Copyright Drusilla Modjeska 2012. All rights reserved.

. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

Copyright Drusilla Modjeska 2012. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

Drusilla Modjeska is one of Australias most acclaimed writers. She was born in England but lived in Papua New Guinea before arriving in Australia in 1971. Her books include Exiles at Home; the NSW Premiers Award winner Poppy; Sisters, which she co-edited; the Nita B. Kibble, NSW Premiers Award and Australian Booksellers Book of the Year Award winner The Orchard; Timepieces; and Secrets with Robert Dessaix and Amanda Lohrey. She is also the author of the bestselling Stravinskys Lunch, winner of the Nita B. Kibble and the NSW Premiers Award. The Mountain is her rst novel. Praise for The Mountain A wonderful achievement. It is moving and panoramic. It takes us into the heart of our near neighbour Papua New Guinea in a way thats never been done before, through the point of view of the founders of independence, their friends and lovers. At the same time, its a sweeping story of love and friendship, of hope and regret, and of the generational loyalties we inherit, as well as the ones we create for ourselves. The Mountain is a novel as intricate and powerful as the bark-cloth paintings at its heart. Anna Funder Praise for The Orchard Modjeska is accessible and entertaining, a good story-teller . . . Her dexterity at interlacing . . . assorted skeins without unravelling or entanglement is to be marvelled at Canberra Times A beautifully written narrative . . . The Orchard is written with style and complexity Melbourne Times A book brimful with ideas, informed by a wide-ranging imagination, and certain to inspire those who read it to act upon their dreams . . . As enriching a book as youre likely to read this year Herald Sun

Photo: Antonia Hayes

Copyright Drusilla Modjeska 2012. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

Also by Drusilla Modjeska Non-ction Women Writers: a study in Australian cultural history 192039 Exiles at Home: Australian women writers 192545 Inner Cities: Australian womens memory of place Poppy The Orchard Secrets (with Robert Dessaix and Amanda Lohrey) Stravinskys Lunch Timepieces Edited The Poems of Lesbia Harford Sisters The Best Australian Essays 2006 The Best Australian Essays 2007

Copyright Drusilla Modjeska 2012. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

THE

MOUNTAIN

drusilla

modjeska

Copyright Drusilla Modjeska 2012. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

A Vintage book Published by Random House Australia Pty Ltd Level 3, 100 Pacic Highway, North Sydney NSW 2060 www.randomhouse.com.au First published by Vintage in 2012 Copyright Drusilla Modjeska 2012 Chapter icons copyright mie Artists 2012 Excerpt from Questions of Travel from The Complete Poems, 19271979 by Elizabeth Bishop. Copyright 1979, 1983 by Alice Helen Methfessel. Reprinted by permission of Farrar, Straus and Giroux, LLC. The moral right of the author has been asserted. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted by any person or entity, including internet search engines or retailers, in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying (except under the statutory exceptions provisions of the Australian Copyright Act 1968), recording, scanning or by any information storage and retrieval system without the prior written permission of Random House Australia. Addresses for companies within the Random House Group can be found at www.randomhouse.com.au/ofces National Library of Australia Cataloguing-in-Publication Entry Modjeska, Drusilla The mountain / Drusilla Modjeska ISBN 978 1 74166 650 2 (pbk.) A823.4 Cover photograph by Jason Isley, Scubazoo/Getty Images Cover design by Sandy Cull, gogokingko Map on p. v by Ice Cold Publishing Internal design by Midland Typesetters Typeset in 12/15.5pt Adobe Garamond by Midland Typesetters, Australia Printed in Australia by Grifn Press, an accredited ISO AS/NZS 14001:2004 Environmental Management System printer Random House Australia uses papers that are natural, renewable and recyclable products and made from wood grown in sustainable forests. The logging and manufacturing processes are expected to conform to the environmental regulations of the country of origin.

Copyright Drusilla Modjeska 2012. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

Copyright Drusilla Modjeska 2012. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

PROLOGUE
Lunch with Jericho, 2005

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From his table on the terrace of the museum, Jericho sees Martha coming through the crowds on the Quay. Shes walking fast and takes off her dark glasses to scan the tables. Her hair is short, well cut. The odd thing is that she looks like Rika. Rikas clothes are more expensive, of course, but Martha has the same style and form. Well, there was a time when they were friends. Like sisters, Leonard said. For thirty years they havent spoken, and still they look the same. Martha spots him at a table towards the end of the terrace, and waves. Hes chosen a good position, under a heater, with a view across the water to the Opera House. Its June, the beginning of winter in Sydney, and out of the sun the air is chill. How good you look, Martha says as they embrace, and Jericho sees the pleasure in her face. When he rst came down from the mountain to Rika, barely ve years old, she was the other mother. Rika and Martha. They were younger then than he is now, and he thinks again of how it must have been for them, in a country that wasnt theirs, suddenly presented with a small child to raise. So, Jericho, Martha says when theyre settled at the table with the menus. Youre going back. He nods, a quizzical expression that says, Yes, hes going back, but hes not at all sure. A big decision. Its thirty years now, he says. A good round number. Not much of an answer, but its a start. Thirty years, Martha says. I suppose it is. Thirty years since independence. She remembers the celebrations, the dancing and the music. And the rain, the mud. Independence. What a ne word
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that is, and something stirs in a dark region of her memory, something sad and raw. She doesnt expect the raw, not after all this time. Ive got leave from the gallery, Jericho says. A year away from London. He makes a face that says, Help! A year! Will I last that long? Did you know, he says, that theyve closed the airstrip on the mountain? Ill have to walk in. Where from? The road that goes up to Kokoda. Ive looked it up on the map. Theres a side road part of the way, but its still a long walk just to get to the river. The river at the base of the mountain. Martha knows that road. Dust when its dry, cut by ooding gullies when its wet. How t are you? she asks. Hes not tall, but his legs are well muscled. Legs born for a mountain that is steep and ridged, with many peaks. Ive been training at the gym, he says. And at weekends I walk for hours. Londons so at, its probably been a complete waste of time. He laughs. At Easter I went to Wales with Leonard. We did a lot of walking, but nothing compared to the mountain. His advice is not to think about it too much and when the time comes to just do it! I dont know about that, Martha says. She never went up, but everyone who did came back without an ounce of fat, and Jericho doesnt look as if he has much to spare. Hes lean, small-boned, with the soft, coppery skin of his Papuan mother and the long face of his English father. The black curls of his hair are as thick as they were when he was a child. The food arrives. Small portions on large plates. They should have crossed the road at the back of the museum and gone to a caf. She knows hes been with the curators all morning, as his gallery in London is borrowing from their holdings for a show in two years time. Even so. Hows Rika? she asks. Its a question she cant not ask, and fears will take her where she doesnt want to go. Shes in New York.
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I know. But thats about all I know. Jericho takes a photo from the satchel of papers he has with him. Im taking it up to the mountain, he says. To show them. As he hands it across, Martha feels a sharp stab of betrayal. Rika is standing against a white wall beside the ground-spider bark-cloth. Its many legs stretch above her, white on a dark background, long and thin, like the rays of the moon. So she still has it. Martha keeps her voice even, not letting him see how angry she is. Rika keeps the cloth, lets herself be photographed beside it, and yet for thirty years has ignored letters, closing off the past as if it can be banished by the force of her refusal. When was it taken? she asks. Recently. For an exhibition. Does she talk to you about what happened? No. Never. He shakes his head, sighs. Leonard tells me what he knows, but he wasnt there for most of it. And she wont talk about any of it. Nothing. He thinks of the row they had before he left London. Not a row exactly, Rika is too controlled for that. Better if it had been. She said shed never interfere with him returning, but it didnt mean she should dredge up a past long gone. She gives me access to the archive, he says. Its all there, all the photos, but she wont tell me what they mean. She seems to think theyre enough on their own. But theyre not. Martha hears the frustration in his voice and she leans across, puts her hand on his. What is it you want to know? Everything. What burst you all apart. Its thirty years ago, Martha says. Her heart feels tight. Theres a part of her that wants to say to Jericho, Let us bear the burden of the past, it should not be yours. He may be thirty-six and think of himself as getting old, but she knows hes too young to realise how fast the rest will go, the accelerating decades, and she wants to say to him, Dont look back. Be brave, go up there, do what you must, but when you leave, be sure youre poised for the future. Then she thinks of her own departure, remembers the faces of her Papuan friends. Its all very well
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for you guys. You can leave. Thats the least that was said. She should remember, betrayal cuts many ways. She sits there, silent, looking at Jericho, remembering. The gift child, they called him on the mountain. A waiter comes, clears their plates. They smile at him, turn their faces into those of people enjoying the pleasures of Sydney. Over at the Quay, ferries are easing in and out; the life of the city goes on, as it does, every day. The man sprayed silver continues to stand like a statue, the jugglers continue to juggle, and the didgeridoo plays to the tourists. Martha looks at Jericho and understands it will be a hard return.

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BOOK ONE
196873

Should we have stayed at home and thought of here? Is it right to be watching strangers in a play In this strangest of theatres? Elizabeth Bishop, Questions of Travel, 1956

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Birds of the Sun

Rika first heard of the mountain in the at country of her birth. It was a November day when Leonard, visiting Leiden from Oxford, told her the story of the old woman who carried the sun and the moon in her string bag. They were walking back to the house on the canal after Leonard had given a lecture at the museum. He was a house guest, the rst since her mother had died, and to welcome him, her father had let her open the curtains of the old dining room, let in the fresh air. That was Leonards rst gift, freeing Rika from the tight corner of the kitchen where she and her father had been cramped for a long, bleak year. She had much to thank Leonard for, and she went with him to the museum, where her father was curator and host to his lecture. She sat at the back and while Leonard spoke of the value of ethnographic lm, her mind drifted. It was a habit shed learned while her mother was ill, letting the drift take her elsewhere, into another world, of blue water and blue skies. Sun. She often dreamed of sun. Did Leonard ever think it odd, she asked him after the lecture, that so many of the things in the museum, the masks and
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carvings he was speaking of, had come from places in the sun, yet were marooned here in the gloom? They were walking along the canal and a soft rain was falling. Leonard took her arm as they crossed a bridge. In Papua, he told her, deep in the ancestor past, an old woman had carried the sun and the moon in her string bag. Each morning, she climbed the great mountain in the dark, and when she reached the top she took the sun from her bag and hung it in the sky. Its light fell in glorious rays, shining through the trees, so that her daughters could see the abundance of the world around them. Amazed at its beauty, they painted all that they saw in its clear, bright light. They painted leaves and fruit and spider webs, the bones of river sh and the markings of caterpillars. And they painted the mountain with its many peaks. When they were tired and had worked enough for one day, the old woman climbed back to the peak of the mountain, took the sun down from the sky, returned it to her string bag, and in its place hung the moon. Then her daughters could rest, and she could rest with them. Though Rika was schooled in Holland, that land of reason, there was a part of her that believed that a place which bred such people, such imagination, must be a place of redemption. So when, on a later visit, Leonard said he was going there, to that very mountain, to lm its people who still painted the world around them, she said, yes, shed marry him and go too. In fact, marrying Leonard had meant a year in Oxford, which in terms of sun wasnt an improvement, but the year had passed and now, at last, here they were in Papua, at the end of a long journey. But instead of a mountain covered in rainforest and inhabited by artists, they were in a dry valley outside an awkward house in a row of awkward houses, expected to climb the steps and into a party of people gathered in welcome. Red-faced men were calling out from the veranda with beer bottles in their hands. They were wearing beige shorts, garments Rika had never before seen on grown men. The women, all but the youngest, were dressed in the slacks of Australian fashion. Slacks, in this heat. Rika was in an indigo shift, and her fringe
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fell over her eyes as she looked down at her own pale legs. Leonard put an encouraging hand on her shoulder and again she hesitated, turning to look into the dark. It was a still night. The moon, just past the full, gave the hills a silvery quality. Shed seen them from the plane; theyd looked like waves coming into shore. Behind them lay the dark bulk of mountains; beyond that, on the other side of the island Leonard had shown her on the map was the mountain shed come to think of as theirs. From the plane shed also seen villages curved along beaches, canoes pulled up on the sand; blue water, blue skies, just as shed imagined. Beside the houses were trees with spreading branches, and along a sandy track a line of trees with ame-red leaves. Leaves or petals, she didnt know shed never seen such a tree, even in the Botanical Gardens at Leiden. It looks like paradise down there, she said to Leonard. But not Port Moresby, Im told, he said, taking her hand. I hope you wont be disappointed. By the time they landed, clouds had come in over the mountains, the sky had lost its blue and hung low and heavy. When theyd crossed the tarmac to the hangar that served as a terminal, Rika was streaming with moisture. All around her people jostled, selling watermelon and carved masks, touting for business, calling out in singing voices. While Leonard lit his pipe and watched for the trunk with his lm equipment, she waded into the crowd, pushing past the Australians whod been on the plane and were now standing in groups, mopping their foreheads and calling across to the porters. She went on, into the colour and the smells, into this strange world where even air and trees had changed their nature. She lifted her camera to a tall woman with tattoo lines radiating across her face, a cigarette tucked into the bush of her hair. Rika smiled. The woman did not. She held Rikas gaze until shed returned the Leica to her basket. The woman nodded, a ghost of a smile, and turned into the crowd. *
11

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The host, coming to greet them on the veranda, was Alex Penrose, a plump man whose glasses slid down his nose in the heat. He was the professor of anthropology. Welcome, he said, his arms out wide. Come in. Come in. Let me introduce you. Professors. Wives in those terrible slacks. The vice-chancellor. A politician from the new indigenous party, serious, with neat, cropped hair. A sea of hands shook Rikas. Names skimmed through her head and were gone. The room was sparsely furnished. The chairs were pushed to one side, and standing back against a wall was a group of young men with springy hair students, she supposed. They had beer bottles in their hands; they held them as the white men did, but their faces were hesitant. There seemed something transitional about them. She liked that. Maybe she was too. She smiled and a ripple passed between them as they watched her, all blonde fringe and pale legs. Her indigo shift was getting more attention than Alex Penroses story of how hed lured Leonard to this new university that was still being built in this dry valley. Hed been visiting the Martyrs School across the mountains, over on the north coast, where the Japanese had landed during the war. Named for the Anglican nuns who left their retreat too late, he told Leonard. Foolish creatures, they trusted their god to save them. He paused for laughter, which duly came. Still, its a good school weve a lot of students from there. Id been there all day and was about to leave, when a boy came up. Smaller than the others, lighter-boned. From the mountain, the headmaster said. I thought the boy wanted to ask more about coming to the university, but, no, my introductory talk doesnt usually get such a response. He paused for effect. The vice-chancellor laughed. The men crowded around laughed. The boy said, The mountain asks for you, and I said, You mean the chiefs, and he said, No, the mountain. It was one of those moments. I might as easily have said no its not as if they dont keep us busy here another pause, another laugh but how can you turn down an invitation like that?
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If you hadnt gone, Rika said, we wouldnt be here. I suppose you wouldnt, Alex said. Or maybe you would, the politician said. More than one road can lead to where were going. Yes? Rika looked at him. Cautious. She couldnt tell if he was mocking her. She thought not. You people have strange ideas of causality. You like to see the link and prove it. How else would we get here? Maybe the boy was right and the ancestors were calling you. To here? Rika was doubtful. The politician smiled. I meant to the mountain, he said. But maybe here as well. More laughter, though not from Rika. As an anthropologist, I wouldnt dismiss the possibility, Leonard said. He had turned to the politician. Ive seen evidence of other causalities. He took a long draw on his pipe, and the conversation, with Alex conducting, returned to the mountain. A powerful place, he said. You feel it when youre there. Hed accepted the invitation and gone up with the boy. Before the climb, he hadnt thought much about the bark-cloth they made on the mountain, though the headmaster had shown him a small piece on his wall, a gift sent down from the chiefs. He had felt the brous texture of the fabric and looked at the strange irregularity of the pattern, but the cloth was ill-lit and crowded by the lists and schedules pinned around it. He had had to climb the steep ridges of the mountain, a two-day journey, to reach the villages high above the morning mists. There he saw the bark-cloth hanging from houses and gateways, adorning the people. He saw that the black lines were painted with a free hand, the patterns heightened with rust browns and reds, dabs of yellow, a vibrant vocabulary of the mountain. It was then that Alex thought of Leonard. Hed seen his lm of the canoemakers of Tuvalu, and knew his reputation to be among the best. And here he is! he said, arms ung wide. It was an achievement, persuading Leonard to come from Oxford to this new university, and
13

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for the lm hed shoot on the mountain to be associated with his department. So the faces turned towards this tall, slightly stooped man with a bony face that made him look more than ten years older than his wife. The circle of men closed around him and Rika was left to Susan Penrose, a small woman whod had too many children and didnt like the heat. Let me introduce you to the women, she said. Im afraid were rather old-fashioned up here. With the men working, we have to make our own amusements. More faces, more names to miss, Rika thought. The wives coming forward with their hands outstretched were matronly. Rikas dress felt appallingly wrong and she gave the skirt a surreptitious tug. Then she saw the bark-cloth tacked to the wall. Not a good position, but there it was, a pattern of abstract, semi-triangular shapes hanging imperturbable beside the door to the kitchen, where she could see people slicing chicken, arranging dishes, washing glasses. Beautiful, isnt it? Susan said. The women paint the cloth, and one of their chiefs sent me this one. Not to Alex. To me. She laughed. What a different world if our chiefs were women. The wives thought this hilarious. Something inside Rika sank. Was this what awaited her? This and the raw house where the car had left them that morning? There were still building materials piled outside. From inside, there was nothing to see but sparse trees. All afternoon shed sat staring out, as if the hills might hold some surprise, some hint of possibility. But there was nothing. All this way, and nothing.

Later, Rika would say that if it hadnt been for Martha, shed have run home to her father there and then, all the way to the Netherlands, and begged him to turn back the clock. As it was, Martha was standing near the kitchen, under the bark-cloth, and when she saw Rika look up at it, she smiled. In their exchange, hope rallied. Beside Martha
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was Laedi, with a child on her hip. Both women looked young the same as her, Rika thought, with hair that was long and skirts that were short. No slacks for them. Martha was smiling, making small movements with her hands that said keep going, dont stop, as Rika extricated herself from a woman in a tie-dyed skirt who ran art classes and another who was starting a choir. When eventually she reached them, Susan Penrose didnt have to make the introductions. They did it themselves, as if the wait had been too long and they had a lot to catch up on. The child on Laedis hip cackled with pleasure at Rika. Rika hitched her onto her own hip, saying, Come, its hot. Lets go outside. Leaving the wives to their offers of sewing bees and coffee mornings, she turned, and with Martha and Laedi behind her manoeuvred through the party out onto the veranda, where the air was cool. A young Papuan in a green shirt was leaning against the railing, rolling a cigarette. He was a student, not much more than twenty, with large, slightly hooded eyes and shorts that hung as if too large for him. Hed positioned himself where he could hear the professors and the politician. Leaning there, looking back into the room, hed noticed the ripple Rika made as she abandoned the wives. Hey, Jacob, Martha greeted him, as Alex appeared beside them. Behind him came Leonard and his pipe. Rika was looking out into the dark valley, which at dusk had been washed in garish streaks, transforming the swamp into a golden lake. I thought Id walk over in the morning and swim, she said. Where? Jacob asked, following her gaze. There, Rika said, pointing into the dark. Earlier I saw a lake. Lake! Alex exclaimed. Its a swamp! The only things that swim there are mosquitoes. Still, Id like to go, Rika said. We cant have white women walking around alone in the scrub, Alex said. Ill take you, Jacob said. His face was curiously impassive. Impossible to read.
15

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Its a long walk, Jacob. The roar had gone out of Alexs voice. Much too far for her. We can take the old track. Id like that, Rika said. Rika, darling, Leonard said. Tomorrow morning we must go to the bank, arrange a car. There are chores. Then Friday, Jacob said. We should go at dawn. It was April, 1968.

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