by Joe DeVito
“What’s the matter with her?” Denham asked.
“Nothing. She seems like a fine girl, not the kind you’d find on a trip like this.”
“She is a fine girl, Jack. I’d swear to it.”
“But I wonder if any girl should be on board, heading for wherever you’re taking us.”
Ann heard Denham chuckle. “Let me worry about the danger, Jack. Right now you can help me set up my camera.”
Before they could step around the corner, Ann ducked through the companionway. At the end of the corridor, she knocked softly at the main cabin door, and Captain Englehorn opened it. His lined face broke into a welcoming smile, and he readily agreed to show Ann where the costumes and makeup were kept.
Denham had been right about the size. Ann wondered if he’d picked her out because she looked as if she would fit the costumes. One of them struck her, and she tried it on. It was primitive in a way, made of iridescent silken strips interwoven with some kind of rustling dried grass, surprisingly soft to the touch. It wouldn’t be the most comfortable thing to wear, because it left her arms and legs bare, ivory white in contrast to the brown of the grass and the blue and green of the silk, but Ann thought she could bear the cool of the morning. The sun, after all, was warm on the deck.
Remembering her stints as an extra, she applied a foundation, and then accented her lips, brows, and eyes. She examined the result in a mirror, decided that if it wasn’t right, Denham would tell her how to fix it, and then returned to the deck.
Denham, Driscoll, and Englehorn had just finished setting up the camera. “Here she is,” Denham said. “Not too cold for that outfit, is it?”
“I can stand it for a few minutes,” Ann said. The sun was bright, but the air still held the chill of winter.
“Costume looks good on her, doesn’t it?” Denham said to Driscoll.
“Makes her look like some kind of island bride,” Driscoll returned.
Denham looked peculiarly pleased. “Sure enough? You really think so?”
Driscoll nodded. “I’ve seen island weddings, though. She doesn’t look like the bride of any ordinary man. Of any man who ever lived. More like a bride of—I don’t know.”
“It’s the Beauty and the Beast costume,” Denham said.
Ann was shivering. “It’s the prettiest one of the lot,” she said. “But not the warmest.”
“Right!” Denham said. “Let’s get the test reel shot so you can get back into something more suited for the weather. Okay, Ann, I just want you to stand over there, near the rail.”
Ann took her place, but confessed, “I’m nervous, Mr. Denham. Suppose I don’t photograph well enough to suit you?”
Denham was peering through the camera eyepiece. “No chance of that, sister. If I hadn’t been sure, you wouldn’t be aboard. All we have to worry about is finding the best angles to shoot you from. By the way, don’t call me ‘Mr. Denham.’ Makes me feel like my own grandfather. Call me ‘Carl.’ That’s good, but back half a step … right there.”
With a hopeful smile, Ann moved in obedience to the director’s gesturing hand. From behind Denham, Driscoll grinned at her and silently mimed applause, telling her that she had nothing to worry about—at least in his opinion. Half a dozen sailors, including Lumpy, with Ignatz perched on his shoulder, wandered over and stood at a little distance, watching the procedures. Ignatz hooted softly once or twice. Captain Englehorn himself stood behind them, his drooping mustache lifting briefly as he smiled at Ann. As Denham fussed with his camera, more and more seamen wandered up on deck, until Ann had an audience of more than a dozen.
“Profile shots,” Denham ordered. “Let’s get the right profile first. Stay where you are, Ann, but face aft. Little more. Hold it! All right, this is just silent stock, so don’t worry about saying anything. When I say ‘Action,’ I want you to look ahead thoughtfully, sort of daydreaming, for a count of fifteen. Then you’re going to notice someone coming toward you. Turn, face the camera, and look at me as if I’m someone you recognize. Look surprised—you didn’t expect me, but you’re happy to see me. Smile. Then you’re listening to me talk, all right? Then a nice, friendly laugh. Got that?”
“I think so.”
“Good. Ready, then. Camera … and action!”
Ann obeyed. It was easier than she had thought, not any different from what she had done at the Fort Lee studio. As far as she could tell, Denham was pleased. He kept muttering, “Good, good.”
From behind him, from the loose gaggle of the crewmen, Ann heard other comments: “Don’t make much sense to me.”
Another sailor agreed: “Yeah, but ain’t she a swell looker?”
Denham stopped the camera and beamed at Ann. “That was fine! Okay, relax for a minute. I’m going to try a filter.”
Ann hugged herself and rubbed her arms to chase away the goose bumps. “Do you always do the photography yourself?”
Denham didn’t look up as he expertly changed lenses. “Have been doing my own shooting ever since my second African picture. We were getting a grand shot of a charging rhino when my cameraman got scared and bolted. Ruined the shot. The fathead! I was right behind him with a rifle, but he didn’t trust me to get the rhino before it got him. Anyway, I’ve never fooled with cameramen since then. Just do it myself. Ready. All right, Ann, stand over there. Little farther. Good, right there. Hold it a second while I focus.”
Ann faced the camera, holding still. Behind Denham, she saw Driscoll and Englehorn talking to each other, in voices too low for her to hear, but she saw Driscoll’s worried expression and saw how he stabbed a finger toward her twice. Englehorn, looking like a calm old grandfather, patiently replied to whatever the first mate was saying.
Denham said, “Ready. All right, when I start the camera, I’m going to give you a series of directions. Just follow them as best you can, and don’t move from that spot. To begin with, I want you to be looking around. You’re in a strange place, but it’s interesting. You’re just taking everything in, you’re very calm, you don’t expect to see anything. Then just follow my directions. Got that?”
“Yes, Mr.—Carl,” Ann replied.
“Camera. Action. Good.” Denham’s voice tightened, his posture grew tense. “Look around. Strange landscape, but beautiful. Look up. You’re calm, you’re entranced by the beauty of it all. But there’s something in the trees, high above your head—you can’t make it out, you can’t see it clearly yet, it’s dark, it’s strange. Look up, higher. Higher. There! Now you see it! You’re amazed! You can’t believe your senses! Your eyes open wider in shock! It’s horrible, but you can’t look away! You’re fascinated! You can’t move—you feel helpless! What is it? It’s coming for you, Ann, and you can’t get away! You’re helpless, no escape! But you can try to scream, it’s your one hope, but you can’t, you’re too terrified! Your throat is paralyzed! Try to scream, Ann! If you don’t see it, maybe you can scream! Hide your eyes! Throw your arm across your eyes and scream, Ann! Scream for your life!”
Ann threw her arm over her face and physically shrank away from the imagined danger. And she screamed, her wild, high cry swept up on the soft wind. It was a wrenching scream of pure terror. Ann’s heart pounded furiously, and she realized that Denham’s direction had done its job. She wasn’t simulating fear, but feeling it, so terror-stricken that the crew took a step toward her, and Ignatz shrieked in sympathy.
“And cut!” bellowed Denham. He jumped forward and grabbed Ann’s bare arms. “Great, kid, great! Sister, you’ve got what it takes!” Then he shook his head ruefully. “But your arms are ice cold, Ann. That’s a wrap for now. Get belowdecks and change into something more comfortable and warm.”
Ann nodded, shivering as much from her own acting as from the cold. Behind Denham, Driscoll suddenly loomed, his face troubled. He tapped Denham’s shoulder and said, “Denham, I want to talk to you about what you’re planning for Ann. I want to know just what you’re getting her into.”
“Why, Jack,” Denham sai
d, letting go of Ann’s arms and turning toward the first mate, “you know you can trust me. Isn’t that right, Captain?”
Ann saw Englehorn’s eyes flick toward her for a moment. Then the captain said flatly, “I guess so, Mr. Denham. I guess we have to trust you.”
Ann left the three of them as she went toward the companionway. Just before returning to her cabin, she turned and looked back. The captain, the first mate, and the director were huddled together in what looked like a tense but subdued argument. She shivered again, wondering what waited at the end of the voyage, and then gratefully closed the door behind her.
4
THE PACIFIC AND INDIAN OCEANS
DECEMBER 15, 1932–MARCH 9, 1933
The Wanderer’s blunt, barnacled nose split the warm, oil-smooth water with a matter-of-fact precision. The old ship had made good time on her passage south, and then through the Panama Canal. The weather had changed from the chill of winter to tropical heat, and the Wanderer had taken it all in stride, cleaving the foamy crests of waves and leaving a straight, true wake behind her, pounding along to the steady throb of her engines at fourteen knots, twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. Through it all, Denham was forever on deck, shooting footage of Ann, or else sitting with a sketch pad and pencil—he was an accomplished artist, and the pictures he drew envisioned Ann in a variety of forest and mountain settings, making her look exotic, strangely alluring.
Jack Driscoll had started the trip worried, and his concern increased with every sea mile the ship put behind her. On a sultry Wednesday morning, he met in the cabin with Captain Englehorn and Carl Denham. The agenda for the day was plotting the Wanderer’s course—up to a point. “Hawaii, and we resupply and take on more freshwater at Pearl Harbor,” Denham was saying. “Then on to Japan, where we’ll pick up more coal. Then south by southwest, past the Philippines and Borneo and Sumatra. Then I’ll give you the final coordinates.”
Englehorn nodded, puffing contentedly on his pipe. “Shore leave?”
“We’ll be in port in Pearl Harbor for forty-eight hours, so the men can have a day or so ashore,” Denham agreed. “Then in Japan it’ll take a little longer. Seventy-two hours is what I’m planning. I want all men back aboard six hours before we’re due to weigh anchor in both ports, though.”
“I’ll take care of it,” Driscoll said. Then he gave Denham an irritated glance. “I’ve come close to asking this a dozen times, Denham, and I’m not going to hold it in any longer. You’ve got me going with all this mystery. What are you getting us into? What are you getting Ann into?”
Englehorn raised a hand. “Hold on, Jack. We’ve done all right on two trips with Denham. We’ll come through all right on this one, too.”
Driscoll choked back an angry response and instead said, “This time it’s different. There’s a woman on board.”
“That’s Denham’s business,” the captain replied coolly.
“That’s right, Jack,” Denham said, hitching himself up to sit on the edge of the chart table. “I’ll promise you this, though: I’ll look after Ann. She’s a good kid, and I’ll take care that she doesn’t get hurt. As for the mystery, you and Captain Englehorn will be the first to know—but I mean to tell you the coordinates after all possibility of shore leave for the crew is over.”
“Don’t want them blabbing about our destination?” Driscoll asked. “Or are you afraid they’d desert if they knew?”
Denham’s smile was maddening. “Maybe a little of both, Jack. Maybe a little of both.”
* * *
And so the Wanderer rolled on, logging her constant 330 to 350 sea miles day after day. Hawaii passed as a gentle dream, and the bustling Japanese port as a chaotic tumult with orders shouted in a tongue utterly foreign to Ann Darrow, who took everything in as if captivated.
Then came the long, steady pull to the south and west. The weather grew torrid, and the crew wore barely enough clothes to be decent with a woman aboard. Ignatz flourished, shedding his little jacket and trousers. He had become devoted to Ann, much to old Lumpy’s evident liking. Lumpy seemed to like hanging around Ann, too.
Ann confided to Driscoll that she wondered about the film they were to make. So far, Denham hadn’t shown her a script or even spoken of one. Driscoll, who had changed his uniform to a white pongee shirt and white ducks, leaned on the rail and chuckled. “Don’t let that bother you,” he advised. “Denham shoots movies his way. So far, his pictures haven’t had much in the way of story—travelogues, more like, showing the folks back home how wild animals live. But he’ll shoot miles of film and put together a picture that’ll knock the socks off an audience. He’ll let you know what he expects when the time comes.”
Time was one of the problems. Denham had picked up a crate of books and magazines in Pearl Harbor, all for Ann’s amusement. She read steadily through them, sometimes in her cabin and more often on deck, where the sailors were always eager to spread a canvas awning or to bring her a refreshing drink of water. Ignatz sometimes picked up a book and mimicked her, crouching beside her and watching her and turning a page every time she did.
Still, the routine was almost the same, day after day. Sundays were varied by a simple religious service for those who wanted to attend, and they had made a little celebration for Christmas and again for New Year’s. On the day when they crossed the equator, there was a kind of party. King Neptune, in the body of one of the biggest sailors, came aboard and ritually inducted the crewmen who had never crossed the line into the fraternity of real seamen—by shaving them with a blunt razor and dunking them into the ocean at the end of a stout line. He waived the dunking for Ann, though, and instead sprinkled her three times with seawater before declaring her an honorary shellback.
But aside from those times, boredom loomed large. Oddly, though, Ann never found herself really jaded. It was all too new, the changing seas, the variable skies, the strange new constellations south of the equator—not to mention the mystery of their destination.
The ship left the Pacific and entered the Indian Ocean, and at their closest approach to land, a few islands lay dim on the far horizon. Ann came on deck one afternoon dressed in a white linen sun hat, a light linen dress, and canvas deck shoes, all of them bought by Denham during the layover in Hawaii. She still felt the heat, and she knew her pale complexion had become ruddy with tan over the past weeks.
Lumpy lay in his usual sunny corner, stripped to the waist. Ignatz sprang up at once and leaped into Ann’s arms. She hoisted him to her shoulder effortlessly, his weight now familiar. “Hello, Lumpy,” Ann said.
“Nice day, Miz Darrow,” Lumpy returned. “Hot, though.”
Jack Driscoll walked aft and said, “How about me, Ann?”
“Hello, Jack,” Ann replied with a smile.
“Where have you been for so long?”
“Trying on some more costumes for Mr. Denham,” she said. “And he says I look very nice in them, too.”
“Why not give me a chance to see you in them?”
“You’ve had chances galore! All the times Mr. Denham has had me here on deck shooting test footage.”
“All the times!” Driscoll said with a snort. “Maybe once or twice.”
“Dozens of times!” Ann protested with a laugh. “He says it’s very important for him to discover which side of my face photographs the best.”
Driscoll tilted his head, giving her face a inspection. “I don’t see anything wrong with either side.”
“You’re not a director. I imagine Mr. Driscoll sees dozens of terrible faults.”
“Well, both sides look good to me.” Driscoll reached out a hand to touch her cheek, but on her shoulder, Ignatz chattered and angrily flapped his front paw at Driscoll’s finger. “What do I know?” Driscoll said, lowering his hand. “I’m not a monkey.”
“Or a director, either,” Ann said.
Driscoll leaned moodily on the rail. “If I were, you wouldn’t be here.”
His gruffness puzzled Ann. “That’s a n
ice thing to say.”
Driscoll looked away, then back at her. “You know what I mean, Ann. It’s all right having you on the ship. I mean it’s fine. But what are you here for? What kind of crazy show is Denham planning to put you through when we get to wherever we’re going?”
Ann touched his arm. “You told me he was a good director and that I could trust him.”
“Sure, you can trust him in that way,” Driscoll growled. “He’s a good enough guy, married, got a kid and all. And he’s aces at shooting footage of wild animals. But he’s never used an actress before. I don’t know what he plans to do with you when he shoots his movie. Might use you as bait or something, for all I know.”
“I can’t believe he’d put me in real danger,” Ann said.
“He doesn’t think of it as danger,” Driscoll snapped. “Lions and tigers are just good theater to him. Maybe if he’d tell me more about where we’re going—I don’t know. I don’t like this voyage, and that’s that.”
Ann stood close to him. Softly, she said, “Jack, I don’t care what Carl’s planning. I don’t even care that he’s keeping our destination a secret. It doesn’t matter where we go, or what happens when we get there. I’ve had this.” She waved her hand, taking in the ship, everything visible from the Wanderer’s stern to her bow. “I was down and out, and he held out a hand to help me. No matter what happens from now on, I’ve had the best time of my life aboard this old ship.”
Driscoll tentatively reached for her hand and gave it a gentle squeeze. “Do you really mean that, Ann?”
“Of course I do.” Driscoll leaned closer, and Ann averted her face. “I—I mean, well, everyone’s been so nice. Lumpy and you, and Mr. Denham, and the skipper. Captain Englehorn’s a sweet old lamb.”
From the deck, Lumpy gurgled in laughter, and Ignatz clambered down from Ann’s shoulder to join him, peering anxiously into his owner’s face, making Ann chuckle.
“Lumpy’s right,” Driscoll said with a grin. “Better not let the skipper hear you calling him a lamb. Come on.”