When the Singing Stops Page 2

  Matthew Wright stopped and lifted his head to the clear, blue sky. The day matched his mood—effervescent—while the soaring building he was about to enter reflected his career. Matthew was a young man on the rise. At twenty-nine he’d already reached a level of success as marketing director for a leading Australian mining management and consultancy company, which gave him his confidence and assurance. His ready smile, quick laughter and good looks made him attractive to women. His grasp of the changing events in his business world, his adaptability and creative thinking had him marked by senior executives as an employee to watch. No matter where he travelled in the world, he was recognised as a particular breed of Australian man—open, honest face, suntanned complexion—though his sister nagged him about protecting his skin from dangerous UV rays. He had hazel eyes, light brown hair, was slim and fit from early years of competitive swimming and surf lifesaving. These days, he mostly swam to keep in shape. He smoothed his tie and unnecessarily adjusted his suit coat, then stepped with a bounce in his stride towards the revolving doors of the skyscraper near Circular Quay that housed the Sydney offices of AusGeo Mining Consultants.

  He stepped out of the elevator on the 36th floor and returned the smile the girl on reception threw him as she fussed with a tall vase of gladioli. Behind her hung a large Aboriginal painting by Josephine Nugurri, an elderly woman artist in Utopia. The company had done a lot of work in the Northern Territory. The artwork from the famous desert school of artists had become a much talked about feature of the reception area.

  Matthew tapped the desk as he passed. ‘The shrine to the grande dames of the tribe, eh? Nugurri and Dame Edna Everage. Glad to see gladdies are back in vogue as symbols of elegance.’ He smiled to himself thinking of the ‘Mrs Average’ creation of Aussie humorist Barry Humphries, whose middle-aged matron had become synonymous with the gladioli she flung at audiences during her stage monologues. He continued down a corridor where framed colour photographs of bauxite, coal, iron ore and gold mines hung beside shots of smelters and other mineral processing plants. AusGeo had no financial stake in any of the sites in the photographs. They were instead an impressive testimonial to the company’s record of winning consultancy contracts and trouble-shooting all over the world.

  During the boom years of the eighties AusGeo had grown from a small business, working mainly in Australia, to an internationally respected corporation that specialised in turning around mining companies that were experiencing major difficulties because of predatory investors, unstable governments or plain inefficiency.

  Inside his office, furnished in AusGeo’s signature rolled stainless steel and black leather appointments, Matthew swung his briefcase onto his desk and rifled through the papers and messages neatly stacked there by his personal assistant, noting a phone call from his sister, Madison. He stood with his back to the sparkling harbour hundreds of metres below the floor-to-ceiling windows, reading through the day’s engagements. Then leaving his jacket on, because he was due at an executive meeting in fifteen minutes, he dialled his sister at the five-star hotel where she worked. When he finally got through to the receptionist in the promotions department, he was told his sister’s line was engaged. He made a mental note to phone her later.

  The boardroom had panoramic views of Sydney harbour. The six men sat around the long oval table cut from Australian red cedar. A glass of water, a bone china coffee cup, a notepad and sharpened pencil were set by every place. Dainty dishes of Smarties lined the centre of the table. They were a little eccentricity of the chief executive officer, these bowls of confectionery.

  As the men settled into conversation, the CEO’s personal assistant carried in a silver tray set with coffee pot, cream jar and sugar bowl. She placed it gently on the table and withdrew, shutting the door quietly. Stewart Johns, the chief executive officer, made his entrance, walking briskly. ‘Morning team,’ he said cheerfully. ‘Top day for sailing.’ The CEO always had a better idea for spending the day other than conferencing. It was his idea of an executive joke. He opened a folder, put on his glasses and looking around the table began speaking, permitting himself a small smile.

  ‘Well, there’s good news and there’s bad news. The good news: we are invited by the International Funding Organisation to submit a proposal to rehabilitate a struggling bauxite mine in South America. The mine is run by the government, which wants to privatise it. We have to make a detailed study of its prospects for public tender. We’ll need a team on the ground to make the final evaluation and deliver our presentation. I’ve made a brief trip out there and I’ve brought back financial and production data for analysis. I consider this mine is worth our time.’

  He paused and looked around the table. Kevin Blanchard, head of the engineering division, took up the obvious cue, ‘What’s the bad news?’

  Stewart Johns grinned. ‘The mine is in Guyana.’

  Kevin shrugged. ‘So? Sounds all right to me.’

  ‘Yeah, but your last assignment was Somalia,’ joked Matthew, to smiles around the table.

  The senior staff of AusGeo were familiar with mines all over the world and it was well known that Guyana had been one of the world’s top producers of high quality bauxite, in demand for the manufacture of aluminium.

  ‘Rather backward country, isn’t it?’ said Matthew.

  ‘Yes, a basket case. A true-blue banana republic. It’s on the coast of South America, next to Venezuela and Brazil. It was British Guiana, and a Dutch colony before that. The French had it for a bit. There was a big sugar industry that’s been stuffed up, and it was the site of the Jonestown suicides.’

  Kevin Blanchard jumped in. ‘That’s right, the People’s Temple episode, late seventies, wasn’t it? The Reverend Jim Jones had that big commune and they shot the US politician and everyone drank Kool-Aid laced with poison.’

  ‘Unfortunate way to put a country on the map. What’s the place like now?’ Matthew asked as Stewart Johns sat back watching the reaction around the table.

  ‘Hasn’t changed a lot from my superficial recce. The mine has gone down the tube following twenty years of political interference and mismanagement since it was nationalised. The whole economy has been in a mess for years. The government tried to flog the mine off to various aluminium companies but anyone who took a serious look at it turned and ran. The whole joint has been let go too far. That applies to several other mines in Guyana as well. The plant and equipment are hopeless, there are no resources to fix or replace anything, morale and work effort are at rock bottom. Production, delivery and technical capacity have deteriorated to such a degree the market share has been lost. So it’s an almighty albatross.’

  ‘Is there any hope at all?’ Kevin wondered aloud.

  ‘Well, since the end of the socialist regime in the mid-eighties, Guyana has been trying to join the capitalist world of free enterprise,’ Johns explained. ‘Now the new government has come up with this deal to work with the International Funding Organisation and it’s hiring a management contractor to get the mine into shape to make it a more attractive proposition to sell.’

  ‘Is that going to be possible?’ asked Matthew. ‘You paint a grim picture.’

  ‘That’s what you and Kevin will have to find out. If we take the job, we’ll be relying on the rest of you to analyse the data we send back each day,’ Johns said. The men around the table nodded. This was the sort of work they were best at and they liked the challenge.

  ‘How much time have we got to get the proposal in?’ asked Kevin.

  ‘No time. The sooner we tender, the sooner we win because I’ve heard the other tenderers aren’t overly enthusiastic. I’ve already discussed the idea with the relevant government minister and he sees us as highly commendable. The fact we are acting positively about the concept gave me the impression they were leaning towards us. I’ve had a full brief prepared to give you background on the country and the project.’

  Stewart Johns indicated a pile of spiral-bound documents to be passed around the t
able. ‘It spells out the aims and the challenges facing us. Any suggestions—and I expect them in written submissions—will be most welcome. We’ll meet again on Monday. Enjoy your weekend reading.’

  It was the CEO’s usual Friday act, thought Matthew, as he flicked through the briefing paper. No nonsense, straight to the point, an expectation that everyone would abandon their weekend plans in order to meet a deadline.

  By late Saturday morning Matthew had digested the material. Then he made a fleeting visit to the Manly library only to be told there were no recent books about Guyana in Australia. He bought the Saturday Sydney Morning Herald and the Australian and drove around the headland to Le Kiosk at Shelly Beach where his sister was joining him for lunch.

  Over a cappuccino he browsed through the papers, occasionally distracted by the scenery and activity about him. A small coach of Japanese tourists arrived. They trooped to the water’s edge and, with sun-drenched Manly Beach as the background, embarked on a splurge of photographs. To their surprise, a couple of scuba divers suddenly surfaced and waded onto the sand after taking off their flippers. They carried spear guns and several large blackfish. It was a photographic opportunity that not one of the tourists missed. Matthew chuckled to himself. It seemed so ordinary to him, so commonplace. He took it all for granted, as no doubt did the scatter of families on the sand and around the barbecues in the park. The lucky country, he thought, and this was the perfect image of it.

  A group of well-heeled and voguish young urban professionals arrived and noisily arranged the merging of some nearby tables for lunch. Matthew looked at his watch. Madi was late again.

  He was into the Australian business section when a shadow fell across the page. ‘Ho, Matt. How’s the stock market? AusGeo’s shares holding good? Big gold, oil and diamond strikes this week?’

  He looked up at his sister, Madison. They exchanged grins and he thought, as he always did, what a great looking girl she was. They’d become very close in the past few years.

  ‘Hi Madi. Can’t give you any scoops, that’s insider trading.’

  He kissed her on the cheek and she returned the compliment. ‘Good to see you, bro.’ She smiled and realised how glad she was to see her big brother.

  Matthew studied her while she settled herself, taking off her sunglasses and putting her bag on the spare chair. ‘So . . . How’re you doing?’

  She wrinkled her nose, twisting the thick blonde braid that fell over one shoulder. Her large hazel eyes flecked with gold specks clouded over.

  ‘So-so I guess. I’m feeling fidgety, restless. The divorce becomes final in three months. Then I’ll be on my own. Psychologically, anyway. I feel I should mark the occasion when it rolls around. Then again, I mightn’t even notice the day. Perhaps we could go out to lunch with a couple of your hunky mates?’

  Matthew grinned at his sister who at twenty-seven still looked like a schoolgirl. She was average height and build and deceptively slim for he knew she was very strong. She could lift almost anything he could. They’d moved her furniture into the new flat and he’d been amazed at her strength. But now she seemed somehow smaller and frailer. She looked pale too.

  Even though she was two years younger than him, he’d felt she’d been through more than he’d had to deal with.

  ‘Madi, you were “on your own” for six years. Ever since you rushed into that mad marriage. All I can say is thank heavens there are no kids. Geoffrey was a wimp, a procrastinator and no good for you. Let’s not go through all that again. You know I never cared for him. I was glad I was overseas so much of the time. You’re well out of it. Why don’t you change jobs, ask for a transfer? Move to an interstate hotel in the group? Better yet, go overseas. Be good for you.’

  The waitress appeared with glasses of water and menus. Madison ordered a cafe latte and picked up the menu, then restlessly put it down and reached for the glass of water.

  ‘I’m having warm octopus salad. I recommend it. With garlic bread,’ said Matthew.

  ‘Sounds fine.’

  Matthew had the feeling he could have suggested stewed cardboard and she’d have agreed. He gave her an encouraging smile. ‘What’s really bothering you?’

  ‘I’m not sure. Well, I guess I do know . . . Geoff, of course. I’m glad it’s over but you feel like your skin has been gone over with sandpaper. You feel very exposed and vulnerable. Things creep up on you, you wonder why you didn’t read the signs better. I thought we really had it together and I didn’t see what happened, what he did to me . . .’ her voice trembled, ‘. . . what I did to myself.’

  ‘Madi, you didn’t do anything. Maybe you were too nice, too soft. I never understood how you let him walk all over you. Those little zingers he slung at you, so often I wanted to thump him. You were always so apologetic, it made me ill.’

  He leaned forward and spoke seriously, ‘Where’s my sister? Where’s the person I’ve always looked up to, who has looked out for me all our lives and I thought nothing could shake her. Where’s the fun, gutsy, spunky girl who I thought was going to take on the world?’

  Madison’s lip trembled and her eyes filled. ‘I don’t know, Matt. I wish I did. I’ve just lost it. My confidence, my self-esteem, he trampled on me . . . He told me so often I was worthless, I’d never be anything . . .’

  ‘He was just trying to make himself feel good and powerful and boost himself by putting you down. Madi, you’ve held a good job, a responsible job . . . for years.’

  They paused while the waitress placed Madi’s coffee in front of her and Matthew gave their lunch order.

  ‘You’re right,’ Madison admitted. ‘My job at the hotel has been my lifeline. Marketing and promotion can be hard work. But I’d have gone crazy without that.’

  Like her brother she’d been an achiever. Graduating from Sydney University with a BA in business administration and marketing, she’d gone into the hospitality industry, getting in on the ground floor of a new international hotel and quickly showed a natural flair for promotion. She had fresh, attention-grabbing ideas and her job description had become more elastic as her opinion was sought on various aspects of promoting the hotel and its services as well as its corporate image.

  She was a respected executive and dressed accordingly in subtle suits—some with short skirts, others with well-cut pants. Today she was a complete contrast in a short white cotton skirt and blue and white striped tank top.

  Matthew put his hand on hers. ‘The hotel must value you and it’s part of an international group. Go to the manager and tell him you want a transfer for personal reasons. Do they know about the divorce?’

  She shook her head. ‘No. I never let it interfere with my work. I mean it wasn’t like he was bashing me. I felt it was sort of admitting I’d failed and would diminish me in their eyes.’

  ‘Oh Madi, I wish you’d shared more of this at the time. I don’t think I really knew how hard it was for you. He bashed you up pretty well emotionally.’

  ‘Well, it’s over now. And you’ve been, are being, such a help.’ Her face brightened and she gave a stronger smile.

  ‘So, are you going to do what I suggest?’

  ‘I’ll think about it. It seems a big step. To be truthful I think I’d like a holiday . . . away from multi-star hotels. That’s my work.’

  ‘Want to hear my big news?’ He sipped his coffee.

  ‘A new girl?’

  ‘Nope. I’m going overseas again.’

  ‘Oh, Matt!’ She couldn’t hide her disappointment. She’d come to rely on Matthew for brotherly support as well as his company. ‘I’m shattered. When? Where?’

  ‘Guyana.’ He laughed at her puzzled expression. ‘Sit back and I’ll fill you in on the place. I’ve become an expert—since yesterday. Boy, it’s some story!’

  ‘Start with where it is.’

  ‘South America, but the people are more Caribbean/West Indian. There’s a lot of African influence from the slaves who were brought in for the sugar plantations. The country was he
ld by the Dutch, the British, the French, reclaimed by Britain to become British Guiana and is now Guyana. The capital is Georgetown. The country became an independent republic in 1966 and now its population is roughly eight hundred thousand people, but there are six races and they all drink rum.’

  ‘From the sugar . . . what else does the place have?’

  ‘Not much by the sound of things. It has a spectacular jungle interior but it’s never been developed. The joint was stuck at an amber light for thirty years under Forbes Burnham the socialist prime minister, later president. He formed his own party and courted western governments who were afraid the place was turning communist and would become a Cuban satellite. So he got the usual American backing, promptly rigged elections, became a dictator and ran the country downhill into debt and disrepute. He died in 1985—and boy, is that a saga in itself. The place still hasn’t recovered under the new democratic government, despite its good intentions. Corruption is ingrained and there’s no money to aid recovery. It’s going to be a slow process.’

  ‘What’s the saga about the poor old dictator dying?’

  ‘The report we were given reads like a part farce, part thriller.’

  ‘Tell me.’

  ‘Forbes Burnham went into hospital in Georgetown to have an operation on his throat because he’d had problems and had to speak at a huge rally celebrating the freeing of the African slaves—he was African. So he flew in specialist doctors from Cuba, refusing to trust the local doctors. Apparently he thought himself invincible so he rejected the normal pre-op tests and sailed into the hospital the morning of the operation. The Cuban doctors had no idea he’d had a heart attack in 1977, and right after the operation his heart stopped. What happened after that has become part of Guyanese legend . . . to the effect that they rushed to the cupboard to get a resuscitation machine. It was locked. No one knew who had a key, so they broke into it only to find the equipment had been stolen. Burnham died of cardiac failure, a victim of the sort of bureaucratic breakdown he’d let flourish. The doctors were rushed straight out of the country to avoid an investigation. And in the official announcement of the death, all celebrations and parties were banned.’