Prophets and Loss (A Johnny Ravine Mystery)

by Martin Roth

  Chapter Fifteen

  It had been a struggle to lever Papa Guzman into Rohan’s bashed-up Mitsubishi Sigma, but we managed, and now we were driving through Coburg, past row upon neat row of post-war bungalows, on our way to Preston. Papa had promised to introduce us to members of the local Timorese community who might have useful information. It was early evening, and the stars were beginning to twinkle in a cloudless sky.

  “Footy season’s only begun, but already the Hawks are looking good for the premiership,” said Rohan, turning to glance at Papa, wedged into the front seat beside him. I translated.

  “Jason Dunstall good,” said Papa in English, naming one of the Hawthorn greats.

  “Jason Dunstall utterly brilliant,” exclaimed Rohan. “Johnny, we have a Timorese football fan among us. Ask him what he thinks of Dermie Brereton.”

  “Dermott Brereton good,” said Papa.

  “Excellent,” said Rohan.

  “Shane Crawford good,” said Papa.

  “Fine. Right. I think we’re getting the point. Let’s switch to discussing wine. Any favorites?”

  “He likes Portuguese wine,” I said.

  “Portuguese wine? That’s that rosé in funny green bottles, isn’t it?” He slowed to check a street sign, and muttered as he realized he had overshot. He did a U-turn and then a sharp right, past a primary school, into a side street.

  “I think they do more than that, but you wouldn’t see much of it in Australia.”

  “No need. No need. When you have the nectar of the gods in your backyard who needs Portuguese? Ask him if he knows the Yarra Valley.”

  I did so. “He says he’s driven out there for picnics a few times.”

  “Does he know it’s one of the world’s great wine regions? Pinot noir, like you won’t get anywhere else. Pinot noir, that’s burgundy, you know that?”

  It was clear that if my relationship with Rohan was to develop I would need to expand my education.

  We drove past a fish wholesaler and a trucking depot and then pulled up outside a strip of a dozen brightly lit shops, restaurants and takeaway joints.

  We helped Papa Guzman out and walked past a couple of young guys sitting at an outdoor table, drinking tea and smoking, into the Timor Lorosae, a café right in the center of the strip. I seldom came here – no need when Box Hill served up some of Melbourne’s best Asian food – but nostalgia for ai-dila tahan – cooked paw paw leaves, served nowhere else in the city - occasionally lured me.

  The place was jumping. Seven or eight people sat at a long counter at the back, and at least thirty more were eating, drinking and talking at round tables which were covered with sheets of white paper. The walls were painted a lemon yellow, with a liberation poster and a couple of calendars the only decorations. A long noticeboard by the cash register at the entrance contained copious listings of community events. A fireplace at the back of the room suggested that the premises had once been someone’s home.

  “If there’s no menu I’m leaving,” shouted Rohan above the clamor.

  A lean young man I recognized as Domingos, the owner, a refugee from Maubisse, spotted Papa and pushed through to hug and kiss him. They chatted briefly, and then turned to us.

  But Rohan’s eyes were fixed on something in the far corner. “A pinball machine,” he cried out. “My goodness me. Isn’t this a wonder. I’m back in my mis-spent youth already. Must be the only one left in Melbourne.” He edged his way over.

  There were clearly no vacant tables, but I watched as Domingos talked to a couple of customers who were drinking coffee in the center of the café. They stood, took their cups and moved to seats at the counter. Domingos replaced the white sheet of paper on their table, and then beckoned us over.

  Rohan joined us. He pointed to the pinball machine. “Doesn’t work. Should’ve known. Too good to be true. Sigh. Dream on.”

  Domingos brought us cups of tea and three menus. Rohan quickly skimmed his. “Last place you took me to had nothing but noodles. This is mainly rice. What’s next? A potato restaurant?” Then he pointed casually to a group at a nearby table, which was laden with steaming plates of rice, vegetables and fried pork. “Look at that. A pleasant family night out. Mum, Dad and the two kids. This could be anywhere in Australia.”

  I glanced across. I recognized them: Vincente Remedios and his wife Lucia. “They used to have five kids,” I told Rohan. “All five got killed when the Indonesians bombed their school. Lucky they weren’t too old, so after they came to Australia they could have two more.”

  I surveyed the crowd. I knew about half of them.

  “Look at those three women at the next table,” I said quietly. “The youngest one – the pretty one - her name’s Ana. She got raped by Indonesian soldiers when she was twelve years old. That’s her mother and grandmother with her. They were raped too. Father and grandfather were both executed.”

  Rohan gritted his teeth. He was silent for a long time, then spoke: “It’s World War Two and the Holocaust all over again. I’m starting to realize it was as bad as that.”

  “Australia’s a good country,” I said. “People are able to make a new life here. A good life. But you can’t wipe out your memories of something as horrific as all that. It doesn’t leave you normal. You’re always carrying strange emotions.”

  “Bitterness. Distrust. Confusion. Fear.”

  “For starters.”

  Domingos was back. We ordered a big bowl of fried rice with seafood, and some plates of vegetables with chili.

  “This is all on me,” said Rohan. “I’m putting it on expenses.”

  “You realize you’re placing a huge obligation on Papa. He’s going to hunt you down, drag you back to his place and force food down your throat. He couldn’t live knowing he owed someone a meal.”

  “So long as he doesn’t force Portuguese wine down me.”

  Domingos took away our orders, then returned and seated himself next to Papa. His sallow face was scarred with pimples and his reedy hands were blotched with large black spots. He and Papa began talking together in Tetun, our Timorese language. Then they stopped, and I translated for Rohan.

  “He says there are bad men around. He doesn’t know who they are, but they’re not Timorese. He says people are worried. A few people have spotted men they think were enemy militia.”

  Rohan pondered this for a moment. “Okay, Johnny. Fair enough. But listen to me. I think we knew this already. I thought Papa was the man with a million names in his contacts book. Can’t he come up with some specifics?”

  I spoke with Domingos and Papa. Domingos was silent for a while, but then he stood and edged his way to the counter and began conversing with one of the patrons. This man walked over, kissed and embraced Papa, then sat in the seat that Domingos had been occupying. He and Papa began conversing.

  Rohan eyed him, then turned to me. “Good guy? Bad guy?”

  “Don’t know. Haven’t met him before. There’s plenty in the Timorese community I don’t know.”

  He was a good-looking man, no more than about thirty, with a square face and narrowing eyes that hinted at some Chinese ancestry. His thick black hair stuck straight up, like a cartoon character whose finger had got caught in an electricity socket. He was wearing black-rimmed glasses, and he kept looking between Papa, Rohan and myself, as if we were dishes at a buffet and he didn’t know which to choose.

  Papa spoke to me. “This is Paulo da Costa. From Ermera. I knew his father Lucas da Costa. He often helped us when we had an operation in that part of the island. You’ll remember him, Johnny.”

  I nodded. I knew that Lucas da Costa had many times risked his life to help us. He smuggled food, he provided shelter, he carried messages. And in the end, almost inevitably, he gave his life helping us, such was the steamroller-like brutality of the Indonesian invasion.

  “Paulo’s been in Melbourne six years,” said Papa. “He’s a school teacher. He’s got something to tell us.”

  I translated all this for
Rohan. Then Paulo spoke, in excellent English. “Johnny Ravine, I know all about you. My father told me everything. You were one of my heroes when I was a teenager.” He spoke in a staccato, his eyes still darting around the table.

  I flashed him a modest grin.

  “Might take a few notes?” muttered Rohan, apparently feeling that something of importance was about to be spoken. He pulled a small notebook and pen from his jacket, and began scribbling. “Do you think he’ll mind?”

  Paulo didn’t seem fazed. He continued to look at me. “I know all about what happened after they caught you. With that Dili Tigers militia thug. Alberto. All the torture…”

  “Yeah,” I said.

  “I also met Alberto. An unhappy encounter.”

  Rohan looked up. I said nothing.

  Paulo continued. “It was soon after I got married. I was twenty-two. I hadn’t been back in Ermera long after studying in Jakarta. I was helping out on our family’s farm because there wasn’t much work around.”

  He paused, as a waiter brought our rice and vegetables, together with plates and cutlery.

  “Then the militia came.”

  “To your home?” asked Rohan.

  “To our home. I’d been in Jakarta for several years. So I wasn’t involved in the resistance. But my father was. He was hiding in the mountains.”

  Papa started piling rice on a plate and then began eating, but I didn’t feel like food. Talking about Alberto set me on edge.

  “There were three of them who came to our house. Militia thugs in military uniform. Alberto was the leader. He said they were going to punish me because of my father’s work in the resistance. I was scared. I knew about Alberto’s reputation. My wife Aurora knew, too. She tried to escape, but she was too slow. They had guns and sticks. They beat us both.”

  I had heard so many of these stories. I wanted to stand up and walk away.”

  “Two of the men grabbed me and held me down. I was helpless. I couldn’t move. They put something around my mouth so I couldn’t call out. And Alberto got my wife, Aurora…”

  I dropped my head. I knew what was coming. I didn’t want to listen.”

  “He got her…” He fell silent.

  “Yes,” said Rohan expectantly, holding up his pen. “He got her. Go on.”

  I wanted to yell at Rohan to shut up. To show some sense. But how could anyone in Australia make sense of what life was like for us in those days?

  “Then he raped her. On the floor. And the men held me so I had to watch. When I closed my eyes they’d slap me until I opened them. Aurora. She was…” His voice choked.

  “Raped her?” said Rohan. “Alberto? In front of you? Her husband.”

  “That’s what they did,” I said softly.

  “Then they beat me up again,” said Paulo. “And they left us. And after that? It was a nightmare. I wanted to die. I wish they’d killed us both. My young wife…”

  “Raped her? In front of you?”

  I hadn’t seen Rohan so agitated.

  “We came to Australia,” said Paulo. “I thought it would be a new start. But it’s still a nightmare. We haven’t had children. We…” He stopped himself. “She hardly talks. Even now. She works at the public library all day, then at night she just reads or watches TV. And she’s never once talked about what happened. Sometimes she cooks, but sometimes she doesn’t, and I have to come here for a quick meal.”

  Paulo was still glancing from one of us to the other, like a scared rabbit. He clearly had more to say.

  “And then two weeks ago we were taking a walk together in a small park, near our home in Coburg. My wife and I. We saw him.”

  “Who?” said Rohan.

  “Him. Alberto. Walking with another man. Here in Melbourne.” Paulo’s voice was choking. “They were talking together.”

  “And it was definitely him?” asked Rohan.

  “It was him. It was Alberto. Here in Melbourne.”

  Paulo started shaking. He gripped the table, and then he started crying.

  “Johnny, it was him.” He was speaking now in Tetun. “Walking casually right by us. In Melbourne. You can’t imagine how Aurora felt. She couldn’t even scream. She was so frightened. She ran. She almost ran in front of a tram. I think it might have been deliberate. I had to drag her back.”

  Tears were streaming down his face. Some of the other customers were casting us worried glances. Over in the corner, Domingos was watching with concern.

  “Johnny,” he sobbed. “I’m scared. I’m so scared.”

  Papa had been eating while Paulo was talking, but now he stopped and put an arm around the young man, and spoke some sentences in a firm voice.

  “What’s he saying?” asked Rohan, pen poised above his notebook.

  I gave him a direct translation: “Paulo da Costa, proud son of Lucas da Costa, hero of the resistance. Don’t be afraid. Go back to your home and take care of your beautiful wife. We are going to get Alberto. He is going to feel the wrath of the resistance. Justice will be done. Papa Guzman and Johnny Ravine are in action again.”