by Susan Lewis
‘Unbelievable,’ she muttered, trying to absorb the sheer potency of it all as their air-conditioned Land Cruiser pressed a precarious route through the teeming masses of pedestrians, cyclists and open-air buses that Jaffah, the unit’s Mr Fix-it, had just told her were called dala-dalas. Jaffah’s enthusiasm for the shoot, and power to galvanize the indolent as well as to circumvent officialdom, were proving the unit’s most valuable assets, according to John’s latest report. Despite his dignified appearance in an old Etonian tie and starched white shirt, Carla knew already that he hadn’t escaped the crew’s irreverence, for he’d told her himself, with the sunniest of smiles, that if she liked she too could call him Orange.
Beside her Avril stifled a yawn. ‘All this sun, after London and Geneva,’ she said, ‘I feel as though I’m about to break out in bloom.’ Her eyes were roaming the billowing blue expanse of the sea where humble fishing boats and rusting container ships jostled about on the waves.
‘See, over here,’ Jaffah told them excitedly, ‘is House of Wonders.’ He was indicating a splendid old building that was a curious combination of the colonial and Islamic styles with its sturdy white pillars, filigree balconies and impressive clock tower that soared from the red-tiled roof tops – no doubt a perfect lookout point for days gone by, when ships had sailed in from both east and west to trade in ivory and jewels, spices and teas, silks, muslins, gold and ambergris – and, of course, slaves. ‘Was palace of Sultan Barghash,’ Jaffah explained. ‘Is called House of Wonders because it first in Zanzibar to have electricity lights, and first in all of East Africa to have lift.’ He beamed with such pride that he might have installed this wizardry himself. ‘Was office of British government from 1911 until 1964,’ he continued, ‘when we have coup in Zanzibar and boot out British and sultan. After it office of Party of Revolution.’
‘And now?’ Carla asked, already knowing from the research, but not wanting to steal his moment.
‘Is magnificent, magnificent museum,’ he told her with rapture. ‘Or will be when is finished.’ As they were already five years past the completion date, it was anyone’s guess exactly when that might be, though Carla couldn’t help being impressed by such heartfelt pride in something that didn’t yet exist. ‘And next door is old palace of Sultan Said,’ Jaffah gabbled on, as they moved slowly past the high white crenellated walls, now heavily smudged in soot and grime. ‘Is very beautiful, no? See the Arabic ramparts, and Indian-style arches. Inside is old Sultan’s furniture, and original lavatory, and many portraits of family. We film there, tomorrow. It close to public, and tomorrow Jaffah, that’s me, make it so unit can film. Oh, and Masud, here, he your driver all time you in Zanzibar. Masud from very noble tribe in Kenya. He second son of powerful Masai chief. He have education in France and soon he become very important doctor here in Zanzibar.’
Avril slanted a look at Carla whose eyebrows went up, for Masud’s limpidly intelligent eyes and hard physique lent a very potent edge to an almost breathtaking beauty.
‘Does he speak English?’ Avril asked.
‘Little,’ Jaffah apologized. ‘But you want something, you tell Jaffah, I fix.’
Avril turned away as with a smile Carla said, ‘Maybe we should start making for the hotel now?’
‘Oh, yes, yes,’ Jaffah answered quickly. ‘They film today in beach. You go beach first, or hotel?’
‘Hotel,’ Carla answered, then turned to Avril, whose head had turned in her direction. ‘What?’ she said.
‘You look fine, if you want to go and see him right away,’ Avril told her.
Though Carla let her head fall back against the seat, there was no ignoring the response Avril’s words had set off, and she was already anxious enough about the aphrodisiacal powers of exotic locations. ‘OK, let’s stop this now,’ she said. ‘This is an expensive shoot, and there’s definitely not going to be time for all that. Nor, after the kind of days we’ve got scheduled, is anyone going to have the energy, or inclination, to do anything but eat then fall into a comatose sleep.’
‘Sounds fun,’ Avril commented. Then to Jaffah, ‘Are we going to be able to power up our mobile phones?’
‘Oh yes. All fixed,’ he assured her. Then excitedly declared, ‘Over here, is most famous tree in all of Zanzibar. Is called Big Fig Tree.’ Which indeed it was, for it rose a good forty feet from the ground, and extended vast, leafy branches over a group of dhow-builders who were working in the blistering sun. ‘This tree plant by Sultan Khalifa in year 1911,’ he told them. ‘In Swahili we say Mtini – the place of the Tree.’
Their guided tour continued as they made a slow, circuitous journey to the hotel, passing the old dhow harbour, several ox-drawn carts, a garishly painted blue and white mosque and many side-stall cafés with English football results chalked up on boards outside. Most impressive of all, however, were the huge, hand-carved doors that were to be seen everywhere, both Indian and Arabic in style and made from teak. The fearsome brass studs, Jaffah explained, were to stop the elephants breaking the doors down. Too tired to take out her writing pad, Carla made a mental note of this colourful detail, a must for the script.
Finally they rejoined the main road and began heading back towards the airport, where the Fisherman’s Resort Hotel was situated at the end of a bumpy track in a secluded bay, just south of the town. A dusty-looking guard in a red fez and white tunic let up the barrier for them to sweep into a rectangular courtyard which was enclosed by long low white buildings with high coconut-thatched roofs and dark wood pillars. The moment they stepped out of the car the hot, steamy air embraced them again, though a breeze was wafting its way in from the sea, across a vast, shimmering blue pool surrounded by palms, through the open-air bar with its coco-thatched roof and bamboo chairs, across the decorative ponds and fountains in the reception and out to where they were standing under the thatch-canopied entrance.
‘Heaven,’ Avril declared, as Masud and Jaffah began hauling luggage from the car. ‘How long are we here for?’
‘Three days, then we go north to Mapenzi Beach,’ Carla answered, tearing her eyes from the heady romance of the setting and turning to drag her laptop off the back seat. ‘After that, we’re over on the east coast for three days at the Sultan’s Palace.’ Though she’d vowed not to torment herself with images of Chrissie and Richard being here, they’d come flooding in of their own accord and for a horrible moment the deception and pain seemed to well up anew.
‘Are you OK?’ Avril asked, accurately reading the situation.
Carla nodded. ‘He knows I’m here now,’ she said. ‘I emailed him a few days ago.’
‘And?’
‘I haven’t heard from him since.’ She forced a smile, then started into the hotel as though to escape the unwelcome reflections. The truth was, she’d only heard from him once since he’d called her on Boxing Day, when he’d told her that hearing her voice had changed many things for him. Quite what he’d meant by that she wasn’t sure, and the extract he’d added, in French, from a work she didn’t know, had rambled inconclusively about a man’s confusion between dream and reality, so hadn’t been much help. Though she guessed the author was Descartes, as yet she hadn’t had the time to find out, and wondered if it was her failure to interpret it that was causing his silence. It didn’t seem likely, but maybe the reassurance of knowing how similar their minds were was something he needed much more than she’d realized.
After checking in, and receiving a warm welcome from the manager and staff, they were led out past the pool, along a path that dissected the carefully tended lawns with the sea rushing up on to a rocky shore to the right, and rows of two-storey guest cottages to the left. Theirs was at the far end, with a wooden staircase on the side, taking Carla up to a spacious veranda with two cushioned chairs and glorious views of the ocean, then on into the cool, air-conditioned darkness of her room.
Before disappearing inside she leaned over the gnarled wood of the railing and called down to Avril. ‘Remember, this place is pred
ominantly Muslim,’ she said, ‘so keep it covered up while we’re out in public.’
After tipping the porter she turned into the room and gazed at the large, Iroko wood bed with its exquisite Zanzibari carvings and copious folds of muslin draped from a hanging frame above. The rest of the furniture was in the same dark wood, the walls were washed in white, and the floor was coolly tiled in terracotta and stone. Finding herself imagining Richard and Chrissie lying together on the beautifully canopied bed, she quickly opened her suitcase and started to unpack.
Less than an hour later, after showering and washing her hair, she wrapped a brightly coloured sarong around her waist, turning it into an ankle-length skirt, pulled on a plain short white T-shirt, and slipped her feet into a pair of flip-flops to go and turf out Avril.
‘Perfect,’ she declared, when Avril came out in pale blue pedal-pushers with matching loose shirt, and modest sleeveless top. Then, grimacing at the pile of messages Avril was holding, she waved her own, and carried on reading them as they headed out to find Masud. It didn’t take long to drive to the location beach, though it was a noisy journey as both Carla and Avril shouted into their mobile phones, returning calls from London and LA, while holding on to the front seats to stop themselves bouncing around too violently.
Finally they arrived at the beach where the bulk of the unit was clustered at the water’s edge. Remembering to turn off their phones, they climbed from the car, but didn’t get far before the second assistant signalled for them to stay where they were, as the camera was rolling. Silently they watched the take, though weren’t able to make out much of what was happening through the bodies surrounding the action. A minute or two later Hugo yelled cut, and as the grips started pushing the camera back along the tracks the unit began to break apart.
‘What’s happening?’ Carla asked, as Verna came to meet them.
‘We’re doing the scene where the slave trader’s wife and pirate captain fix a price for the slave girl,’ Verna answered. ‘There’re a couple more set-ups, then apparently we’re doing the romance shots.’
‘Romance shots?’ Avril said curiously.
‘Of the dashingly handsome Sultan riding manfully along the beach on his trusty white stallion,’ Carla said drolly, while looking up to see where the sun was. Satisfied that the shots were likely to coincide with the sunset, she looked around for John.
‘Isn’t that Rosa?’ Avril said, nodding to where a straw-hatted woman in a tight lace bodice and voluminous skirts was talking to Gary Houseman, the pirate captain.
‘Mmm,’ Carla responded, thinking what a good job Jackie had done with the costume, and how insufferably hot Rosa must be in it.
‘So I take it she apologized after that scene in the kitchen,’ Avril said.
Carla nodded. ‘Grudgingly, it has to be said,’ she answered.
‘Did you tell her it was Chrissie who’d blocked her casting?’
Carla’s eyebrows went up. ‘As a matter of fact, I did.’ She hadn’t felt too proud afterwards, but it was done now, and hardly worth losing sleep over.
‘How’d she take that?’
‘Don’t know. Didn’t ask, and haven’t seen her since. However, she did send me a New Year’s card, which I presume was some kind of peace offering.’
‘She’s a snake,’ Avril commented, looking at Rosa with distaste, while taking the cold drink an assistant was handing her. She sipped it, then almost choked as she caught sight of John striding across the beach towards them. ‘Jesus Christ,’ she murmured.
Following her eyes Carla started to laugh, though she could only feel thankful for the sunglasses covering her eyes, since the image he created, in his long white flowing robes, intricately wound turban and high leather boots, had to be every woman’s wildest dream. And from the irony of his expression he not only knew it, but was loving it.
‘I don’t know if a man’s ever made my knees go weak before,’ Avril told him, as he embraced her, the way everyone on the unit embraced, with a kiss on either cheek. ‘And at the risk of a ribald response, aren’t you hot in that?’
‘Surprisingly no,’ he responded.
‘He’s an outrage,’ Jackie, the costume designer, declared, joining them. ‘I can’t get him out of this stuff now. I swear he wears it to bed.’
‘Well, there’s one way to find out,’ he teased her.
Jackie’s hands flew to her cheeks. ‘Oh my God, did you hear that?’ she gasped. ‘Do you think he meant it?’
As the bantering continued, John’s eyes kept going to Carla, and she knew that his decision not to greet her with the standard kiss was deliberate. Though disappointed, it excited her too, for she knew that the chemistry between them was becoming too powerful for them to engage in the careless physical contact they had with others.
‘How was your flight?’ he finally asked her.
Once again she was glad he couldn’t see her eyes, for the way he was looking at her felt so intimate that she almost lost her smile. ‘Fine,’ she answered. Then, indicating his costume, ‘Devastating.’ He swept her a bow, and with a droll lift of an eyebrow, she said, ‘I imagine there’s quite a queue to be swept on to horseback when you gallop the beach at sunset.’
‘Phoebe’s started a lottery,’ he answered, his smile doing things to her that she knew would prey on her mind later.
‘Then I’ll have to get myself a ticket,’ she responded.
His eyes seemed to narrow as they moved over her face, bringing a faint colour to her cheeks and causing Avril to give a polite little cough.
‘I think you’re wanted,’ she told him, nodding towards the unit. ‘Something to do with a film shoot.’
Laughing, he tore his eyes from Carla, saying, ‘I’ll catch up with you later. I want to hear all about Geneva,’ and he strode back across the sand to where the actors were waiting to rehearse the next shot.
‘Do you know what I think?’ Avril said, linking Carla’s arm and walking her on down the beach into the cooling swirl of the waves. ‘I think it’s going to do you a power of good being here. Or it will if you, Miss-Got-To-Remain-Professional-At-All-Times, are sensible enough to take my advice.’
‘Which is?’
Avril inhaled deeply, and as they both took a moment to gaze out at the glorious panorama of nothing but blue, sun-dappled sea and a perfectly cloudless sky, she said, ‘My advice to you, Carla, is: detach and float.’
In the end it was Angelica Reed, the travel writer acting as guest presenter, who was swept up on to horseback and carried off into the sunset for the final shot of the day. The image was so perfectly romantic, with John’s robes trailing in the wind, the thundering horse’s hooves kicking up sand, and the fiery wash of the sun as Angelica was seized up into the saddle, that everyone agreed there was no point in going for another take. So after a close-up on John’s face and a cutaway of the galloping hooves, a wrap was called. By then Carla had been briefed by the researchers on who was going where with the hand-held DVDs to get the footage that the main unit wouldn’t have time to cover. She was also impressed by the amount of information they’d already collected regarding hotel and transport deals, all of which were necessary for the statements to camera, and she could see that she would have more than enough to do to catch up on the two days she’d missed.
Leaving the unit to pack up she and Avril rode back to the hotel in Masud’s car, both shouting into their phones again, and all but oblivious to the stunning scenery they were shouting about, as Avril attempted to give an interview to a weekly magazine in London and Carla talked to a researcher who was at Nungwi, on the northern tip of the island, trying to find out what kind of material he was getting so she could prepare a covering script. When they finally arrived back they made straight for the bar, where they slumped down in a couple of capacious bamboo chairs under wildly whirring fans and loudly lamented the fact that they couldn’t have ice in their drinks.
It wasn’t long before the fleet of Land Cruisers carrying the unit began pulling
up outside, depositing a hot, tired and dusty crew who were in dire need of refreshment before going off to shower. Presuming John had gone straight to his room, Carla asked Frazer if there was any chance of seeing the past three days’ rushes, only to be told that John had already given instructions for them to be sent to her room so she could view them at her leisure.
Not wanting to get into whether he intended to come and view them with her, she decided to leave it till morning, as she was jet-lagged and hungry now, and probably wouldn’t stay awake long after dinner.
‘Hi, mind if I join you?’
Carla looked up to where Rosa, now wearing a loose cotton dress and sloppy sandals, was hovering with a tall glass of beer and a sunburned face. ‘Feel free,’ she said, avoiding Avril’s stare as she airily waved Rosa to the chair Kit Kingsley had just vacated.
‘Well, everything seems to be going to plan,’ Rosa commented, helping herself to a handful of freshly roasted peanuts. ‘Have you seen any rushes yet?’
Carla shook her head, then covered her mouth as she yawned. ‘The best part, so far,’ she said, ‘is that we’re on schedule. If it stays that way, we get Sunday off.’
‘I hope so,’ Rosa said. ‘It’ll be the only time we have for ourselves, except we’ll be a long way from town.’
‘Don’t worry about that,’ Carla assured her. ‘I’ll get Frazer, or Jaffah, to arrange some buses to bring back those who want to come. For anyone else there’ll be plenty of snorkelling and swimming and diving up at Mapenzi Beach. Or so I’m told.’
Avril was staring hard at Rosa, not bothering to conceal her dislike, as the conversation fell into a brief and vaguely uneasy silence. In the end Rosa turned to Avril and treated her to such a scathing look that Avril almost laughed.
