Page 60 of The Pearl Sister
‘You okay on the back of the bike?’ she asked.
‘After that camel ride, it sounds like heaven,’ I joked.
‘Jump aboard then.’ She handed me an old helmet, and I put it on before looping my hands around her middle. After a wobbly start, we set off. There was a welcome breeze on my face – a respite from what was another incredibly humid evening, with not a breath of wind to stir the heavy air.
We came to a halt in front of the hotel and as Chrissie parked the moped, I ran inside to fetch the photograph. When I returned to reception, Chrissie was chatting with the woman behind the counter.
‘I’ve got it,’ I said, waving it at her. We settled in the tiny residents’ lounge off reception, sitting together on the sticky leatherette sofa. Chrissie bent her head to study it.
‘It’s a really bad picture, ’cos the sun’s directly behind them and it’s in black and white,’ I said.
‘You mean you can’t tell what colour the people in it are?’ Chrissie queried. ‘I’d say the older man is black and the boy is lighter skinned.’ She held the photograph under the light of a lamp. ‘I’d reckon it was taken in the 1940s or 50s. There’s some writing on the side of the pickup truck behind them. Can you see?’ She passed the photo back to me.
‘Yeah, looks like it says “JIRA”.’
‘Holy dooley!’ Chrissie pointed at the taller figure standing in front of the car. ‘I think I know who that man is.’
There was a pause as she gaped at me with excitement and I stared back at her blankly.
‘Who?’
‘Albert Namatjira, the artist – he’s just about the most famous Aboriginal man in Australia. He was born in and worked out of a mission in Hermannsburg, a couple of hours outside Alice Springs. Y’don’t think he was related to you, do you?’
A shiver ran through me. ‘How would I know? Is he dead?’
‘Yeah, he died a fair while back, in the late 1950s. He was the first Aboriginal man to have the same rights as the whites. He could own land, vote, drink alcohol and he even met the Queen of England. He was an amazing painter – I’ve gotta print ofMount Hermannsburgon my bedroom wall.’
Clearly, Chrissie was a fan of this guy. ‘So, before that time, Aboriginal people didn’t have those rights?’
‘Nah, not until the late sixties,’ she explained. ‘But Namatjira got his rights early ’cos of his artistic talent. What a bloke. Even if he isn’t a rellie of yours, it’s a big clue to where y’might have come from. How old are you?’
‘Twenty-seven.’
‘So . . .’ I watched Chrissie do some mental arithmetic. ‘That means you were born in 1980, which means he might be your grandad! Y’know what this means, right?’ she said, beaming at me. ‘You gotta go to Alice Springs next. Wow, CeCe, I can’t believe it’s him in the pic!’ Chrissie threw her arms round me and squeezed me tight.
‘Okay,’ I gulped. ‘I’d actually been planning on heading to Adelaide to speak to the solicitor who passed on a legacy to me. Where is Alice Springs?’
‘It’s right in the middle of the country – what we call the Never Never. I’ve always wanted to go there – it’s near Uluru.’ When she saw my confused expression, she rolled her eyes. ‘Ayers Rock to you, idiot.’
‘So what kind of stuff did this guy paint?’
‘He totally revolutionised Aboriginal art. He did these incredible watercolour landscapes, and started a whole new school of painting. It takes serious skill to paint a good watercolour, rather than just blobbing paint onto a canvas. He gave his landscapes luminosity – he really knew how to layer the watercolours to get the play of light just right.’
‘Wow. How do you know all this?’
‘I’ve always loved art,’ Chrissie said. ‘I did Aussie culture as part of my tourism degree and spent a semester at uni studying Aboriginal artists.’
I wasn’t ready to admit that I’d studied art at college too but had dropped out. ‘So, did this guy ever paint other stuff, like portraits?’ I asked, curious to know more.
‘Portraits are complicated in our culture. Like, it’s a big taboo because you’re replicating someone’s essence; it would grieve the spirits up there ’cos they’ve done their job down here and want to be left in peace. When one of us dies, we’re not supposed to speak their name again.’
‘Really?’ I thought about how often me and Star had mentioned Pa Salt since he’d died. ‘Isn’t it good to remember those you love and miss?’
‘Course, but speaking their name calls them back, and they’re happy to help us from up there.’
I nodded, trying to take it all in, but it had been a long day already and I couldn’t hide a huge yawn.
‘I’m not boring you, am I?’ she teased me.
