Browning Sahib

by Peter Corris

  'I am your servant, you see,' he said. 'So I must carry the bags.'

  'Fine with me.' I eyed the station warily. It was a tiny, flimsy-looking affair, just a long mound of beaten earth raised beside the track and covered with a ramshackle tin roof. Very exposed, nowhere close to run to and hide. There were perhaps a dozen other would-be passengers, squatting in the shade with their bundles. 'How long to wait for the train?'

  Ranu laughed, still nervously. 'This is Ceylon, Mr Browning. The train should be here in about twenty minutes, but it could be an hour.'

  'Jesus! That's long enough for them to get here from the village.'

  Ranu shrugged. 'Perhaps.'

  'I suppose that's your Hindu fatalism. Well, I'm not a Hindu and I'm bloody scared.'

  'Keep your voice down,' he hissed. 'And keep your distance. I am your social inferior, Browning sahib. Try to remember that. Read a book, smoke a cigarette and try to look unconcerned and as if none of this is happening to you. Is that not the way of the colonial master?'

  I lit one of the local cigarettes for which I was beginning to acquire a taste, and waved away some persistent flies with a newspaper. 'Don't ask me, son. I'm an Australian.'

  Ranu sniffed as he edged away, but he couldn't leave it there. 'Australia has a colony in New Guinea. It is an island of black people you call fuzzy-wuzzy. Is it not so?'

  I could vaguely recall Flynn talking about New Guinea, where he'd misspent some time before he got to misspend it in Hollywood. Not much of what he'd said had stuck. Conversations with Flynn consisted mainly of listening to his stories of women he'd fucked, fights he'd had and books he'd read. I was never much interested in fighting or books myself. But I seemed to remember that he'd spoken of police-boys and house-boys and 'Marys', so I guess Ranu had it all about right. I grunted in reply and turned my attention to the book Ranu handed me. Tarzan of the Apes it was, by Edgar Rice Burroughs. I was interested because I'd worked on Tarzan Escapes with Weissmuller and Tarzan's Magic Fountain with Lex Barker. Lex looked right, but brains-wise he'd have been better off playing Cheetah the monkey. I'd never bothered to look at the books but, there on that railway station, leaning against a rickety post in a patch of shade and being watched curiously by a bunch of black-as-your-hat Tamils, I became very caught up in the Greystoke story, so much so that I didn't hear the first blast of the train whistle and only took notice when Ranu brushed past me carrying the string bags.

  It was a second-class carriage Ranu steered me to. The Tamils all moved further down the train. It was reasonably clean, with padded seats and leg room enough for an average-sized person but a bit cramped for yours truly. I was about to sit down next to Ranu when he jerked his head to indicate that I should keep my distance. I took another seat, lit a cigarette and pulled my hat down to shade out the slanting afternoon sun. Ranu had taken a seat near the back of the carriage by an open window. He craned his head to look out of it and I gathered, by the way he settled himself as we moved off, that nothing untoward had happened. It was a steam train, of course, very slow and noisy and some of the locomotive smoke inevitably blew inside. There were no other whites in the carriage, just Singhalese and Eurasians, who paid me no attention and gave Ranu a wide berth.

  I kept my eye on Ranu, who was very tense at first but gradually relaxed and settled into his seat. He maintained what would now be called a very low profile, reading a paper, eating a banana and dropping the skin from the window and eventually looking as if he might catch forty winks. I took my cue from him. To judge from the people in the vicinity of the railway station and those waiting for the train, we were in Tamil territory where, presumably, Ranu's erstwhile colleagues had some clout. But here in the second-class carriage things were different. I was a free man with money in my pocket and a servant to boot. A whisky and soda would have been very welcome, but things had decidedly looked up. I went on with the book and I can't think of a story I've enjoyed more. I guess I must have been nervous without being aware of it, because reading isn't really my thing. Whatever the reason, it kept my interest. I ate some fruit and rice cakes when Ranu offered them to me, and drank some tea he got at a stop.

  The train didn't stop often, but it was cautiously slow on the downgrades and it laboured hard on the upslopes and it looked as if the trip was going to take as long by train as it had by truck; maybe longer. We left the high country and I felt the air warm up as we got down closer to sea level. Just about everyone in the carriage dozed off and I suppose I did too from time to time, but not for long because I was keen to see how Lord Greystoke made out. I've often thought it, and reading that book confirmed the notion: all you need in this life is one really good idea. That Burroughs guy had made a fortune with the ape-man, just like Dr Watson with Sherlock Holmes.27 I'm still waiting for my million-dollar idea, but I remember thinking that book-writing might be the trick and I resolved there and then to read all the Tarzan stories. (I have to admit that I never got around to doing that.)

  Well, we got in to Colombo in the early hours of the morning and I was very glad to see the tallish buildings with their British look, even if they were all closed up tight. Ranu showed our tickets at the barrier and we joined the throng of people waiting for the arrival of our train and getting ready for the next departure. The trains seemed to run all night, so the taxi drivers were all clustered round and the food stalls were doing business even if the banks and insurance offices and other money-making enterprises were closed. I guess it was quieter than at peak hour, but it was still smelly, noisy and confused. After the tense quiet of imprisonment in the village I was glad of it. I sniffed the warm, moist air and wanted a drink.

  Ranu shuffled up beside me and dropped the bags. 'I am in your hands now, Mr Browning. In Colombo you have the power, not me.'

  I was jerked out of my feeling of safety and satisfaction. 'Do you think the police'll be on the look-out?'

  'Not if what they print in the papers is true. As you said, you are not important.'

  Clearly, that impression couldn't be allowed to persist. I fingered one of the wads of money. 'Not much chance of checking you into a top hotel, I suppose?'

  He laughed. 'No chance.'

  'Okay, then we're off to see Mr Da Silva, and he's going to give you a bed if I have to kick him out of his own cot, wife and all.'

  'Da Silva, he is an enemy . . .'

  'Ranu,' I said, 'you haven't exactly changed sides, but you're sitting on the bloody fence. That means you have to use anyone you can.'

  We secured a taxi, although the Singhalese driver was unhappy about taking these two strangely matched passengers until he'd seen the size of my roll. Ranu sat silently as we drove through the quiet streets to Da Silva's suburb. It took me a few minutes of knocking to rouse the master of the house. He peeped out from the half-open door.

  'Yes, who is it? What do you want?'

  'It's Dick Browning, Vasco. With a friend. We want to come in.'

  I heard Da Silva's gasp of astonishment. He flung the door open and came forward to embrace me. He was wearing a long cotton nightshirt and carried his usual smell of hair-oil, curry and cheap cigars. I stepped back. 'This is Ranu,' I said. 'He helped me to escape from the kidnappers.'

  Da Silva's jaw dropped at the sight of the young Tamil, but he was equal to the occasion. 'He is most welcome then. Come in, come in. I am so glad to see you, Dick. You must tell me everything. I have been so worried.'

  'Not worried enough to cough up a hundred thousand though?'

  He ushered us into the sitting room and closed doors to seal off the rest of the house. 'Would you like some tea?'

  'Bugger tea,' I said, 'I seem to recall leaving a couple of bottles of duty-free scotch here. That's what I want—a large one, and a decent cigarette, if you've got any.'

  Da Silva bustled about, providing cushions and adjusting the chairs. 'Yes, yes. Whisky, of course. And what about your young friend?'

  Ranu had arranged himself in a chair. 'I'll have a whisky too, thank you. Perha
ps with a drop of water.'

  It was my turn to be astonished. Ranu's accent was now purely pukkah British, without a trace of the Tamil sing-song. Da Silva produced a packet of Chesterfields from somewhere and put them on the table, along with ashtrays and a box of matches. Then he bustled away to get the drinks. Ranu and I lit up.

  'So,' I said, 'you can be quite the Englishman when you want.'

  'You'd be surprised. You will be surprised.'

  I was still pondering that when Da Silva came back with a bottle of Bell's, glasses and a carafe of water. He prepared the drinks and lit a cigar. When everyone had taken in enough alcohol and tobacco to get us started, I said, 'What happened when I didn't come out of the Pettah?'

  'I went to the police.'

  'What did they do?'

  'They went to the Street of Gold and asked questions. Of course they learned nothing.'

  'Of course,' Ranu said. He'd finished his drink and leaned forward to make himself another.

  'I received a note about the ransom. I also took that to the police,' Da Silva said. 'They told me to do nothing. I protested, but they said it was not possible for such a matter to receive publication and no assistance would be given to the paying of a ransom to . . . dissidents.'

  'Did you advise London of this development?'

  'I was expressly forbidden to do so.'

  In a way, I was relieved. No harm done, as it were. Vasco and I could get on with our job and I could tackle the question of what to do about Ranu. He was starting on his third drink, I noticed. I was certainly planning to have at least three myself, but at a slower pace. 'When you advise the police that I'm safe and sound, Vasco, what will they do?'

  'They will wish to interview you.'

  'And if I say I was blindfolded the whole time and released without explanation, what will be their attitude?'

  Da Silva puffed on his cigar, getting happier by the minute as I sketched out this scenario. 'I believe they will be entirely satisfied. Indeed, they will be gratified that their brilliant strategy has been wholly vindicated.'

  'Good. That's pretty much the way it was, with a few small differences.'

  'I am very happy that the matter should reach such a satisfactory conclusion. But what about . . .'

  He gestured towards Ranu, inviting the boy to speak. But, whether through whisky, exhaustion or the release of tension, or a combination of all three, Ranu was in no condition to participate in the conversation. He had slid sideways in his chair and was fast asleep. Da Silva found a light cover and dropped it over Ranu, who stirred slightly and got himself into a more comfortable position.

  'I never thought I would have a Tamil sleeping in my home,' Da Silva said.

  I made my third drink, a light one, just to top me up. 'He's only half Tamil. I'm supposed to get him back to his father in England. It's going to be tricky.'

  Da Silva peered closely at the sleeping figure. 'I see. Yes.'

  'What do you see?'

  'Nothing, Dick, nothing. Indeed, it will be difficult if he has no documents. But I am sure you can arrange it. You are a most resourceful man. Two of my daughters are in your room. If you will give me a moment I will relocate them.'

  I let him do it—not gentlemanly of me, I admit, but I was too tired to care.

  18

  If the kids ran around on the roof that night, I didn't know anything about it. I slept until late the following day. Ranu had awoken earlier, helped himself to some of my money, and made certain arrangements. Now he was offering me a cup of coffee, and when I saw him I understood what he'd meant about there being no problem protecting him from his former associates. The young man standing before me was clean-shaven with a short back and sides haircut. His skin was several shades lighter than it had been. His hair was dark brown rather than jet black, and in a shirt and tie and tailored trousers instead of the Tamil outfit, he looked like what he was—a smartly turned-out Eurasian.

  I had to take a sip of the coffee before I could find words to say, 'Ranu, what've you done to yourself?'

  'Not such a nigger as you thought, eh, Dick?'

  'You cheeky bugger.'

  He laughed and sat on the end of the bed. 'I got you some coffee. I know how much you hate tea.'

  'Thanks.'

  'For years I've stained my skin and dyed my hair. I wanted to be a real Tamil, you see.'

  'I get it. And now . . . ?'

  'Pretending is no good. Lies and deceptions cannot achieve anything. I wish to go to England and study law.'

  'That'll please your father.'

  His white teeth flashed. 'But he will be disappointed when I choose not to live in Wimbledon or St John's Wood.'

  'I think he'll cope. But he gave me to understand it could be difficult to get you out of the country.'

  'That is so.' A touch of the old Tamil defiance entered his voice. 'I am regarded as a dangerous dissident by the police.'

  'We'll have to work on that. I imagine strings can be pulled. The big thing is to keep the police and your former comrades from knowing where you are.'

  He shrugged. 'I doubt that anyone would know me, looking like this.'

  I studied him closely as I drank the coffee. It truly was an amazing transformation, as if someone you always thought of as short had suddenly become tall. I would certainly have passed him in the street without recognising him, probably have sat down opposite him and not known. But that was just me. What was needed was an expert local eye. I got up, had a shower and a shave and called Da Silva in on the matter. He was looking a lot more relaxed in the company of this dark brown smoothie than he had with the jet black joker of the night before. We sat around a table and I ate a meal that was neither breakfast nor lunch nor dinner.

  'What about it, Vasco? Would you recognise him as the man who came here last night? Sorry to do this to you, Ranu, but it's important. I have to get in touch with the cops soon. Do we put you in or out of sight? You see what I mean?'

  Ranu lit a cigarette and leaned back in his chair. Again, I could see him at the bar or in front of the cameras. 'I understand. Mr Da Silva?'

  Da Silva was not without his own sense of theatre, and made the most of the moment. He puffed on a cigar, surveyed the young man from this angle and that and eventually ate a piece of bread and an olive before making his pronouncement. 'I would say that, if he were to continue to shave closely, to stay out of the sun and also to put on some weight, he would be completely unrecognisable.'

  There was some dhal, rice and vegetables and chutney left on my plate. I pushed it across the table towards Ranu. 'Eat,' I said.

  Da Silva drove me to the central police station in Colombo and I made my report. I'm not sure whether they believed me or not; they would have loved to lay their hands on some Tamil protesters and they pressed me pretty hard on details. So, with a few variations, I stuck as close as I could to the truth. Of course, I didn't mention Mrs Tirrundrai, just said I'd been jumped on in the Pettah, knocked unconscious and taken away. I honestly had no idea about where I'd been held, and had paid very little attention on the train ride back to Colombo. The names of the few stations I'd seen hadn't meant a thing to me and I'd already forgotten them. As Da Silva had anticipated, the police seemed to be completely happy with the results of their 'do-nothing' strategy. I could understand that—it's a line I've often taken myself.

  'Be careful, Mr Browne,' the officer who wrapped things up said. 'We would not like to lose you again. Perhaps you might consider hiring a guard. I'm afraid our meagre resources cannot run to such things.'

  'Amen,' I said. 'And that's not such a bad idea, inspector. We just want to get on with preparations for the film.'

  'That will be a wonderful thing. I wish you the very best of luck.'

  I was chuckling as I walked down the steps from the police building. Da Silva mopped at his sweating face. 'I thought you handled that extremely well, Dick.'

  'Listen, Vasco, there's no need to soft-soap me, okay? No one wanted any trouble. It's easy to h
andle things when they're that way.'

  'I hope you will not be putting any adverse report on me in to London. I genuinely did my best when . . .'

  'Don't worry. I'm all for a quiet life. Let's just get on with spending other people's money. It'll be a lot of fun. There's just one thing.'

  'Yes?'

  'Didn't I tell you to get rid of this bloody jeep and buy a proper car?'

  'Yes, yes. I found an excellent French car. But when I came to take you to approve of it, you were not to be found.'

  I laughed. 'Let's us go and have that drink we didn't get to have and you can tell me about it. But I'm glad you've still got the jeep. We'll hang on to it.'

  'Why were you laughing before and laughing again?'

  'Because I just thought of the perfect job for young Ranu.'

  Ranu became my bodyguard and security officer. We tricked him out in khaki shirt and shorts with long socks and a Sam Browne belt with a Webley .45 in a leather holster. Under a sun helmet and at the wheel of the jeep, no one could possibly have recognised him as the wild-eyed Tamil of a few days ago. He wasn't much more than a boy, only nineteen in fact, and the whole thing appealed to him mightily. He was a terrible driver and needed a few lessons from yours truly to make him safe on the streets, but he picked it up quickly and we got him a licence under the name of Andrew Da Silva—a first step towards creating a new identity. We kept the food and drink up to him, but I can't say that he gained much weight—lucky young devil.

  For those first few days in Colombo I went about very cautiously, keeping clear of quiet streets, staying with Da Silva and Ranu and keeping my eyes open. I got a licence for Ranu's Webley and for a Smith & Wesson .38 to keep in my pocket. We rented a house a few doors from Da Silva and I set up a sort of production office with a phone and a young Singhalese girl working part-time as a secretary. Ranu stood guard at various times during the day, and I stayed up a couple of nights with some scotch and the .38 for company just in case anyone took an unwelcome interest in the place. Nothing happened.