Death on Dangar Island

Local Colour

An air of tranquillity prevailed as they sat and watched the pink tones of sunset reflect off a patch of high cloud in the distance. Israel’s glass of New Zealand sauvignon blanc gave a gentle chink as the ice cubes he’d added brushed each other. Gary cradled a bottle of beer casually in his right hand. Beads of moisture condensed on its cool body and dripped onto the skin of his wrist.

He broke his gaze over the river and turned to his friend. ‘Okay, so now I’ve got around to asking you about this name business, I have another question – why Israel? I mean, why are you named after a country?’

‘A country?’ Oh … I see … No. In Africa, many people are named after prophets from the Old Testament. Isaac, Moses, and so on. My name is just another name for the prophet Jacob. There is, of course, a tenuous historical link with the name of the country, but my mother did not name me as a political statement. Well, not the kind you’re thinking of anyway.’

‘Right … so when you were talking with those other African people last year, they were calling you Yani or something. How many different names have you got?’

‘Ah yes, you heard them calling me Thanyani, my tribal name.’

‘Your tribal name?’

‘A tribal name is like your nickname, except it is given to you by your parents once they know your personality. It’s meant to reflect who you are, not just who your family is.’

‘Is that right?’ Gary said slyly. ‘What does yours mean then?’

Israel chuckled. ‘It means The Wise One.’

‘Oh, The Wise One, are you? Did you just make that up to impress me?’

‘Oh no,’ said Israel with deep gravity. ‘My mother gave me my tribal name when I was six years old. Israel is my official name, the one she supplied to the apartheid authorities for civic administration when I was born.’

A high-pitched nasal voice intruded across the fence. ‘Yeah, yeah … mmmm … yeah, right in front of my place it happened … Yeah, apparently …’ The voice became muffled again as it moved away.

Gary cocked his head towards their neighbour. ‘So did you go and talk to crazy Aunt Doreen this afternoon?’

‘Her name’s Dorothy, and no I didn’t. I was waiting for you to come and join me. I knew how disappointed you would have been if I’d gone without you.’

‘Heartbroken.’

Israel didn’t say it, but he guessed having Gary come with him would be to his advantage. ‘I think it would be a neighbourly gesture to drop around and introduce ourselves. Perhaps take a little wine as a token of our goodwill.’

‘You’re on a winner there, Iz. I reckon our Dorothy doesn’t mind giving the grapes a nudge. Which probably means she was out to the world at three-thirty this morning, but it never hurts to ask, does it?’

Israel did not respond.

‘Well, all right, all right,’ Gary stood and stretched. ‘Let’s get on with it then, oh Wise One.’

Minutes later they stood at their neighbour’s front door, armed with alcohol. When Israel’s genteel tapping received no response, Gary reached past him and hammered loud enough to gain the attention of people three houses away.

At length the door opened, revealing a shabby woman in a dowdy uniform of loose t-shirt and baggy tracksuit pants. She cast a critical eye over her two visitors.

‘Good evening, madam. We are your temporary neighbours. I am Israel, and this is my friend Gary.’ After living twelve years in Australia, he’d managed to drop some of the formality from his introductions.