the Wolf, who operated parallel to them in Jakarta.

  The Indonesian trio bought a property and settled in Darwin from where they continued to run their drug dealings in China and Indonesia. Officially they were fruit merchants, an excellent disguise for their true business. Fruit growers from around the region delivered to their warehouses that were spread over the Australian Northern Territory. They became successful in supplying large fruit retailers as their prices were well below their competitor’s prices. It didn’t matter to them if they made a loss because the real money source was based in Jakarta. It turned out that their second year of fruit trading produced a profit. The mere quantities of sold produce made them take over much of the fruit supply market in Northern Territory.

  Arief had a humble background, as his parents had been poor. He grew up in the Indonesian province of Java, known for its dense and poverty-stricken population. Like so many other families, his parents had a small rice paddy that was hard work but didn’t produce enough money to feed the family. Besides cultivating their own rice paddy, his father worked as a farm laborer on other people’s land. Arief painfully remembered his father ploughing the fields of others with a simple plough drawn by water buffalo; his bare feet stomping in the mud of the flooded fields - his father almost looking like an animal himself. It was excruciating work for an old man to work in a bent-over position all day long. When he came home he was dirty, smelly, starved and exhausted. He died a short while after his wife died giving birth to Arief’s sister, who also died at two. His relatives sent him to an orphanage from which he ran away at twelve. For many years he lived on the roads of Jakarta until he worked for Garuda Megawati. At first he was his running boy, delivering small packages all over the city. It was the time when Arief met many druggies and dealers from many places, but especially from China. After years of delivering packages, he knew the drug scene inside out and Garuda, the Eagle, took him in as his associate. All of Arief’s contacts loved him for his reliability, for which Arief got paid in time and in full. Those qualities and Arief’s excellent business sense were worth a million in Garuda’s drug business, making Arief his perfect match.

  This is how Arief met Farah. The first time he saw her his life changed. Her laughing eyes looked at him and happiness flew through his veins. Until then, the feeling had been unknown to him but Farah changed him into a different man. The love he felt for her was all encompassing; it was healing his soul, made him forget his childhood hardship and taught him to care for others. He likened her to an angel. In her presence he felt blessed and enlightened.

  He never understood why she took up taking heroin when they came to Australia. Maybe because she was torn out of her home environment and she was lonely. Farah never told him the reason and then, one day, her brother left a high dose of heroin on her bedside table. What Garuda was doing in her bedroom that night remained a mystery. When Arief returned from his trip to Pine Creek later that night, Farah was already dead. She lay like an angel on her bed. Her hands folded, her skin white, her face peaceful. As if she was asleep − only her breath was missing.

  Had Garuda prepared her like this? Arief knelt beside her and tenderly stroked her face. His heart broke. Through his tears he noticed the clandestine kit containing materials to inject the heroin on her night table. A water bottle, a small bottle labeled Ascorbin, a metal spoon, several clean cigarette filters, a cooker, a lighter, and several needles, one with the cap missing which Garuda must have taken out of her arm as it had been placed neatly next to the other syringes. No, Arief did not believe that Farah had given herself the golden shot. Perhaps Garuda had even poisoned the heroin in addition to giving her an overdose? Arief suspected he hadn’t been told the truth about Farah. There was a secret between the siblings that may have been the reason for her death. He felt betrayed and his heart was filled with hatred, and ever since Garuda and he were on bad terms.

  _____________

  Once a week Sebastian and Aaron would make the delivery to Pine Creek. The vendor, Megawati & Lee Fruit Suppliers, consistently ordered a large quantity of mangos. The recently established fruit merchant had become one of MangoTree Orchard’s best clients. They were also one of the few who respected the strict payment terms imposed by MangoTree Orchard.

  Sebastian and Aaron selected only the best mangos. Jessica instructed them to be extra friendly with the recipient and to give an excellent service.

  “Should our customer not be happy with the goods for any reason, offer to deliver new mangos to them the next day.”

  “Really Jessica, we have hand selected the fruit. There is not one mango that shows any marks.”

  “I know, Sebastian, yet we have to do our best with this important customer.”

  “The customer is king,” Aaron added all-knowing.

  “That’s it!” Jessica agreed and gave the men the thumbs up.

  Pine Creek was located ninety kilometers north of Katherine and a one-hour drive on the Stuart Highway. It was a fascinating historic town full of unusual buildings that dated back and connected to the nineteenth century gold mining industry and the later mining for uranium, iron ore, silver, lead and zinc. Megawati & Lee Fruit Suppliers occupied one of the big warehouses on the outskirts of Pine Creek, which they used as a collection storage facility fo
r fruit and veggies and from where they distributed their produce. The entire warehouse had an excellent air conditioning system and when Sebastian and Aaron drove in the cool air hit them. The hugeness of the warehouse gave a cosmic feel. It was built of metal sheets and glass. The mezzanine floor spread around the building and had offices with glass fronts facing the interior. Several metal staircases reached up to the mezzanine in a zigzag pattern.

  They had delivered to Megawati & Lee Fruit Suppliers twice before and Sebastian knew the place. He got out of the truck and searched for someone to receive his cargo. Sebastian looked up at the main office with the glass wall. Two men were facing each other. He recognised Arief, the same guy who had signed off for his delivery last time. Sebastian waved at him but Arief didn’t respond. What was he doing? Was that a gun in his hand? Yes, it looked like a pistol. Sebastian saw Arief take a step closer toward the other man, stretching out his arm and pointing the pistol straight to his head, execution style. The moment Sebastian was about to shout out his name to stop what was about to happen, he saw Arief fire a shot. His name froze in Sebastian’s throat. The other man fell backwards. In an extraordinary effort, the dying man still tried to hold on to something. In vain. The horror of the moment was written in his face. For a split second Sebastian thought to intervene, but he knew it was too late. He climbed the metal stairs in shock, with his footsteps echoing in the numbing silence. He glanced through the glass again and noticed blood dripping out of the dying man’s forehead as he hit the floor.

  One more flight of stairs.

  A few more steps around an awkward corner.