Dazzle The Complete Unabridged Trilogy (85 page)

Gossip columnists would report that there wasn't another white flower to be found as far north as San Francisco or as far south as the border.

While flashbulbs popped unceasingly, shutters clicked, and newsreel cameras rolled, Tamara, in a Jean Louis-designed gown of dazzling Valenciennes lace with a twenty-two-foot train and a diamond tiara borrowed from Tiffany, arrived as royally as any genuine princess in a regal, flower-festooned coach pulled by six matching white horses, thanks to IA's considerable backlot jammed with props. Page boys in medieval tunics announced her arrival with triumphant trumpet blasts. Sixteen bridesmaids, all major Hollywood stars, scattered white orchids in her path.

'
Something old
'
was a treasured lace handkerchief given her by Garbo, 'something new' was the pearl choker Oscar Skolnik presented her with, something borrowed was the Tiffany tiara, of course, and something blue was a garter belt courtesy of Mae West.

Holding a small bouquet of white cymbidiums as she exchanged vows with her exceedingly handsome director-husband, who slipped a twenty-carat (also borrowed) diamond on her finger, Tamara instantly became the consummate bride, ingrained in the public's consciousness as a vision in white. The picture of Louis lifting her veil and kissing her made the front pages of every newspaper from coast to coast.

ROYAL FILM STAR TAMARA MARRIES DIRECTOR.

FIFTY-THOUSAND-DOLLAR WEDDING STUNS COUNTRY—Thousands Are Homeless as Hollywood Parties.

RUSSIAN PRINCESS HAS STARS IN HER EYES.

TAMARA:
'
I
lost my country but won a husband.'

TAMARA’S STORY
:
The Star They Call 'Your Highness'.

Among the hundreds in attendance at the ceremony were Hollywood's elite, as well as a flock of stars-to-be. Rival studio moguls called a truce for the occasion, shared gossip, and toasted the bride with glasses of fruit punch. All around them, dressed to the nines, was an eye-popping roster of their producers, directors, stars, and stars-to-be. Inge and Jewel, both sniffling happily and dabbing their eyes with handkerchiefs, sat in the first row. Zelda Ziolko was anything but the picture of the bridegroom's happy, proud mother. For her, this wedding, performed by a justice of the peace, was a mockery of both religion and the solemn vows of matrimony, with its
hundreds of stars and celebrities vying for attention with the bride and groom. Her idea of a wedding was a sacred ritual
presided over by a rabbi and performed under the
chuppa,
with a goblet of wine and lit tapers and shouts of '
Mazel tov!'
and the traditional Jewish dances. Much as she was secretly
flattered by the stars that had come out for her son's wedding,
the public spectacle was a shameful affair that she forced her
self to endure in grim, uncharacteristic silence, or so she very
vocally claimed.

Lily Pons, who made her American debut that year, sang
two arias; there were also a choir, a thirty-seven-member
orchestra, and fireworks at dusk. As party gifts, every last one
of the eight thousand oysters served to the guests came with a lustrous, carefully placed pearl. The vast publicity mills
which had made the 'newly discovered Russian princess,
Tamara,' into a household word even before filming of
The
Flappers
had begun, now catapulted her into the lofty firma
ment to which she had always aspired—before the film was
even edited. The Depression-weary public ate it all up. Poverty and despair were all too commonplace. What people
wanted was a glimpse of lavishness, and in Tamara they were
not to be disappointed. If glamour was a beacon of happier
times ahead, then she was it.

There was little surprise when, two months later,
The Flappers
was released in IA's string of nationwide theatres and its
box-office receipts earned it the distinction of being the highest
grossing motion picture made to date.

For Tamara, 1930 was a particularly wonderful year. So
many dreams had come true. She had a handsome husband.
She was a major Hollywood star. She had plenty of money.
She was in love.

It seemed that nothing could go wrong.

Chapter 12

For a long time, nothing did go wrong. Tamara and Louis'
marriage was cementing nicely, their lovemaking was mutu
ally satisfying and, overall, their lives were charmed if frenetic.
Tamara found herself in the midst of such an exhilarating but
hectic whirlwind that she was reminded of a queen bee around whom the swarm hummed and buzzed incessantly. She was in
constant and glorious demand, and it felt good. Thanks to her
instant celebrity status, she and Louis were Hollywood's most sought-after couple. So many invitations poured in daily that
they had to sift through all of them, carefully paring them
down to the two or three most advantageous for their careers,
and with a thousand-odd pieces of fan mail pouring in each
week, Tamara was forced to hire a full-time secretary in the person of Lorna Nichols, a formidable widow of forty-three
who mothered her, jealously guarded her privacy as though it
were her own, and adroitly juggled both of the Ziolkos' busy,
ever-changing schedules.

With filming, researching her characters, perfecting her dic
tion with the help of a dialogue coach and her acting at IA's
on-lot acting school, memorizing her lines, and the little but
therefore all-the-more precious home life she and Louis
enjoyed, there was a multitude of obligations for Tamara to
fulfil. A star, she was discovering, could not call her life her
own. She was the property of a fickle, ravenous public which
had to be kept appeased. Her moviegoing fans had made her;
they could just as easily desert her for someone else. So there were whirlwinds of still-photography sessions, both for the
studio and reporters, no end of interviews to conduct, film
premieres to attend, products to endorse, and charity func
tions to host or support—all of which were shrewdly calculated
to keep her in the public eye. The demands made on her
were awesome, but she cheerfully complied. If she had any
complaint, it was that she had been swept into the eye of a
hurricane and had too little time to spend along with Louis.
Still, she wouldn't have had it any other way. Her public took
precedence. Her own life had to take second place. And
besides, being the queen bee was intoxicating. She basked in
all the attention.

Rival studios were bidding unheard-of sums to borrow her
for films of their own, but Skolnik wasn't having any of that, at least not yet. He was still smarting from not having had a major female star of his own for so long, and having been at
the mercy of whomever the other studios could spare still
rankled him deeply. Not that he was one to carry a grudge,
especially if forgetting it could earn him money. It was just a
matter of good business. Now that he was on a major winning
streak with Tamara, he was anxious to take full advantage of
it and ride it out. He didn't want to waste her. She was money
in the bank.

The Flappers
was followed by
Marie Antoinette,
a long,
lavish costume drama with an enormous budget, dazzling cos
tumes, and stupendous sets. Meanwhile, Rhoda Dorsey's
reading department was under constant pressure to hurry up
and find a new property that could be begun as soon as the
filming of
Marie Antoinette
was wrapped up. The following
year Skolnik was planning to use Tamara in four pictures, all
in major starring roles, and all involving endless, gruelling
work.

Despite its obvious creature comforts and luxurious
appointments, Tamara was getting weary of living in the
bungalow at the Beverly Hills Hotel, which she and Louis had
called home since exchanging vows. One evening as they sat
out by the pool sipping a particularly fine bootlegged vintage wine, she broached the subject of their getting a real home of
their own.

'What's the matter with this bungalow?' Louis asked in mild
surprise. 'Anything you could possibly want, they come run
ning with at the drop of a hat. We'll never get such good
service anywhere else.'

'It isn't service I want,' she emphasized softly. 'I want us to
have a home. A real home. Living out of suitcases just isn't
enough.'

He nodded silently. Tamara had a point, he had to admit.
They couldn't live at the hotel forever. 'I'll build us a house,'
he said. 'I've wanted to ever since my old one slid down the
hillside.'

'But it'll be a long time before it's completed,' she pointed out. 'Meanwhile, Inge is living all the way across town.'

'I asked Inge about moving into the bungalow next door
when it becomes available. She said she likes the new apart
ment.'

Tamara didn't doubt it. After Paterson's Mortuary, the
worst hovel would have seemed like a palace. 'I know that,'
she said patiently. 'But I've got a duty to her. Louie, she's the
only family I've got. She and I should be under the same roof.'

'I tell you what, princess,' he said, 'tomorrow I'll call up a
real-estate agent. As soon as we find somethong you like, we'll
move in.'

She wrapped her arms around him and placed her head on
his chest. 'You're too good to me,' she murmured happily,
fingering the curly chest hair which peeked out of his shirt.

'Damn right, princess,' he said, 'damn right.'
A week later, they signed a lease on a large two-storey pink
stucco house on North Beverley Drive. It had three wings
attached to the arched main building and a handsome corru
gated orange tile roof. The rooms were spacious and it came furnished. Up front were the obligatory locked gates, and in
back were a tennis court and a rectangular turquoise swim
ming pool. There was plenty of room for Inge, and the house
came with a Mexican caretaker couple and a Japanese gar
dener, which simplified matters immensely.

On New Year's Eve, as 1931 was being ushered in, Tamara
took stock of her life and counted her blessings. She basked
in the sunshine and adulation, happily unmindful that fate
could as easily dish out the bad as the good. After all, she had
everything. Life was as near-perfect as it could possibly be.