Dazzle The Complete Unabridged Trilogy (129 page)

At this thought, another surge of anger coloured her creamy
complexion. Whatever the hell Jerome was up to, or wherever
he might be trapped, the schmuck should at least have man
aged to oil his way out of it and been here at her side where
he belonged. As both producer and director of
Red Satin, he
had called the press conference in the first place!

Finally, despite the two last-minute disasters she'd discovered—runs in her green lace stockings, and one of the bright
glass jewels missing from her bodice—she had flung her raven
mane back, raised her chin, and marched resolutely out to
face the press.

They had set upon her like wolves, revelling in the noisy
brashness of newshounds who have flown halfway around the
world for the occasion and are only exercising their God-given
rights. Their questions were a shouting match she had to
struggle through in order to pick out a single voice from among the barrage, the motor drives of the cameras only adding to the
general confusion, and the curious onlookers on the terrace, pressing closer to see what the excitement was all about, not
helping alleviate the circus atmosphere.

Daliah pointed at the loudest shouter of them all, and the
others immediately fell silent to catch her every word.

'Renate Schlaak,
Der Spiegel,'
the tall, mannish woman
called out in a guttural German accent. 'Miss Boralevi, you were born Daliah ben Yaacov. Why, then, are you using the
name Boralevi?'

'Determination, I suppose.' Daliah's voice was loud and
clear, and she spoke slowly so that her reply could be scribbled
down into notepads. 'It was the name of my grandmother,
who was an actress in czarist Russia, but she shortened it
and simply used "Bora", since it sounded less . . . well, less
Jewish, to put it bluntly. It was my mother's name also, but
she did away with the surname altogether at the insistence of
Oscar Skolnik, who owned IA studios. When I started in show
business, I was determined that the name finally be used rather
than sweeping it under the carpet. Also, it's a well-known fact
that my mother is Tamara ben Yaacov. When I started in show
business, I wanted to do it all on my own. If I had gone by
the name ben Yaacov, people would have put two and two
together and came up with the fact that I'm Tamara's
daughter. I didn't want that at the time. I wanted my own talent to speak for itself. Next.' Daliah looked around at the
frantically waving hands and pointed to a young curly-haired
woman in the back.

'Tosca Lidell, the
Tatler.
Speaking of your mother, I hear
Tamara is not only your country's cultural minister, but has
become quite heavily involved in the theatre in Israel as well.
Could you expand on that?'

'Yes, I can. My mother believes that Israel's theatres, even
though they're young, have a large pool of talent to draw from,
and she is dedicated to helping make them a major force in
entertainment. Lately she has also been busy trying to expand
Israel's fledgling film industry. But she insists upon working behind the scenes, and not onstage or in front of the cameras.
Next.'

'Irith Cohen,
The Hollywood Reporter.
Does your mother
plan on coming out of retirement?'

'My mother has never been retired, Miss Cohen. She's not
stopped working for a day. But if you mean, will she ever
return to Hollywood and act in films—I'm afraid she's never
made any mention of that to me. She's very happy with what
she's doing behind the scenes. Next.'

'John Carter,
Time
magazine. Getting back to your most recently released film, Miss Boralevi,
Red Satin
has received
all sorts of notorious reviews, and not only has the Vatican
denounced it, but now preachers from many fundamentalist churches are up in arms about it too. Do you think the notor
iety will help or harm the overseas sales?'

'There is really no way to answer that until the box-office
receipts are in, but I would venture to guess that the denounce
ment won't harm the film's success. If anything, it's probably
aroused that much more interest in it. Next . . . the lady in
yellow over there-'

'Tina Smith,
Variety.
Miss Boralevi, would you say there's
ever a chance, however remote, that you and your mother
would make a film together? If the right project came along?'

'I can't really answer that because the right project hasn't
come along yet. But offhand, I'd have to say no. As I said
before, my mother just isn't interested in making films any
more. Next.'

'Lorraine Asnes,
Fairchild Publications.
How did your
parents, especially your mother, react when you first told them
you wanted to go into show business? Were they supportive,
or did they try to dissuade you?'

'I remember the first time I wanted to be an actress. I was
eight years old at the time, and I had just seen
Roman Holiday
with Audrey Hepburn. After that, I wanted to
be
Audrey
Hepburn. I tried to do everything I could to look like her,
even wearing my hair up and starving myself, which was ridicu
lous, of course. But the acting bug never left me. My mother
tried to talk me out of it, like so many show-business parents
do, but after I did my military training in Israel, my mind was made up. I was determined to go to New York or Hollywood,
and my father, seeing that I couldn't be talked out of it, gave
me $5,000 and a one-way ticket to New York. Next.'

'Isabelle Retzki,
Paris Match.
My question is twofold, Miss
Boralevi. You have now made six movies with Jerome St.-
Tessier. First, are you planning on making more films with
him, or do you think you might work with another director in
the future? And second, it is no secret that you and Mr. St. Tessier have been sharing a personal relationship for some
years. Does his absence here this morning indicate a rift in
that relationship?'

Bitch!
Daliah thought.
Hyena!
She had never been able to
come to grips with reporters who made a career out of digging
into someone's most private life and trying to come up with
dirt. A rotten, underhanded way to make a living if ever there
was one.

On and on, the questions hurled at her were endless. Fin
ally, after more than half an hour, she put an end to the mad
ness and headed upstairs to the suite which Jerome had
engaged but neither of them actually stayed in—the hotel was
too much a circus during the film festival to allow them a
decent amount of privacy. He used the suite as an office where
he could discuss financing and distribution deals with anybody
who might be interested.

Restlessly she prowled the suite, every so often going to
the window and glaring out at the flags flapping along the Croisette. The beach itself was curiously empty, but the side
walks were packed and the traffic snarl even worse than
before. Her anger was mounting steadily. They had planned
to spend last night together at the villa they'd rented at
Antibes, but just before dinner he'd begged off, claiming he had to meet with some important potential backers. She'd
dined alone, and waited up for him, finally giving in to jet lag and going to bed by herself. This morning, when the alarm clock shrilled her awake at seven, he was still gone, his side of the bed unslept-in, his pillow fluffed and untouched. And not
a word on paper or over the telephone.

Now she still waited. Waited and waited. Finally, feeling her
temper reaching boiling point and her blood pressure rising alarmingly, she kicked off her boots and knelt on the carpet,
spreading her knees as far apart as they would go. It was time
to channel her energy, or else she would have an imbalance
in her system, and that would cause a severe emotional dis
turbance.

She shut her eyes and breathed deeply, frowning in concen
tration until she could feel her mind clearing, bit by bit. First
came the exercise, which would limber her body, then the
meditation, which would relax her mind and lead up to the
finale of the therapy—her touching the various pressure points
on her body the way Toshi Ishagi, her Japanese stress therapist, had taught her during his Ishagiatsu classes. Upon com
pletion of the exercise, the negative energy which had been blocked would be released, thus ridding her of everything extraneous fouling her emotionally, and so cleansing her of
stress.

She leaned to one side, placed one hand behind her head,
and rested the other palm against her forehead, her fingers reaching to the back of her skull. Slowly, ever so slowly, she
felt her heartbeat slowing to normal, the tenseness seeping
out of her pores. For a while, at least, she almost, but not
quite, forgot about Jerome and his leaving her in the lurch.

They had met eight years earlier in New York. It had been at
a little hole-in-the-wall movie theatre on East Seventh Street
which showed two classic black-and-white films for the price
of one. It had been her first visit to the nostalgia theatre, and
she had been drawn there by the ad she had seen in the
Village
Voice.
They were having a Tamara Film Festival that week,
showing two Tamara films each day—on that particular Sun
day afternoon,
The Flappers
and
Anna Karenina.
She had sat
through them both, spellbound and misty-eyed, not at all able
to reconcile herself with the fact that Tamara, the exquisite creature on the screen, could be the same Tamara who was
her no-nonsense mother.