Red Can Origami

by Madelaine Dickie

  He’s back. He’s forgotten something.

  There’s a bit of scrap paper by the photocopier, the inscrutable scrawl of figures. You press it flat onto the glass and slam the lid, keeping your back to Liam, hoping he doesn’t notice the sweat on your shirt.

  It’s nudging midnight. Wait Long by the River and the Bodies of Your Enemies Will Float By spins on the turntable. The Drones, at their sweetly snarling best. You’re on the couch at home, picking through a printed copy of the report on the tailings dam for the fiftieth time, weighing it in your heart and hands. A green tea steams on the coffee table.

  Despite the rigour of Liam’s design, there have been two main problems in the construction of the dam. The first is that the synthetic dam liner hasn’t been properly applied, which means there’s an increased risk of seepage into soil and groundwater once it’s put to use; the second is that the dam hasn’t been built to Liam’s specifications, and the impoundment embankment isn’t high enough. Given the area is prone to major rain events and cyclones, there’s a risk that if the embankment’s breached, there’ll be a discharge of radioactive tailings.

  Maybe it’s not such a big issue. Surely Gerro is legally obliged to fix the problems before the dam is used. It would make financial sense—the clean-up costs of an accident would probably exceed the value of the uranium extracted. But the secrecy around the reports is concerning; it reeks of a cover-up. It also begs the question: has Gerro Blue started construction without waiting for finalisation of the agreement? The answer appears to be yes, which means that Burrika mob aren’t being employed to undertake the work and, more importantly, what Gerro Blue is doing is illegal.

  Noah said, ‘I want you to be straight with me, I want you to tell me if Gerro Blue’s doublecrossing us …’

  And if you’re straight with him? You haven’t forgotten the consequences—legal action and astronomical fines.

  With drained tea and tired eyes, you lift the turntable’s stylus. You have no idea what to do, no idea who to talk to. If Gerro Blue can’t get this right—a tailings dam, the most basic of things—what else are they going to fuck up?

  —Imogen, I need help.

  You imagine she’s wearing a woollen jumper and ugg boots. She’s sipping a Rutherglen red and gazing through breath-snowed windows at the brisk blue dusk beyond. You hate the cold, yet two and a half years up here and you’re romanticising it, craving it, craving real cold.

  Imogen snaps,

  —Well, I can’t give you any money. And I’m going up to Port Douglas in a couple of weekends with the girls, so …

  You almost hang up in frustration.

  —I need help, not money.

  Imogen might be selfish, she might be irresponsible, but her advice is always remarkably clear-sighted.

  —Oh. I’m just about to head out to pilates. Can you make it quick?

  You talk in sweeping hypotheticals and she listens without interrupting. When you finish, she says,

  —If the company finds out you’ve talked, they’ll sue you. If you leak it to the press and the company finds out, they’ll sue you. The native title group probably won’t vote for the agreement, so if the company push ahead with their plans anyway, which they will, backed by the state government, then Burrika gets nothing. You can call up Wata-whatever-san and confront him about it. Or you can sit on it, and work out an exit strategy.

  You’ve been thinking a lot about an exit strategy.

  Hawaii with Noah: pina coladas and palm-choked volcanoes and touches of Japan—in the stories of shipwrecks and sugarcane and Hawaiian princesses promised to Japanese princes; in the gardens, in their tranquillity, asymmetry and austerity. Hawaii, where there’s no humbug, no uranium, no bitch of a wife to contend with and no blackmail. Just the magic of the old and the thrill of the new.

  Noah ignores you at the final meeting between Burrika and the board. Not a word, not a hello, not a nod. Does he know about the tailings dam? Does he know you haven’t told him? No, he’s freezing you out for another reason. During morning tea, you lock yourself in a toilet cubicle and breathe deeply. Noah might be ignoring you but Watanabe’s slyly watchful: he’ll notice the glisten of your mascara if you cry, reapply.

  Too gutless to spill the beans, you’ve done the only thing you can do. You’ve gone back and scrutinised the draft agreement. It’s a three-hundred-page legal thicket. You’re familiar with most of it, but this time, you pick up Gerro’s wriggle room around internal investigations into any leaks, breaches or failures. Although required to make these findings public under state legislation, there are plenty of instances where companies haven’t done so. Disclosure of findings to the Burrika board should be enshrined in the agreement—in fact, Burrika should be the first to know. You’re surprised Burrika’s lawyers haven’t brought it up. The other issue is that there’s no guarantee Gerro will pay for the clean-up of a major incident that costs more than the value of its business. If the incident’s bad enough, and no-one has pockets deep enough, then nothing will be done …

  After the morning tea break, well aware that this will put your job on the line, you table your concerns. Noah wrings you with a hard look, as if he senses there’s something bigger behind this, and Watanabe gives you a faint, sociopathic smile.

  —A little late for this, isn’t it, Ava?

  —I don’t think it’s too late for this, Noah contradicts.

  His bare forearms rest on the table. There’s an empty glass of water by his left hand. On his fourth finger, he wears a simple, white-gold ring. Was it there before?

  —Government legislation is more than enough to protect Burrika’s interests on both matters, Watanabe says calmly.

  Noah barks out a laugh, hollow, dry, hopeless.

  —Government legislation? Don’t insult me. Don’t sit here and tell me that ‘government legislation’ will protect our interests! I suggest you take a crash course in recent Aboriginal history, Mr Watanabe. Now, I’d like to discuss this with the board and our lawyers. Do you mind leaving the room?

  Watanabe runs a hand through his hair. He’s let it grow out, longish and loose, no severe corporate cut for this would-be philosopher and dreamer, trapped by face and family. But Noah’s right: there’s something inflexible and ruthless about him too.

  —Ava-san. Do you remember the contract you signed?

  —Of course, you say.

  —People seldom do what they believe in, he says. They do what’s convenient, then repent.

  So Watanabe knows Dylan, too.

  —I wonder if that’s how you feel about this job. If it was merely convenient and now you feel like repenting?

  You’ve reached a dangerous point as an employee: the point of disrespect. The point where you realise you’re subordinate to someone less intelligent or less ethical than yourself. You give a politician’s reply, ignoring the question.

  —A few weeks ago, you mentioned the things you’re paying me to be concerned about. I would say that highlighting any deficiencies in the agreement would fall into this category.

  —No agreement is perfect. We have consistently gone above and beyond our statutory requirements. If Burrika don’t vote in favour of this, there’ll be no further need of an Aboriginal liaison officer.

  Disrespect makes you bold and careless.

  —I don’t appreciate being threatened, you tell Watanabe. But thanks for the warning.

  On the morning of the protest concert, you see the White Namibian for the first time since he signed over De Beer Downs. He has a soggy carton of red cans on one shoulder. Two young police officers are herding him off the footy field. He’s trailed by a dozen or so countrymen and women. The nomads go quietly toward the mangroves, carrying pillows and plastic bags and blankets. They don’t look at the police, they don’t look at you, and they don’t look back.

  During the first few years of uni you were an obsessive festivalgoer. A couple of bickies and you were flying—Woodford, Falls, even WOMADelaide, once. You were mad for s
eesawing sonic soundscapes and breathless lyric lullabies. After that, in the shoebox bars along the Chūō Line, you got hooked on jazz. Live music is one of the things you miss the most, living up here, and while the concert is a protest concert, even if you were feeling a hundred per cent loyal to Gerro at the moment, you wouldn’t miss it for the world.

  Madge is looking after Lucia’s kids, freeing Lucia up for a preconcert prosecco on your verandah. The wine’s good, dry as a King Valley summer, and as you sip, anticipation sparkles along lips and limbs, enough to dull your guilt over the report, sadness for Noah and anxiety about the job. It heightens a feeling of relief, too, that at the eleventh hour, Burrika’s lawyers were able to get a few lines into the agreement around transparency.

  Lucia tries to steer clear of the big things, tells you her daughter’s netball team blitzed the championship down south; says that two weekends ago, she met a bloke.

  —He’s the new breakfast presenter at the ABC. Have you listened to his show yet? It’s not bad; he’s got a pretty laconic style, very warm.

  —Where’s he from?

  —Far North Queensland originally. Noel Pearson for mob. He played footy for the Broncos, would be about mid-thirties. Drop-dead gorgeous. Bloody lovely to meet someone from out of town. This place is a fucken fishpond. Anyway, don’t say anything just yet.

  —Is he coming today?

  —I hope so!

  —And … have you heard from Noah? When’s he get to town?

  Lucia takes a deep breath.

  —I thought he would have told you.

  —What?

  Lucia takes your hand, squeezes it.

  —He’s back with Katherine.

  The terracotta pavers tip like a tinny in chop. Hawaii! Fuck.

  Lucia continues,

  —I think it might be political. Noah needs the Turners and Greys onside for the vote.

  That might be so, but if he’s back with his wife, then it’s over. At least you’ve got some certainty. At least tonight, you can flirt guiltlessly with those liquorice-accented Frenchies fresh off the pearling boats. You always said to your girlfriends in Melbourne you’d rather be a mistress than a wife. No risk of career compromise, domestic misery …

  —I think the worst of it’s now, Lucia says. With everything. Maybe in a year or two, things will be better. Gerro will have their mine, we’ll be fishing somewhere else, and Noah won’t look so fucken sad all the time. There’ll be money for the kids to learn Burrika, they’ll fly that mob up to recognise Lalinjurra as a massacre site, and the greenies will have fucked off to some other cause. But right now, it’s a mess, isn’t it?

  —It’s a mess, you agree.

  As the taxi glides toward the footy field, Lucia gasps, points at a road sign. Someone’s papered over the normal fifty kilometres an hour speed limit with a picture of a black man sprinting. They’ve photoshopped Noah’s face onto the body and changed the speed limit to one-thirty. The text reads Coons Crossing.

  —That’s not even rational! Lucia cries. That doesn’t make any sense!

  It doesn’t, but the inference is clear.

  It’s bigger than the rodeo, bigger than the Anzac Day parade and bigger than the local AFL grand final. There are radio and television journalists everywhere, including Jeff, who, Lucia tells you, is spending most of his time trolling Seek in search of jobs in far-flung developing nations, where, presumably, he’ll be able to get away with doing even less work. Lucia’s new honey’s here as well, and he’s as handsome as her boast.

  Between each set, the artists speculate on what the mine means for Burrika country and the Gubinge community. Lucia, working a piece of chewy, pushes her way to the nosebleed section. A singer-songwriter, with curls framing a heart-shaped face, is wooing the crowd, lamenting that such a wilderness, such a wild and untouched and spectacular place, will be forever destroyed.

  Lucia hisses in your ear,

  —‘Wilderness’? A wilderness is somewhere uninhabited! Inhospitable! Dumb white slut. Burrika country is neither of those things.

  She raises her voice, heckles,

  —Wilderness? Go fuck your wilderness. That’s my country you’re talking about!

  Plenty of kartiya are willing to gawk, but unwilling to weigh in. The girl on stage coughs uncomfortably, her fingers dawdle the strings, a minor chord.

  It’s unbearable: the crush of people, Lucia’s hurt, your hurt, the proselytising, the work fouling play. Suddenly, you don’t want to be here. You want to be under a doona in the roaring air-con, crying and listening to vinyl, and trying to forget the image of Noah’s face on a racist road sign, trying to forget about Noah with Katherine, trying to forget about the dam and the vote on Sunday and the blown-up stone bust. You did some research, found that the maximum penalty for criminal damage to property by fire is fourteen years. If it involves circumstances of racial aggravation, it’s twenty years. Noah would be an old bloke by the time he got out.

  You feel like something titanic and malevolent is in motion.

  There’s nothing you can do but hang on.

  After the heaving concert, you expected a bigger ambush by Green Gubinge at the Burrika meeting. Instead, there are only four of them at the cattle gate down to the river. They wield pamphlets and wear Claws off Country t-shirts. Olivia’s shouting at the mob in Gerro Blue–branded buses,

  —Your vote counts! The health of everyone in Gubinge depends on the decision you make today! Think about your children! Think about your country!

  Noah’s just pulled up alongside you in his ute. Katherine’s next to him. The kids are in the back and the dogs are in the tray.

  Olivia saunters over to you.

  —You don’t have permission to be here, you say.

  —Do you see anyone complaining? she replies tartly.

  —I’m complaining, says Katherine, leaning over Noah. If you don’t leave now, I’ll set my dogs on you.

  While her words are clearly directed at Olivia, her hot glare’s on you.

  —You watch, Lucia whispers. There’s gunna be a big rip.

  Noah’s on the microphone, explaining the order of the day, shifting between English and Burrika. Sure enough, a minute in, a woman’s on her feet.

  —Who asked you to do this anyway, Noah? Who asked you to get up and talk like this?

  Noah looks tired, strained.

  —The board asked me, he replies. I’m the chairman of the board and I act on the direction of our old people.

  —You don’t act for me! Do you know what I think? I think there are too many young, self-appointed blackfellas around here!

  In the front row, Katherine hisses and thrusts her tin tea mug to one of the kids. There’s a static squeal as she wrestles the microphone off Noah.

  —Look here. We discussed this last week. Whatever our past differences, now’s the time to stand together. Noah’s been working day and night to get us the best agreement. We gotta stand behind him.

  Lucia leans in close again and whispers behind a half-cupped palm,

  —Last time these two had a fight in public, Katherine bit part of her ear off. See there?

  The top tip of the woman’s ear is corrugated. Grumbling and cowed, she says,

  —This bloody thing. We’re damned if we do, and damned if we don’t!

  —We can definitely agree on that, Noah replies.

  The rest of the Gerro team approach the meeting in a V formation. Watanabe’s in the lead, followed by Mandy, David and the two lawyers. Watanabe ignores you; Mandy offers an insincere smile.

  Madge places green leaves on a bed of coals and sings. The Gerro staff and the Burrika circle the coals, circle through smoke as silver and silky as barra scales. Then Madge gestures for everyone to follow her to the river. Everyone does, except Mandy, who pleads high heels and stockings. You’re embarrassed by her refusal.

  At the river, you rub a rock beneath each armpit, then toss it into the water.

  Here goes.

  Watanabe and t
he lawyers talk through the key points of the agreement. They reference a PowerPoint presentation that’s almost invisible with the daylight streaming under the sides of the tent. There’s a lot of mental gymnastics needed to decipher it and you murmur to Mandy,

  —Should we have broken this down, in layman’s terms?

  —What do you mean ‘we’? I would’ve thought that was your job.

  But the crowd aren’t cowed by the legalese. Madge poses the first question, thick eyebrows knit in a frown.

  —Now I understand this is a little off topic. But I think it’s important. Mr Watanabe, you haven’t told us why you’re calling this spot for the mine Fortune. Who gave you permission to rename this place? It’s already got a name. It’s got a Burrika name …

  There’s not a quiver of expression in Watanabe’s high cheeks. His voice is soft,

  —We’re happy to change it if you want.

  —Like hell we are, Mandy whispers.

  A breeze sweeps under the marquee, clearing flies, cooling sweat, but not dispersing the tension.

  —Fortune won’t be another Ranger or Rum Jungle, Watanabe says. We are visitors on your country. We want to make sure this arrangement suits us all.

  Lucia takes the microphone.

  —It sounds okay in theory. But Gerro Blue is a new company, they’re untested. And the Japanese ownership makes me uneasy. Your country has a history of covering up nuclear incidents.

  The concerns come then. What about the tailings? What about our river, our children, the bones of our ancestors?

  Noah leans forward on his chair, station boots planted firm, folding and refolding an overview of the agreement. At last, it’s his turn to speak.

  —I don’t feel good in my heart about this. But I don’t see that we have another choice. They’ve put a solid agreement on the table. We either take what they’re offering, or we take nothing.

  The majority of the group vote in favour of the agreement, and when it’s over, the twelve directors pose for a photo. They stand in a single row. They stand shoulder to shoulder, as if at their own execution. No-one smiles.