So that’s why the vice-chancellor had Somare in tow.

‘He’ll take us to independence,’ she said, ‘but that’ll take longer.’

After that, Wana didn’t know. Something else would be needed. She was running ahead into the future, Rika barely abreast of her. Leonard said Australia wouldn’t let Papua and New Guinea go, not for a long time yet – for them it was a bulwark against Asia to their north, a mountain range necessary to their sense of security – and here was Wana saying, soon we will be independent.

The rest of the cast of Our Ground didn’t seem interested in the procession of Somare and the vice-chancellor. They were fooling around with Milton, until a Papuan in a loose white shirt was picked out for introduction. Then they turned as one to watch. The Papuan was standing in a group that included Jacob and Sam and staff from the history department. Jacob and Sam were both wearing ties. The Papuan who was shaking Somare’s hand had no tie, just that loose, elegant shirt.

‘He’s beautiful,’ Rika said. ‘Who is he?’

‘That’s Aaron Nabuka,’ Wana said. ‘Jacob’s clan-brother. He arrived last week.’

‘He’s brought back some good music.’ Milton did a little jig with his feet.

‘He is who?’ Simbaikan asked.

‘He’s been to university in Australia,’ Laedi said. ‘Been to Europe. The place Rika comes from. He’s clever. Come back to teach.’

‘He won’t live long,’ Simbaikan said.

‘You talk humbug,’ Laedi said.

‘He’s strong yet,’ Milton said. ‘Good dancer.’

‘He’ll be prime minister one day,’ Wana said.

‘Not him,’ Simbaikan said.

‘If not prime minister, then vice-chancellor.’

‘Or a poet.’ Milton grinned.

‘What does he want for himself?’ Rika asked.

‘That’s not a question he’ll get to ask,’ Wana said.

‘And the other one?’ Simbaikan asked, her chin jutting towards Jacob. ‘Same skin.’

‘His brother,’ Laedi said. ‘Clan-brother. From the fjords.’

‘Him trouble,’ Simbaikan said, and they laughed; yes, Jacob was trouble. Somare was leaning forward, still talking to Aaron. A long stop, this. When the vice-chancellor moved on, Derek lightly punched Sam on the arm, and the crowd opened and reshaped itself like an eddy in a pool, as Somare was steered towards the next introduction. Back to the visiting professors.

Through the roar of faces Rika saw that Jacob was making his way towards her and the cast. He was wearing dark glasses, a gift from Aaron.

‘Did you see my brother?’ he asked her. She was curiously light-headed, though she’d only drunk one glass of wine. Another of punch.

‘Take off them glasses,’ Simbaikan said to Jacob. ‘I don’t see your face.’

Jacob took them off and Milton put them on, and, swaying there against the evening sky, he became a black American jazz player, saxophone and all.

Rika watched Aaron disappear from view as people crushed around him. She watched Sam work his way through the crowd until he came to a stop at Wana’s side. His red hair was bouncing up from his head. When she saw Wana smile at him and slip her hand into his, her mind was pulled back to the lens she’d watched them through at rehearsals. In that world, Sam the planter with his slicked-back hair had shouted at her in the guise of his fat, waddling cook. Rika had caught the moment he sent her flying across the stage with a backhander to the face. A powerful shot. Gina liked it. And now, here they were, hands together, smiling at each other.