Browning Sahib

by Peter Corris

  'Some people I know quite well walked past me today,' Ranu told me one morning. 'They were curious about my uniform and the jeep, but they did not know me. I am quite sure.'

  'Good,' I said. 'I think we can relax on that score. I was thinking we should announce that we'll be hiring some Tamils to work on the film. D'you reckon that'd help to keep things quiet?'

  'It would. We . . . they are not properly organised as yet. Any small gain is appreciated. Oh, I hate this. I want to . . .'

  'Andrew,' I said, 'calm down. Take the long view. How long did it take Gandhi to get what he wanted? Twenty years?'

  'Twenty years! I will be an old man.'

  'Son, if you think that way you aren't cut out for politics. Forget about it for now, we've got work to do. How d'you feel about a trip to Kandy?'

  'It is a nice town. I used to go there with my parents when I was young.'

  'Good, you'll be a help. We've heard of a plantation that could be just right for the film. I don't suppose you know anything about elephants?'

  'No.'

  'Pity. I've got a feeling that elephants are going to be our biggest problem.'

  He threw back his head and laughed loudly. It was one of the things I liked about him—his good sense of humour, which is to say that he often laughed at my jokes. I hadn't yet informed Aubrey Pelham-Smith about his son's new situation and attitude because I wasn't sure of how to do it. For all I knew, the mails and the telegraph could be subject to government inspection and in those days you had to book international telephone calls several hours ahead and at least half a dozen people in the system knew who you were calling. But I didn't know how long we were going to be out of Colombo and I wanted to get the message through somehow. Eventually I hit on the idea of calling Bobby Silkstein in LA.

  'Dick, you old son of a gun. What can I do for you? Where you calling from? Hey, I'm not paying for this, am I?'

  'No, Bobby. I'm calling from Ceylon and I'm working on a movie called Elephant Walk. It stars Vivien Leigh, Dana Andrews and Peter Finch.'

  'Peter who? Never mind. What happened to the sea picture? Don't tell me, you got drunk and they dumped you. Well, listen kid, you're on your own . . . Hey, wait, you say you're workin'? I haven't seen a contract. Are you tryin' to stiff me?'

  It took a while to calm him down and convince him that I'd keep strict accounts of what I was paid and that he'd get his commission. The names Leigh and Olivier were a big help. I asked him to phone Aubrey Pelham-Smith in London and tell him that his son was safe with me.

  'What the hell does that mean?'

  'Just do it, Bobby. Please.' I gave him the number. 'You can bill me the cost of the call.'

  'I will, don't worry. Okay, I'll do it. Is he some kinda lord or what?'

  'He's rich,' I said.

  'Great. Hey, you hear the one about the flea crawled up between Betty Grable's legs?'

  I'm proud to say that I hung up on him. We set off for Kandy, with me driving the beautifully sprung and engineered Citroën convertible Da Silva had discovered, and him travelling in the jeep with Ranu—it was necessary to put Vasco in his place from time to time.

  Kandy was only about sixty miles from Colombo, west into the highlands, but it was a different world. The town was quiet and calm, with a river flowing nearby and the famous 'five hills' as a backdrop. No doubt about it, this was the place, and when we drove out to the plantation the impression was confirmed—rolling hill slopes, tea bushes, jungle in the distance. Perfect.

  The plantation house was a gracious edifice with pillars, steps, vine-entangled pergolas. The Hollywood cameramen would wet themselves.

  'This is terrific,' I said to Da Silva. 'What was all that crap about rough roads and rugged country? This is perfect.'

  He shrugged. 'I did not know about the spending of money then. This place will cost, how do you say it? It will cost a bomb!'

  'It's right,' I said. 'That's what's important. Andrew, unship that camera and get a few shots we can send back to England and LA. Where's the owner?'

  'Who knows?' Da Silva said. 'I have dealt with the manager, who lives in a cottage on the estate. You will see that there are not many people working. The plantation has almost ceased production. The soil is no longer good. I have the keys to the house.'

  'Good. Let's take a look. We need some wide hallways and a big space with a paved floor that can be made to look like marble.'

  'Why is that?' Ranu asked.

  'So the hero can play polo on a bicycle downstairs.'

  Ranu stared at me.

  'It's in the script,' I said.

  19

  Things ran on pretty smoothly after we settled on that major location. Of course, the movie business being what it is, there were delays. Vivien got sick, holding things up for a while. A couple of people came out from England and found fault with the facilities for storing the film stock. Fans had to be installed. There was a spell of bad weather, holding up the recruiting of locals as extras and, of course, there were script changes and the squabbles that always go with a co-production. But we gradually sorted it out. I don't remember anything about Christmas, 1952—I spent it drunk in a very up-market Colombo whorehouse.

  As the new year got under way the pace hotted up and I was kept busy supervising renovations to the plantation house, arranging vehicles and dealing with caterers and florists and all the hundred and one things that go on behind the scenes in movie-making. A wall had to be built and a set constructed for the elephants to knock down. Tamil agitators caused a bit of trouble, staging a demonstration here, breaking a few windows there, but there was nothing directed at us. I confess that I spied on Ranu, went through his belongings when he was away, kept track of the mileage he ran up on the jeep, but I found nothing suspicious. In the middle of January I received a letter from his father—something along the lines of:

  Dear Browning

  I have had a most extraordinary telephone call from a gentleman in the United States who claimed to be acting on your behalf. As near as I can judge, the message he was attempting to convey was that my son was safe and in your care. I trust this is the case.

  I am afraid that this individual made some scurrilous remarks about you and threw considerable doubt on your honesty. He seemed concerned that you would 'stiff'—American argot I understand for cheat—him of some fee to which he feels he is entitled.

  I assume that you are observing security precautions in not contacting me directly, but I wish you had used a more civilised intermediary. If you have indeed succeeded in the enterprise, please send a telegram advising 'Deal completed satisfactorily' to the following address . . .

  I understand that Peter Finch is flying out to Ceylon soon. If, as I earnestly hope, I receive a cable from you, I will entrust him with a letter and other items for my son.

  I sent the wire the next day and told Ranu that I had been in touch with his father. He took the news calmly and it occurred to me that Pelham-Smith might be in for a few surprises from his lad. Meantime, we were all on the payroll and life was good. Da Silva swanned around Colombo and Kandy in the Citroën, no doubt attending to Elephant Walk matters some of the time, but also looking after his other business interests. Ranu drove his jeep and played a lot of tennis. I played against him a few times and held my own through guile and a little cheating on the line calls, but there was no doubt that he had a considerable talent for the game. He looked good in his whites, and I could see him cutting a swathe through the girls at Oxford.

  I developed some kind of intestinal disorder which took me into the hospital for tests. The few days' rest and bland diet seemed to help, and meeting Nurse Louise Townsend completed my recovery. Louise was an Australian, working as a volunteer abroad—some kind of government-backed international aid deal. She was given board and lodging in a nurses' hostel and was paid a pittance. She was supposed to be teaching modern nursing stuff to the Ceylonese. She said she found them quick learners. The patients were another matter.

  'Most
of them prefer the traditional remedies,' she said. 'You know—herbs and poultices and such.'

  'Could be right,' I said. 'A hell of a lot of people die in hospitals.'

  She dug me in the ribs—easy to do because we were in bed in my bungalow. We had taken a fancy to each other in the hospital and when she found out I was an Australian, well, it just seemed like the most natural thing in the world for a couple of Aussies so far from home to spend a bit of time with each other. She was twenty-four, a big, blonde, healthy Sydney girl, who played a great game of tennis and was an enthusiastic bedmate. 'You know what I mean. There are some terrible health problems here, yaws and things like that, and spider webs and frog slime won't get rid of them.'

  That was one drawback to Louise; she was a bit overfond of talking about her work, and nothing depresses me as much as illness, unless it's poverty. I could usually jolly her up with a beer or some tennis or a horseback ride or a good romp. She was going to marry a doctor when she got back to Australia so she was taking good care not to get pregnant. It was an ideal arrangement for both of us. One morning, after having stayed the night, Louise was on hand when the mail arrived. She brought it to me in bed, along with a cup of coffee. She was going to make that lucky medico a very good wife.

  'I can't believe it,' she said. 'You've got a letter from Peter Finch!'

  'So what?'

  'So what, he says. I used to hear him on the wireless back home when I was a kid. And I've seen him on the stage and in a couple of films. He's . . .'

  'Divine. I know. That's what every female between eight and eighty thinks. Well, stick around. Finchie and me are old mates and you'll be meeting him when he comes out to work on the picture.'

  'Heaven,' she said. 'Does he play tennis?'

  'I don't know. He rides bloody well and I'll tell you something else he's good at.'

  'Oh, I'm sure of that!'

  'Not what I meant.'

  'What, then?'

  I ripped open the letter. 'Drinking.'

  'You're not bad at that yourself.'

  'Not in Finch's class. What about a piece of toast?'

  'You just don't want me to read your letter.'

  'I'll give it to you to read if it's suitable for maidenly eyes.'

  I've still got the letter. Neither of those snooty biographers bothered to get in touch with me,28 so there are things about Peter's life at this time they don't know.

  Dear Dick

  I expect I'll be seeing you before long because the bullshit is slowly being shovelled away and we'll be off to Ceylon soon. But I thought I should put you in the picture a bit first (if you'll pardon the pun. I'm sure there will be a part for you, by the way).

  The thing is, I've sort of declared myself to V and she's sort of indicated an interest. Trouble is, we were both pretty drunk at the time and I'm not sure she remembers much about it. She's been very sick but is on the mend and they say Ceylon will be good for her lungs. (She's got a touch of TB, apparently, which helps to account for her funny moods.)

  But one way and another I wound up screwing that hellish bitch Drewe, and she's really putting the screws on me—threatening to tell V about 'us', although there isn't an 'us'. One quick root in the back of a car doesn't make an 'us', does it? I'll be counting on you to get her under control when we're in Ceylon.

  If all that wasn't tricky enough, Larry's threatening to come out while we're doing the shoot. I've put everyone I can think of onto trying to talk him out of it, but it seems the idea has taken root. (There should be more words in this bloody language!) He suspects there's something between me and V, although there isn't yet, and he's jealous. Thinks he's Othello, probably. Maybe he won't come.

  Aubrey Pelham-Smith has given me some stuff for you. Says you've done a damn fine job. Glad to hear it, old chap, whatever the hell it was.

  I've got a feeling we're going to have an interesting time and make a bloody good picture. Hope so. V has already said it will be a great relief for her not to have to go mad, commit suicide or contemplate murder. Of course, if Larry turns up we might have to do all three. Hah, hah.

  I've had the word that if this one's any good Hollywood will sit up and pay attention. So I might be out there with you and Errol in the bright lights and the big bucks.

  All the best

  Peter

  I showed the letter to Louise, who read it and tossed it aside disdainfully. 'I don't think I like Mr Finch after all,' she said.

  I said, 'He's an actor. It's a tough job. You have to make allowances.'

  'Tough? Are you serious?'

  I shrugged. I'd never thought much about the demands of the acting business, but right then, thinking about the victims like Clara Bow, Lupe Velez, Buster Keaton, I had a flash of insight. 'It's pretend, pretend, pretend. After a while reality becomes a problem. Tell me something tougher than that.'

  'You've got a point,' she said. 'We've got time for a couple of sets before my shift. What do you say?'

  'Right. Pity you can't get a transfer up to Kandy.'

  'Huh. From the sound of it, you're going to have your hands full with that hellish bitch, Drewe. What's so hellish about her?'

  'Peter's being a bit hard there. Where's my racquet? I'll bet that little bugger Ranu has swiped it.'

  'I thought his name was Andrew.'

  'It's a long story.'

  'He's very sweet. He's got a wonderful forehand, but I bet I could teach him a thing or two.'

  She was a lot of fun, Louise.

  The technical crew and support staff began to fly in and we moved operations to Kandy where we took over a hotel for the anticipated five weeks of the shoot. The technicians were all English because of a deal that existed then to do with the Technicolor process. All Technicolor productions shot in British Commonwealth countries had to use British technicians. This was to cause trouble later, but for now, people like John von Kotze, the colour expert, were pleased to be working on a big budget picture and wanted things to go right. The producer, Irving Asher, was an amiable type who wisely saw his job as keeping everybody happy.

  The director was William, originally Wilhelm, Dieterle, a German who had moved from acting to directing and had got his start in Hollywood making German versions of American pictures. I can't say that I saw many of his movies or remember much about them, but he did a lot and didn't make a complete mess of them. He was no Billy Wilder, but he wasn't a Von Stroheim either, which is to say that he was a human being.29 He was reckoned to be pretty good at the big, flamboyant sequence and that meant he was the man for the elephant charge.

  They poured Dana Andrews off the plane at Colombo and I was there to meet him. Like me, he seemed to enjoy the heat and he brightened up, and sobered up, on the drive to Kandy. He pretended to remember me but I knew he didn't.

  'Say, this is great,' he said, as we went through a bushy stretch with the coconut trees reaching into the clear sky. 'I don't get to do too many location pictures. I'm mostly sitting in bars with a drink and pack of cigarettes while some other guy's banging my broad.'

  'Well, you're out in the open this time. You'll find Finch a good drinking buddy, though.'

  'Yeah? I'm going to try to stay off the sauce if I can. I'm the clean-cut type in this one, right? Hey, isn't Vivien Leigh getting a little old for this stuff? Not that I'm objecting. She's got pulling power and I hear she's still a dish.'

  I concentrated on steering the Citroën around the potholes and didn't reply. The fact was that despite Louise Townsend I was still carrying a sort of torch for Vivien and I didn't like what he said. But he was one of the stars, and you don't make enemies of stars if you want to keep on eating. If he said something like that to Finch he'd be in trouble. He was very pale, I noted, so the make-up people would have to work pretty hard on him if he was going to look right in Technicolor. Whereas, if they'd cast me, they'd have got a tan they might have even had to tone down. Ah, well . . .

  Finch was the next big-wig to come in and I collected him as well. He lo
oked tense but fit, and at thirty-seven, given his habits, he was wearing pretty well. A bit tired around the eyes, perhaps, but that's never been a detraction for a film actor. Cooper and Mitchum always looked half asleep and Peter O'Toole told me once that he actually was asleep during some of his scenes in his drinking days. Finch and I had a few drinks in the airport bar before setting off for Kandy. He gave me a heavy envelope and indicated a cardboard box among his traps that he said was for Pelham-Smith's son. I would gladly have told him about my adventures with the Tamils, but he wasn't interested. All he wanted to talk about was Vivien.

  'I am besotted with the woman,' he said, over his second scotch and soda.

  'Understandable.'

  He shot me a quick look. 'You too?'

  I nodded. 'From afar. Don't worry, I won't get in your way. But Peter, like you said, this is your big chance in the movies. Don't bugger it up. If you miss the bus in this game there's no guarantee another'll come along.'

  'Don't I know it,' he groaned. 'Well, we'll see how it goes. I just hope to Christ Larry doesn't show up.'

  'Is that still on the cards?'

  'I hope not. He's got other fish to fry, but if Vivien gets sick or there's some kind of crisis, who knows?'

  That wasn't good. From the little I knew of Vivien, crisis was her middle name. On the drive Peter began to relax and told me a little about his childhood in India. It was mostly about priests and ceremonies and mysticism, which was all mumbo-jumbo to me. He spoke well about it though in that magnificent voice of his and I knew he could have any susceptible female on her back with this sort of stuff inside an hour. He liked the look of Kandy, and took to Ranu who offered to drive him out to the plantation for a look around.

  'I've got some stuff from your father for you,' I told him.

  'When I get back. The horses arrived today, Mr Finch. Would you like to see them?'