by Judith Gould
FAMOUS MOVIE STAR KIDNAPPED. FILM-STAR RECLUSE FACES CAMERAS AFTER FORTY YEARS. ISRAELI HERO'S GRANDDAUGHTER MISSING. FAMOUS FAMILY IN SHOCK.
That in itself would have been bad enough to have to deal with, but even more reprehensible to Tamara than the publicity was the idea of having to share the family's grief with the public. After retiring from Hollywood, she had struggled fiercely to surround herself and her family with a virtually impenetrable wall of privacy, but now the defences would come tumbling down, with friends, neighbours, acquaintances, co-stars of both Daliah and herself, and forgotten people from over the years crawling out of the woodwork to be interviewed. Not a single aspect of their private lives was going to be left untouched.
The conference was to be held out front, in the sealed-off carpark of the big apartment building, and was scheduled for eleven o'clock in the morning. By seven-thirty, when Tamara first went out on the balcony with a cup of coffee, she was shocked to find that the media people were already gathering like a flock of hungry vultures, and from eight o'clock on, the cluster of microphones being set up outside just grew and grew. It took three policemen and one agent from the Shin Bet to keep the reporters from entering the building, and even so, three of them managed to sneak in by pretending to be tenants. Finally, all four entrances to the building were blocked off by uniformed police.
By nine o'clock the news media's vans and cars were double-parked up and down Hayarkon Street, and more were arriving by the minute. To make matters worse, street vendors, attracted by the prospect of doing a brisk business, were pushing their carts into position.
It had all the air of a festive carnival. The only thing missing was the band. By then, Tamara had resigned herself. Before long, she knew, crowds of passersby and people from the neighbouring buildings would be drawn by curiosity and the crowd would swell enormously.
Tamara paced the long living room, which they'd created four years earlier by buying the apartment next door and knocking through the walls, tracing and retracing the same steps over and over, from the country French pine table above which hung her treasured jewel-like Matisse, to the far alcove, with its book-lined shelves, her hands clasped in front of her waist, her head bowed and furrowed.
She kept thinking about Daliah. Though she claimed to love Ari equally, deep in her heart she knew better. Daliah had always been her favourite. Much as she loved Ari, he took after Dani. But Daliah had inherited that dangerous spark of independence which had once been her own hallmark, and had gone out into the world, prepared to take it by storm, just as she herself had once done. Everything that had burned within her now burned within Daliah. All Tamara had ever wanted for her children was to protect them from the terrors of the world. It was such a useless wish; what had happened to Asa and Daliah proved that. Wishes were fairy tales, and reality could always be counted upon to shatter them.
Dani went over to her and she slipped into his arms and stood on tiptoe to embrace him. 'Don't look so frightened,' he said gently.
She looked up at him wide-eyed, and then nodded toward the window. 'It's a circus down there, Dani,' she whispered shakily.
'They're only here to help.'
'Are they?' she asked sharply, hysteria creeping into her voice.
The doorbell rang just then, shrill and shocking, and they jerked apart and turned toward the foyer. 'They're getting impatient,' she said worriedly.
Schmarya came out of the kitchen, for once limping noticeably. The ordeal was taking its toll on them all, Tamara thought.
'I'll go downstairs,' the old man said gruffly, 'and tell them to hold their horses.' He limped out and snap-locked the door behind him.
She stared after him. It was the first time she'd seen him wearing his yarmulke around the house. She had been wondering what he was doing in the kitchen, and now she knew. He'd been praying.
She moved over to the windows and parted the curtains a crack. Four storeys below, Schmarya was raising his hands for silence and shaking his head. After a moment he turned to a policeman, had a brief conversation during which he gesticulated a lot, and then pointed to the lobby doors. After more gesticulating, he went inside the building again.
When Tamara heard him unlock the door, she advanced toward him, a questioning look on her face.
'They're impatient,' Schmarya grumbled, 'but I got them to wait. We said eleven o'clock, and eleven o'clock it will be. I don't think they'll be ringing the bell again,' he said with a touch of satisfaction, and lumbered back into the kitchen, his limp even more pronounced.
At a quarter to eleven, Tamara went into the bedroom. Dani stopped her. He looked at her with concern. 'Where are you going?'
She looked surprised. 'Why, to put on some makeup and change, of course.' She gestured at herself. 'I can't face the cameras looking like this.'
He had to smile. 'Like Swanson in Sunset Boulevard! Facing the cameras again at long last?'
She didn't attempt even a ghost of a smile, and he realized his mistake at once; this was no time for jokes. 'I'm sorry,' he said lamely.
'Don't be,' she said. 'I'm only getting dolled up to get the reporters on our side. I think they and the public will take more interest in this case if I give them what they want.'
He looked at her with renewed respect. Always, her instincts were right on the mark.
He kissed her cheek. 'Go put on a drop-dead face,' he said gently.
She nodded. 'I shan't be long.'
And she wasn't. When she came back out, she looked like a new person. Her wrinkles were smooth, filled with expensive creams and lotions, and her pallor was hidden by a thin, unnoticeable layer of blusher. Of course, the strain still showed, but it was controlled and toned down, and that was not only the result of cosmetics. The Tamara who had gone into the bedroom had looked defeated and dishevelled, but the one who came out ten minutes later was groomed, composed, and dignified. She had put on her best suit for the occasion—a cream-coloured Chanel with navy piping, three strands of giant faux pearls, and an elegant white straw hat.
'You look beautiful,' Dani said.
She was carrying his good summer-suit jacket, and she held it as he slipped his arms into the sleeves. Then, turning, she fastened the middle button and adjusted the handkerchief in the breast pocket. 'There.' Her smile was strained but generous. 'You look very debon—'
Startled, she broke off and raised her eyebrows: the clock had started to chime eleven o'clock.
Schmarya limped out of the kitchen, mumbling gruffly under his breath.
'Ready?' Dani looked from one of them to the other.
Tamara looked at Schmarya. 'Father?'
'I'm as ready as I'll ever be.'
Tamara looked at Dani questioningly. 'The prepared statement?'
'I have it right here.' He felt the inside pocket of his jacket. 'A box of copies to hand out is downstairs by the front door.'
She thrust her chin out determinedly, but there was a feverish glitter in her eyes. 'Well, then,' she said with forced lightness, iet's go break a leg. And remember, no tears, no show of misery. We're going to come off dignified and controlled . . .' Her voice wobbled and she whispered, 'Let's get it over with.'
They went out into the stairwell and hooked arms, so that she was in the centre, and they went downstairs that way, showing a united front and drawing strength from one another.
As soon as they made their appearance, the camera shutters clicked in unison and the reporters surged forward. Dani felt Tamara going rigid, but he and Schmarya managed to shield her as they pushed through the crush. Focusing a blank stare just above the crowd's heads and ignoring the babble of shouted questions, they headed toward the forest of microphones in the car park. The police linked arms, holding everyone back.
It's like a damn premiere, Tamara thought. If someone thrusts an autograph book at me, I'm going to scream.
Dani leaned into the microphones. 'First, I would like to read a prepared statement,' he said levelly. 'Afterwards, there will be time to answ
er your individual questions. If you'll please hold them until then . . .'
He looked down at the paper and read it verbatim, his voice never wavering. 'Ladies and gentlemen of the press. It is with heavy hearts that we inform you that our daughter, the actress Daliah Boralevi, is missing, and presumed kidnapped.' There was a flurry of movements and gasps, and he held up a hand to silence them. 'She arrived at Ben-Gurion Airport two days ago on El Al flight 1002, and was intercepted by a person or persons unknown. There have been no ransom demands, and the police and the Shin Bet are investigating. It is believed that her disappearance may be tied into the murder of Elie Levin, an El Al customer-service representative. . . . '
Tamara looked at him as he continued to give out the prepared bits and pieces of information, along with the new listed telephone number and the number of the police. She marvelled that he seemed so in control. It was impossible to guess that he was a man near breaking point. He had pulled himself together for the cameras and was giving it his all.
'Thank you, ladies and gentlemen,' Dani was saying. 'Before you leave, the policeman in the lobby has copies of this statement, which he will distribute to all of you. Now, if you have any questions—'
He got that far before pandemonium set in. The barrage of hurled questions was such an incoherent babble that it was impossible to hear a single one.
Dani looked at Tamara, and she nodded. Drawing a deep breath, she stepped forward. Miraculously, the reporters fell silent. 'Ladies and gentlemen,' she said softly in that unforgettable screen voice, 'I don't think I need to introduce myself.'
She looked around, and there were appreciative chuckles. Her own wry smile let them know that she appreciated their response.
'All I have to add is that I am not here as an ex-film star. I am here as an ordinary mother. Daliah is my daughter,' she continued, her voice quivering with controlled emotion, 'and as any mother would be under these circumstances, I am worried sick. I beg of you, ask your readers and television watchers, if any of them has any information, anything at all, no matter how trivial it might seem, to please, please contact us or the police. Our telephone is manned around the clock, and anything anyone can tell us will be held in strictest confidence. We have put up a reward of fifty thousand US dollars to anyone who can give us information leading to Daliah's release, no questions asked.' She paused. 'We'll be forever grateful for your help in disseminating this message.' Her lips trembled and she dabbed at an eye with her fingertips. 'Thank you.'
And then the questions began anew. As expected, they were all directed at Tamara.
Fighting to keep her voice steady, she answered as best she could:
'No, I'm afraid we have no idea who could have done this . . . No, she has no enemies as far as we know . . . Yes, sometimes I do worry about the price of fame. There are a lot of unstable people out there, and being so recognizable . . . But I don't honestly think it could have been a demented fan. Fans would never . . . No, we have no idea at all . . .'
As Dani watched her, a feeling of amazement held him in thrall. The flush of her nervousness had brought a glowing colour to her face, and her constantly shifting eyes caused them to gleam with the lively brightness he knew would be caught so well on film. Even in distress and advancing age, during this, what was probably the single most painful moment in her entire life, she shone as photogenically as she had at the height of her fame.
'Of course, we never expected anything like this, otherwise we would have had bodyguards. But they're such a violation of one's privacy. And as I said, we truly never expected anything like this to happen. But then, who does?'
Dani's amazement grew. Tamara was still obviously under severe stress, but some of her tension was melting away. The reporters and photographers were actually respectfully giving her time to think before replying to their questions. They even began to behave more civilly to each other. A lot of their pushing and shoving had stopped.
tamara tames the press, Dani mentally headlined it.
'It goes without saying that we'll do everything within our power for Daliah's return,' Tamara was saying. 'They could even trade her for me, although I'm not so sure they'd be crazy about an old woman.'
Dani exchanged glances with Schmarya, and it was then that he knew he was not imagining it. Tamara was wrapping the reporters around her little finger.
'Once she's back?' Tamara asked. 'I couldn't advise her to stay out of the public eye, could I? I mean, that's her job, just as it was once mine. Is there a reporter among you who would refuse a job simply on the grounds that it was dangerous?' Her eyes roved over them. 'No, I expect not. So, yes, I'd advise her to live her life as she has been doing.'
Tamara kept up her dignified monologue, making sure every last reporter got to ask a question. She spoke to them as though they were friends. The hysteria which had crept into her voice upstairs was completely gone.
By God, Dani thought wonderingly, she's playing a role! Creating the character as she improvises the script.
'What advice would I give her if she watches this broadcast?' Tamara paused, waited for two inaudible drumbeats, and with flawless theatrical timing grinned and said, 'If you can't think of any other way to get free then kick 'em where it really hurts!' She gave a little nod of a bow. 'Thank you, ladies and gentlemen.'
There was absolute silence.
Lowering her head, Tamara stepped back from the microphones, hooked her arms swiftly through Dani's and Schmarya's, and together they made a hasty but dignified exit.
Once they were indoors, Dani shook his head in disbelief. He stared at his wife. She had been magnificent. Instead of presenting the usual teary-eyed, sniffling visage of a worried mother, Tamara had seemed as strong as the proverbial rock. And yet there hadn't been a person out there who couldn't see that beneath the veneer of wan humour and dignity, the fear and worry were all-consuming.
Through sheer acting, she had brought it off.
Her star quality had shone through.
Only after they got upstairs did the veneer crack. It was as though the press conference had removed any vestige of hope that the kidnapping was only a nightmare. Tamara sank into a chair and wept.
Chapter 17
The Almoayyed palace was equipped with all the latest in telecommunications technology, and television programmes from around the world could be snatched from the airwaves via the satellite dish perched atop one of the outbuildings.
Ever since his arrival, Najib had made it a point to catch the news broadcasts several times each day, and depending on the time of day, he watched the German, Israeli, American, British, and Saudi reports. He knew it would be only a matter of time before Daliah's kidnapping would be reported, and when it was, he wanted to know immediately—and exactly— what was being said about it.
In truth, he had been both relieved and disappointed when, two days after the event, there had still been no word of it. Surely, he thought, she must have been reported missing already. A person of her public stature could not disappear into thin air without a hue and cry. The authorities had to be out scouring Israel for her. Of course, they could be searching clandestinely, and since no one had stepped forward to claim responsibility, and no ransom had yet been demanded, perhaps a quiet, unpublicized search was preferable.
In a way, he himself preferred the lack of news. At least this way Abdullah was not going to be pressured into making any rash, regrettable decisions.
But now all that suddenly changed.
Although Najib had been prepared for it to happen sooner or later, the announcement of Daliah's kidnapping, when it came, gave him a shock. The story broke first on one of the American networks.
One moment, the New York CBS-TV News lead-in had filled the screen, and the next, the picture abruptly switched to the anchor desk and the camera came in for a tight close-up of the handsome, boyish-faced anchorman.
'Good evening,' the professional clipped voice began. 'This is the CBS evening news, Norb Severt reporting. Is it more t
errorism, or is it private criminal elements at work? That is the puzzle facing Israeli police as the presumed kidnapping of actress Daliah Boralevi—'
It was as if Najib had been zapped. His face went rigid and he could feel the hair at the nape of his neck standing out. There was something so surreal about hearing the news of her kidnapping—especially with her being held at the other end of the palace—that he missed most of the first portion of the broadcast. It seemed to rush in one ear and back out the other without making any sense.
'Miss Boralevi's mother, the film star Tamara, broke her customary silence to the press and pleaded for help on her daughter's behalf.'
The videotape of the Tel Aviv press conference was blurry and slightly jumpy. Najib sat forward, his eyes glued to the screen. The film showed the former film queen, flanked by two men, being hurried toward a cluster of microphones. The next picture was a close-up of her face in front of the microphones. He noticed just the faintest shadows under her eyes, and her hair wasn't as dazzling as it had been during her movie days, but other than that, she looked much the same. More mature, of course, but there was no denying her beauty. She wasn't smiling, but a kind of radiance lit her face from within. Her voice was deceptively gentle and controlled.
'No, there have been no demands yet,' Tamara was saying carefully, enunciating each word clearly. 'We're worried sick, all of us. We're also saddened for the family of Elie Levin.'
Abruptly the picture changed to a black-and-white still of a clean-cut man in his early thirties, and the anchorman's voice-over explained, 'Elie Levin was the El Al VIP employee scheduled to meet Miss Boralevi's flight.'
The picture then changed to a black-and-white police photo of a sprawled body.
'According to Israeli police, the autopsy shows that Mr. Levin suffered a broken neck. Apparently one of Miss Boralevi's abductors then met her at the gate. Here in New York, Patsy Lipschitz, Miss Boralevi's agent, perhaps best summed up the anger and frustration of the friends and families of all kidnap victims.'
