by Judith Gould
'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 notoriety 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 denouncement 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 anymore. 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 ridiculous, 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. Finally, after more than half an hour, she put an end to the madness 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 sidewalks 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 disturbance.
She shut her eyes and breathed deeply, frowning in concentration 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 completion 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 Sunday 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.
She'd cried and sniffled throughout the last ten minutes of Anna Karenina, and when the lights finally came up she'd hurried outside so that no one could see her tears. It was then that she ran into him. The tall, tousle-haired young man with the round wire-rimmed glasses. They both tried squeezing out through the one open door at the same time. That being impossible, he had stepped aside like a gentleman to let her through first. She stumbled out into the bright winter sunshine, a tall, deceptively waiflike bundle of gleaming straight black hair and puffy army field jacket, all giant pockets and military patches, and mascara-streaked cheeks. She dabbed her eyes ineffectually with her fingertips.
The very sight of her touched the Gallic cavalier in him, and he came up beside her and solemnly held out a clean, folded handkerchief. Wordlessly she snatched it from him, turned away, and blew her nose in a noisy honk.
'Do you always cry at the end of tearjerkers?' he asked with a strong French accent, his S and TH sounds coming out as buzz-saw Z's.
She turned around slowly and blinked. 'I only cry at weddings and funerals,' she sniffed. And then smiled slightly. 'And unhappy endings.'
'And that was one of the grandest unhappy endings of them all.' He touched her cheek. 'You have another streak there.'
'Oh.' Quickly she wet the handkerchief with her mouth and smeared the spot under her eye some more. 'There.' She raised her smudged face. 'Now am I presentable?' She looked at him, her eyes still moist.
'Eminently.' He grinned, finding the black smear terribly attractive. 'Did you come for all the last five days of movies?'
She shook her head. 'I just found out about them today. Did you see them all?'
He nodded.
'I
suppose you're a ... a Tamara fan.'
'Oh, I can take her films or leave them.'
'Then you don't like them?'
"They're interesting historically, but I think they're overplayed. Like Garbo and Dietrich. Too much mugging.'
'That was the style of the time,' she said loyally, jumping to her mother's defence. 'If she made movies now, they'd be different. More natural.'
'At any rate, that's academic, wouldn't you say? The point is, she is not making any more films. Perhaps it is for the best. Better to create an aura of mystery than to fall flat on her face with failure eh?'
'She wouldn't fail!' Daliah cried staunchly, her emerald eyes flashing gemlike sparks. 'She would never fail!'
He laughed. 'It seems I have found her most loyal and devoted fan.' He paused. 'How would you like to have a cup of coffee?'
She looked at him dubiously. 'How do I know I can trust you?'
'Because we'll go to a restaurant or a coffee shop and not my home. You can always scream for help or go running out. What do you say?'
She nodded.
'I know a nice little Polish restaurant over on First, where babushkas serve strong tea and homemade pirogis.'
'Sounds too ethnic . . . too serious. Do you know what I'm really in the mood for? What my greatest weakness on earth is?'
He smiled slightly. 'I haven't the faintest idea, although I would like to find out.'
'McDonald's or Burger King french fries! Tons and tons of those air-filled greasy french fries accompanied by loads and loads of salt. Once I start on them, I can't stop till I burst.'
'Is there anything else I should know about you? Such as your putting chocolate sauce on rice, or mixing crème de menthe with ketchup, and pouring it over green beans?'
She made a face. 'Really, you are quite abominable!' But she smiled and locked her arm through his. 'Where is the nearest junk-food franchise?'
'Over on Third, near Sixth Avenue.'
'Well, what are you waiting for? Steer me there at once.'
'Do you mind if we walk?'
'I'd love to walk.' She tossed her head in that peculiar way she had so that her hair whipped around, and when they turned the corner, she tucked her chin down into her chest against the bitter gusts of the buffeting November wind.
They sat on the plastic chairs on the second level of the overheated McDonald's for over an hour and went Dutch on six cups of coffee and four orders of fries. She finger-fed him his across the table.
'I think the girl behind the counter downstairs is taking pity on us,' Daliah laughed when she came back upstairs with yet another tray of coffee and fries. 'She tried to sneak me a couple of burgers on the sly.'
'Did you tell her you have a weakness for their fries?'
'I did, but I don't think she believed me. She probably thinks fries is all we can afford.' Daliah uncapped the plastic lids off the two containers of coffee and settled back. 'Now, tell me about yourself,' she ordered. 'You know, the things I don't already know.'
'You don't know anything about me. We've only just met.'
'Oh, but I do.' She got busy tearing open the tiny paper containers of salt in order to make a pile to dunk the fries into. 'You're obviously French, and your English is so good it tells me you've been living here for quite a few years. Your jeans are tattered, but that doesn't tell me anything, since it's chic to wear jeans that are coming apart all over. Your ancient scuffed black motorcycle jacket with the waist belt hanging loose may be a favourite jacket, but your scarf is coming apart and the heels of your shoes are worn down. The sole on the left one is starting to come apart, which I gather means you're rather financially strapped, and that cable-knit sweater, which is made of the best Irish wool, was obviously a gift, since a man would never think of buying himself an expensive sweater like that one. It was probably given to you by a well-heeled girlfriend. Also, long hair is stylish, but yours hasn't been styled, so you obviously don't have to look your best at whatever it is you do. And those little round Heinrich Himmler glasses you insist upon wearing give me the feeling that you don't really care how you look. They're ugly but functional.' She sat back, smiled sweetly at him, and stirred her coffee with a plastic stick. 'How am I doing?'
He looked startled. 'You should be a detective. All that shows, huh?'
'It definitely does.' She nodded, reached for another fry, dipped it in the pile of salt, and munched it thoughtfully.
'Sodium is bad for you.' He gestured at the salt.
'I never eat salt,' she declared.
'You are eating it now.'
'I only eat salt when I have fries. Then I can't seem to get enough.' She made it sound like a confession. 'Most times I eat very, very healthily.' She eyed him curiously and then nodded to herself. 'Let me see . . . you're an unemployed actor?'
He laughed, showing his strong white teeth. 'Close, but not quite. I studied filmmaking at NYU until I discovered I could learn more, as well as earn a decent living, by working for film companies rather than studying. So you see, I'm rather employed.'
'That explains your rattiness, then. Theatre trash.' She nodded solemnly to herself. 'Are you working now?' She reached across the table and profferred a fry.
Dutifully he opened his mouth to accept it. 'I'm production assistant for a German movie company that's filming here,' he said, chewing and swallowing. 'Eventually, though, I want to direct. And you? What are you?' He held her gaze. 'An unemployed actress?'
'Semi-employed. I'm with an Off-Off Broadway repertory group, but right now we're between shows. We don't go into rehearsal for another three weeks.'
'What is the group called?'
'The Actors Outlet Ensemble. We're on MacDougal Street.' She looked at him hopefully. 'Maybe you've heard of us?'
'Let me see, the last play was Wilde Night, loosely adapted from the essays of Oscar Wilde?' She nodded exuberantly, her eyes shining, and he looked at her more closely. 'You! Now I recognize you! You were one of the reciters in white face and dressed all in black so only your face could be seen! You were the one at the far end who stole the show!'
There was a pleased look on her face and she stopped munching for a glorious moment. Then, pretending nonchalance, she slowly continued chewing on a fry. She thought it tasted extraordinarily good, better than a fry had ever tasted before. She adored rave reviews.
Suddenly he leaned excitedly across the little table. 'Tell you what. How would you like to be in a film?'
She stared at him, at first not knowing whether she should take him seriously or not, and then burst out laughing. 'Oh, come on!' she said. 'If that's a variation on the old "Come up and see my etchings" routine, it's hardly original.'
He looked slightly hurt. 'I don't have to resort to such cheap routines,' he sniffed. 'For your information, women tend to find me very attractive.'
She adjusted her facial muscles into an expression of contrition. 'I'm sorry.'
He looked at her earnestly. 'I'm serious about the film. I wrote the script three years ago, and have been waiting for the right person to come along. I think you could do it. I know you could, after the way you performed onstage!'
'What's it about?'
'Well, originally I wrote it for the stage as a one-woman monologue in three acts. Then, after I became more interested in films, I rewrote it for the screen and added a few characters. Basically, it's a tour de force about a German woman in Berlin at ages eighteen, forty-two, and seventy-nine. It starts out in the present, when the old lady tells her life story to her grandson, and then flashes back to her past. The way the story comes out is that she is despicably cruel and anti-Semitic. Only at the end do we find out that she is really Jewish and suffering from overwhelming guilt because by pretending to be Aryan she survived the horrors in which most of her friends and a lot of her family died.'
Her eyes glowed with interest. 'It sounds marvellous!'
'It is,' he said. 'But it won't be easy to film.'
'Why not?'
'Well, we
'd have to rehearse and film nights, after my regular shooting day is over, and I can't afford to pay you. But the hardest thing of all is that we all have to keep very, very quiet about it since we'll all be moonlighting. We can't afford to let the unions find out what we're up to. They'll shut us down and take away our union cards if they do.' He paused, holding her gaze. 'Now that all the cards are on the table, are you still interested? You'd play the old lady, of course.'
'Well, I suppose . . . Yes! But, you know, I don't even know your name.'
'Jerome St.-Tessier.' He extended his hand formally across the table and grinned. 'And yours?'
'Daliah. Daliah Boralevi.'
They shook hands firmly, as though shaking on a secret pact, and then he found a pen and hastily scribbled something on a napkin. He slid it across the table at her. 'Meet me at this address at seven-thirty in the evening exactly one week from today. It's the second doorbell from the top. After you ring, wait for me to lower a basket on a string. It will have the keys to the front door and the freight lift in it.'
She couldn't help laughing. 'All right, Jerome St-Tessier. I'll be there a week from this evening. But if we decide to follow through with this, I think you'd better get a spare key made.
It was a loft on Bond Street, just off Lafayette, and it took up the entire fifth floor of what had originally been a warehouse. As was the case with almost all the loft buildings, the poorly maintained exterior of Jerome's grimy industrial building and the steep wooden warehouse stairs with pushchairs and bicycles parked on the dingy landings belied the awesome spaciousness within each loft. Jerome's was high-ceilinged and had over four thousand square feet of unobstructed space. It was all gleaming polyurethaned wooden floors and window-lined walls interspersed with two rows of cast-iron Corinthian columns. It was almost like being in an empty cathedral.
