Free Metro Winds by Isobelle Carmody

saw drinking in the streets, no matter how aggressive or strident they might be about native title and the disputes it had caused in some Aboriginal communities.
    Daniel walked for hours, his mind flicking back and forth between life on his parents’ farm and his current errand, as if it was trying to weave a tapestry connecting the two. It was only when he entered a street that showed him the sun low in the sky that he looked for his watch and realised he had left it in his room. Twice he asked the time of passersby before someone lifted a wrist to show him their watch face.
    It was just past five, so Daniel reached for his map. It was gone; he must have dropped it. Fortunately he had noticed maps under glass at bus stops and busy intersections, but it was six o’clock before he found one that was readable and traced out a path from where he was to Grey Street, near the Sacré-Coeur Basilica. The sky had clouded over, and it seemed as if dusk would come sooner than seven. He walked swiftly, thinking there was something primitive about arranging a meeting at dusk.
    The roads had grown busier than before, and people walked purposefully, their faces abstracted by end-of-day thoughts. Daniel found that no matter which way he walked or which side of the pavement he chose, he was moving against the flow of human traffic. Several times he had to step into a doorway to let a group of people pass before he could continue.
    When he found that one of the doorways belonged to a small café, he realised he had not eaten for the entire day, though he felt no hunger.
    He came to a great square pool of water in a mall. Several mechanical devices were spitting, stirring, ploughing or slashing the water.
    â€˜You see that one?’ a woman told another woman in English. ‘I call it the jealousy machine. See how stupidly it threshes at the water; how ferociously it moves. Yet it goes nowhere.’
    The words provoked the memory of a fight Daniel had seen between two Murri men in a camp far from towns and police. He had met them on walkabout during a boundary ride and had been invited to join them. The men had begun by talking but had ended up almost killing one another over a woman they both wanted. They had fought with a ferocity that Daniel had never witnessed between two white men, in the boxing ring or out of it. There had been no sense of display or competition. They had fought almost silently and for nothing, since the woman had chosen another man.
    A derelict tapped at his arm, startling him into the present, and he gave the old man the coins in his pocket. His feet were burning and he was thinking he would have to find another illuminated map when he saw a metal sign that read Rue de Gris.
    As he entered the street, he noticed two men standing on the corner watching him. Both wore their hair cut so short he could see their scalps shining pinkly through the black stubble and one had HATE tattooed on his upper arm. He nodded to Daniel, a half smile curving thin, soft-looking lips, as if they shared a secret. Daniel’s neck prickled as he passed the pair, and he had the sudden absurd notion that they were watching to see where he went.
    It was the sun and lack of food that were making him imagine things, he told himself. A headache drilled into the top of his skull like a hot needle.
    He came to the end of the street and realised he must have walked right past the café. Only when he retraced his steps did he understand there had been nothing to miss. The street was short and the only thing in it, aside from residences and apartments, was a smart boutique with a hat draped in a swathe of emerald cloth. Standing outside the shop he noticed a small tobacconist on the other side of the road. He was about to turn away when his eyes fell on the sign above the door.
    The Smoking Dog.
    He crossed the road and went inside. The man behind the counter spoke and when Daniel did not answer, he looked up. He had thinning