Dazzle The Complete Unabridged Trilogy (93 page)

Everyone on the soundstage, from the director of photography to the best boy, broke into spontaneous applause. Tamara acknowledged her peers' esteem with a gracious bow, the high
Viennese hat with its tight cluster of plum-coloured bows and
short plumes she wore slipping forward off her head. The
wardrobe assistants were momentarily distracted, but Pearl
came rushing to rescue it before it could topple to the floor.

'Thank God,' Tamara gasped as Pearl's youthful assistant
grabbed the ivory fan out of her hand, unsnapped it with a
flick of her wrist, and began fanning her furiously. Now that
the heavy hat was off, she felt curiously light-headed. Under
her tight curls, her scalp was drenched and she could feel beads
of sweat crawling relentlessly down her back. 'I feel like I'm
going to faint,' she gasped. 'How hot is it, anyway?'

'The radio predicted it would hit the mid-nineties,' Pearl
said.

'It feels more like a hundred and thirty in here,' Tamara
groaned. 'These winter clothes are like a sauna! At least the
real Baroness Maria Vetsera didn't have to suffer California
heat waves.'

'The real Baroness Vetsera had to suffer chilly places and
icy hunting lodges in winter, and was shot to death by her
crown-prince lover, which is a hell of a lot worse than putting
up with our weather, if you ask me,' Pearl retorted.

Tamara glared at her. 'You know just how to cheer a person
up, don't you?' she said irritably as she lowered herself into
her director's chair, surely the only one of white silk in all of
Hollywood. She had to perch precariously on the forward edge
because of the ungainly bustle her costume required.

'I look at things optimistically,' Pearl growled, striking a
kitchen match on the wooden arm of Tamara's chair and light
ing a Lucky Strike.

'Spare me your optimism. And would you
please
stop using
my chair as a matchbox?' Tamara snapped.

'Ooooh,' Pearl observed with raised eyebrows, 'but aren't
we getting touchy.'

Tamara shut her eyes and let the fan cool her face. Louis
came hurrying over, megaphone still in hand. 'That was a
magnificent scene!' he crowed jubilantly. He leaned down and
kissed Tamara's cheek exuberantly. 'If you don't watch it,
Princess, you
will
win
the Oscar this time around.'

Tamara opened one eye and glared malevolently up at him.
'For what?' she snapped, extending her arms straight out so
that the two assistant dressers could unbutton the eighteen
pearl buttons on her formal white kidskin gloves. 'Enduring
the hottest costume? The heaviest hats? The most deformed, unnatural figure, thanks to this hideous steel-wire bustle? I
look like I'm pregnant in my backside!'

'You look beautiful and you know it.'

'I look like a goddamn camel!'

He looked at her in surprise. 'Hey,' he said gently, 'loosen
up, will you? I know the costume's not the most comfortable
thing under the sun.'

'You're not kidding.'

'Why don't you go and change into something comfortable?
Then you and Pearl head on over to the commissary. I'll meet
you there.'

Tamara shook her head. 'You both go on. Me, I just want
to go to my dressing room, get undressed, and lie down stark
naked. That's the only way to cool off in this heat.'

Til have someone bring you a cold salad platter,' Pearl
offered.

'Thanks, but no,' Tamara said firmly. The assistant dressers
peeled off her gloves and she shooed them away with
impatient flaps of her hands. 'Right now, a few gallons of club
soda and a tub full of ice'll do more for me than all the food
in the world.'

She grabbed a moist towel from a passing grip and pressed
it against her forehead. 'Ah, that's better,' she moaned with
relief. 'This makeup just doesn't let my skin breathe. Well,
I'm off.' She dropped the towel, rose to her feet, and started
struggling with the buttons of the restricting chin-high collar of
the lapelled, plum-and-black-striped two-layered floor-length
dress. 'See you later,' she called back over her shoulder. She continued struggling with the tiny buttons even as she staggered outside into the blinding sunlight on her way to her
dressing room across the street. It was high noon, and hotter than ever. In anticipation of her four treasured electric fans, she ran so swiftly that by the time she hurried up the three
steps, she was certain she was going to faint. She staggered
into the first of her two rooms, unexpectedly colliding head-
on with Inge.

Inge grabbed her by the arm to steady her. Tamara stared
at her and drew back, her face suddenly going white. 'Inge!'
Her voice broke. 'Something has happened.'

'No,' Inge assured her quickly.

'Tell me!' Tamara urged.

'Not to worry,' Inge assured her. Something in the timbre of her voice changed suddenly. 'At home everything is fine.'

'Then what is it?' Tamara asked. 'It's not like you to show
up here without calling first. You gave me quite a scare.'

'I know this. I am sorry.' Inge's sombre eyes held Tamara's
gaze directly. 'Do you have some minutes?'

'I'm on lunch break. I've got a whole hour to kill. Are you
hungry? Do you want me to send for something to eat?'

'Not for me, thank you.' Inge tucked her shapeless grey
dress under her buttocks and sat rather primly on the edge of
the white couch.

Tamara felt a ripple of uneasiness stir within her. 'Why are
you staring at me like that?' she asked.

'I am sorry.' Inge dropped her gaze and patted the couch
cushion beside her. 'Sit, and I will tell you why it is I come
here.' Tamara sat down next to her and Inge took a deep breath, steeling herself for what she had to say. 'Ever since
we leave Germany, I have try to raise you as best I could. Like
you my own child, my own flesh and blood, which is how I
think of you, since I got no other family,' Inge began, choosing
her words carefully.

'I know that.' Tamara smiled fondly. 'We're more family
than most people who are related.'

Inge nodded. 'And I think you know I never try to take your
mother's place. I try to keep her . . . her memory living for
you always, yes?'

Tamara gasped.
'
Then what are you trying to tell me,'
Tamara cried. 'Inge, you're frightening me!'

Inge looked upset. 'Please, Tamara, let me tell you my own
way. For me this is . . . very difficult.'

'I'm sorry,' Tamara said gently.

'Over the years, I told you as much about your mother and your childhood as I thought was . . .' Inge frowned, searching
for the right word,'. . . appropriate. Some things were overlooked of course. I did not see to your religious upbringing,
because I do not know Jewish customs. Also, there was always
confusion about you being Russian Orthodox. Is very confus
ing. Anyway, even your mother,
Gott
rest her soul, was
not . . . well, the best when it come to religious matters. As for your father . . . well, I told you not much about him.'

Inge shut her eyes and held her forehead as if she suddenly had a severe headache. 'I should tell you everything long ago,
I can see that now. Only, I want to spare you.' She sniffled
and wiped her nose. 'I did not want to see you hurt. You must
believe this.'

'Of course I do.' Tamara smiled gently.

'Since you will probably learn everything soon anyway, you
might as well first hear it from me. You have right to know.'

Tamara was apprehensive. 'Go on . . .'

'Tamara . . .' Inge sat up straight and folded her hands in
her lap. 'It concern your father.'

'My
father!
But
...
I barely knew him! For all we know,
he's dead.'

'No.' Inge's voice was a strained whisper. 'He is alive.'

'Alive!' Tamara's eyes lit up and she clutched Inge eagerly.
'Where? How do you know?'

Wordlessly Inge unfolded the newspaper she had been clutching and smoothed it on her lap. It was that morning's
Los Angeles
Herald Express.

Tamara snatched it away from her and stared at it, the paper
rustling in her quivering hand. Her smooth brow furrowed as she mouthed the boldface headline to herself: DELEGATION OF JEWISH PALESTINIANS TO VISIT HERE ON US TOUR.
She wondered
why on earth Inge had deemed this important enough to come
rushing to the studio as if the world were on fire. Inge knew that although Tamara considered herself nominally Jewish,
she was uninterested in practicing her religion.

Then her eyes dropped to the bank of smaller lines directly
below, and she jerked as though she had been punched by an
invisible fist. There, in black and white, was a name she
couldn't help but recognize: EVICT BRITISH AND FORM A JEWISH NATION, BORALEVI URGES.

Boralevi.
Thunderstruck, she sat paralyzed.

Boralevi.

She stared at the name as if in a trance. Was it possible?
Could it be?

A small photograph of a man accompanied the article. She
jumped to her feet, lunged to the makeup mirror across the
room, and switched on its perimeter of glaring, high-wattage
bulbs.

Schmarya Boralevi
, the caption under the photograph read.
His Goal is a New Middle Eastern State.

Tamara held the slightly blurred picture closer to her eyes and stared at it in wide-eyed silence. What a handsome man
Schmarya Boralevi was. His face had been caught head-on by
the camera, and there was something infinitely heroic about
the proud facial bone structure, the aristocratic, noble nose,
and the large eyes which burned with an intense, almost spiri
tual fervour. The effect was further heightened by the insolent
set of his sensuous lips, the paleness of his thick, pale blond
or white mane of hair, and the strong granite set of the cleft
chin barely visible under his luxuriant pale beard. Tamara
stared at the photograph for long minutes, trying in vain to
recognize something—anything—which would match up with
the hazy, long-forgotten memories of the Schmarya Boralevi she had once known—barely. Then, eyes darting from line to
line she greedily read the article.