The lights are out in the park. Everything is dark except for the columns of rippling light on the water. The clouds still reflecting the dull orange glow of the city. Early snows have fallen in the mountains to the south and west and the wind is chilling. Billie and Tan walk along the bank of the bay, looking at the two strings of lights, one on the new bridge and the other on the Harbour Bridge beyond. The dog runs far away across the park until only his white markings are visible, like something in a skeleton suit. As they stand there shivering, the white-faced heron sweeps past on its wide grey wings and comes to rest on the black stones at the base of the sea wall.

As the sky lightened, they went back to the car and drank some hot water from a thermos they carried. They sat in the front seat looking over the accounts for the shoemaking business they worked in with Billie’s Uncle Jim.

“We’re not out of the red yet,” said Tan, working with a calculator on his lap with sheets of paper propped up on the open glove box.

“I could go back to full-time teaching, you know,” said Billie.

“It might help,” he said.

He glanced up as she looked away from him and at the tree trunk outside the driver’s side window.

“But I’m sure we can manage without it. Maybe we should think about moving production to Vietnam, have you thought of that? Everyone does production offshore these days.”

“I’m not sure how Jim would handle that,” said Billie. “He expects to be making shoes till he drops. No, look, it’d be so much easier if I just stuck to designing and worked full time. Just for now, anyway.”

“But, Bill, that would mean you’d have no time for your own work. You don’t even have enough work for the Migas show yet.”

“But I could cut out the political activity,” said Billie. “I’m in the process of being cut out as it is.”

“I think your idea of a stall at the markets is better,” said Tan. “We can work alternate weeks on a stall.”

Billie looked around at the other people demonstrating outside Parliament House. Hundreds of placards, hundreds of people protesting against the mandatory sentencing legislation in the Northern Territory which led to the death of an Aboriginal teenager serving a sentence for stealing a few pens. One placard read: Bondie goes free after embezzling millions, Aboriginal kids die in jail for nothing.

“This is the beginning of the end,” Billie said to Ruby. “Howard’s playing to the migrant lobby now. At the same time, he’s antagonising the Aboriginal groups, refusing to outlaw mandatory sentencing in the Northern Territory, refusing to deliver the apology for the stolen generation, provoking people into action that the migrant lobby won’t follow. He’s dividing the anti-racism movement. He’s the same as Hanson but no one’s reacting. With him, it’s all through the back door.”

“I’m worried actually,” said Ruby. “The One Nation people have re-grouped and formed a new party called the Country City Alliance. They’ve deleted or hidden the racist elements of their policy. They’re pushing themselves as the new improved One Nation. They’ve even got a black person in the organisation.”

“Maybe she’s an infiltrator,” said Billie. “Hey, maybe you could do that, Ruby. Infiltrate the Country City Alliance.”

“Get out of it,” said Ruby. “I’m not prepared to lose the friendship of everyone I know.”

“It’s depressing,” said Billie. “One Nation goes down and a new phoenix springs from its ashes.”

“We’re multiplying too,” said Ruby. “It’s just a matter of time. There’ll be more of us as well.”

••••••••••••••

Jim locked the door of the workshop and walked across the road to visit his friends in the take away opposite. As he entered he held up a small handful of newspaper articles and waved them in the direction of his friend sitting at a table at the back of the shop.

“I found it!” he said as he sat down and took a sip from his friend’s coffee.

“I knew there had to be a hidden agenda for Howard’s sudden alliance with the Timorese liberation movement. Look at this. Australia has just signed a new Timor Gap Treaty for the control of the oil and gas reserves in the Timor Sea. The UN Administrator in East Timor has replaced Indonesia as the other signatory. Gusmao met with BHP months ago and agreed to protect foreign investments in the area. The Suharto family and all those army generals, the old Indonesian oligarchy, have enormous holdings in the area. The treaty is worth billions. That’s why we went in, that’s why we brought ‘our boys’ home. We got the treaty, that’s all Howard wanted. He was protecting the interests of big capital.”

“Okay, okay, Jim,” said his friend, “you’ve made your point but let’s move on. Aren’t you worried about the destabilisation of the Pacific Islands? Remember you were saying that the arms dealers capitalise on these situations – here it is, as you said, in our backyard – sell arms to both sides and create havoc. Then maybe the UN or Australia has to step in so they have to spend money on their military as well. Perfect symmetry!”

Alex opened the door of his flat carrying bags of shopping. As he moved to the kitchen to put things away, he noticed his younger brother Peter lying uncharacteristically on the floor with his head face down on his arms. Alex’s wife Ivana was quietly smoking at the balcony door. There was no music, no television, no internet and no other people present.

“What’s going on here?” he asked. “Did someone die? I mean, again? Where’s Leon? Has something happened to him?”

He started to become agitated and his hand shook as he reached into his shirt pocket for his cigarettes. Ivana gestured to a sheet of folded paper on the dining table. It was a letter from Leon, Alex and Peter’s brother. Next to it was an envelope and in the envelope there were lots of hundred dollar notes. Alex picked up the letter.

Dear brothers,

When you read this letter, I will be far away. I had to go. I’ve decided to become a mercenary soldier. I know you don’t approve of what I’m doing. but this way, I can earn enough money in just a year for us to be able to put a deposit on a house, maybe two houses. My income will even be tax free. There’s so much we can do for the family if we have money. So I hope you’ll find it in your hearts to forgive me.

I was so disappointed that we had to sell the rug for so little. I mean, it’s better than nothing, but where does it get us? We’re at the mercy of these entrepreneurs. We don’t know if that Felix guy is for real or just spinning us a story to make us sell for a lower price. Think about it – if he had produced the appropriate documentation as he said he would, who would be any the wiser? The buyer had a doubt, that’s all. All he needed was reassurance. And for God’s sake, tell him to pay you for all that advice you give him. I regret selling it now, it was the only thing we had of the family. Find out the address of the buyer. Maybe we can buy it back later on, if he hasn’t already tripled his money on it.

They’ve told me I can’t tell you where I am or where I’m going but I can write to you. The mail will be sent through other countries, so there’s no way you can contact me. The money in this envelope should help with the rent and I’ll send you more later. I’m thinking of you always and I know we’ll all be together again soon.

Your loving brother,

Leon

Alex read the letter over and over, then looked up at Ivana who had come to sit at the table opposite him. He stared deeply into her eyes.

“There’s nothing we can do, is there?” said Alex.

“I don’t want his blood money,” said Peter, “he can take it with him to the grave for all I care.”

He walked quickly over to the table, snatched up the envelope and threw the hundred dollar notes around the room.

“We came here because we hate war!” he shouted. “How can he do this to us after all we’ve been through. After everything you’ve sacrificed to get here, to bring us all together. It’s not fair.”

•••••••••••••

As Billie turns looking slightly downwards, her eyes come to rest on a small cluster of gold objects lying on the exposed hairless brown skin in the v-neck of a man’s leather vest. The man is behind several other people. She looks upward to his face. It’s a Eurasian face but his shoulder length hair is bleached white.

“You’re Billie, aren’t you?” the man said, moving past the people between them. “We met at that big New Year’s Eve party on the water, this year. I’m Ricky, a friend of James.”

“Where are you coming from?” asked Billie, stepping forward angrily to meet him. “You’re the guy who broke into my flat, aren’t you? That’s where you met me. What the hell’s going on?”

“I’m sorry I scared you, said Ricky. I’m not stalking you. James asked me to break into your flat and get some drawings you did of him. The guy thinks he might have Aboriginal ancestry and that your drawings, because they’re without colour, bring out his Aboriginal features.”

“He could’ve bought them off me,” said Billie.

“He’s not a very nice person,” said Ricky. “If I were you, I’d stay away from him.”

“How come you suddenly have my interests at heart? Did James forget to pay you?” asked Billie.

“He paid me but the guy’s twisted. He’s obsessed with people who have mixed ancestry. With me too. It gives me the creeps. I don’t want to know him. Do you think he actually has Aboriginal ancestry?”

“I have no idea,” said Billie.

••••••••••••••

Rini is standing in a circle of her students at the edge of the wharf. The writers’ festival is happening around them in various spaces of the huge old finger wharf. At the centre of their circle is a young woman writer talking to them about being a writer in Australia and about writing in a language which isn’t your own.

They all go into the large room for the reading by four readers. Rini watches the students watching the readers.

“We all come from the same place, in a way – Migrantland, says the first reader. Certainly, we all find ourselves in the same position in this place now. We’re always expected to speak as… Speak as a migrant woman, speak as an expert on ethnic food, speak as an ambassador from your parents’ country, speak as a historian and political analyst on the Middle East, Asia or wherever your family comes from. You have dark hair and skin, where do you come from?” (1)

The last reader is the writer who spoke with Rini and the students on the wharf. She reads a piece using the idea of the veil as a social metaphor.

“I can see you, but you can’t see me. I am hidden behind the veils of your culture.” (2)

Billie picked up the phone and Ruby started talking without introduction.

“Well, what do you say now? There were 250,000 on the Reconciliation March over the harbour bridge yesterday. Don’t tell me we’re not multiplying.”

“I know, but do you think it’s going to change government policy?” asked Billie. “Do you think any of those marchers were from Howard’s marginal seats?”

“The Howard government is going down for sure, you’ll see,” said Ruby. “The Reconciliation issue is only one thing. The GST will bring them down anyway. Don’t be such a wet blanket, Billie.”

“Look, I agree, the march was fantastic. A week ago, I wouldn’t have thought it was possible. Maybe Reconciliation finally has gone mainstream but it won’t happen until Howard is out.”

“I just hope there’s still enough momentum to stage protests during the Olympics, said Ruby. We won’t get an opportunity like that again, to seize an international platform.”

•••••••••••••

Bathed in the blue light of the jacaranda and agapanthus. Inside the colonial ghetto, the oasis, the walled garden, the flowery compound. Against the foreign dryness outside. Oblivious to the exquisite colouring of the Australian bush and its bush flowers. Floral blindness. The courtyard has a small fountain in the centre and its water is bubbling over a statue of a cherub from a dish the cherub holds above its head. Partly hidden between plants are various other sculptures in bronze, rusted steel and stone.

Around the luxuriant courtyard is a Spanish-style stuccoed cloister but the walls of the house are plate glass from floor to ceiling. In the living room on the other side of the glass, there are exquisite un-Australian carpets and textures everywhere, browns opposing the green leafy courtyard. On every other available piece of wall space, there are paintings. Rini recognizes some famous works by Australian painters – Brett Whitely, David Strachan and Roy de Maistre. No women, no wogs, not even an expensive Aboriginal piece. Rini and her partner, George stand at the opening to a hallway, separate from the rest of the gathering in the centre of the room. It is the annual luncheon which Rini’s professor throws for his academic staff.

“How can he afford this on a professor’s salary?” whispers George.

“He doesn’t need his professor’s salary,” says Rini, “his family’s loaded.”

A kindly-looking older woman approaches them and starts a conversation. Inevitably, the conversation turns to their ethnic origins. And then to ethnics in general.

“It’s the problem of ghettoes, really, isn’t it?” says the woman. “I mean, they come here but they insist on living in their own little bubble. They don’t want to learn English, do they. They want to keep speaking their own languages, eating their own food and just mixing with their own people. How can they ever become Australian? They don’t like Australians.”

Just then the professor appears behind them.

“Careful, Ivy,” he says, “you may not realize it, but you’re waving a red rag at a bull. Rini’s our resident anti-assimilationist. She’s quite incorrigible.”

“What?” says Ivy. She turns to look at Rini and fixes her gaze on the single blue glass eye which Rini is wearing as an earring.

“Does he mean you believe in ghettoes, Irene?”

Rini and George leave early and get into their car for the long journey home.

“Racists,” said Rini. “They’re everywhere in that generation, they can’t help it.”

“But on another level, said George, the luxury of their surroundings is repugnant. I saw this documentary about village people in Mali getting their first machine. One day of the machine working saved 160 days of human work. Just the motor from the water pump in the fountain in that courtyard would make a huge difference in Mali. Over there, people are wasting their labour while we’ve got technology coming out of our ears. They spend an afternoon grinding flour for the next meal, while we sip cocktails in a colonial compound and grab a pizza on the way home.”

••••••••••••••••

Felix walks into the centre of the second section of Migas Gallery and stands under a spotlight focused on the wall behind him. Someone taps a glass and everyone at the gallery opening turns to face him. He is there to open Billie’s latest show, an installation piece set up on tables in the centre of the gallery. The crowd of people stand facing Felix and surround the tables like army officers ready to be briefed. The installation on the table consists of thousands of tiny soldiers all over the land masses on a giant hand-painted map of the world. Everywhere there are depots of weapons, warheads, rockets, planes. It is like a giant paranoid diagram.

Eleni speaks first, explaining the theoretical underpinning of the Migas Gallery policy, and its relationship to Billie’s work. Then she introduces Felix who gives an urbane speech situating Billie’s work across various traditions and describing her work as quintessentially Australian in its cultural nomadism. After the speeches Billie walks around with trays of meze and encounters James and Bibi near the drinks table. She congratulates James on his new job as head of the Visual Arts and Crafts Board. Bibi moves between Billie and James and gives Billie a hug from the side.

“Bill, this is lovely but I thought you might bung on some Greek dancing for us. I love Greek music, says Bibi. You are Greek aren’t you?”

Notes

1. inspired by a performance by Lena Nahlous at the Waiting in Space reading at the 2000 Sydney Writers’ Festival including a poem Talking in Silence, published in the anthology, p. 9-15, Waiting in Space 1999 eds Abood, Gamba, Kotevski, Pluto Press, Sydney.

2. quote based on lines from the poem, Behind the Veil, by Nushet Yilmaz Comert, p. 84-89, Waiting in Space ibid