by Wilbur Smith
There was another message from Michael on the answering machine. “God, I hate this contraption. Call me when you come in, Danny.”
It would be two hours later in Lusaka, but he took Michael at his word. “Did I get you out of bed, Mike?”
“No matter, Danny. Hadn’t turned the light off yet. Just one bit of news for you. The new man in Ubomo is Colonel Ephrem Taffari. Forty-two years old. Apparently educated at London School of Economics and University of Budapest. Other than that, nobody knows much about him except that he has already changed the country’s name to the People’s Democratic Republic of Ubomo. In African Socialist-speak ‘democratic’ means ‘tyrannical’. There have been reports of executions of members of the former government, but one expects that.”
“What about Omeru?” Daniel demanded. it was strange how strongly his sympathies inclined towards someone he had known for such a short time so long ago.
“Not specifically mentioned on the butcher’s bill, but presumed to be amongst those put to the wall.”
“Let me know if you pick up anything about my friends Chetti Singh or Ning Cheng Gong.”
“Will do, Danny.”
Now Daniel put the events in Ubomo out of his mind and his world shrank down to the space enclosed by the four walls of the cutting-room at the studio in Shepherd’s Bush. Day after day, he sat in the semi-darkness, concentrating his entire being on the small glowing screen of the editing console.
In the evenings, dizzy with mental exhaustion and red-eyed with strain, he staggered out into the street and caught a taxi back to the flat, stopping only at Partridge’s in Sloane Street to pick up the makings of a sandwich supper. Each morning he awoke in darkness before dawn and was back at the studio long before the daily commuter invasion of the city was under way.
He was caught up in an ecstasy of creative endeavour. It heightened his emotional awareness to the point where all of his existence was in those lambent images that flashed before his eyes. The words to describe them bloomed in his mind so that he spoke into the microphone of the recorder with only occasional references to his notes.
He relived every moment of the scenes that unfolded before him to the point where he could smell the hot dusty musky perfume of Africa and hear the voices of her people and the cries of her animals ringing in his ears as he worked.
So great was Daniel’s absorption in the creative process of dubbing and fine cutting his series that over the weeks that followed the recent events in Africa retreated into the mists of distance. It was only when, with a shock that started his adrenalin flowing, he saw Johnny Nzou’s face looking at him out of the small screen and heard his voice speak from beyond the grave, that it all rushed back upon him and he felt his determination grow stronger.
Alone in the darkened cutting-room he replied to Johnny’s image, “I’m coming back. I haven’t forgotten you. They haven’t got away with what they did to you. I promise you that, old friend.”
By the end of February, three months after he had started the editing, he had a rough cut of the first four episodes of the series ready to show his agent.
Eina Markham had sold his very first production and they had been together ever since. He trusted her judgement, and stood in awe of her business acumen. She had an uncanny ability to judge to within a dollar just how much the trade would bear, and then to squeeze that very last dollar out of the deal. She wrote a formidable contract which covered every conceivable contingency, and several that fell outside that definition.
She had once written a spin-off clause into one of his contracts. He had smiled at it when he read it, but two years later it had yielded a wholly unexpected royalty of fifty thousand dollars from Japan, a country that hadn’t even entered into Daniel’s original calculations.
At forty years of age, Eina was tall and willowy with dark Jewish eyes and a figure like a Vogue model. Once or twice over the years, they had almost become lovers. The closest they had come to it was three years previously, when they had shared a bottle of Dam Perignon in his flat to celebrate a particularly lucrative sale of subsidiary rights.
She had drawn back from the very brink. “You are one of the most attractive men I have ever met, Danny, and I’m sure we’d make tremendous music together, but still you’re more valuable to me as a client than as just another good romp.” She had buttoned up her blouse and left him to the agonies of sexual frustration.
Now they spent the morning in the preview theatre at the studios watching the first four episodes straight through, back to back. Eina made no comment until the last tape was played out, then she stood up. “I’ll take you to lunch,” she said.
In the taxi she talked of everything but the production. She took him to Mosimann’s in West Halkin Street. The club that Anton Mosimann had fashioned out of an old church was now a high cathedral of gastronomy. Anton himself, resplendent in his whites and his tall chef’s hat, rosy-complexioned as a cherub, came out of his kitchens to chat to them at their table, an honour afforded only to his more favoured members.
Daniel was in a fever of anxiety to learn Eina’s opinion of his work, but this was an old trick of hers to build up tension and expectation. He played along with her, discussing the menu and chatting unconcernedly about irrelevancies. Only when she ordered a bottle of Carton-Charlemagne did he know for certain that she liked it.
Then she flashed dark Jewish eyes at him over the rim of the glass and said in that husky sexy voice, “Marvellous, Armstrong, bloody marvelous. Your best yet, I kid you not. I want four copies immediately.”
He laughed with relief. “You can’t sell it yet, it’s not finished.”
“Can’t I? You just watch my dust.”
She showed it to the Italians first. They always favoured his work. The Italians had an historical and emotional interest in Africa, and over the years Italy had proved to be one of Daniel’s best markets. He loved the Italians and they loved him. A week later Eina brought the draft Italian contract around to his flat.
Daniel contributed a plateful of smoked salmon sandwiches and a bottle to the proceedings and they sat on the floor, put Beethoven on the CD player and ate the sandwiches while Eina went over the contract with him. “They liked it as much as I did, she told him. I’ve jacked them up twenty-five percent on the last advance they gave us.”
“You’re a witch,” Daniel told her.
“It’s black magic.”
The Italian advance almost covered the entire cost of production of the series. The rest of it would all be profit. The big gamble had paid off handsomely, and he had no backers to share it with. After Eina had taken her commission, it was all his.
He tried to estimate what his ultimate pay-off would be. Half a million certainly; probably a lot more, depending on the Americans. When all the world rights had been sold, it might be as much as three million dollars. He had impressed even himself.
After ten years of hard work, he had broken clear. No more overdrafts; no more taking his begging bowl from one arrogant sponsor to another. From now on he had charge of his own destiny; he had creative and artistic control over his work, and the rights to the final cut. In future it would be the way he wanted it, not the view imposed upon him by his backers. It was a good feeling, a bloody wonderful feeling.
“What have you got lined up for the future?” Eina asked as she helped herself to the last of the smoked salmon.
“I haven’t thought about it yet,” he lied. He always had two or three projects in the warming oven of his mind. “I still have to finish the last two episodes.”
“I’ve had a few approaches from interested parties with money to invest. One of the big oil companies wants you to do a series on the South African apartheid society and the effect of sanctions on–”
“Hell, no!” It was marvelous to be able to turn down an offer of work in such a peremptory fashion. “That’s all cold porridge and last night’s leftovers. The world is changing. Just look at Eastern Europe. Apartheid and sanctions are yeste
rday’s news. They won’t even exist by this time next year. I want something fresh and exciting. I’ve been thinking about the rain forests not the Brazilian forests, that’s been done and overdone, but the African I equatorial region. It’s one of the very few unknown parts left on this planet, yet ecologically it’s of vast importance.”
“Sounds good. When will you start?”
“My God, you are a hard taskmistress. I haven’t even finished the last one and you’re on to me about the next.”
“Since Aaron divorced me, somebody has to keep me in the style to which I’ve grown accustomed.”
“All the duties of matrimony with none of the privileges and pleasures.” He sighed dramatically.
“You still on about that, silly boy. You could talk me into it yet, and you might not like it. Aaron didn’t.”
“Aaron was a big prick,” Daniel said.
“That was part of the trouble.” she chuckled, huskily sexy. “He wasn’t.” Then she changed the subject. “By the way, what happened between you and Jock? I had a very strange phone call from him. He said you’d had a major punch-up. He implied that you had blown your mind and gone over the top, nearly got him into all sorts of trouble. He said that you and he would not be working together again. Is that right?”
“Not to put too fine a point on it, yes, that’s right. We have come to a parting of the ways.”
“Pity. He has done some fantastic work on this “Africa Dying” series. Do you have a replacement cameraman in mind?”
“I don’t. Do you?”
She thought about it for a while. “Would you have any objection to working with a female?”
“I can’t think why I should, as long as she can stand the pace. Africa is a raw, rough country. It takes a certain resilience and toughness to cope with the physical conditions.”
Eina smiled. “The lady I have in mind is tough enough and talented enough. You have my word on it. She’s just done a piece for the BBC on the Arctic and the Inuit Indians, Eskimos to you. It’s good, very good.”
“I’d like to see it.”
“I’ll get you a print.”
Eina sent the tape round to the studio the next day but Daniel was so totally involved in his own work that he dropped it into a drawer of his desk. He meant to view it that evening, but instead he let it slide. Three days after he had finished the series, the tape was still in his desk, forgotten in the excitement of all the other things which were happening around him.
Then Michael Hargreave called from Lusaka again. “Danny, I’m going to send you a bill for these calls. Costing HM Government a ruddy fortune.”
“I’ll buy you a case of bubbly next time I see you.”
“You must be in the chips, dear boy, but I’ll accept the offer. The good news is that your friend, Chetti Singh, is out of hospital.”
“Are you sure, Mike?”
“Good as new. Remarkable recovery, so they tell me. I had our man in Lilongwe check it for me. Only one arm, but apart from that Chetti Singh is back in business. You’ll have to send him another leopard for Christmas, the last one didn’t work.”
Daniel chuckled ruefully. “Did you hear anything of my other pal? The Chink?”
“Sorry, not a dickie bird. Gone home to Daddy and the Lucky Dragon.”
“Let me know if he pitches up. I won’t be able to leave London for a couple of months at least. It’s all happening here.”
Daniel was not exaggerating. Eina had just sold the Africa Dying series to Channel 4 for the highest price ever paid for an independent production. They were also breaking their advance planning and screening the first episode at prime time on Sunday evening six weeks from now.
“I’m going to throw a viewing party for you on the big night,” Eina told him. “Oh God, Danny, I always knew you were the, tops. It’s so good to be able to prove it. I’ve invited people from all the Continental and North American stations to watch it. This is going to take them by storm, believe me.”
The Saturday before the party she rang Daniel at his flat. “Have you had a chance to look at that tape I sent you?”
“Which one?”
“Which means you haven’t,” she groaned. “The tape about the Arctic, ‘Arctic Dream’, the one shot by that camerawoman, Bonny Mahon. Don’t be obtuse, Danny.”
“I’m sorry, Eina, I just haven’t had a chance to get around to it.”
“I’ve invited her to the party,” she warned him
“. I’ll look at it now, right away,” he promised, and went to rescue the tape from his desk drawer.
He had been intending to skip-view the tape, but found that he was not able to give it such a cavalier treatment. From the opening sequence he found himself captivated. It opened with an aerial sequence of the eternal ice of the far north, and the images-which followed were striking and unforgettable.
There was a particular sequence of a vast herd of caribou swimming across one of the open leads in the ice. The low yellow sun was behind them so that when the herd bull rose from the dark water and shook himself, he filled the air around him with a cloud of golden droplets which framed him in a precious nimbus like an animal deity from some pagan religion.
Daniel found himself enthraled to the point where his professional judgement was suspended. Only after the tape had run to its conclusion did he attempt to analyse how the camerawoman had achieved her effects. Bonny Mahon had understood how to use the extraordinary light to endow it with a texture and mood that reminded him overpoweringly of the luminous and ethereal masterpieces of Turner.
If he were ever to work in the gloomy depths of the equatorial forests, that use of available light would be critical. There was no doubt that she had the gift of exploiting it. He looked forward to meeting her.
For the viewing party Eina Markham had hired half a dozen extra television sets, and placed them in strategic positions in her flat, including the guest toilet. She was determined that no one should have an excuse for missing the event that they had all assembled to celebrate.
As befitted the guest of honour, Daniel arrived half an hour late and had to fight his way in through the front door. Eina’s parties were extremely popular, and the large drawing-room was bulging at the seams. Fortunately it was a balmy May evening, and the guests had overflowed on to the terrace overlooking the river.
For six months Daniel had lived like a recluse. it was good to have human contact again. Of course, he knew most of those present and his reputation was such that they sought him out eagerly. He was the centre of an ever-changing circle of admirers, most of them old friends, and he was vain enough to enjoy the attention, although he knew just how ephemeral it could be in this business, you were only as good as your last production.
Despite the gay and amusing company, Daniel felt his nerves screwing up right as the hour approached, and he found it harder to concentrate on the clever conversation and repartee that flitted and sparkled in the air around his head like a flock of humming-birds. Not even the prettiest of the many lovely ladies present could hold his attention for long.
Finally Eina clapped her hands and called them to order. “People! People! This is it!” And she went from room to room, switching on the television sets, tuning them to Channel 4.
There was a noisy chatter of expectation as the opening credits began to roll and the theme music swelled and then the first sequence of Daniel’s production opened with a view that was the spirit of Africa distilled to its essence.
There was a scorched sepia plain on which the scattered acacia trees stood dark green with twisted stems and flat anvil heads. A single elephant strode across the plain, an old bull, grey and wrinkled, his tusks stained with vegetable juices, thick and curved and massive. He moved with ponderous majesty, while around him fluttered a shining cloud of white egrets, their wings pearly and translucent. On the far horizon, against the aching African blue of the sky, waited the snowy pyramid of Kilimanjaro, detached from the burned ochre earth by the heat mirage. It had th
e same ethereal delicacy as the egrets’ wings.
The tipsy laughter and chatter quietened and the crowded rooms fell silent, captivated by the timeless and eternal majesty of the vision that Daniel evoked for them.
Then they gasped with shock as the two old matriarchs of the Zambezi herd charged together headlong from the screen, tattered ears flapping, red earth dashed from under their great pads, until their wild infuriated squeals were cut off abruptly by the crash of gunfire. The bullet-strikes were an ostrich feather of dust dancing for an instant on the scared grey skin of each of their foreheads, and then the mountainous carcasses fell to earth, twitching and shuddering in the dreadful palsy of the brain shot.
For forty-five minutes Daniel led his audience captive in golden chains of imagination through the majestic and ravaged continent. He showed them unearthly beauty and cruelty and ugliness, by contrast all the more shocking.
As the last image faded, the silence persisted for several seconds. Then they began to stir and come back to reality across six thousand miles. Someone clapped softly and the applause swelled and went on and on.
Eina came to stand beside Daniel. She said nothing but took his hand and squeezed it.
After a while Daniel felt that he had to escape the crush of human bodies, and the boisterous congratulations. He needed space to breathe.
He slipped out on to the terrace. He stood alone at the railing and looked down, but did not see the boat lights on the dark Thames. Already he was experiencing the first reaction to the heady elation that had buoyed him up through the first part of the evening. His own images of Africa had moved him and saddened him. He should have been inured to them by now, but it was not so. Particularly disturbing had been the sequence with Johnny Nzou and the elephants. Johnny had been there all the time, at the periphery of his conscious mind all these months, but now his full-blown memory emerged again. Suddenly, overpoweringly, the urge to return to Africa came upon Daniel with all its old force. He felt restless and discontented.