A drongo behind the Black Stump

Because of the huge response to its immigration programme, the Australian government has decided that future applicants for citizenship must be fluent in English. – News report

At last his name was called, though he would have been pleased for any reason to stay out of the rain.

    Sydney Harbour Bridge, glimpsed through broken slats in the venetian blinds, appeared two-dimensional behind the deluge. The weather on that day was rather different from what he had expected. Travel brochures, he reflected, were the same the world over.

    “Jew-Anne Carlow Pine-toe?” called the bald-headed officer. He was a large man in baggy white shorts and a short-sleeved shirt.

    “That is I,” said Juan Carlos Pinto.

    “Up here, mate,” the officer said, indicating a moulded chair. There was a delay in which the immigration man found a file, wet his thumb and began paging through it. His mouth worked as he did so.

     “Pine-toe,” the bald-headed officer said at length. “What kind of Julia is that?”

    “Pardon?” said Juan Carlos.

    ‘Your bloody handle, jack,” said the officer. “Whassit? Eye-tie? You a bloody ding?”

    “Excuse me, sir,” said Juan Carlos. “I do not understand.”

    ‘Don’t bung it on me, mate,” said the officer. “Where d’ya hail from? What’s ya bloody nationality?”

    “I am Spanish,” said Juan Carlos. “From Andalusia.”

    “Ah, well,” said the officer. “Seen one dago, seen the lot. Got enough of you jokers already, ask me. Pizzas and bloody pay-ellas coming out of our ears. Bunch of ratbags, mostly. No offence.”

    He turned and addressed another officer who was busy at a tea urn across the room. “Hey, Alf!’ he said. “Drop that bloody billy and get yer hump over here!”

    Alf strolled over, plastic cup in hand.

    “You parly a bit of Spic, donya?” said the bald-headed officer. “Come and yabber to this galah. He’s one of them dago drongos.”

    Alf studied Juan Carlos, taking in the immaculate suit and cravat, the calf-length boots.

    “Done up like a bloody pox-doctor’s clerk, ain’t he?” said the bald-headed officer. “Laired like a bloody pom. No shortage of Oscar, that’s plain. Bag of fruit musta cost a bit of bloody scratch.”

    “Hablo Inglais?” Alf asked.

    Juan Carlos nodded. “I am bilingual,” he said. “I have studied at the academy in Madrid. For many years.”

    “Pig’s butt!” said the bald-headed officer. “Don’t come the raw prawn with us, mate. Accent like that!”

    He returned his attention to the file in front of him. “Means of Entry,” he read aloud. “How’d ya shoot through, blue?”

  “He means how did you get here?” said Alf.

    “I have come by ship,” said Juan Carlos.

    “Thought so,” said the bald-headed officer. “Wet-bloody-backed it through the islands, dinya? One of those Polynesian bangers. Backhander to the skipper, no questions asked. Right?”

    “It was the Oceana,”  said Juan Carlos. “P and O line. Very nice ship. Very reposeful.”

    “Huh!” said the bald-headed officer. He picked up Juan Carlos’s passport, flipped through it, then put it down. “Right, mate,” he said. “So what’s yer bloody lurk?”

    “Lurk?”

    “Yeah. You a bloody hash artist, or what? Setting up to run the hard stuff from Colombia, are yer? We’re on to that game, mate, tell you now.”

    Juan Carlos looked at Alf. “He’s asking why you want to immigrate to Aussie,” said Alf. “What you plan to do here.”

    “Ah,” said Juan Carlos, nodding. “It is simple,” he said. “I have read much about the Black Stump, such places. Now I wish to go there, to start a ranch. Somewhere into your interior. With my Spanish bulls.”

    “Bloody oath!” said the bald-headed officer. “You got bulls?”

    “Many,” said Juan Carlos. “Numerous herds. Always my family has them.”

    “Strewth!” said the bald-headed officer. He looked at Juan Carlos as though seeing him for the first time, noticing a cheroot in a manicured hand. “Hey, can I bite ya for a smoke, mate?”

    “He wants a cigar,” said Alf.

    Juan Carlos handed one over, offering one to Alf, who declined.

    “Right,” said the bald-headed officer, lighting up. “One more question, then she’s right. You ever done bird?”

    “Bird?”

    “Yeah, bird-lime. Y’know. Time.”

    “Time?”

   “The officer is asking,” said Alf, “do you have a prison record. Have you ever been in jail?”

    Juan Carlos looked puzzled. “I thought that was no longer necessary,” he said, “for one to come to Australia.”