Prophets and Loss (A Johnny Ravine Mystery)
Page 12
Chapter Nine
“You’ve got a dynamite story to tell,” said Rohan, a wry grin on his face. “If you weren’t an illegal immigrant I reckon I’d be writing a feature about you for the paper. Might even be a book in it.” He looked at me closely. “Did you ever find your father?”
I was impressed that he spotted what was important to me. “I wouldn’t mind having some access to your library at The Age.”
“You reckon Dad might be a celebrity? Written up in all the papers?”
“Not a celebrity. But not too many Australians went to Dili in the early 1960s. Maybe he was a journalist or a diplomat or an aid worker or something. Maybe there’s an article about a group of Australians going to Dili. I seem to spend half my time on the internet and at public libraries looking for an Australian named John Ravine, but I’m getting nowhere.”
Rohan looked at me with a mixture of pity and admiration. Then he asked, very softly, the obvious question: “Mum never told you what he did?”
I shook my head. “I don’t know if she knew. I guess she must have. Though she was only about fifteen when she was with him. She was probably pretty naïve. Anyway, I didn’t see her that often, and around the time I started to want to find out more about my Australian dad she’d been killed.”
“Let’s go back to my place,” said Rohan. “It’ll be quite safe. I’ll cook us some grub. Lunch, or brunch, or dinner, or whatever seems appropriate. We can work out what we’re going to do about the Dili Tigers.”
“You don’t have kids to drive to their Saturday sport?”
“My wife found another man to do that for her. Long ago.”
“Let’s go,” I said.
“It’s pretty tough growing up not knowing your father,” muttered Rohan as we walked together out of the café. “I grew up not knowing mine. And he never left us.”
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