by Ralph Helfer
Zamba and I watched as the two of them walked to the car.
Looking back over her shoulder she said, “Thanks for letting me see you.”
“Augh!” he answered.
Other events came our way that allowed us to demonstrate just how successful affection training could be. One day I received a call from a company with a Roman theme.
“Do you have any lions?”
“Ah! Well, yes, sure. What do you have in mind?” I asked.
“We want to build a very large float to represent the days of the Roman Olympics. You know, the Colosseum, Circus Maximus, and gladiators. We want to put the lions on the float with no cages, but we’re concerned as to whether it will be safe. We called all the animal companies, including Jungleland, but everybody turned us down; they say it’s too dangerous. Maybe we’re asking too much. There will be about a million people lined along the route, and it’s not entirely under our control. There will be children, balloons popping, bands—lots of noise and activity.”
“A million people?” I blurted.
“Oh, sorry—I thought I’d told you. It’s for the Rose Parade.”
“The Rose Parade?” I paused.
“No problem,” I said. “We can do it.”
“Well, I’ll take this to the committee, and if they approve, I’ll get right back to you. Cheers.”
I hoped I hadn’t bitten off more then I could chew. It was a tall order and a big responsibility. If approved, this would be the first time in history that such a float would be allowed in the Rose Parade, and the lions would be just a few feet from the crowds. But I knew my animals and trainers, and I knew we could do it.
A couple of weeks later, the committee wrote me a very nice letter stating that they had reviewed the situation, had researched my company, and felt that we would be the best—the only—company they would allow to do it. The parade was about four months away. When we signed our contract, they showed us the multimillion-dollar insurance premium they had to pay to appease the Rose Bowl people.
They shipped us gladiator costumes for the trainers to wear. We had asked for them early so the trainers could get the lions used to the way that we looked in them. It was always odd to look out the window from my office to see gladiators, complete with feathered helmets, walking the lions through the property.
In preparation, we erected special caging to put in the back of pickup trucks, and used them to drive the lions through the busiest sections of town. We staged our own “parade” at the ranch with drums and our horses. Marching band music was played over loudspeakers, and we used garbage can lids as cymbals, banging them in cadence with the music. We drove the lions to every event being held in Los Angeles to get them accustomed to all the activity and excitement. We wanted to make sure none of the noises or smells would make them panic.
We figured we had achieved our goal when the lions slept through the commotion.
The day of the parade arrived. We were ready at four in the morning. Zamba and one of the other lions, Zamba Jr. (not directly related to Zamba, but of the same temperamental mold), were to ride up front on the float. Two of our other lions, Tammy and Leo, would ride behind. All the lions had been bathed and combed, and everything was set to go.
As we approached the downtown area, a motorcycle police escort helped us through the crowds. The float was as they had said—enormous. It was built to symbolize the Roman era of the Circus Maximus, with all its pomp. Roman columns rose high in the air. Marble steps led up to a mock remnant of the ancient Forum and gave one the feeling of being there. Thousands of flowers—red and white roses, marigolds, and carnations of all colors—covered the columns and the float itself.
We put the lions in their designated places. Each one was featured on a simulated marble rise so the huge crowds could see them, leashes hidden under their manes or decorated with flowers. As the parade started, each “gladiator” took position alongside the lions. Some of us walked along with the float, others stood on it, near the animals. We were all in full armor and carried a shield, whip, mace, or some sort of artificial weapon to set the mood. I positioned myself as close as I could to Zamba so he could see me at all times. Leading the float was a herald, the kind you’d have heard before the games started in the Roman Colosseum.
We were a huge hit. The hordes of people watching the parade went wild, screaming and applauding. Some did the famous thumbs up or down.
And I must say, we looked great. The lions were outstanding; they were thoroughly enjoying the ride, and you could tell. They stood or sat, looking down at their people like the kings they are. We didn’t have a single problem.
The float won the award for its category, and the company sponsoring the float was ecstatic.
Afterward, back at the ranch, we all celebrated. The women, dressed in togas, had prepared a surprise Roman party for us. They had spread blankets, lit torches, and cooked up a true Roman feast, complete with the same marching band music that had been played in the parade. A special platform complete with torches at each corner was raised so the lions could sit and watch. We threw scraps of meat to them just as the Romans had done centuries ago. Some of the “gladiators” gave a go at a simulated fight. We ate with our hands, drank wine, and danced until the sun came up.
It was a one-of-a-kind performance. As far as I’m concerned, no one else has ever been able to match it.
17
Brini and Jack’s phone call had changed my life completely. In the spring of 1960, my life was changed by another phone call.
“So sorry to ring you up on a Sunday morning, but we’ve only just found out about you, and it’s most important that we speak.” The voice at the other end of the line was quite formal.
“What can I do for you?” I asked, still working on my breakfast.
“I represent the Twentieth Century–Fox studio. I understand that you have lions?”
“Yes, we have quite few. What exactly do you need?”
“We have a film that requires a lion to work with a child. Can you do that?”
“Yes,” I said.
“Yes? Yes? You’re sure?” His voice had lost all its formality. “Can your lion actually be with a child and not, uh—not hurt her? I mean, really?” You would have thought I’d just delivered the Hope diamond.
“I have a lion that loves children.”
“Is he big?”
“Yes, quite.”
“Well then, can you bring him to the studios on Monday so you and your lion can meet the producer?”
“I can do that, but before you go, will you tell me exactly what they have in mind?”
The more I knew, the better prepared I’d be.
“All I know is that Sam Engel, the producer of the film The Lion, has put out a call around the world for a full-grown lion to star in the film. The animal has to be able to work safely with a child actress, and so far, no lion has been found that can fill the bill. Everybody they contacted said it was impossible, and that a lion would kill a child. The studio was in the process of constructing a mechanical lion when the actor Bill Holden recommended I call you. That’s all I know. That, and they’re going to be filming in Africa.”
My heart started racing, and I struggled to keep my breath under control. We all have goals in life; things we want to do, places we want to see. My own most personal and passionately held goal was to go to Africa. I had wanted—I might even say needed—to go there since childhood. Something about that continent called me. I wasn’t sure if it was the animals, the land, the people, or some combination of all three, but the desire was so strong in me that it kept me up at night.
The only thing I loved more than the idea of Africa were my lions, and the opportunity to see those two passions intersect was so incredible, it boggled my mind.
“Okay,” I said, trying to sound professional. “Thanks for the information.”
I confirmed the time and spent the rest of the day ecstatic about the possibility of getting the job. It also gave me
great satisfaction to imagine getting a job that my main competitor, Jungleland, couldn’t do.
Monday morning found me loading a scrubbed and immaculately brushed Zamba into my station wagon. I’ll tell you—when you travel with a lion, doors open to you! When I pulled up to the studio gate, the guard took one look at Zamba and didn’t even ask for my name, he just let us in. I unloaded Zam in the parking lot, clipped a leash on him, and headed for our destination, where a very nervous secretary pointed the way to the producer’s office.
I pushed the button for the elevator. When the doors opened, the people on the elevator took one look at Zamba and fell over themselves trying to move as far back into the car as they could. I had to back Zamba halfway across the lobby before they would leave the elevator, and we had to race through the doors before they closed.
On our floor, a security guard stayed at a distance, but pointed out the door to the producer’s office. He was kind enough to open it for us—although he held the handle with his fingertips and moved away fast.
We entered a huge office done in dark mahogany furniture against a thick, dark brown rug. At the end of the room was a large, fancy glass desk framed in ebony wood. It was a dark and depressing office, except for a large glass window with a view over the studio lot.
The glare coming in from the outside made seeing the man behind the desk almost impossible. The only thing you could see was the silhouette of another man smoking a cigar in front of the window. I had read that many executives put their desks in front of a window, so they see their visitors’ faces without being seen themselves. They believe it gives them an advantage.
“Well, well, so this is the famous lion that will work with children,” said the shadow at the desk.
“Yes, sir, this is Zamba.”
There was no handshake. I figured he was afraid of the lion coming too close to him.
“He won’t pee on my carpet, will he, young man?”
“No, sir.”
“What makes you so sure he won’t eat the kid?”
“He’s experienced with children, sir.”
He was quiet for some time. Then, “Okay, tomorrow you’ll meet the kid and see if she and the lion get along. If he can do the job, fine. If not, we don’t need either one of you.”
Then he waved his hand at me, as if he were dismissing a servant. I left the office feeling put down. This person knew nothing about us, and he’d treated us as if we were less than he was. I found out later that the man I was talking to was not the producer, but a production head with a lot of power, and no one spoke well of him. I was too young myself to recognize his strategy: what he was really saying was “We don’t need you, so you’d better lower your price or there won’t be a job at all.” I knew they had no lion, but I also knew that they were threatening to use a mechanical one.
I received a call the next day that a meeting had been arranged, and I should take Zamba to meet Pamela Franklin, the little girl actress.
We met Pam and her mother on the back lot of the studio. Another production head was also there. He was very polite, and there were introductions all around.
Pam was a delight: a vibrant and bright little lady who captured Zamba’s and my heart immediately. The two of them got along famously. Obviously, I was very careful to make sure that nothing happened that might scare Pam. Sometimes Zamba’s natural exuberance could be a bit overwhelming, and I would have to remind him to cool it. I told Pam and her mother about how Zam had come to live with me, and showed Pam where to stand when she was around Zamba, how he liked to be brushed (in only one direction!), how to walk him on a leash—even how to hug him. I could see they would be just fine together. She learned quickly, and I knew that it would be a joy to work with her.
After I put Zamba in the station wagon, Pam’s mother called me over.
“Mr. Helfer, you and Zamba are wonderful, and I am looking forward to the film. I want you to know, though, that every night I go to sleep, I will be praying that nothing goes wrong. I am a mother who loves her daughter very much and, well, I guess I’m sort of a worry bird. I just want you to know that I trust you with my daughter’s life. Please be careful.”
With this she kissed me on the cheek. I understood at that moment how much of a responsibility this was: the life of someone else’s little girl, someone’s daughter, was in my hands.
It sounds ridiculous, but up to then, it had never really occurred to me that Zamba would hurt anybody. I was still sure in my core that he wouldn’t, but now I would be taking extra precautions. Her reminder rang in my ears for the duration of the job.
A few days later I returned to the office with my proposal. The studio had requested more lions. The production head was as obnoxious as he’d been the day we first met when I handed him the contract I had drawn up. I had spent considerable time on it, figuring in what it would cost to take the trainers, Zamba, and the two other lions that they’d requested for a six-month stay in Kenya. It was a considerable sum, but it was very fair.
He ripped opened the envelope and looked at the figures.
“What the hell is this?” he screamed, screwing the paper up into a ball and throwing it at me.
I stood there in complete shock. Was this guy actually talking to me like this? I’d never seen anything like his behavior in a professional setting.
“What is this shit?”
I tried to explain my reasons for the numbers in the contract.
“Out! Out! Get the fuck out!”
I left, totally distraught, my dreams of Africa falling away before my eyes. How could this happen? Pam and Zamba were great together, and the contract I’d offered them was more than fair.
Next morning I received a call from the other man I’d met. He asked me to come back and bring a fresh contract. I did. He didn’t make any excuses for the production head’s actions—he just took my contract and signed right there! Apparently he was second in command and had the authority to sign.
“See you on the set.” He smiled.
I was to find out that this was that particular production head’s way—and the way of a lot of the hardballing executives around Hollywood. If they could pressure you into taking a deal for less than you were worth, they would. But they didn’t have much room with me. There was only one Zamba, and they knew it.
18
The next week passed in a blur. I couldn’t believe that Zamba and I were going to Africa together. But I should learn not to count my chickens before they hatch; we almost didn’t make it there.
The Sunday after I signed the papers, I woke up slowly, aware of a heavy weight pressing me into the mattress. It felt as though a car had slipped off its jack, pinning me to the ground. I didn’t panic. Zamba never could sleep on his side of the bed.
I managed to slip myself out from under his massive frame, making a mental note to give him a bath later—he needed it. After a quick shower, I dressed. Zamba, now lying diagonally across the bed, was still asleep. The snoring was serious.
I kicked the bed. “Zam! Come on! Up and out!”
He opened one eye, his huge mane matted to the back of his head. He looked as though he’d been out for a wild night on the town. I headed for the kitchen, enjoying a brief moment of appreciation for my life. Isn’t this great? I thought. True, I didn’t have a lot of money—in fact, very little. But I had the animals, and a unique way of life.
I heard a thud from upstairs—Zamba getting out of bed. He dragged himself sleepily into the kitchen, ignoring the yapping of the dog. He tripped over Speedy the tortoise, banged the back door screen open with his head, and headed for his favorite tree, which was starting to show the use.
I had recently fastened a steel cable about eight feet off the ground between two oak trees. The ground there had been raked and cleaned, and covered with fresh heavy cedar chips. I fastened Zamba’s chain to a clip and then attached the clip to a ring that slid the length of the cable. This allowed Zamba to exercise the full length of the cable. If he decide
d to rest, the cedar chips would absorb any dampness, as well as keep him clean. Once on the cable, he shook himself again. Then, feeling as cocky as a puppy, he proceeded to race up and down the run, grunting and cavorting and just plain feeling good. I left him to warm himself and relax in the sun.
I wasn’t alone. A few months before, a beautiful blond former model named Toni had shown up on my doorstep with two bear cubs tearing up the inside of her car. A ranger had killed their mother after she had menaced some tourists, and Toni, a real animal lover, had saved the cubs. But they were proving a little more than she could handle, and she wanted to know if I could help. I could, and did—and the sparks had flown between the two of us. She was fascinated by my life on the ranch, and insisted that I teach her everything I could. She was incredibly nurturing and warm, and the animals—especially Zamba—had taken to her immediately. It was as if she had been there forever.
Heading back to the compound, Toni and I went to work on a minor repair in Raunchy the jaguar’s cage. It took only a few minutes to complete, and I put the last clamp on the chain-link fence as Toni headed for the kitchen to prepare breakfast, and returned Raunchy to his cage. Then I headed for the house. By the aroma, I could tell that Toni had the bacon and eggs well on the way. I went up to wash off as much of the sweat and dirt as I could, but as I turned off the faucet, I was suddenly hit by a wave of terror. Something was wrong.
Zamba!
I raced toward the kitchen.
“Zamba!” I screamed. Toni joined me and we ran toward the front door, crashing it open. “Oh, my God!”
The worst sight imaginable greeted our eyes.
“Dear God! Zamba!”
He was hanging by his neck over the steel cable, bent and lifeless, his head on one side, his body draped on the other, his hind section and tail dragging on the ground. Somehow, he had run around the oak tree, leaped eight feet up and over the wire, and had gotten caught.
As we ran to him, my mind was racing. How long had he been there? A minute? Five? Maybe even ten! His gorgeous, lifeless eyes stared at me. I touched them. They were sticky and unblinking.