by Judith Gould
The short, dapper Frenchman bowed low over Tamara's hand. 'Enchanté, Mademoiselle Boralevi,' he said gallantly, his breath prickling the back of her hand.
'Don't let his continental manners and phony accent fool you,' Ziolko added with a chuckle. 'Claude's as American as apple pie, and a slick old lecher to boot. So don't say you weren't forewarned.'
Claude de Chantilly-Siciles put on a pained expression. "They are jealous!' he said fervently with a mock scowl. 'Can I help it if the ladies find me attractive?'
Tamara laughed along with the rest of them.
'And then, of course, representing the talent divisions are the ladies,' Ziolko continued. 'Seated beside Mr. Skolnik is Miss Rhoda Dorsey, who heads the reading department. It is she who provides us with the various properties we might wish to consider buying and making into films.'
'Miss Dorsey.' Tamara inclined her head. 'I hope I have the chance to overtax your department's workload.'
The woman wearing heavy horn-rims, her hair pulled back into a no-nonsense bun, laughed. 'I only wish you would. Sometimes I think my readers are nothing more than lazy bookworms enjoying themselves.'
'And the lady who is standing is Mrs. Carol Anderegg, vice-president, talent. It is her department which combs the country for suitable talent.'
Mrs. Anderegg's eyes were glassy hard and appraising, and her voice was clipped. 'Miss Boralevi.' She inclined her silver-haired head ever so slightly.
'I'm pleased to make your acquaintance,' Tamara said.
'Ah, and we mustn't overlook Mr. Katzenbach,' Skolnik said from his chair, his lips smiling thinly. 'Art historian, adviser, purveyor of beauty, and salesman nonpareil. Many are the times I wish he'd work for me, selling motion pictures to the public instead of talking me into buying expensive painted pictures for myself.'
'But this time you have no intention of buying,' the art dealer countered shrewdly. 'You lured me here for the sole purpose of judging Miss Boralevi's beauty, I take it?'
'Guilty.' Skolnik partially raised both hands in surrender but looked at Katzenbach with newfound respect. Then he gestured for a chair to be pulled up and smiled at Tamara. 'Have a seat, my dear. We are having champagne. Of course, if you'd prefer something else, I'm known to have the best-stocked bar in this city. Not moonshine, either, mind you. French champagne and the best liquor money can buy. Nowadays I find a good rumrunner to be as important as a good marketing analyst, and nearly as hard to find as a treasured butler.'
'Well-said!' Milton Ivey, the attorney, interjected warmly. Ivey's cheeks, a network of florid burst blood vessels, shone redly. Clearly, despite Prohibition, liquor was not all that difficult to come by.
'A little champagne, please,' Tamara said softly, 'though this is a first for me.' She smiled artlessly. 'I've never drunk anything alcoholic before.'
Skolnik nodded approvingly. 'And well that you should be cautious about drinking.' He glanced momentarily up at Milton Ivey, who quickly looked away. 'But I think you'll like that champagne. It's Dom Perignon, the very best. And with dinner, I propose a bottle of 1898 Château Latour. I've been saving it for a special occasion.'
'Is this a special occasion, then?' Tamara asked boldly, unable to keep silent any longer about her chances of a stab at stardom.
Skolnik laughed. 'Every day is special, especially one graced with the presence of such a beautiful, talented young woman.'
The words were sweet music, and she revelled in them.
'I must have seen your screen test thirty times,' he continued, 'so this occasion certainly warrants celebration. I must tell you, though, that your photographed image does not do you justice—you are even more beautiful in person than on the screen. You see, Miss Boralevi . . . may I call you Tamara?'
She smiled brightly, glad to be rid of the awkward surname. 'I'd be delighted.'
'Good.' He looked pleased. 'And you must call me O.T., as everybody does. As I was about to say, it is not every day that a potential star joins the IA stable.'
'Then . . . then you're really hiring me?' she asked huskily, barely daring to speak.
'That depends,' he replied vaguely. 'Not to crush your expectations, but I'd like you to see your screen test first; then you'll hear our proposal and decide.'
Tamara's stomach lurched and all glimmers of hope dulled. 'Oh, then there are . . . problems?'
'Not problems, just a few . . . minor details, none of which are insurmountable, I assure you.' He spied his ever-present butler approaching soundlessly. 'Ah, here comes your champagne. Enjoy it and try to relax. I have a rule of never discussing business on an empty stomach; too many good meals have been ruined that way. After dinner we will get down to it.'
She wished they could have done away with dinner altogether; as it turned out, despite her nervousness, she found herself enjoying it immensely. It was an entirely new experience: a meal to remember, a fugue for the senses. Every detail was perfectly orchestrated by the small army of soundless servants, so soundless that she was almost certain they were required to wear rubber-soled slippers. She would never have believed that such intoxicatingly aristocratic cooking could exist. For an appetizer, the Filipino waiters trouped in and placed two small plates and a bowl in front of each guest— quail served three different ways: paper-thin sliced breast of quail with sauteed shallots, a satiny quail consomme, and a perfect tiny leg of quail in a round pool of rich red wine sauce. Over the main course of three different freshwater fish served in a duck-liver sauce and accompanied by the palest, youngest green asparagus tips she had ever seen, Skolnik and the others regaled her with anecdotes of stars she'd seen on the screen or read about; at regular intervals everyone at the table casually threw questions at her, shrewdly prying from her everything they might need to know about her background, a subtle but clever tactic. The smooth champagne and impressive, velvety dinner wine made it seem less an interrogation than a social event. By the time dessert arrived—a trio, of course, raspberries, blueberries, and strawberries served with crème fraiche—Skolnik and his handpicked top rank knew enough about her to have something to go on. The fact that her mother had been a great Russian stage actress and the favourite of a prince excited them; thanks to the wine loosening her tongue, she had even let it slip out that she and her guardian needed money rather badly.
'Bruce,' Skolnik asked as the butler came around with a humidor of Cuban cigars, 'do you have enough for your publicity department to start work on?' He lit his pipe, foregoing a cigar.
Tamara's scalp prickled. So they were serious!
Bruce Slesin grinned, selected two cigars, and pocketed them. 'More than enough!' he crowed. 'This little lady's background is dynamite. A little embellishment here and there, and we have a history like you wouldn't believe. For instance, we'll simply say her mother was a great Russian actress and her father was a bona fide prince. No one will come forward and contest that, believe me. In my experience, people believe what they want to believe, and they'll want to believe this for sure. Anyway, as far as I know, most of the White Russians who escaped the revolution are either too busy trying to plot their return to take time out to rat on her, or else they're scared stiff the Bolshies will find them, so they're staying hidden. What we'll do with Tamara, here, is give her the royal treatment. Don't forget, having a prince for a father makes her a princess.'
'A princess, eh?' Skolnik mulled that over and smiled. 'I like it.'
'I don't.' Tamara leaned across the table, her perfect arched brows drawing sharply together. 'It's . . . it's simply not true!' she insisted in a vehement whisper. 'I'm not a princess! I never was! And my father wasn't a prince!'
Slesin grinned easily at her. 'Sure he was. And sure you are.'
She stared first at him, then at Skolnik, shocked at how easily they could spin a web of half-truths. Was everything she had ever read about the stars of Hollywood only partially true . . . perhaps even total fiction?
Skolnik turned to the head of his talent division. 'Carol? Any comments?'
'Except f
or the details we discussed yesterday, I believe she seems to fit most of the requirements we've been looking for,' Carol Anderegg said carefully without committing herself.
There it was again, Tamara thought with a sinking feeling, another mention of those damn 'details', whatever they might be.
Skolnik's piercing eyes bore in the direction of the art director. 'Claude?'
Claude de Chantilly-Siciles nodded slowly. Gone now was the flippancy, the continental demeanour he liked to affect; things had obviously come down to brass tacks. 'I think we could structure a whole new look, a total style around her,' he said thoughtfully, toying with his rococo teaspoon. 'From what I have seen of the screen test, her acting could use some sprucing up, but that's the director's problem, not mine.' He glanced at Ziolko, who sat there impassively. 'On the whole, I'd say she has that elusive star quality that instantly makes you sit up and take notice.' His eyes flicked around to the others, who nodded silently. 'And I like that princess angle,' he continued. 'It gives us something definite to shoot for. She's regal, but not overly so. She's charming and fresh—sexy, even—but she doesn't mock these attributes; indeed, there's nothing blatant about her, just enough of a hint, which is far, far more effective than any blatancy. I think our watchword with her should be "class", because she's definitely got it, but we must be careful to exploit it without overexploiting it. What it boils down to is this: I think she has all the makings of a glamour queen. I see her all white—almost white-blonde hair, white wardrobe, white furnishings, white sets, sparkling jewels, white furs . . . white borzois on a leash . . . that kind of thing. I think we can create the film sensation of the thirties if, and I repeat if, she decides to play along with us and agrees to our suggestions.'
Skolnik sat back and puffed leisurely on his pipe for a few moments. For her part, Tamara managed to sit through the discussion with quiet poise and dignity. Tight-lipped, she looked around the table. She was at once fascinated by the workings of these creative minds, able to witness firsthand the gears of the industry brains swiftly clicking and turning, and at the same time she seethed with monstrous anger. Her hands were clenched in her lap in two red balls, a hidden barometer of her emotions, which rose and plunged alternately with euphoria, anger, humiliation, and fervent hope. She struggled to keep her face carefully composed, but the corners of her lips were pinched, beginning to show her growing anger and annoyance. On the one hand, she basked in all this attention, but on the other, they were discussing her as dispassionately as a convention of butchers talking about a skinned steer, and that caused her blood to boil. Who did they think they were, jabbering on and on without even once stopping to consult her! And there hadn't even been a whisper of a contract yet. She was ready to burst into tears of frustration.
Skolnik turned now to the art dealer. 'Bernie, like you said earlier, I had an ulterior motive when I invited you. Well, here it is. I've trusted your judgment enough so far to have bought . . . what, twenty paintings off you?'
The art dealer waited.
'Now I want your professional opinion of Tamara. Not your personal opinion, mind you, but the art critic's. Don't be afraid to be harsh. I want you to be truthful. What does your experienced, appraising eye tell you when you look at her? Be as objective as if she were a painting you'd consider buying and selling.'
Bernard Katzenbach frowned mournfully down at the table. He was clearly being put on the spot, and he didn't like it. Discussing the merits and demerits of a painting or a piece of sculpture was one thing. After all, paintings and sculptures didn't have ears. But openly discussing a person's physical perfections and shortcomings, especially with that person present, horrified him. Yet what choice did he really have? He had the peculiar sensation that his business relationship with his best client hung precariously in the balance.
Katzenbach raised his eyes across the table to study Tamara. She was holding her breath, sitting as immobile as an ancient statue hewn from marble, her face in three-quarter profile, so beautiful it nearly hurt. Despite her extraordinary beauty, he began seeing flaws . . . serious flaws. If she were a work of art, he knew that he would have to reject her. She was not the perfect woman, not a masterpiece after all.
'I see a very beautiful woman,' he said carefully, 'but like all living creatures, and unlike art, she is far from perfect. She is neither skinny nor voluptuous ... a little too much baby fat still there, I think.'
Tamara flinched as if she had been slapped; the others nodded in solemn agreement, as if this were something they already knew.
'Go on,' Skolnik said.
'Her upper teeth are crooked,' Katzenbach pointed out. 'Her nose angles off to one side . . .'
"Then you don't consider her a goddess,' Skolnik pressed in a quiet voice.
A flush crept into Katzenbach's face and his usually gentle topaz eyes flashed fire and then dimmed. He wanted nothing more than to leap up and stalk out of this wretched house, never to return, but he was a cautious man not about to jeopardize future sales. 'There is a difference between a goddess of art and a goddess of the cinema,' he said tightly. 'Surely you don't need me to point that out. In art, perfection is generally the highest achievable plane, at least in the opinion of the West. The Japanese consider perfection so commonplace that their artists often create a single flaw in an otherwise perfect masterpiece in order to make it truly perfect.'
Tamara remained motionless, looking into Katzenbach's eyes. Quickly he shifted his gaze.
'But she has more than one flaw,' Skolnik said. 'You just got through saying so yourself.'
Katzenbach hesitated. 'I did. However, in the motion-picture industry there are tricks of lighting, makeup, who knows what? I am no cinematographer, so I don't really know. I have heard that the camera sees only what one wants it to see. However, as far as the excess weight, the teeth, and the nose go ... I don't see how a camera can disguise those.' He shrugged eloquently and shook his head sadly. 'I fear close-ups would only exaggerate those flaws, magnifying them for all the world to see.'
Skolnik nodded slowly. 'You have been truthful,' he said, 'and I appreciate that. I also want to apologize for taking up so much of your time. It has been a pleasure having you with us.'
Bernard Katzenbach recognized a cue when he heard one, and he pushed his chair back from the table. He dropped his damask napkin to the left of his dessert plate as he rose to his feet. 'Ladies,' he said with a bow of his head, pointedly avoiding Tamara's accusing eyes. He could see that she was breathing deeply, forcing back her tears. 'Gentlemen. You must excuse me, it is getting late.'
'Frederique will show you out,' Skolnik said smoothly, and the black butler appeared as if on a predetermined cue.
Katzenbach nodded and went to the door.
'Bernie . . .'
The art dealer turned and looked back at the table.
'Leave the Malevich.' Skolnik allowed himself a faint smile. 'A messenger will drop by your hotel in the morning with the cheque.'
In the dining room, the tapers in the heavy sterling candelabra were burning low. Skolnik turned to Tamara, his face showing not the least remorse. 'I think it's time we went to the screening room and watched your test,' he said with an unrepentant smile. She turned to face him and stared dumbly through him. She was suddenly exhausted, her entire body feeling as ravaged as if she had been drawn and quartered. The thrill of the evening was gone. She felt completely drained.
Like an automaton she somehow managed to push herself to her feet. For a moment she swayed unsteadily. She couldn't remember ever having felt less confident of herself.
She was devastated.
For the first time in her life she felt truly ugly.
She couldn't help thinking: If I'm that ugly, and he doesn't want me in his films, why should I sit through the test? Why make me suffer more?
In the centre of the luxurious screening room Tamara found herself swallowed up in the suppleness of an overstuffed jade-green leather armchair. To her left, seated in an identical chair, w
as Skolnik; Ziolko sat on her right. The others sat on the proportionately smaller, armless chairs around them, the position of the chairs attesting to the pecking order at the studio. 'All right, Sammy,' Skolnik called out, 'let it roll.'
The screening room was abruptly dark and the film began to roll. Tamara held her breath while the giant black countdown numbers, trapped inside a swiftly moving one-handed clock face, flashed upon the flickering screen: 9,8,7,6 . . .
. . . 5,4,3,2 . . .
The numbers suddenly disappeared from the screen altogether, and then she emitted a startled, throaty sound. There she was in the identification shot, gazing directly out at herself. Her huge black-and-white face filled the screen, and she seemed so improbably huge, so ... so unlike herself as she smiled tenuously, that she burrowed even further back into the refuge of the huge armchair. Never before had she realized that she smiled quite so horribly. That it was more a monstrous, toothy grimace than a smile.
A sickening feeling engulfed her. Worst of all, the sheer immensity of that ten-foot-high face seemed to magnify the trembling corners of her lips while her blank, unmoving eyes were focused straight ahead. She looked as stiff, as immobile, as un-movie-star-like as a police-department mug shot. Bernard Katzenbach's cruel critique of her beauty had been justified, she had to admit now. In fact, he had been tactful, all things considered. Her nose did curve unattractively off to one side, throwing the rest of her features slightly off balance. Her body was not perfectly proportioned. Also, she was far too heavy, dammit. And as for her teeth . . . Good Lord, could they really be that crooked? She shuddered, suddenly all too painfully aware of her physical shortcomings. Why hadn't she noticed them before?
Tamara was filled with an ugly sense of self-loathing. The tears were threatening to burst from her eyes in a violent cloudburst. As if to emphasize the mug-shot image, against her bodice she was holding the small white cardboard sign, die-cut in a wide spatula shape so that she could hold it by its short, squat handle. It shook in her trembling fingers like a paintbrush, the printed letters shaking violently with every anxious, magnified twitch. The blank spaces had been filled in with neat black letters.
