We walked down narrow carpeted corridors, past framed newspaper front pages proclaiming the end of World War II and the first walk on the moon, then through a swing door into a spacious, airy room lined with dented grey filing cabinets. Desks and tables in the center were all unoccupied.
“Still too early in the morning for much action around this place,” said Rohan. He pulled open a cabinet drawer and took out a large manila envelope. “I want to show you something.” He extracted a small newspaper clipping. “Listen to this.”
He read: “Early-morning joggers on St Kilda Beach were startled yesterday to discover the body of a dolphin. It is not known how the dolphin became stranded.”
He looked at me with satisfaction. “My first-ever article in the paper. The very day I started work. Took me more than three hours to write that.”
He surveyed the room. “There’s got to be a librarian somewhere. Even at this hour. Don’t tell me they’re all on strike again.” He stood on his toes and peered over a row of cabinets. “Ah, Liz. A man here. Needs some help. A man, Liz. Your specialty.”
A woman appeared, big and bouncy - voluptuous was probably the best description - wearing a tight-fitting stretch-cotton black dress that reached to the floor. It revealed wide hips and a lot of cleavage. Her pudgy face was lightly made-up. She had on silver earrings shaped like stars and silver rings on most of her fingers. She was an earth mother.
I could envisage her tripping through the woods with a suckling baby propped on each ample hip, stopping occasionally to allow the young ones to savor the bounty of those rolling breasts.
As she approached, a thought flashed into my brain - why was God placing in my path a stream of women in their mid- to late-thirties? Temptation, or a hint about my life?
Rohan spoke: “Liz, this is Johnny. I’ve told you already about his wants and needs. Johnny, Liz. I’ll be back in a couple of minutes. Have to make some phone calls. Liz’ll look after you Johnny. Liz, give the gentleman the special treatment.”
“Same as I give you.”
“Right. The special.” He paused at the door. “Maybe not quite as good as you give me.” He walked out.
She beckoned me to one of the filing cabinets and heaved open the top drawer. “These have all the files on Indonesia.” Then she looked at me with a warm smile. “You’re working with Rohan? It must be big.”
“The story of my life.”
“You’re someone famous?”
“No. I’m trying to locate my missing father.”
“Oh.” Disappointment tinged her voice. “Yeah, we sometimes get people in here trying to trace their ancestors.”
I pulled out a couple of the envelopes. Each had a title: “Australia-Indonesia, trade, 1997-99,” and “Australia-Indonesia, defense, 1997-99.” Each was stuffed full of clippings.
“Anything specifically about East Timor?” I asked.
“Heaps. That’s a different drawer. Next one down.” She took my envelopes, returned them to the top drawer and gently bent down to open the middle one, displaying hillocks of cleavage. Was this the special, or were more delights yet to arrive?
“Rohan said he was working with you on a story.” She was flicking through the envelopes in the drawer, still bent over.
“Uh huh.” I wondered what he had told her.
“Rohan only does the big stories.”
“Yeah.”
She yanked out half-a-dozen envelopes. “Plenty more where these came from. And the most recent stuff is generally on the computer.” She stood and handed them to me. Her perfume gave off a fragrance of vanilla. “He’s driven,” she said.
“Rohan?”
“He’s a pit bull terrier. Once he gets his teeth into a story he doesn’t let go.”
“Can imagine.”
I pulled out clippings at random. There was information about the war in East Timor, the economy, relations with Australia and much else. But just one problem. “Nothing in here’s more than about ten or fifteen years old.”
“You need the older files?”
“Much older. Late 1950s, early 1960s.”
“Rohan didn’t tell me that. A lot of them are in storage.” She took a ring binder from a shelf and flicked through it, then ran her pen down one particular page. “You’re a very lucky man.” She smiled, a caring, lingering smile that spoke of hot casseroles in earthenware pots, fireplaces and jugs of mulled red wine.
She walked to the far wall and started inspecting the shelves of cardboard boxes. I followed.
She spoke: “Nice man, right?”
“Who?”
“Rohan.”
“Yeah.” What was she getting at?
“Everyone likes him. That’s why he’s so successful.” She was still casting her eyes over the boxes.
“You mean he’s not really a nice guy?”
“He is a nice guy. But for him the story is all that matters. He’s always putting himself down, but don’t you believe it. He knows exactly how brilliant he is. And he sure doesn’t let a good woman stand in the way of a story.”
Before I could offer assistance she had grabbed one of the cartons from the shelves and had carried it to the tables.
“And I’m a good woman,” she said with passion.
She looked at me. I could think of no response.
She opened the box. “Go for it.”
I sat at the table and began pulling out envelopes.
Liz walked to another drawer and took out a single clipping. “I’ll show you something.” She handed it to me. “This is all about Rohan.”
I wanted to learn about my father, not about Rohan. I skimmed it politely.
“Age Reporter Scoops Journalism Awards,” read the headline, and then: “Age investigative reporter Rohan Gillbit was lauded last night at the annual Walkley journalism awards for his series of articles that led to the resignation of two cabinet ministers and the jailing for fraud of several senior business executives.” The article went on to detail how Rohan had turned down lucrative careers in the finance and public relations sectors because of his dedication to public service journalism.
I handed it back to Liz.
“He doesn’t have time for anything that stands in the way of the story,” she said. “Including me.”
“I’m sorry.” I pulled out more envelopes from the box.
Liz didn’t move. Well, yes she did. She leaned over again, to watch my research endeavors. Her breasts were swaying. “You don’t look Indonesian. You’re more…Mediterranean, I’d say.”
“Thank you.” I sorted through some envelopes. Actually, it turned out my task was pretty easy. Before around 1990 the files became far fewer in number.
Liz still stood over me. “Rohan says you’re a private investigator.”
“Yep.” I took out an envelope that said, “Australia-East Timor, 1954-60” and another that said “Australia-East Timor, 1961-65”.
“Exciting work.”
“Can be.” I emptied the 1961-65 envelope of about thirty clippings and spread them in front of me.
“Working in a newspaper office you get to meet lots of exciting people.”
I nodded. Not much of interest was happening in 1961-65 between Australia and East Timor. Some trade talks, something about coffee, some businessmen talking up a tourism venture.
“Freebies, too. Loads of freebies. There’s always tickets floating around the office for concerts in town.”
“Sounds good.” Suddenly my brain snapped to attention, as I perused a tiny article, just three sentences long.
I read it.
Then I read it again.
And again.
And as I read I felt myself start to sweat.
“Are you jazz or classical?” asked Liz. “I’m guessing jazz.”
“Yeah, jazz is good.” This was amazing.
I read the article once more.
Army Officers Back Home
Three Australian Army counter-terrorism specialists returned home yesterd
ay after more than a year helping train Portuguese troops in East Timor.
The men spoke highly of the experience. “East Timor is a paradise, with wonderful people, and it deserves to be protected from the growing threat of terrorism,” said one of them, Lieutenant John La Vinne.
I felt myself shaking. Liz seemed to be saying something about tickets she had for a jazz concert. I flashed her a polite smile, and with growing fervor began sorting through all the clippings again. More. More. There had to be more.
I was interrupted by a crashing noise. I hadn’t even noticed Liz walk away. She had just slammed shut one of the filing cabinet drawers with great force, and was now leaning on the cabinet, looking with defiance away from me, but with her arm sprawled above a sticker attached to the drawer:
This company is an equal-opportunity employer.
So how come all the single men are gay?
I tried to remember what she had been telling me – something about a jazz concert – when I heard from the doorway behind me the booming radio announcer’s voice of Rohan: “Liz, my sweetness and light, greetings. Johnny, private eye extraordinaire, any luck with the clippings?”
“Rohan, this is amazing.”
He strolled over. “Mate, it sounds like good news.”
“I am so excited. Look at this.” I passed him the tiny clipping. “I can’t believe it. Rohan, I think you might have helped me find my father.”
I wanted to kiss him.