She went on looking at me for a moment, then nodded and sorted quickly through a stack of papers on the sofa. She handed one across. 'Okay. Just sign that.'
It was a printed contract form running to about eight pages, most of it about what I agreed not to sue the company for. Typed into blank spaces were my name, nationality, the rates of pay and costs. I wondered what all the other papers in the stack had been; probably versions of the same thing but with higher pay scales in case I'd forced a bargain. So probably I wasn't being too bright. I signed anyway; in the summer season I wasn't going to do better than this for the next month whatever.
She stood up and said briskly: 'Right. We'll go down to the set and get the Boss Man to sign your copy.'
I must have been looking puzzled. She said: 'Walt signs all his company's contracts; and they call him Boss Man – don't ask me why. Just the same way they call John Wayne "Duke".'
'And they call you J.B.'
'Miss Penrose.'
I winced. 'A couple of days ago I was offered a job at $750 a week. If I'd taken it, could I at least have called you J?'
She started. 'You really got offered that – and didn't take it?'
'There was a moral question. They call me "Peaceful" Carr.'
She went on staring at me just a little longer than the crack seemed to deserve. Then she just said: 'Would you bring my briefcase?'
I brought her briefcase.
EIGHT
She put on her sunglasses, a white towelling jacket, and a pair of blackespadrilles, then led the way to a blood-red space-bomb that turned out to be a Studebaker Avanti.
Perhaps she felt she'd been trampling my masculinity a little, because she offered me the keys. I took one look at the dashboard and shook my head. 'Not me. I don't have an astronaut's licence.'
She drove. We went back east on the coast road for a little less than a mile, but even in that distance we managed to hit both verges and only just missed the sound barrier. Just where the road swings right to avoid the White River and it looked as if we weren't going to, she slid to a stop.
Just below the bridge on the coast road the river widens out and runs slow and shallow through a flat, soggy coconut-palm grove. Parked at the edge of it were a collection of lorries, jeeps, and station wagons, their drivers sitting in the shadows and drinking Red Stripe or just dozing. We parked alongside them and got out, although my knees would rather have sat quietly for five minutes after that drive.
At the very edge of the trees a generator truck was chugging softly away by itself; we followed the Uneof cables leading forward through the grove.
The first thing we passed was a collection of small trolleys, drums of rubber-covered cables, and heaps of tarpaulins; seated on one heap, half a dozen men were playing cards in that private grunting language of men who've spent most of their lives playing cards together. Next, a small group of people sitting in folding canvas chairs, reading or sleeping or talking quietly; a couple of them nodded to J.B. as we went past. Finally there was just one man alone, wearing a vivid beach shirt and headphones and sitting at a small desk of electrical equipment, turning knobs and swearing softly to himself. He didn't even notice us come past. After that we were at the holy place itself.
There was a crescent ring of more people in more canvas chairs, looking a little older and spreading out of the chairs a little farther. Inside them was another crescent of tall arc lights blazing down towards the river. Somehow I hadn't thought of anybody coming to Jamaica in high summer and bringing his own light, but I suppose there was a reason. And inside them, the camera itself.
It took a moment to recognise it. It was mounted on a trolley placed on about fifteen yards of rails laid over a plank floor parallel to the river. Several people were standing around poking bits of the camera; the rest of the trolley was covered with men playing cards. For an epic, it all seemed very quiet and peaceful.
'Are you sure I'm the man you want?' I asked. 'I'm lousy at cards.'
J.B. glared at me, then turned to the nearest chair. 'Where's the Boss Man?'
The man in the chair was youngish, with limp fair hair and a pale smile. He waved towards the river. 'Over the other side. They're just going to do the crossing-the-river-under-fire scene.' He went back to staring at the wedge of yellow typescript. 'Whatwould Spaniards shout while crossing a river under fire?'
'Caramba?'I suggested.
He looked up balefully. 'This isn't television, you know.'
The man next to him stretched his legs and said: 'How about "Thirty-five bucks a day isn't enough if I have to earn it by falling on my fanny in this goddamn river"?'
The young man said sourly: 'How does it sound in Spanish?'
'Most inspiring but rather long.' He looked up and gave me a very handsome but rather practised grin. I knew the face: he was one of the Latin lovers with a phoney-Spanish name like Luiz Montecristo or Montego or… yes: Monterrey. Luiz Monterrey. He'd had a few years starring in carnival-in-Rio type films just after the war, but by now the lean hatchet face was sagging a little, the neat black moustache had flecks of grey in it. He'd been playing the bandit chief or the aloof aristocrat in Whitmore films for the past several years.
This time he was wearing a frilly silk shirt that was torn and smudged, whipcord riding breeches, and a cartridge bandolier slung across his chest.
A voice by the camera shouted: 'Where's the dialogue?'
The young man called hopefully:'Viva el liberador!'
That fell on stony ground all right. The voice said: 'We'll think up something later and dub it in. Right, let's go. Luiz!'
Luiz called: 'Here,' and didn't move. Neither did anybody else.
Another voice shouted: 'Bill says he's getting wind noise in the mike.'
'There isn't any wind. Let's go.'
'We need a scrim on that brute or you'll have too much underlight by the tree."
'Put it up, then. Right? Let's go.'
'With that scrim you'll have to come up to five-six in the pan.'
'Okay. Let's go.'
'Bill says it must be the leaves rustling then.'
'The leaves don't rustle if there isn't any wind. Let's go.'
'This is a tracking shot ending in a pan and a tilt with a change of focus and aperture. You want to zoom in as well and make movie history?'
'Sell it to Hitchcock. Let'sgo.'
'Bill says he thinks it must be water running.'
'If he'd come out from behind that bloody tree he'd see we're taking a shot of a bloody river! Let'sgo! '
Suddenly Luiz put on a broad hat and walked down to the bank. The card players jumped off the trolley. It went very quiet.
Two people shouted: 'Quiet! '
Then the camera trolley, pushed by the card-players, started to move. A dozen men ran into the water from the far side of the river, waving rifles. Spouts of water spat up around them with gunshot sounds, and several fell down. The rest waded on and threw themselves into the cover of the first palms as the camera reached the end of its rails.
Although they'd only been some sort of waterproof fire-crackertouched off electrically, the gunshots had made me jump.
Several people shouted again, the lights went off, the dead men climbed ashore and shook themselves like wet dogs, the card-players settled down on the edge of the trolley. The river flowed quiet and peaceful.
J.B. said: 'That looked good; they probably won't want to go on that again. Let's get to the Boss Man while they're setting up the next one.' I followed her down to the camera.
You couldn't mistake Whitmore. You were just surprised, stupidly, to find he looked so much like himself. Maybe you'd read too much about five-foot Hollywood heroes riding tall in the saddle. Not this boy: he was a clear six-foot-four in low-heeled boots, with a chest like a banqueting table and a skin of tanned horse-hide. The eyes really were permanently half-closed against the sun, the mouth really was set in a grim-humorous line, his voice really could have shifted a thousand longhorns up the Chisholm trail on volume alone. Somehow, you'd expected all this to switch off with the arc lights.