The Silent Country Page 7

  Madame Olga Konstantinova and Maxim Topov

  invite Colin Peterson

  to dinner at Prince’s Restaurant, Martin Place,

  this Friday at nine pm to celebrate the launch of filming

  Wild Australia, a film by Topov

  3

  ‘PRINCE’S RESTAURANT. I’VE HEARD of it,’ said Veronica. ‘My granddad proposed to my grandmother over dinner there. It must have been pretty fancy. She often talked about it. Soft lights, sweet music, fine food. Very romantic.’

  Colin nodded. ‘Oh my, yes. I was so nervous going to the dinner Topov gave to celebrate the start of the movie. As it turned out Madame Olga was the hostess. I don’t think we all quite scrubbed up to Prince’s usual standard. It was black tie, very formal. Marta looked beautiful, Helen was a bit of a plain stick. She wore black and some family heirloom jewellery. Turns out she came from landed gentry. Funny, though, the person most at home was Johnny.’

  ‘The cockney cook?’

  ‘Yes. Turns out he had connections in restaurants and clubland. He was into everything, worked for some very, er, colourful characters. I was surprised at how many people Johnny knew after such a short time in Australia.’

  ‘You have very clear memories of the night it seems.’

  ‘For an unsophisticated boy working in a bank, a dinner at Prince’s was a wonderful experience. I remember the tablecloths and napkins were pale pink damask. It was all very glamorous – a last blast before heading to the bush. It also made us feel we were part of a substantial company.’ He gave a chuckle. ‘A week later was a different story.’

  Veronica fiddled with her coffee cup, wondering if she could tell Andy there was a story here or not. Here was a cast of intriguing characters, heading into inhospitable and unknown wilderness at an interesting time. Perhaps it didn’t matter about the success or not of the expedition. Maybe this was a case of the journey being more interesting than the destination. Nevertheless, she would have to find out a lot more before it would work as a story for a television program.

  ‘What happened to the film Topov made?’ she asked Colin.

  ‘The picture was never finished, although we did shoot quite a bit of film on the trip.’

  ‘So there was some film?’

  ‘Yes. Several cans of it. It was sent back to Sydney for processing and safekeeping and replaced with new stock as we went along. It’s probably long gone.’

  ‘That seems a shame. It’d be interesting to see it now. Have you any idea what happened to that film footage?’

  ‘All I know is that it was sent to Madame Olga. So many questions. You are thorough,’ he smiled.

  ‘It’s my job, Colin. I trained as a journalist and I’m trying to work out how your story could fit into a program on the Australian film industry. There’ve always been a lot of mavericks in our film history and Topov seems to take the cake.’

  ‘Topov was certainly larger than life,’ said Colin thoughtfully. ‘His background was a bit mysterious though. Sometimes we got conflicting stories. You know, I’ve wondered if the Topov film that I saw and was supposed to be set in Russia was actually shot there. Sometimes I’m not even sure that Topov was even a Russian.’

  Veronica was planning to pay for the coffee and return to the office, but this made her pause. She knew that Andy would expect her to find out all she could before making a final judgment about the suitability of the story for Our Country. ‘Colin, as we’re here, why don’t we order lunch? You might as well tell me as much as you can. I mean, you started the story, why not finish it for me?’

  Colin didn’t answer for a moment as he stared out at the street of smart cars and restaurants, passing people, all so far from the country he had seen so many years before. In reply, he reached for the menu and Veronica turned to a fresh page in her notebook.

  ‘Colin, you write newspaper story. Make publicity,’ ordered Topov.

  Colin pulled out his diary and began to make notes. They were at Nino’s. Topov, Peter, Drago and Johnny.

  ‘What do we tell the press?’ asked Colin, hoping now he’d find out some firm details about Topov’s plans as well.

  ‘We have star, we have motorcade, we announce expedition going to film wild Australia,’ said Topov.

  ‘Where’s the route map?’ asked Peter.

  ‘No map. No big roads, we follow sun,’ exclaimed Topov expansively. ‘Bourke. We go first to Bourke.’

  ‘Bourke? That’s to the north, I think, so it’s not exactly following the sun,’ said Colin, but Topov missed his little attempt at humour. ‘I’ll contact the papers, ask them to send a photographer. Where shall we take the picture?’ he asked. ‘At Madame Olga’s?’

  ‘No, no. Do not mention Madame Olga to press. This is Topov Production. We go to sand dunes, place where they make films for desert. We pose in desert with motor cars. Marta in sexy clothes.’

  ‘Where is Marta?’ asked Drago.

  ‘Helen take her for wardrobe. Buy sexy clothes.’

  ‘How wild is the film going to be?’ asked Johnny with a grin.

  Topov roared. ‘It be beautiful film. Beautiful scenery, beautiful animals, beautiful woman in jungle. It be beautiful success.’

  ‘It must be nice to be so confident all the time,’ said Peter tersely. ‘Better we buy trucks not sexy pants. Where is Johnny getting them?’

  ‘Johnny clever boy. He knows people,’ said Topov calmly.

  Topov shrugged as Peter walked away. ‘Dutchy people not laugh. Always straight at your face. This is okay.’

  ‘At least you know where you stand,’ said Drago.

  ‘Johnny good cook,’ grinned Topov. ‘He cook anything. You see, he cooking up good car for Topov.’ He rubbed his fingers together and winked. ‘Johnny good boy, he know many people, make good deal.’

  They assembled on the edge of the city, at the Kurnell sand dunes. Here there were miles of rolling sandhills at the edge of a peninsula bordered by the Pacific Ocean on one side and Botany Bay on the other. Even Colin had never been there. It was a desolate place, though Captain Cook who had first landed at Botany Bay found it an acceptable and propitious landfall.

  The vehicles lined up with the large sand dunes behind, looking as if they were in the middle of a desert. The press photographer and even Colin, who had no knowledge of cars, were taken aback at the strange array of vehicles. The small convoy included a 1936 Dodge, a Jeep with a canvas roof from ex-army surplus and a battered Land Rover behind which was hitched a squat round caravan that had once been canary yellow.

  ‘This is an interesting line-up,’ said the photographer. ‘Could we have the young lady at the front, please.’

  Marta, dressed in new khaki shorts, a low-cut blouse and a leopard-print scarf, was posed at the front of the Jeep holding a rifle. Beside her was Maxim Topov with his arm draped over a massive camera he’d had Peter and Drago manhandle out of the caravan for the photo. He announced with pride, ‘This de Brie Super Parvo camera,’ and directed them to set it up on a huge tripod that had a geared head with two control wheels, one on the back and the other on the left side to direct the lens.

  ‘This must weigh a hundred pounds,’ muttered Peter. ‘He’s not taking this contraption, is he?’

  ‘Doesn’t make for taking wildlife shots on the run,’ admitted Drago grimly. ‘He’ll have to use the little Bolex a lot of the time, I bet. But the two cameras use different film, sixteen millimetre and thirty-five millimetre, so they won’t splice together. I wonder if he knows what he’s doing?’

  Topov, hearing this, glared at Drago. ‘Topov very clever. He use one camera for movie, little camera to make picture for TV for American market and maybe BBC. Make two productions, make twice as much money. This why Topov producer.’

  Johnny climbed onto the roof of the truck and posed as if looking for wild animals. The rest of the group clustered around the other vehicles.

  When the photographer was satisfied, the bulky camera was dismantled from the tripod and the p
hotographer took down their names and a few details in his notebook. ‘The office has the info you dropped in,’ he said, trying to stem the flow of rhetoric from Topov. ‘Let us know when you get back. I’ll be very keen to hear how it goes,’ he added with a sardonic smile.

  The date for their departure was two weeks away. Colin’s parents remained concerned that the whole expedition was an irresponsible foolishness and thought that Colin had wasted his grandmother’s money. But Colin was convinced that this was his chance for a new opportunity and was excited as preparations for the trip continued. Helen told them all to pack as few clothes as possible, space being at a premium because of ‘budget restraints’. They had to be fairly self-sufficient. They would mainly be camping but as their salaries would be paid to them on a regular basis, they could buy the things not provided by Topov and Helen in the various towns they passed. After discussions with Topov, Johnny was dispatched to acquire – through his contacts – tents and camping equipment.

  Peter looked morose as he stirred his coffee. ‘This Johnny is too clever. I think he’s making money on the side out of these deals with his so-called contacts.’

  ‘Well, if it saves us money,’ said Colin.

  ‘If the motor vehicles are anything to go by, I don’t think we’ll be saving money. It could cost us more.’

  Drago joined them. ‘The Dodge is old but strong. Have you checked the mechanics?’

  Peter shrugged. ‘I think these vehicles will give me a lot of trouble. I’ve got my tools and I think I will have to use them a lot.’

  ‘I’m afraid I can’t help. I don’t know anything about cars,’ said Colin.

  ‘I will teach you,’ said Peter. ‘And your job? You will leave the bank?’

  ‘Yes, I’ve handed in my resignation. I’m finished with the bank. Making films is my new career.’

  ‘Perhaps you are right,’ said Drago. ‘This could be the start of a big change in all our lives. Despite Topov.’

  Veronica and Colin had finished their lunch and Veronica was thoughtful.

  ‘I’d like to hear more about the expedition. Did you keep a journal, do you have any photos?’

  ‘Somewhere. I kept a journal. I suppose I could dig it out. It’s nothing special. But it would be fun to read it again,’ he said.

  ‘It could trigger a few more memories and anecdotes.’ She glanced at her watch. ‘I should get back to the office. Can we arrange to get together again? Look at your material?’

  ‘Yes, of course,’ said Colin. ‘I’m happy to help, if I can.’

  ‘I’m sure it will. I’ll look forward to more details. Oh, by the way, is there anyone else still around who was on the trip with you? Do you keep in touch with any of them?’

  Colin shook his head. ‘Not really. I get occasional Christmas cards from Marta, but I haven’t heard from her for a bit. Everyone else was so much older than us, they would all be dead by now. Except for Johnny. He’s still around, of course.’

  ‘He is? Why do you say “of course”?’

  Colin gave a small smile. ‘Johnny, or John as he prefers to be called now, did very well for himself. John Cardwell, you might have heard of him?’

  ‘The colourful racing identity? Of course I’ve heard of him. We wanted to do a story about him more than a year or so ago but he refused to be interviewed. He is very media shy, doesn’t like journalists poking into his various business activities.’ Veronica was now very intrigued. This piece of information gave the story some real legs. John Cardwell was considered by many to be one of Sydney’s most notorious business leaders. While the police had never been able to pin anything on him, rumours about his illegal activities were rife. Andy would be very interested to learn of his connection with this story. ‘Do you have any contact with him?’

  ‘Good heavens, no! He moves in very different circles from me.’

  ‘Colin, I’ve found all this very interesting. Let’s say we meet again soon. Does any particular time suit you?’

  ‘I’m retired and widowed, my days aren’t as busy as yours,’ he said. ‘I’d love to tell you more about it.’

  ‘Great. I enjoy your company,’ said Veronica warmly and she meant it. Many of the stories that were pursued for Our Country went up dead-end streets. But sometimes they got lucky. The fact that one of Sydney’s most infamous identities, who was involved in racing, gambling and a string of questionable business dealings, had been part of this strange expedition, piqued her interest. This story was worth pursuing.

  Andy smoothed his hair and adjusted his shirt collar wishing he’d worn a tie. He slipped on his linen jacket and headed upstairs to answer the summons of the chairman, CEO and new owner of Network Eleven, William Rowe. Rowe had given a general address to the staff when he’d first taken over and now was slowly working his way through the heads of departments and key staff for one-on-one consultations. Rumours circulated constantly around the station about proposed changes, hirings and firings, but at this stage there had been nothing significant, although the program ratings were watched with keen interest.

  William Rowe, or Big Bill, was a tall man with a ruddy weathered complexion, the result of his years in the mining industry in the remote regions of Australia. His pale eyes seemed even lighter as a result. For his age he looked very fit. He wore a tie, his jacket hung on a stand in a corner of his office. He rose and came from behind his desk to shake Andy’s hand warmly and his hand was surprisingly smooth and soft.

  ‘Andy, nice to see you again. Take a seat. Coffee? Tea?’

  Andy perched on the small sofa, Rowe sat in the deep armchair, a small coffee table between them. Andy knew that Rowe had inquired about staff names and the way people preferred to be addressed. He had asked staff their opinion of their various bosses and had taken a big interest in every department including the creative and technical people – which was unusual for an executive running a network. Andy was slightly bemused at Rowe’s friendly remark, as though they were old friends, when in fact he’d never spoken to him.

  ‘I’m fine, thanks.’ He waited.

  Rowe leaned forward, his hands clasped between his knees. ‘Andy, as I’m sure you’re aware, I’m chatting to people like yourself who are responsible for the output of this station. I’m trying to identify how we can lift our game. I’m not being critical of specific people or programs – at this stage – but trying to see where we can drag up the numbers, shift the focus and emphasis. I’m interested to hear your ideas, your thoughts.’

  ‘I didn’t come prepared with any ideas off the top of my head, though I’m happy to put some thoughts on paper. Obviously the first issue that always comes up is money,’ said Andy candidly. ‘Having a budget that allows us to travel, get the best people and facilities makes a difference. But Our Country has become pretty adept at making the most of what we have.’

  ‘It’s a fine program. Hits that middle demographic solidly. Very consistent.’ Rowe paused.

  ‘But always room for improvement?’ said Andy wishing the conversation was less vague.

  ‘Of course, every show would like to increase its audience share. My concern is that a lot of the programming of the station is a bit – comfortable. I’d rather we became less the favourite slipper and hit somewhere between the stiletto and the Doc Marten.’

  Andy’s heart sank. ‘Younger? Trendier?’

  ‘More relevant, shall we say. You have good, on-the-ball staff?’

  ‘They are. Especially my senior producer, Veronica Anderson. She’s young, intelligent, sensitive. Good nose for a story.’

  ‘Attractive? Be good on camera?’ asked Rowe.

  ‘She’s very attractive, gets on well with people, smart interviewer. As you know, we have a studio host but essentially the stories in Our Country are told with only an occasional presenter or reporter. We let the story and its subjects tell it so we see it through their eyes. No personal interpretations or interjections. The art of the neutral interrogator is a lost artform these days, every journo wa
nts to be talent, a personality,’ Andy observed.

  Rowe looked thoughtful. ‘Your show’s appeal is to the middle aged, middle class, isn’t it? Any ideas how we could get a younger generation interested as well?’

  Andy took a breath and kept his voice even. ‘Horses for courses. Our research has found that as kids mature they tend to watch what their parents always watched – if it’s still on air. Maybe we need an innovative program for the youth market but without shifting the demographic focus of the entire network. If it ain’t broke . . .’ He paused.

  ‘I take your point,’ said Rowe with a smile. ‘Now, from a technical point of view, can you tell me where your program could cut costs and what you’d like in an ideal world? Not right this minute, but you could work with me on this one, Andy, to our mutual benefit. I’ll leave that with you.’ He rose, signalling that the brief meeting was over.

  Andy frantically tried to think of some imperative that would swing support for their show without simply asking for more money.

  ‘Mr Rowe. I’m very proud of Our Country and I know viewers feel the same. It’s more than an interesting, entertaining, quirky look at our people and our country. It’s reaffirming who we are, our heritage, history and future for Aussies and newcomers. In this global village where we are all linked for better or worse, as the pressures of globalisation, politics, the economy and climate change affect us all, we need to cling to our culture, our stories. It gives us a sense of family, of belonging, no matter what our heritage. Our Country is just that – a look at who we are, where we’ve come from and how we might create a future we all desire.’ Andy drew a breath. ‘It’s in the stories of everyday people that we find the heartland. Politicians, corporate leaders, experts can say what they want. What people want to hear are personal revelations they can all relate to. To hear and see things in our country they might not have the opportunity to do or share. But it gives them a sense of understanding the land, the narrative of people getting on with their lives, albeit under different or unusual circumstances.’ Andy shrugged. ‘Basically people are interested in other people. More so than in the superficial doings of so-called celebrities.’ He smiled. ‘I rest my case.’