by Peter Riva
“How’s Mbuno in all this?”
“Ah, yes, Mbuno. Well, here’s his message to you …” he imitated the Kenyan bush accent flawlessly, “‘Bwana Pero, it is more than my life you are saving. Again.” And then he smiled at me, wide, teeth and all. Most odd. You understand that?”
“Yeah, it’s our private thing.” Heep was smiling too.
“Heep here, Amogh, good to hear from you. Thanks for looking after the mzee and his wife; you’re doing a great job.”
“Hello there Heep old fellow. By the way, Rinaldi says he appreciates your offer of transport if it’s something he doesn’t want to handle here. But, you know, it would have to be pretty serious. He has that new operating theater and some young lions for doctors. Quite the talk of the Nairobi ladies they are too.”
“Well, as long as Niamba is getting the best attention, that’s all that matters. Will you call back when you have news of Rinaldi’s diagnosis? And give Niamba our best?”
“Will do. Don’t worry too much; things are pretty well under control for the moment. My parents have turned up and are arguing over who’s going to pay the bill. They say they want to. I told them I was taking orders from you, but you know father, he feels it is his duty to help. Anyway, we’ll manage. Got to go, they’re signaling. More later. Bye.” And he hung up. Heep tilted his head as if to say, it’s the best we can expect. Pero nodded. Without a word, Heep went back to his room. Both of them were worried about their friend’s wife. And for their friend Mbuno as well, for he and his wife were inseparable, they talked every day whenever they had been on safari with Mbuno. It was a ritual. Rituals are dangerous when broken.
In the lounge ten minutes later, Danny Redmond walked in and the waitress sprinted to help him choose a table. He walked over to where Heep and Pero were already seated. She shot the two a glance of newfound respect. Redmond had changed into jeans and a cashmere V-neck sweater, no shirt, and a gold wristwatch. He had socks on. Definitely not creepy Hollywood.
“Heep, how are you?” Danny extended his hand.
“Fine Danny, may I introduce Pero Baltazar?” It was Heep’s formal Dutch upbringing. Pero stood and extended his hand. It was a firm handshake yet without muscle—no test, no statement.
“I’ve heard all about you, even saw a bootleg copy of your latest croc footage, incredible. Other people, like National Geographic, are pretty miffed to lose Mary Lever as on-camera talent, although your new network seems pleased. I met with them last week. I’m doing a Christmas special appeal—Diabetes—for them and they promised Mary in a supporting role.”
“Heep, here, may or may not like that. He’s the producer of her new series. Husband too.”
“That so? Well, damn, everyone’s loss, your gain. She’s a firecracker. Camera loves her.” Pero got the impression he was evaluating her professionally, not as a man. Pero wanted to find out, to make sure Heep didn’t get jealous. He had a tendency to be the type.
“She is a great gal,” Pero said casually.
“I wouldn’t know, haven’t met her. Maybe one day you’ll introduce me, Heep?” His interest was professional. It was a good sign. A man with his charisma should—and he did—know the power of the weapon he wielded. Turn off the personal charm; keep it clean, professional, and friendly.
“Danny, anytime, Mary would be pleased to meet you too.” The drinks arrived; Heep had his habitual evening beer. In Germany, it was always Weissbier, almost clear in taste and color.
Danny got down to business, “The script they sent you fellows? It’s crap. The movie is about a quarter shot, and I’ve asked the studio to fire Pederson.” The director was going? Not a good sign. Pero needed this work—and the week away from that bag of heavy water. “The revised script arrives tonight on my plane into Tempelhof from England …” He looked at his watch, “In about an hour. Secretly, for a week I’ve had Stan Letterman working at his country home in Cornwall. He’s bringing it.”
Stan Letterman was a two-time Oscar winner, very high-powered and well respected. Pero had heard he didn’t hire on to fix a script for under a cool million. Power is measured by money in Hollywood—what you could make or stop other people making. Letterman was at the top of that game for a scriptwriter. “The studio was on board with the concept, but I was having problems. You see, with my plan I’m using my own money—and not only to pay Stan—but the truth is I don’t have the twenty-five million dollar deficit financing, at the minimum, we would need. Plus I needed to dump Pedersen—he’s a great action director, but not serious enough for this. He’s still box-office gold but what he had in mind for this movie might not be.” He turned to Heep. “It was your entire fault really; you gave me the idea, that Funeral in Berlin pitch. The studio and distributors said they wished that was what they had originally green-lighted … And the studio said I was nuts to want to take what we have—the sets are still up—and remake it. The studio and distribution money boys finally said no, even though studio creative said okay.”
With a premonition, Pero guessed what might be coming … Redmond turned toward him, turned on the whole charm, smiled, and said, “Then, three hours ago I get a call telling me that they give be a complete green-light. Pedersen’s gone and everything I wanted, especially an extra fifty million dollars and deficit-financing if needed—all no problem. Seems someone wants the second unit team to have a free hand here in Berlin. They wanted that so bad they rubber-stamped anything I wanted as long as it kept Berlin on schedule and a priority. New banks put up the cash immediately, no meetings, nothing. A phone call and it was done. So, I took a little advantage and sold the studio the whole plan, you two attached. Hope you don’t mind?”
Pero didn’t want to answer that. He wasn’t sure how much trouble he was in with Lewis in Langley. Fifty million dollars? Would the CIA have to put up money like that, just to buy a week? Or was it just leverage, not cash? So he dodged Redmond’s question with another “Who’d you get to take over as director?”
“He’s sitting right here, next to the two producers.” He saw Heep’s shoulders square up. “Yeah, you Heep. It was your idea, your vision. Ever since you talked to me, I’ve been screening everything you’ve shot on a laptop link with the studio. Time you made that feature film you’re always skirting.”
Unsure, Heep asked very quietly, “And the studio is okay with this?”
“Look, I am the producer, and I okayed it, and all our agents at DBB agreed as long as the money was there. They see this as my climb back into their pocket after my stage time-out in London. They’re sick of me earning fifty pounds a night in … What did they call it? Oh yeah, ‘a dusty, run-down rat trap in the land of Shakespeare whose actors can’t earn their way out of a paper bag.’ Subtle, aren’t they? Anyway, since twenty-five million of the budget is mine, and fifty million dollars is now guaranteed studio financing, and the rest, including the deficit financing and distribution fees, are all assured by the banks, I can pretty much do what I want without the studio’s bullshit. Once the banks rubber-stamped anything we wanted here in Berlin, it sealed the deal. Once we shoot here—what we want to shoot—there’s only one way to finish the picture: with you still at the helm and Letterman’s script, which just was approved.”
Heep raised his eyebrows. His worry was equally Pero’s: could this all be happening so quickly?
Redmond knew they were skeptical, “Yeah, guys, really, they read the script treatment overnight, amazing. “Wow” and “gee” were the descriptive words they used—deep thinkers all. Let’s hope when you get the full script tonight, you’ll agree.” The two men were silent.
Redmond’s aura deflated a little. He slowed down and talked—a man telling his secrets—it was no act. “Look, Heep, I know I’ve taken everything for granted, and Pero, whatever friends you have in high places—and I figured it had to be you, not Heep—am I right? No, don’t tell me. Look, I am not stupid enough to think you can’t also pull the plug on this one just as quick. Whatever role you want here, it’s you
rs, as long as you’re aboard. But Heep was right about the story—the look, the feel we should be filming. Damn, look guys, I saw a chance and took it.” He wasn’t apologizing; it was a statement of cold fact.
Pero felt it was time to let him off the hook. He knew Heep too well not to make this easy on them all. Money wasn’t an issue here, for any of them. Danny had made that clear. This was a creative thing, a chance. “Danny—and I speak for my friend here as well since he’s just too dumbstruck to say it—I think we’ll work as a team, just fine. I’ll produce locally for you and Heep, it’s my pleasure.” And he stuck out his hand. Danny took it, saw the acceptance in Heep’s eyes, and pumped it up and down, a child-like enthusiasm very evident. Suddenly, he was in control of his destiny, the last card played in a game of chance, and he had that glow of a gambler who had won, and won big. It was written all over his face. Of course, that’s because he’s an actor. They have those open, demonstrative faces, sometimes without knowing. It’s what makes the twenty-foot blow-up on screen work so effectively.
“Pero, won’t you take on the job all the way through?”
“You don’t need me for that and, anyway, I have an aversion to Hollywood.” And he added, “Boss.”
Redmond laughed hard, openly, and deeply, “You’re not getting off that easy. I was making you a producer, full salary and control with me, just us two. Heep trusts you, I now see and know that much.” He suddenly got serious, “Look, word is something happened on your last shoot, no one will say what, but it’s clear you’re a team. If I lose you, we may lose this incredible chance. No way. It’s both of you or nothing.” Pero started to interrupt. Redmond waved him off. “No, listen. You’re the producer. Heep’s the director, a team. I am sure of that. If you want no part of Hollywood, that’s okay. I can handle that end. If you agree to sole-produce the European part of this shoot, I can handle the rest. But you’re Heep’s insurance, his protection, a full producer with a fifty percent say. That okay?”
Pero thought about it for about five seconds, just long enough to give the impression it was an important decision, not long enough to create doubt. “Agreed.” As he said it, he realized that he had already mentally agreed to any request Redmond would make.
Redmond started laughing. The man’s charm was overwhelming.
Heep just sat there looking at his wedding band, shaking his head. “I think I’ll call Mary and tell her the good news.” He got up, patted Danny on the shoulder, slowly, by way of thanks and confirmation, and left the lounge. Heep was a modest man. Pero knew he had always wanted to direct a feature. Heep had the best eye of anyone he had ever worked with. A Renoir or Cartier-Bresson kind of eye, seeing immediately what others would only see a day later in the memory of their mind’s eye. The quick, the hard-to-visualize, never eluded him. It made his “vision,” on film or TV, stand out, head and shoulders, above the rest. Pero was a fan and Heep knew it.
Pero suggested the new two coproducers drink up and get over to Tempelhof to pick up the script by Letterman before dinner—together. No one mentioned money. Without a word, they knew that the money side would be when put on paper, fair and honest. This was unlike most Hollywood business where “Have your agent call my agent” would proceed weeks of posturing for status advantage over small details. The three men skipped the power dance because, sitting there in the lounge on the sixth floor, all three knew it was not necessary. Expert evaluation was their stock in trade, what kept them at the top of their professions.
But then they were, in spirit and flesh, in Berlin—the land of the culturally possible.
* * *
Tempelhof Airport is in the south central part of Berlin, smack dab in the center of the newly growing, renovating, city. It was built in the Bauhaus school of architecture shortly before Hitler’s rise to power. Bauhaus is the school where form follows function. Design for function almost always requires clean sight lines, efficient layout, and a mono-focus quest for perfection without embellishment. Most people associate the style with Hitler’s era because, well, it was still new then. But, Hitler hated the modern architecture of the Bauhaus school; it was too angular, too modern. He preferred the neo-classical, and lots of old-world elegance; it tended to suit his dreams of Cesarean grandeur better.
Tempelhof is the blueprint for all the world’s airports. Modeled on the classic train station—buy a ticket, go to the platform gate, check your ticket, board your train—Tempelhof was designed for efficiency with a massive central hall and doors that lead to the gates. The front of the building has all clean lines. The back of the building is angular but spread out as a horseshoe, creating a covered harbor for the planes that you would walk to. In the age of the separate covered Jetway and noise abatement, Tempelhof became inefficient, and in the 1990s it was shut down for commercial traffic. As valuable land, it is a ping-pong ball in a game of political aspirations—developers set against preservationists. Pero had seen Tempelhof from the air before his landing at Tegel. He could see there were still open fields around the runway, virtually untouched. But he knew only a few flights drifted in and out every day—mostly turboprops, many of them ministerial flights, and the airport now only had a skeleton staff to service the mostly private planes.
Danny’s private plane was due in from London at 8:00 p.m. and as far as they knew, should be on time. Pero showed Danny around the airport, discussing the history, showing him the famous sculpture in front by the parking lot. It is a half arc, the other half perfectly aligned in Frankfurt, the other port of the Airlift. Two halves of the Air Bridge so vital to Berlin at one time.
Pero had disguised Danny Redmond pretty well—public appearances for one so famous could cause havoc. Redmond was used to pretending to be someone else. Disguise doesn’t so much matter visually as it does for posture. Pero put a matchbook in Danny’s right shoe and lent him a sweater and a pair of sunglasses—full tint. With the matchbox in his shoe, his gait was changed. Danny added a slump to his normally square shoulders, and he passed inspection. With a coat and hat, even Kamal didn’t spot him, making a fuss over Pero instead since he wasn’t wearing a coat, as they came out for a taxi. “Mr. Baltazar, Sir, you want me to lend you a coat?” Pero thanked him and declined.
Tomorrow, Pero thought, I really needed to buy a new one.
Danny’s voice was world famous, so Pero had told him not to speak in public, even in the taxi. Danny seemed to be enjoying the role-playing.
After the tourist tour of the almost empty airport, Pero took him up to the second floor, looking out the windows at the plane arrival area, the horseshoe harbor. It was dark and the thirties’ yellow hue floodlights created weak pools of light, like polka dots, on the concrete basin in front of them. They were alone so Danny could speak. “It’s no accident you took me up here, is it?”
“It does add character to anything in a script.”
“Yeah, let’s see what Letterman has to say. Is all your and Heep’s knowledge like this?” He waved his hands at the atmosphere in front and then, turning, behind us at the main hall.
“If we can help, sure. It’s your call, how much or how little you want.”
Danny simply nodded and went on looking out the window. The first script Pero had seen, now completely re-written he expected, had a chase scene down Unter den Linden Street. The film was supposed to be taking place thirty years ago. Unter den Linden was in East Berlin then, the action wasn’t supposed to be. Danny might have been thinking similar thoughts.
“If the chase were here, we could have interfering crowds, not simply people trying to go about their own business.” He meant that people in an airport mostly stand around, bored. If a cop yells to stop, they might lend a hand, adding to the hero’s jeopardy. It was a good thought. On a public street, people tend to shy away. Human nature.
“Yes, and the transfer to the U-Bahn here is more believable. You passed it on the way up, about a quarter of a mile back. Running distance.” Again, he nodded.
Pensive, they watch
ed in silence. A plane landing left to right into the wind touched down safely and disappeared from view. Moments later, pools of lights appeared stage left. The whole scene looked like a stage. The pools evolved into shafts that made their way stage right followed by the plane. The modern plane’s lights obliterated the solid oily black of the concrete harbor before them. “Need to make sure we get dimmer lights on a plane if we film this. It was better before.” Pero’s turn to nod.
They walked down the concrete steps and Pero could sense apprehension, Danny’s hand on the railing … He stopped, took it off, stared at it, and put it back on. “Goebbels, Himmler, and Hitler probably used this same banister, touched where I have touched.”
“Yes, but do remember we’re in Germany. It has been disinfected, oh I don’t know, a million times since then.” Pero laughed. They continued on down.
Suddenly three men, burly men, leather jacket sleeves bulging, climbed the bottom three steps and blocked the bottom of the stairway. “Was wollen sie?” (what do you want), Pero challenged them, offense is often the best, well, offense. He had a major world star here, unprotected, he was not about to allow a kidnapping or robbery.
“Sie müssen gehen raus.” It was a command, flatly given, hand in pocket. They were being told to leave. The man was staring at Pero.
“Pero?” Danny asked.
“They want me or us, to leave.” Sie could mean you plural. Pero looked at the man who had spoken. “Wieso?” Why so?
“Sie müssen, jetzt.”
Pero translated for Danny, “Seems we must, now, no explanation.” He faced them: “Gut, ja doc, war müssen unto war gehen. Nicht mit fliegen?” Good, yes so, we must get going. Not by flying?
“Nein. Sie Kane gehen” then a deliberate pause, “mit taxi.” Telling them to leave via taxi was said with a snarl. Pero sensed a trap.
