Shark Dialogues

by Davenport, Kiana

  “You don’t know a damned thing. I grew up with Abos, changed blood with ‘em, went through their gory initiations into manhood. I love them in a way you’ll never understand, maybe more than you feel for your own. The day they fence them in, I’ll be on the inside.”

  “And how . . .” she spoke carefully, “. . . do your Abo brothers feel about you being in the Reserves, Captain Weir? What do they say about you flying into Papua New Guinea every other weekend, shooting native ‘rebels’ for rioting against your gold and copper mines, which are on their ancestral lands?”

  “You bitch ...” She could only have known that if she read his mail.

  “The letter was open on your desk.”

  He thought of all he could say then, that the Australian Army went in to train the local police, that the Aussies had not taken part in the shootings. That he had in fact risked his life, a spear glancing off his shoulder, squatting in villages, trying to reason with elders who wanted huge payments for their lands. He could go further back, tell her about a day in a village north of Pnom Penh, when troops were pulling out.

  (A half-bombed hamlet of medieval filth, open sewage forming estuaries in the mud . . . villagers in rags reeking of fish sauce, hugging corpses of children lately strafed. And him, Simon, trying to express some human emotion, giving a legless boy his watch . . . And the boy, hands ground down almost to bone dragging his torso around, overjoyed, a look of wonderment in his eyes . . . The boy’s head darting back and forth, desperate to give Simon something in return. Finally, jubilantly, offering his eight-year-old sister.)

  He could have told her that. And the aftermath, years of looking for that boy in his sleep, looking for the brother and sister, whole, unwhored, winnowing rice in their father’s field. He could have told her of the years after ‘Nam as a mercenary, a junkie hooked on coups. He sat there thinking of all the truths he could tell, but that was something he only told when he was alone.

  “That’s what first attracted you, sweetheart. Remember? You said I looked like an exterminator.”

  She winced, then silently climbed out of the chopper.

  The $375 million complex had been built for mining uranium and bauxite. Not only was it mined and shipped, but a huge plant had been built to produce a million tons a year of alumina, the floury white powder from which aluminum was made. The head of operations gave them a quick tour, accepting Vanya Simon’s native girlfriend “in the bush for a thrill.” Passing front-end loaders filling fifty-ton dump trucks, he took them into a mineshaft where shin-scraped miners picked away, dumping ore in trollied barrows.

  Then he showed them how ore was crushed, fed onto a belt-conveyor system twenty miles long, carrying it to ships at the end of a deepwater dock. One of the longest conveyors in the world. They followed the route to the aluminum plant, complex chemical operations whose seepage flowed into nearby creeks. When she’d had enough, Simon took her to one of the Aborigine settlements, built by the mining company.

  Elders and youngbloods gathered round, patted his shoulder, shook his hand. With their damp, loamy smell, soft droning voices, they peered at Vanya from under cantilevered brows. In the distance, children dangled lizards by the tail while bashful clan women sang softly, carrying bush tucker home—turtles, freshwater prawns, wild honey, snails.

  She saw instantly how materialism had entered their lives. Mining royalties brought radios, electric saws, rifles, secondhand pickups. Men sat back, blowing smoke dreamily, while their neighbors bent over bark paintings which the co-ops would sell. They painted casually, a stroke or two, then lay back and snored. Living on royalties, they painted now for relaxation, for “fun.” Vanya glanced round at broken radios, broken battery-run shavers, cast-out clothes. Royalties had cancelled certain needs, like washing and mending things. Laxness had become another form of welfare.

  Simon led her to an elder sitting outside a wurlie, a shelter of bark and twigs, which Aborigines prefered to prefab houses the mining corporation had given them. She bowed reverently, studying the pitch-black skin, huge paunch, his hair and beard glowing white. Waving his walking stick at his dog and pet baby wallaby, unexpectedly the elder spoke.

  “Yeah, money been good, give us time to think, fish, hunt for crocs, snakes, goannas. We skilled hunters, spear a buffalo skull at a hundred feet. Good for us to sit about, singing songs of the ‘Dreaming,’ teach young boys clan totems, prepare dem for secrets of initiations ...”

  He hesitated, firelight reflecting off his cataracts.

  “Go on,” Simon said, nodding toward Vanya. “She’s all right, Digger, I give you my word.”

  Tossing his luminous mane, he continued. “. . . Sometimes I curse da mine. Want the white man out. Widdout royalties, we have to do more dan talk and sing. Have to fight and hunt and build and paint in bloody earnest. Dey turning us into layabouts, slowly drugging us . . . helping us die out.”

  He looked at Simon, his big body steaming with the fervor of his words. “Not many left, Simon, not even two percent of da country’s population. City blacks becoming whitefella’ losing dere culture, dying of drink. Kids go to university, learn to think white, marry Asians, Europeans. We losin’ our grip. Families broken. Dat what gave us grip.”

  He kicked away a bark painting, waiting for pickup by the co-op. “Garbage. That not our real “Dreaming” paintings. You think we share real thing with whites!” Handing round plastic cups of tea, he studied Vanya. “Where you from, Missus? Torres Straits?”

  She shook her head, smiling. “I’m dark enough, aren’t I? I’m Hawaiian.”

  “Yank.”

  She sighed, “Yeah. Yank.”

  “Dat’s okay, you with Simon. Trustworthy bloke.”

  Embarrassed, Simon let himself be dragged off by a child in search of witchetty grub. From behind a clump of stringybark trees, Vanya heard men playing instruments used in initiation rites, the sharp clack of clap-sticks, the deep snore of the trumpetlike didgeridoo. Digger looked up, half whistled, half whined. That quick, a hawk screamed down in a rapture of bronze, took something from his hand.

  “All dis earth my mates,” Digger boomed. “Eagles, plants, ‘roo. I tell you da name of t’ree hundred things you never even seen.”

  He had a disturbing physical glow, great liquid eyes threatening to drip in the heat of the fire. Leaning over, he gave her a bit of pitjuri, slightly narcotic tobacco, and they chewed silently, time seeming to snag on the point of his stick embering in the flames. Dropping the baby wallaby in her lap, he cuddled his mangy dog, and they sat in a scene out of prehistory. Slowly, he began to yarn, telling her of sacred sites, secret “Dreaming” places, where his ancestors had sung up the land. Her tongue grew numb, Vanya looked down shocked as the wallaby nuzzled against her chest; she was not a woman small living things were drawn to. Digger asked what she did out in the world, and when she said she practiced law, he laughed, pouring a handful of dirt into the wind.

  “Dat what laws become! You got to make somet’ing lasting. Pretty missus like you. Got to make somet’ing of flesh!”

  She cuddled the wallaby, a dog-faced child with huge feet. “I had a son. He died.”

  Hearing the words, she was struck by the staying power of pain, its almost palpable presence. Yet, talking about the pain of losing Hernando seemed to make it easier, kept her from feeling it. She talked quietly, unceasingly, and when she finished, Digger’s cheeks were wet. He dropped his chin to his chest, praying for the boy. When he finally sat up, his voice seemed to resonate beyond the measure of their conversation, engulfing her like some furious force of nature.

  “Lay de pain down. Leave it here wif me. Pick up yer rage. Rage give you courage.”

  As she and Simon left Digger sang out after them, stabbing the air with his walking stick. “Who dreamed de land? Who sing about it? We! We de land!”

  His house in Darwin was Spartan and bleak. Worn sheepskin rugs. Bare walls. Cheap vinyl chairs that clung to her skin, making a tearing sound when she stood. His �
�base,” Simon called it, and she thought how men living alone never called it “home.”

  He opened cold beers, wiped the calligraphy of dead flies off a counter. “I thought you’d stay a bit longer this trip.”

  “I will next time,” she lied. “Look, I want to apologize for reading your mail.”

  “Don’t dwell on it. I’ll say this much, though. You don’t know me, Vanya.”

  “I know what you were.”

  “And that fits right into your pattern, does it? Sleeping with men you loathe, men you have nothing in common with, so as not to clutter up your life. There’s a word for that...” He bit off the rest of it, rubbed his forehead wearily. “Sorry. It’s been so long since I cared, I hardly know what I’m saying.”

  She stood. “I’ll miss my plane.”

  “Sit down, please. I’ve something to say.” He paused and everything he’d planned to say drained out of him. “... I’ve never been accountable.” He stopped, started again. “I know you’ll never compromise yourself, but there’s a part of you needs looking after.” He got up feeling a complete ass and paced the room.

  “Simon. Don’t.”

  “Why ‘don’t’? We’ve gotten too close, have we? Bit more than your usual one-night stand?”

  She seemed to lunge, slapped him viciously across the face, then flinched, anticipating his reaction.

  He cupped his jaw, working it back and forth. “Now I slap you. We work up our lust, then fall in bed and go at it. The old cliché?” His face blotched red, melting into the auburn mustache and auburn hair so he seemed to be wearing an awful ginger-colored mask.

  She thought of her boy then, and how he had died. And she thought of the old man telling her to pick up her rage.

  “I hate you! I hate everything you are, and ever were. I hate that I’ve slept with you. I hate myself. I hate ...” She couldn’t seem to stop.

  He didn’t touch her, didn’t even move close. “Listen to me, I’ve not much to offer. Health-wise I’m probably pushing eighty. Malaria. Touch of Agent Orange from ‘Nam. Leaves you sterile, crook in the gut. I look in the mirror and see the face of a man who will never father a child.”

  She shook her head, not wanting to hear it.

  “. .. But I could teach you things about the land. How to find freshwater mussels under reeds, show you crocodiles that are playful and harmless, and what weeds make teas that cure tropical ulcers. I’d teach you what grasses are poison, and where water is always found near casuarinas. I’d take you to places where billygoat plums are big as my fist, and where black-lip oysters will nourish you with iodine. I’d teach you what grapes cure the bite of deaf adders. And which crayfish-squeals draw sharks. I’d show you were to find edible worms inside the bark of mangrove trees, where to find bush bananas, and the right season for wild honey called Sugar Bag. I’d show you how to mend jerrycan cracks with resin of spinifex, and how to make shelters from banana leaves. The best time for eating abdomen of green ants, and how to eat the larva from their nests.”

  He went on, like a man under hypnosis.

  “And oh ... I’d teach you secret seasons, the ones between the Wet and Dry that only Abos know. Like, when certin lilies flower, you’ll know barramundi will be swimming in schools eager for bait. And when bark peels from certain trees, you’d know crocodiles are spawning, and what beaches will be full of their buried eggs. I’d even teach you to smell a ‘soak,’ water lying far below the most parched and barren earth. I’d teach you how to smell coming rains, and coming dust storms. You’d learn to listen. You’d see how smart nature is. Vanya, you’d be amazed.”

  She was weeping, and he came to the end of it.

  “I have given this considerable thought ... I would even die for you, if you required such a marvel.”

  Even at Darwin Airport, he didn’t touch her, didn’t move too close.

  Her skin turned dark, she looked old and severe, a woman consigning herself to the extreme verge of austerity.

  “Simon ... I won’t be back.”

  He looked down, thoughtfully. “You want this over?”

  “Yes.”

  He pulled her close, in slow motion. “Then, it’s over, sweetheart. But I promise you ... it’s not finished.”

  He let her go, across the tarmac to the waiting plane, sun on her shoulders throwing her shadow ahead of her.

  Gaman Suru, Ganbaru

  * * *

  To Endure and to Persevere

  HIS CAR IN THE DRIVEWAY, chauffeur leaning o the hood. He was already somewhere in the house, moving toward her.

  Rachel swept down the stairs, half running, no thoughts of composure. “Hiro, are you home? Is it you?”

  And through the dark, cool, marble corridors, she heard his deep, resounding, “Hai!” Profoundly male, something between a whisper and a bark, such a drilling sound, she felt an absolute frisson. And he was there, sleek, composed, impeccably dressed. Handsome face the color of lemon drops sucked to transparency, unmarked hands like slender yellow icicles, except for the missing digit of one finger showing membership in the Yakuza.

  She stood very still, defeating the need to touch him, to test the reality of him. In that moment, almost imperceptibly, he measured her, appraised her. Flawless, porcelain face, Oriental fineness of bone, rounded breasts and hips of a Hawaiian. Her hair was black thick as tar, her eyes an odd green like spoiled bronze. Just now her cheeks were flushed, and she was beautiful, still full of grace and fire. She would never be a closed-face, quiet-feet wife, she would always excite him. He would always come back to her.

  “It’s you,” she said, as if expecting someone else.

  He threw back his head and laughed, laughter that resounded through the house, as if it were more than his body could accommodate. Only Rachel made him laugh, the laughter of relief, of being home. Yet, even in that moment, he seemed intrepid, never quite exposed. And leading him upstairs, undressing him, slowly soaping and rinsing, and massage-bathing him, his body tattooed from neck to ankles, she saw nothing had changed, not one inch of him. Time had blended the bright reds, yellows, greens of his tattoos into a steely lustrous, gleaming blue, alive, beautiful in steam. There were years she had hated that skin, cool, reptilian shield between Hiro and the world, manifestation of his inner life, emotions she would never know. Once in the early years, she asked why he had tattooed his entire body.

  He had brooded for a while, then answered. “I wanted to be a warrior.” The pain was so debilitating, only one of two hundred men ever completed full-body tattooing. “Or, perhaps I wanted to replicate what I was not sure the world contained—beauty, legend, virtue.”

  “Or,” she said, “perhaps you wanted to die.” He had explained how the life span of those fully tattooed was shorter than average, too little free skin left to “breathe.”

  Now Rachel knelt beside the tub, disrobing, only a towel round her, so that leaning toward him, shoulders hunched, rich black hair winging out on either side of her, she seemed a butterfly throbbing outside its cocoon. Drowsily, he studied her moist shoulders, thinking how, later, in the throes of sex, her body would gape and steam. He smiled, kissed her fingers one by one as she ran the handcloth over him. Only with her did he relax, become courtly and shy.

  “How is your circulation?” she asked.

  “Good,” he grunted. “Except in cold and damp.”

  He bent his head like a child so she could scrub his neck, and in that moment he seemed vulnerable. Sixty years old, physique of an athlete in his forties, but life was gaining. She heard a slight wheezing when he bent. As she gently massaged, Rachel studied his back, the dragon, fiercest part of his body-art that only she had intimate knowledge of. Hiro knew it only from mirrors, photographs.

  As a young bride, the thing had terrified her. Then she learned to embrace it, caress it in the act of love, a monster that drew strength from each bizarre creature that formed it. Hog-nosed viper with horns of a bull, the brilliant razor-sharp scales of a koi, four ripping talons of a
hawk, whiskers of the clever catfish, shoulders and haunches of hellish fire. As he moved in the tub, the dragon leapt, majestic, mythical, grotesque.

  “Where have you been?” she asked. “Macao? Singapore? Entertain me!”

  “Ah, Rachel,” he sighed. “Each year there is . . . more to see, less to learn. A sad thing, that you have never traveled further than your impulse. There are wonders I could show you ...”

  Yes, she thought. Whores laughing at me behind drapes of your plush brothels. Addicts leering from your drug dens. Never! I’d rather wait here by the sea where everything is pure and private. Even our sex under pale silk sheets, like making love in the interior of an eyelid . . .

  “... I would show you the Squid Men of Kowloon, criminals hiding in giant underground pipes, bodies blue-black from washing ink from squid for the fisheries, never seeing daylight. And, I would show you the Flour Ghosts, Chinese refugees living in the catacombs of temples, earning income by making noodles. Whole rooms white with flour, floors, ceilings, walls. Year after year they knead and shape their noodles. Hair, eyes, clothes, thick with flour, layering their skin, moldering in their lungs. Until they die of suffocation . . .”

  She rubbed kukui oil into his shoulders.

  “... And I would show you beauty, the golden Wats of Bangkok. Rivers of saffron-robed monks strolling in twos through flame trees. And white moons riding Chinese junks on Victoria Harbor. How I have wanted to show you humanity! Teach you to ignore the general, to search for the particular.”