Dazzle The Complete Unabridged Trilogy (184 page)

If only Senda could have been here, Inge couldn't help
thinking wistfully. How proud she would have been! The
Boralevis had turned out far more special than anyone would have imagined. She eyed the people crowded into the kitchen.
Two generations of film stars—Senda would have liked that.
And a billionaire, an archaeologist, and Dani and
Schmarya . . . Senda and Schmarya had been too young, Inge
reflected, and history had conspired to tear them apart. Given
time and other circumstances, their love would have
cemented. Inge smiled at the three toddlers. Jasmine, Ruth,
and Asa. They were the future, and only time and God would
tell what they would become, and she thought: Oh, they'll
become something, all right. That's one thing I don't have to
worry about. It's in their genes.

Tears welled up in her eyes as she wished again that Senda
could have been part of the festivities and felt the love. But
perhaps she
was
here in spirit, invisible and undetectable. Inge
hoped so.

'Inge!' Daliah was bending down to fuss over her. 'You're
not crying, are you?'

Inge's cornflower-blue eyes flashed as she drew her head up. 'You know me better than that, Daliah!' she declared
indignantly.

Daliah kissed her cheek affectionately. 'It's nearly sunset, and we're all going for a walk along the beach. Well?' She
waited. 'Are you coming or not?'

'In a minute, in a minute,' Inge muttered, turning her head
and wishing for some privacy so that she could sniffle and wipe
her eyes without it becoming a family fuss.

Otha stayed behind in the cabin, as had been prearranged,
ready to light the cake's candles when they returned, and the rest of them walked barefoot along the beach, slowly for the
sake of Inge, Schmarya, and the elder al-Ameers, a straggling,
chattering group led by Inge's dog, Happy, running ahead and barking as he splashed around in the water or tugged at pieces
of driftwood. Offshore, a large sailboat tacked into the spec
tacular gold-and-vermilion sunset, and Sissi pointed it out to
Ruth while Asa tugged on her windblown skirt for attention.

Inge regarded the sight warmly. It was like a gentle painting,
the way mother and children were posed. Sissi had that
bronzed earthy look of an early Picasso mother. Her rich
brown skin attested to the hours she spent out-of-doors on
archaeological digs; her career as a bones-and-trinkets sleuth was well on its way toward international recognition with her
recent discovery of a heretofore unknown tell in Samaria.

Inge's gaze switched to Ari. Sissi's husband's looks had
matured over the past three years; he no longer had that lean, rakish sabra sleekness, but he was still exceedingly handsome.
He was no longer a boy, but a man comfortable in his skin,
and it showed. He was steadily working his way up the ladder
in the Israeli parliament.

Ahead, Daliah and Najib were walking side by side, his
arm around her shoulder and hers around his waist, their feet
kicking up bubbles of frothy salt water. Najib's other hand
was raised, holding on to Jasmine, who sat atop his shoulders,
gripping tufts of his hair. Inge nodded to herself. Daliah and
Najib were well-matched. To make certain that their respect
ive careers did not damage their marriage through long
absences from each other, Najib and Daliah had wisely moved to London for the two-month duration of the location shooting
of her last film. Theirs was a marriage of commitment, love,
and mutual respect.

The sky reflected pools of molten gold on the heaving green
waves. Lacy breakers curled and rushed and spent themselves
upon the incline of beach with a massive sigh. Inge nodded.
Life is like that, she was thinking. We're each of us waves,
formed out there beyond the horizon somewhere, and then
let loose to make our own run through life.

She smiled as she listened to the chatter rising and falling,
and the cries of gulls swooping overhead. For an instant, time merged and the telescoped years contracted. The dunes could
easily be snowdrifts, she mused, and behind them the huge
palaces could be hiding. Sand . . . snow . . . oceans and bor
ders
...
in the end everything was one and the same.

Strange, how it took so many years to discover that.

The individual incidents of the past were hazier now, less
lethal and heartbreaking than when they'd occurred.
Memor
ies.
There were so many of them. Schmarya, so young and
brash; Senda, caught in Prince Vaslav's tightly meshed net,
forced to choose either saving Schmarya and losing him, or
killing him and losing him. Giving up her heritage and religion
for a life on the stage. Captivating St. Petersburg in those fran
tic pre-revolution years. Geneva . . . New York . . . Holly
wood. Tamara's incredible success, her tragic loss of Louis,
and finally her joyous embracing of the heritage and religion
her mother had forsaken. And now Daliah, so fervent in her beliefs, yet willing to break all the rules and cross any bound
ary to marry the man she loved. Inge shook her head. So many years had passed, and the painful memories no longer stabbed;
time and happier days had reduced them to a bearable throb.

Life went on.

New generations of waves were making their run for the
beach.

'Happy birthday to you, happy birthday to you, happy birth
day dear Inge. Happy birthday to youuuu . . .'

The lights in the kitchen were off, and the cake, proudly
carried in by Otha, glowed and flickered with a sea of tiny
candles. Again Inge had that peculiar sensation of time merg
ing. Chandeliers used to look like that cake, she thought,
weighed down with a prince's ransom in candles. Reverse-
tiered crystal birthday cakes, whole hallways of them glowing
richly . . .

Tamara's voice intruded on her thoughts. 'Well? Aren't you
going to blow out the candles?'

Inge slid her a severe look.
'
Tamara, let me watch them
burn, will you? How many more times do you think I will get
to see a birthday cake?' But she smiled with pleasure and
finally, to loud applause and cheers, leaned toward the candles
and blew them out, with the help of everyone else except
Daliah.

As soon as the candles were snuffed, their flames popped
right back up again, brighter than ever. Daliah clapped a hand
over her mouth to stifle her laughter.

Confused, everyone leaned toward the cake and blew even
harder.

The candles went dark. And then continued blazing merrily.

Daliah howled so hard with laughter that tears streamed
down her cheeks.

The others blew a third time, and by then they all roared and howled and screeched. It was a full five minutes before
they recovered from the trick candles.

When the laughter had subsided, the ritual of Dom Perig
non was begun. Crystal flutes were filled and handed round—
though the elderly al-Ameers, being strict Muslims, had a mixture of apple juice and mineral water instead.

Najib scraped back his chair, stood up, and raised his glass.
'I would like to propose a toast,' he announced, and looked
down at Inge, who, despite her pleasure, flashed him one of her stern looks.
'
To a very special lady, this family's adopted
grandmother and matriarch, without whom we would not be
gathered here today . .
.'He
raised his glass even higher. 'I give you Inge Meier, a damn fine lady if ever there was one.'

'Hear! Hear!' Tamara shouted.

Arms reached across the table, glasses chimed, and every
one sipped slowly and appreciatively. The champagne was a
good year, dry, and icy cold.

'Thank you, Najib,' Inge said, her face pink and her ears warm from the accolade. As he sat back down, she added
sharply, her eyebrows arched in mock exasperation, 'You didn't have to overdo it, you know. You make me sound so
old.'
But she leaned over to pat his arm.

'To Inge.' Now it was Schmarya's turn. He paused, the glass
raised, his left hand tucked in the small of his back as he looked
down at her. 'You've kept the family together through war
and revolution, through good times and a lot of bad. Without you, we would be scattered to the four winds, and when I say
we have everything to thank you for, we all know that that is
an understatement.' He smiled at her, and knew by her
faraway look that they were both seeing the past.
Both seeing Senda.
Memories ached softly and tugged at them like gentle
breezes, the pictures in their minds crystal clear, as though
only days had passed, not more than six decades. Senda
seemed to waltz and drift just beyond eyesight, like an elusive
ghost.

One by one, the others got up to make their toasts. Then the
cake was sliced and heaped on gold-edged plates and handed
around. After a few bites, Inge's guests trouped out and
returned with beautifully wrapped gifts, which Inge, naturally,
had to unwrap in front of them all. It was like Christmas.
Inge looked overcome. 'You shouldn't have, any of you!' she scolded severely. Tears of happiness rolled unchecked down
her cheeks and she wept with happiness. 'But I am so glad you
did!'

As flashbulbs clicked and videotapes rolled to record the
celebration, Jasmine suddenly took centre stage, her little face
mugging and running the gamut from laughter to pouts. She
positively basked in the attention of the lenses, and was like a
clown in constant motion.

As Tamara watched her plump granddaughter, something
slowly began to stir in her.

That natural gift for performing in front of a camera, heedless
of the people all around.