—You studied literature?
—Western literature, much to my father’s disappointment. On the one hand, he was a traditionalist, but on the other, he realised Japan’s future depended on business with the West. So perhaps that’s why he conceded. He knew I’d come back to the fold, back to the family business. Which brings us to the point of our meeting today.
Watanabe takes a few graceful mouthfuls. His lips are the moist red of a young Nō actor.
—We believe there’s a significant uranium deposit near Lalinjurra. Our biggest challenge will be negotiating a native title agreement with Burrika. This is where you will be crucial. Burrika must be convinced that it’s in their best interests to sign off on the agreement.
You’ve almost been lulled into complacency by the sake and sesame-dusted noodles and Watanabe’s purr. But at this, the journalist in you agitates. What if it’s not in their best interests? What if Burrika are forced to compromise on too much? What if the final agreement is a load of shit?
Watanabe looks at his watch, then lets his words run brisk.
—Confidentiality and discretion will be critical. You are not to talk about work outside of work, with anyone, not even with that friend of yours, the Burrika boss. Should this confidentiality agreement be breached, the penalties will be severe. Your contract with Gerro Blue will be terminated immediately and we’ll take legal action.
The restaurant’s stuffy. The windows, which would open onto elevators, are plastered with imitation woodblock prints of magnolias and shrines. The illusion is nauseating.
And a confidentiality agreement—that makes sense, you expected it. But what if you break it accidentally? What if you’re compelled to break it deliberately? God, maybe this isn’t such a good idea …
—I’m sorry Watanabe-san. Do you mind explaining to me what you mean by ‘legal action’? Just so we’re so clear. So I know what I’m signing.
You keep your face carefully, politely plastic.
—By legal action we mean a fine, anywhere upward of one hundred thousand dollars, and depending on the severity of the breach, it could also mean jail time.
Watanabe’s fingers twitch to his top pocket. He loosens a cigarette from a gold pack, says,
—I’m sorry to sound so harsh, Ava. It’s not personal, just a precaution. Of course it won’t come to this, but it is something we require from all our staff.
He slides the papers forward and bows his head, just slightly.
Waiting for friends at an izakaya in Kichijōji’s Harmonica Yokocho, under the spell of Japanese jazz, in a pause, you think of Tanizaki’s In Praise of Shadows. And if you saw him, you would tell him it’s not all Shinjuku’s skyscraper-sized screens, there is still shadow in Japan, there are still dim lamps through paper-panelled walls, parasols of shade on every street, heavy shadows against light shadows, and the multiple shadows of miso and soy.
There is still mystery.
You wouldn’t tell him, that while his ancestors discovered beauty in shadow, while they even guided shadow toward beauty, from now on, you’re working to light up Japan; you’re working day and night to dispel the darkness.
Two days later, Watanabe shows you darkness of a different kind. The gallery’s somewhere toward the edge of Tokyo’s vast web of expressways and ring-roads, somewhere beyond the kilometres of hotly glittering jammed traffic, somewhere in the foothills of the mountains to the city’s north.
—The Tokyo countryside, Watanabe observes.
Cabbages are stippled between apartment blocks.
You don’t contradict him.
For the last hour he’s been on the phone, speaking in rapid-fire Japanese. Without any context for the conversation, you’ve found it difficult to follow. Now, he opens the driver’s window a fraction, letting a crisp lick of air soften the smell of smoked cigarettes and new car.
—This gallery was set up by a husband and a wife, Iri and Toshi Maruki. They lost family when the atomic bomb was dropped on Hiroshima. First, they cremated the dead, then later, from memory, they painted the dead. The Hiroshima Panels are fascinating. But there’s something else here that I want to show you, too.
The ceiling-high Hiroshima Panels, painted on Japanese folding screens, aren’t simply fascinating, they’re sickening.
You wonder at a plague of bodies in flame, at skin dripping from thin fingers. You gaze at the delicately inked noses of dead babies in a bamboo grove. In one panel, there’s a ghostly, daft-eyed horse; in another, a woman hangs by her feet, hair limp, hand upturned on a full moon belly. The panels are accompanied with notes in which the Marukis find words for the wordless. This is not a natural disaster, they write. We see ankles swell to the size of thighs. A little girl’s fingers burn and stick together and her face and neck become one. Maggots put false life into the faces of the dead.
You leave the room, wiping away tears.
Watanabe catches up toward the end of the exhibition, where the Marukis have given fevered shape to Auschwitz and the Rape of Nanking. You’re standing in front of a series of panels titled Minamata. The panels are coded with sea: black tentacles and beaks and the sails of antique ships. More obvious is the mass of mouths. Children’s mouths, screaming, plum-round.
—Mercury, Watanabe says. One of Japan’s most shameful disasters. A chemical company poisoned the sea with toxic methylmercury. The fish absorbed the mercury. The people ate the fish.
—And what happened?
—Many died. Children suffered tremors, blindness, mental retardation. The Chisso Corporation paid millions in compensation to the victims and there are still lawsuits continuing today.
Watanabe is quiet for a moment.
—Hegel once said, ‘We learn from history that we do not learn from history.’ I don’t agree. I think we can and do learn. I think we have a responsibility not to repeat the mistakes of the past, and a responsibility to contribute something good and useful to mankind’s future. I’m glad you’ve chosen to join me on this journey.
His intensity’s unsettling. You step out of arm’s reach, wander the length of the panels and read Toshi Maruki’s mournful closing remark: These tragedies are not told to us by the beautiful clear waters and light island shadows.
Like radiation, you think.
Gerro Blue’s Gubinge office doesn’t have the charm of the old pearler’s house where you worked for the paper. From your desk, instead of a view of the bay, there’s a view of a bulging boab, and behind that, the airstrip. It’s one of a series of new offices for lease on Itako Lane—the others haven’t been rented yet. You’ve barely had a chance to set up your new computer and emails, when a call comes through.
—So, you’re working for Gerro Blue now, Little Bird?
The asperity in Noah’s tone makes you wince. You’ve had so many imaginary conversations with him: I’ll be someone on the inside, I’ll spill their next move, I’ll keep them accountable. Watanabe’s fair, he’s bigger than rhetoric, he’s smart, his heart’s in the right place.
What about your heart, Little Bird?
Your heart’s locked up in a confidentiality agreement. Your heart’s floating the quiet corridors of the Maruki Gallery. Your heart’s still guilty about that night at Stockmen’s Rest. But you don’t bring that up now, only say, emphatically,
—I’m working for you, Noah. I’m working for Burrika.
—Well, I’m glad to hear it! At the first information session for us, I want you to explain why Gerro Blue has bulldozed a path to the river, right through a massacre site, and what you mob plan to do to fix it.
Mandy prepped you over Skype about the information session, said the whole native title group will be there, said the content of the session doesn’t need to be sophisticated.
Ending the call to Noah, you think of Mandy’s advice,
—Just give them a broad picture about the proposed exploration. If anything goes wrong, David can step in. Honestly, Ava, stop giving me that deer-in-the-headlights look. Most of the people
up there can’t even write their own names.
A marquee lends the riverbank a carnival air and in its shade are at least a hundred plastic chairs. A woman is screaming down the microphone,
—Them lawyers got it wrong! This mine gunna be on my grandmother country, but them lawyers say, nah, nothing, that not your country!
You’re early. David’s not here yet, so you decide to listen in before Gerro’s session starts. Under the canvas marquee the heat’s feverish and fly-thick.
The woman wielding the microphone was at Whipsnake Creek the day the child was taken. She’s pointing at Noah.
—So, what do we get, young man? Us true Traditional Owners will get nothing! That cash money gotta come la church!
There’s tension, low-level, electric.
Noah’s shoulders are slumped, and he waves for one of the kids to bring him the second microphone.
—Coupla things. If you wanna check up on what country belongs to which family group, you need to go back to the Land Council and get those fellas to sort it out. They’ve got all the genealogies and evidence from our old people. Now that other thing. We don’t know where exactly this mine’s gunna be yet, but they’ve just got their exploration licence and they’ll be looking around Lalinjurra, so you’re right, it could be near that spot.
—I’m right, she mutters. True God, I’m right.
—But look here. It’s not like in the Territory. Family or church groups don’t go away with cash money from royalties. Doesn’t matter if Lalinjurra is your family for country, or my family for country, we’re all Burrika. That money’s for all of us. Everyone decides how it’s spent.
A willy-willy twists over the highway. There’s a smattering of applause. Noah continues,
—This mining company’s coming in soon. We might have fights with each other, like now, and that’s fine, we got a lot to talk about together. But when that mining mob walk in here, we gotta be strong. They like to divide and conquer. That’s how they rip us off.
Someone starts shouting.
—Hey! Who that kartiya up there! Get him out of here! That kartiya got no shame!
Noah firms and sterns up his voice.
—Ms Kelly, it’s nice to see you’re so keen to join us, but I’m gunna have to ask you to go and wait in your car until we’ve finished.
Someone could light a cigarette off your cheeks.
An hour later, cockatoos fan the sky with raucous moonshine shrieks. Pamphlets are in palms and David still hasn’t arrived. Noah indicates you should start before people get restless. So you introduce yourself, talk about how you’ll be working with the Burrika board, Burrika’s lawyers and Gerro Blue’s lawyers to negotiate an agreement both sides are happy with.
—I’m here to pass your concerns on to Gerro Blue. If there’s something you don’t understand, or are worried about, you can call me day or night and I’ll make sure the right people in the company hear about it.
There are a few encouraging nods. An old woman pleats her pamphlet into a fan. Noah looks around and folds his arms. Still no sign of David.
—As you all know, we’ve been granted an exploration licence by the Department of Mines and Petroleum, which covers part of Burrika’s native title area. There are maps in the pamphlets.
A fresh rustle, as people re-examine them.
—Basically, exploration involves drilling a hole. About a kilometre and a half from the river and not too far from the infrastructure we donated to the White Na—I’m sorry, I mean the infrastructure we donated to Mr De Beer.
There are sniggers at the slip-up.
—The hole might be up to fifty metres deep and, from the drill cutting, we’ll take samples. If the samples are promising, we’ll move on to construct a test pit. Basically, pursuing any mining lease requires a serious commitment of funds. So, although we think it’s important that Burrika and Gerro have an agreement together, this agreement will only come into effect if the mine goes ahead.
Some people are staring at the earth, at their toes, but most have their eyes trained hard on you. A young man asks,
—How big will the exploration area be?
—We’re looking at around a two hundred metre by two hundred metre grid.
—And what drilling techniques will you use?
What drilling techniques? You have no idea. You read something about reverse circulation, or reverse circular drilling …
—I, uh, I’m sorry. I’ll have to get back to you on that one.
—And aerial exploration?
—I believe that’s possible.
—What other kinds of surveys?
Probably hydrogeological surveys, or … Fuck. Ask about the environmental impacts. About bilbies, turtles, dugongs. About the possibilities of funding for a Burrika ranger team. Ask anything but these specific technical details.
There are no encouraging smiles now.
—Can you talk us through your radiation management plan?
You would, happily, if you’d seen it.
—Can’t answer, eh? shouts a woman over to your left.
She looks familiar, fat and striking with graphite smudges under her eyes.
Noah jumps in before she can say anything else.
—Ava, how about you finish the presentation you prepared for us?
David arrives right at the end. He sits at the back of the marquee. The crowd waits. Noah takes the microphone from you and when he speaks, his voice is compressed with anger.
—You insult us, he says. You insult our old people, our board of directors, every Burrika person who has made the effort to come out here today. You insult us with Gerro’s childish pamphlets, and your lack of information. How can we be confident that Gerro Blue can pull off something as serious as this if its staff don’t understand the most basic aspects of uranium exploration?
Shame bottlenecks in your windpipe.
—We want to walk into this with our eyes open. We want to understand the science and the consequences. We want to make an informed decision about whether or not this mine should go ahead!
The crowd are standing, applauding, shouting their support. There’s something else at stake here, something in the theatricality of Noah’s gestures, in the showmanship, that makes you realise this conflict has to be played out. It’s very personal, but at the same time, it’s not personal at all. You’re just another in a long line of kartiya—politicians, pastoralists, mining executives, missionaries, PhD students—who want something from Burrika, not for Burrika.
The only way around it is to speak straight.
—Noah, you’re right, you mumble into the microphone.
And the crowd, who look like they’re ready to lynch you, quieten.
—The information I gave out today was far too basic, and it disrespected your intelligence. I’d like to apologise. I’ll be around for the next hour. Please, come and talk to me. Tell me what you would like more information on.
In the back row, David fumes.
—I’d also like to introduce our Deputy CEO, David Turner. He’s here to discuss the incident at Lalinjurra.
David pushes up off his seat and walks to the front of the marquee, trailing a backwash of cigar smoke and sausage rolls.
—On behalf of Gerro Blue, I wish to express our regret regarding the incident at Lalinjurra. I would also like to clarify that Mr Graeme De Beer was using the equipment for pastoral activities. If you’re seeking an apology, I’m afraid De Beer is the one to talk to.
The roof of the marquee ripples.
—What a load of shit, Noah says. That was your equipment. And your CEO owes us an apology.
David’s not going to win this one, knows it.
—Well, okay. Let me speak with our CEO. Looking ahead, I understand Burrika hopes to bring a team up from Perth to formally identify Lalinjurra as a massacre site. Should Burrika lift their moratorium on uranium exploration and mining, and work with us on reaching a mutually acceptable native title agreement, then we’d be happy to fun
d this project.
—We don’t have a choice, do we, David? If we don’t sit down with you and knock together an agreement, the mine will still go ahead.
—Yes, yes, but let me stress again, Gerro Blue want to work with Burrika. We’ve got your best interests at heart.
Out over the river, a whistling duck chatters, obliviously blithe.
David’s voice rasps furious.
—Never apologise. Never admit wrongdoing. And never come to one of these sessions that badly prepared again.
Your head’s pounding and you wish you could pop a few Panadol.
—I’m going to have to report this to Watanabe. We can’t have an agreement this important being jeopardised by an amateur.
The heat under the canvas is the unventilated kind, the kind that melts lipsticks and brains. You stoop to begging.
—Please don’t tell him. Is there anything you need done—anything I can do?
He hesitates, runs a tongue over a chapped lower lip.
—Yes, actually, he says slyly. There is something.
Someone’s beat you home. There’s a hardened hail of eggs across the front windows, a spray-painted message across the door: Kartiya bitch. Fuck off back east.
Across the road, a bougainvillea twists its floral dress. Perhaps someone’s hiding under there, watching you, watching your hand shake as it tries to fit the key to the lock. Inside, nothing’s damaged, nothing’s disappeared, the books, the vinyl, everything’s in its place, but still, you’ve got an uneasy feeling that whoever spray-painted the door might still be lurking around.
Ash doesn’t pick up his phone; Lucia doesn’t pick up hers. You think about calling Noah but today went so badly you’re probably the last person he wants to talk to. Maybe you should check into a hotel for the night? No, don’t be stupid, there’s no point blowing the money. It’s nothing.
But it’s not nothing.
At one a.m., someone tries to kick down the front door.
The police, there are two of them, say it’s unlikely the break-in attempt and the graffiti are related.
Red Can Origami Page 9