Dazzle The Complete Unabridged Trilogy (63 page)

The combination of radiant sun and abundant water soon blanketed the surrounding irrigated fields with fertile veg
etation and a bumper crop so fruitful that truckloads of
produce were shipped to Jerusalem and Tel Aviv, where they
brought a tidy profit. More desert was converted to fields as
quickly as humanly possible; more crops were planted. It
seemed to Schmarya and the inhabitants of Ein Shmona that
they had only to expand further and further out into the desert,
and the crops would multiply.

The possibilities were endless, and the newfound wealth
attracted more and more families to Ein Shmona. The original
twenty-three settlers quickly burgeoned into a village of one
hundred and twenty. A second pipeline was installed two years
later; then a third. The fields thirsted for the water and gave ever-more-bountiful crops in return. Water, which would otherwise have joined an underground desert river going
nowhere, had been tapped and put to mankind's most noble
use.

No one, least of all Schmarya, realized that with each additional pipeline, the water level at the oasis of al-Najaf,
twelve miles distant, was dropping steadily.

With the completion of the third pipeline, so much water
was being diverted from the source that the pool at al-Najaf
was fast drying up and came to resemble a mere puddle.

The rumblings from al-Najaf were too distant to be heard.
And anyway, the settlers at Ein Shmona were too busy to stop
and listen.

_{BOOK TWO}

_TAMARA

_1930-1947

To this day, moviegoers are still divided on whether or not
Tamara's beauty was natural or whether, as with Garbo,
Hollywood moguls decided to improve on nature's gifts. If
they did, it remains one of filmdom's few secrets.

—Nick Bienes,
Those Fabulous Thirties

Chapter 1

It was still dark in Los Angeles when Tamara was dressed and
ready to leave. Not that she could part the curtains and look
out the window—the large airless room was dark and window
less, its walls hung with heavy maroon velvet draperies. The
stifling smells of tallow and flowers hung cloyingly sweet and
heavy in the air, barely masking the stronger, all-pervading
odour of death.

She glanced at her watch. It was nearly six o'clock.

She snatched her coat, umbrella, and script off the Murphy
bed and laid them on the nearest of the forty metal folding chairs lined up in rows of five, twenty on either side of the
centre aisle, like silent soldiers facing forward in a stiff military
formation.

She shoved the Murphy bed up into the wall and closed the
doors over it. Now that it was hidden, the room regained its
chapel aura. Any indication of the living was obliterated from
this grim place in which she slept alongside death.

She avoided looking around as she picked up her coat,
umbrella, and script. She had been living here over ten
months, and the Mourning Room of Paterson's Mortuary was
engraved on her consciousness. It was a room designed for
peaceful contemplation, a place where mourners came to say
their tearful farewells to loved ones. Sometimes, when the
Murphy bed was folded down and she tried to sleep, she imagined she could hear their sobs long after they'd gone.

And small wonder, for centred precisely at the front of the
room, like an altar on a raised dais, there was always a casket,
its style dictated by the pocketbook and taste of the loved
ones. It was invariably surrounded by reeking giant wreaths
and massive floral arrangements, usually dominated by cheap
chrysanthemums. Hanging against the velvet folds of the
maroon curtains above the casket was a cross, a crucifix, a Star
of David, or nothing at all, depending upon the faith—or lack
of faith—of the deceased currently in residence. At the
moment, the gruesome crucifix was suspended, its emaciated
thorn-crowned plaster Jesus slumping in agony, eyes rolled
heavenward.

She couldn't wait to move out of this place.

I'm impatient because so much is at stake today, she
thought. Today will either mark the day I begin to work
toward getting out of here, or it will mean I'm trapped here
for months, perhaps even years.

This morning was the screen test she had waited so long for,
the potential film role which could open the door to a new
life. Everything hinged upon her performance. Either her life
would change because of it, or . . . Well, she would try not to
think of the alternative.

Still, she knew she should consider herself fortunate. When
they'd first moved here, Inge had volunteered to sleep in this
room, but Tamara had vetoed that suggestion. So Inge slept in a far less depressing room upstairs, with a stove, a cot and
a window overlooking the garbage-strewn backyard. Inge had
taken a job as a part-time receptionist at Paterson's, which came with boarding privileges, and these benefits were com
bined with Tamara's job as a part-time waitress at the Sunset
Restaurant, which also had its advantages, meagre though they might be. She was usually free to go to auditions when
they came up because somebody could fill in for her, and what
other job would have allowed her that? Her income at the
restaurant, augmented by the few days a month she worked
as an extra on the movie lots, let them squeeze by.

Mouthing a silent prayer for the screen test to which she
was headed, Tamara shrugged into her coat and grabbed her
purse, script, and umbrella. Then she sailed into the adjoining
room, Paterson's lurid showroom. Casket lids yawned half-
open to display their plush, quilted linings.

Tamara groaned. In the glow from the streetlights, the big
plate-glass window facing the boulevard was streaked with
rain. It was still pouring cats and dogs; it hadn't let up for days
now. The Southern California rainy season had begun with a
bang.

Halfway across the showroom she heard muffled footsteps
and turned to see Inge rushing down the carpeted stairs to
intercept her, her normally braided crown of flaxen hair hang
ing to her waist. Still clad in her nightgown, she held a steam
ing mug of coffee.

'You don't have to see me off,' Tamara said. 'Go back to
sleep.'

'Sleep!' Inge's features creased into a mock scowl. 'How
you expect I sleep this day?' she asked in her broken, thickly
accented English. 'I have to wish you luck.' She skirted the
coffins and embraced Tamara, careful not to spill the coffee.
Then she handed her the mug.

Tamara took a long, grateful swallow and handed the mug back to her. Her hands were shaking, and she took a few deep
breaths, repeating to herself silently: 'I'll do it. I've
got
to do
it! For Inge. For the memory of my mother. For
me!'

'Don't you be nervous,' Inge said. 'You get good part, mark
my word. You be big star. You have Senda's talent. Soon we
buy castle in hills and ride with chauffeur,
ja?'
She tilted her head to one side and smiled hugely, her cornflower-blue eyes
regarding Tamara with affection.

Tamara squeezed her eyes shut. 'I hope to God you're right,
Inge,' she said fervently.

'Always I'm right.' Inge's smile never faltered; but then, neither had her belief in Tamara. Ever. 'Of course you get
role,
Liebling.
Now you go and it's dead you knock them!'

Tamara laughed. 'You mean "knock 'em dead", she
corrected.

Inge shrugged and waved her free hand through the air.
'Whatever,' she said expansively. 'Just you do it.'

Tamara pecked Inge's soft cheek. 'I promise I will. Now I'd
better get going or I'll miss the bus.'

'No bus.'

'Huh?'

'You take no bus. Not today.'

'Not Mr. Paterson's hearse,' Tamara begged. 'It's bad
enough sleeping next to the embalming room without having
to ride around in a hearse as well.' She shivered. 'I'd as soon
wait for the bus.'

'No, no hearse,' Inge answered her. 'Not for this. See? I
arrange car.' Proudly Inge pointed out the window as a car
horn blasted twice. Tamara recognized the 1928 four-cylinder
Plymouth which sailed to a halt at the curb, its front wheels
parting massive sheets of water as if it were a speedboat flinging aside a giant bow wave. The car belonged to Inge's closest
friend, Pearl Dern, a make-up artist at International Artists.
Pearl had used her considerable contacts at IA to arrange for
Tamara's screen test.

Tamara gave Inge one last swift hug. 'You're a dear,' she
told her warmly. She hesitated, looking at Inge's expression,
and saw that the kindest of faces reflected a stony certainty
combined with a touch of rapture. She knew then that Inge was convinced she had what it took. Dear Inge, she thought,
she believes in me as much as I believe in myself. Thus
reassured, she turned without another word, unlocked the
door, and ducked out into the lashing rain.

Pearl pushed the passenger door of the Plymouth open and
Tamara jumped in. 'Morning, Mrs. Dern,' she said breath
lessly, slamming the door shut. 'Ugly day, isn't it?'

'Tell me about it,' Pearl said grumpily. Her voice was deep,
raspy, and resonant, a voice tempered by decades of chain-
smoking unfiltered cigarettes. 'It's rained steady all week. I
heard on the radio that those fancy houses on the hillsides are
sliding down like skiers in Sun Valley. Thank God I can't
afford to live up in the hills.' She shook her head. 'In summer
you got to worry about the damn fires. In winter you got to
put up with the rain.' She put the car in gear and moved slowly
out into the nearly deserted street.