by Judith Gould
She sat stiffly erect in the hard, upright chair beside the operating table in her shapeless striped gown, eyes blinking against the glare, wary of the tray of gleaming surgical utensils beside her awaiting Dr. Zatopek's imminent arrival. When, she asked herself, would it finally end?
First, her teeth had been straightened and capped in California, too fast and therefore too painfully. She had also begun to lose weight there through a daily exercise regimen and virtual starvation; at the weighing this morning, she had lost the last of the twelve pounds she had been striving to lose. She was now five-feet-nine and weighed 120 pounds. It had been no easy feat. For the last month and a half, she couldn't remember a night when she hadn't gone to bed hungry. Or hadn't had trouble sleeping because of excruciating physical pain. When she had first agreed to the surgery it had never occurred to her that it would be so painful or that she would be constantly humiliated. To date, the nose surgery had been the worst by far. In order to reshape it, her nose had been broken and then reset, packed with endless yards of fine, thin absorbent tape. Through the hazy fog of the local anaesthetic she had heard her own delicate nose cartilage shattering, had heard the scalpel scraping. Even thinking about it now made her shudder. Then, when the packing had come out, she had been nauseated for two entire days and nights. Even that she had suffered in silence, and although Louis Ziolko had been at her side throughout this ordeal and they had grown quite close, she would have much preferred Pearl, or better yet, Inge, to whom she would not have hesitated to pour out her woes. But what she found most difficult of all to bear was that Dr. Zatopek had refused to let her have even the slightest fleeting glimpse of herself and her 'new' nose. At the clinic, mirrors were a carefully guarded commodity, locked in closets and brought out only when the patient was deemed physically and psychologically ready; even her compact and the hand mirror she had packed in her luggage had been confiscated upon her arrival.
'There is still too much swelling and far too many bruises,' Dr. Zatopek had informed her with his usual brusqueness. 'When I think you are ready, then I shall let you see yourself. But not a moment before.' And with that, the case was closed. Dr. Zatopek refused to hear any more arguments, and his nurses were stern and unbribable.
She could not remember when she had felt more frustrated.
Then there had been the delicate eye surgery; the top men at IA had agreed that her eyes did not quite match in shape; in the much-magnified close-ups on-screen it was much more evident than in person.
But now, at long last, the surgery was all over. The bandages were about to come off. She couldn't hear Dr. Zatopek's brisk heels approaching outside in the hall since her bandages muffled all but the loudest sounds, but she caught Ziolko, Skolnik, Max Factor, and the nurse turning expectantly toward the door.
She caught her breath and uttered a swift prayer as it opened and Dr. Zatopek stepped into the room. Her heart was pounding. A vice bound her head above her eyes. She dug the fingernails of one hand deep into the soft palm of the other, hoping that the pain would overpower her growing hysteria.
When she looked into a mirror from now on, whom would she see?
Herself? Or a stranger?
The itchy bandages were off less than ten minutes later, but it was another three full days before Tamara was finally allowed to see herself in a mirror. This time it was not the doctor, but Oscar Skolnik, who declined her request. 'I don't want you to get the wrong idea,' he said. 'There's still your makeup and your hair to be done first. You've waited this long, what's a few more days?'
A lot, she discovered to her chagrin: the hours and days crawled by with interminable slowness. Time had come to a stop.
When the big moment finally came, Dr. Zatopek was not in attendance. He washed his hands of the entire affair. 'I have better things to occupy myself with than this foolishness,' he declared pointedly to Skolnik, who raised his eyebrows in surprise. "The sooner this room is vacated, the sooner someone who truly needs help can be moved in.'
And with that, the door snapped abruptly shut behind him.
The doctor's cutting words and brash tone put a damper on Tamara's spirits. Mercifully, it was only temporary. There was little time for her to concentrate on the negative aspect of things—besides which, Oscar Skolnik was proving himself a rare magician, pulling surprise after surprise out of his hat. For the first time in six weeks, Tamara was almost faint from excitement. She thrived on all the bustling attention. A hairdresser had been sent for all the way from Rome to bleach, colour, cut, and style her hair, and Max Factor had spent the last three days locked up creating the perfect makeup exclusively for her, which he now painstakingly and artfully applied, changed, corrected, and reapplied. Throughout, Oscar Skolnik paced in concentric circles like a predatory shark or a nervous father-to-be—Tamara couldn't decide which—constantly barking commands or giving advice on further improvements. Only Louis Ziolko was a silent bystander, sitting next to her, from time to time smiling reassuringly or taking her hand and giving it an encouraging squeeze.
Still more tedious hours dragged by before Skolnik finally nodded his tight-lipped approval. The nod was taken as a silent signal: Max Factor put his brushes, creams, lotions, and pencils away, and Ziolko emitted a sigh of relief, beamed, kissed her cheek, and got to his feet. Without having said a word, the men trouped out behind Skolnik like obedient ducks following their mother, and a plump, pleasant-faced maid came bustling in to help her get dressed. When the woman first caught sight of her, she stopped cold in her tracks and stared wide-eyed.
Tamara looked at her strangely. 'Is something wrong?' she asked.
The woman shook her head swiftly but was silent for a moment. 'Scusi,' she apologized in obvious embarrassment, her face colouring. 'Please forgive me. I . . . I am unused to seeing such beauty.'
Tamara stared at her. 'Am I . . . beautiful, then?' she asked falteringly.
The woman laughed. 'Are you—' Then she noticed Tamara's dead-serious look and the laughter died in her throat. She stepped closer. 'You do not know?' she asked softly, her eyes searching Tamara's.
Tamara shook her head, the tears beginning to well up in her eyes. 'No,' she said hoarsely, swiftly turning away. 'I haven't seen myself for weeks.'
'You poor thing.' The maid tilted her head to one side and smiled reassuringly. She nodded slowly. 'You are very, very beautiful, signorina.'
Tamara turned to look at her. Impulsively she reached out and pressed the woman's hand. "Thank you,' she whispered fervently, her voice trembling with relief.
'For what? Speaking the truth?' The matronly woman was happy now, smiling. Humming cheerfully, she busied herself digging wordlessly through voluminous layers of rustling tissue paper in an enormous sleek cardboard box. After a moment she unfolded the Vionnet gown from Paris which Skolnik had ordered to Tamara's new measurements and had brought with him. The humming stopped suddenly. 'Mamma mia!' the maid exclaimed with a gasp, holding it up, her dark topaz eyes dancing as she examined it closely, all the time making impressed little cooing sounds.
Tamara took a deep breath and drew closer to inspect the gown. 'How pretty!' she exclaimed instinctively, reaching out to feel the luscious white silk taffeta. It was cool and regal.
'Ah, what a treasure, signorina! Just look! Bellissima!' the maid exclaimed, holding the gown against Tamara. She sounded breathless, like an excited child at Christmas.
Yes, it was indeed a treasure, Tamara had to agree. Even she, inexperienced as she was as far as good clothes were concerned, had at least been exposed to Hollywood's finest costumes through the magic of the motion pictures she had seen; now she had to admit wholeheartedly that genuine Paris couture was light-years ahead of the most splendid costume designer's most extravagant creation. This exquisite gown was designed to take one's breath away. As well as stand up to the most minute scrutiny. No mere costume, this.
The maid slid the gown reverentially off the padded velvet hanger and helped Tamara dress, her face beaming, her cheerful, bu
stling manner and constant stream of words never letting up. 'Mamma mia, but you look like a principessa, si! A genuine principessa. Maybe you have Italian blood? I have heard all about you, of course. Everyone here gossips like magpies, but I truly had no idea how beautiful you are! And this gown . . . Now, turn around, please, and let me fasten . . .'
When Tamara was completely dressed, she moved tentatively this way and that, feeling the fabric's every elegant move, every billowing swirl. She looked down at herself, once again silently cursing the absence of a mirror. But she knew that the gown was a masterpiece of design and handwork. It reached to mid-calf in the front and down to the floor in the back, flaring gracefully from her shoulders to the small of her spine, where a series of tiny seed-pearl buttons held it snug. An attached sash from the front wrapped around to the back in a kind of massive sculptured-taffeta bow which fell to a six-inch-long train.
'You are a fairy-tale vision, signorina.' The maid stepped back to study the effect, happily wringing her plump, short red hands as she beamed in pleasure. Then, wishing her the best, the maid left.
The men once again filed in, stepping forward to examine her more closely, then stepping back again as though they were studying their own reflections in a mirror or deciding upon the purchase of a particularly priceless object. In they leaned. Back they stepped. Over and over. Max Factor hurriedly made some line adjustments with a pencil and a brush. Finally, wordlessly, they all looked at one another and nodded. Now there were smiles and handshakes all around. Congratulations for one another.
'That doctor's a magician if I've ever seen one,' Skolnik said happily, lighting his pipe. 'Can't see a stitch, can you, Max? He'd make a fortune in Hollywood.'
And'. . . Can't believe what that platinum does to her hair. See if we can't bribe that hairdresser to come out to Hollywood. We sure could use her . . .'
And'. . . Makeup's good, Max. Real good. Nice definition around the eyes. Gives her a kind of . . . hmmm . . . haunted quality, wouldn't you say? But sexy. The women'll love her and try to copy her, and the men'll eat her up, fantasizing about her in the bedroom. A great job, Max.'
And'. . . That Vionnet lady's something else. Just from the measurements, she came up with this gown. Tell you what, we'll have her make up an entire wardrobe, maybe even have her do some sketches for movie costumes.'
Tamara bit down on her lip, disgusted with them all. What about me! she railed silently. Didn't I have something to do with this? Isn't this me they're going on and on about? After all I've had to go through . . .
She wanted to scream.
Instead, she glared at Skolnik and cleared her throat angrily.
Ignoring her, Oscar Skolnik snapped his fingers at Ziolko, who went out into the hall and signalled for two orderlies to carry in a draped three-panel dressing mirror. Tamara stared at it, her heart thumping. The moment of reckoning was at hand.
The anger seeped instantly out of her, replaced by a wave of dizzying excitement.
Skolnik smiled as he approached the mirror and flicked his wrist like a magician, flinging aside the sheet.
Tamara's excitement edged into panic. What would she see?
Trembling, she forced herself to walk slowly toward it, and then her body slid into her line of vision and was reflected threefold. She let out a gasp. Skolnik stepped behind her, his face half-hidden by her own, his one visible eye gleaming with Svengali satisfaction over her right shoulder.
She shook her head in disbelief, frowned, shook it again. The noble, high-cheekboned face staring back at her had a Slavic, almost otherworldly beauty. Lustrous platinum curls gleamed with an angel-hair whiteness. The figure was svelte, as perfect in its proportions as a finely chiselled Greek marble. The nose was thin, patrician, perfect. Indeed, everything about her was perfect. The arched brows, nothing short of magnificent. The teeth, luminous. Skin the translucent clarity of a very fine, very pale dessert wine. The eyes, perfectly balanced now, and heavily lidded and shadowed and outlined, enchanted and beguiled even herself.
'Do you recognize her?' Skolnik asked softly into her ear.
'I . . . I don't know,' Tamara stammered, softly touching her new face with featherlike fingertips. 'This . . . this isn't the old Tamara Boralevi.'
His voice was even. 'No, it isn't,' he replied. 'Tamara Boralevi is no more. Even that name ceases to exist. From now on, you will be known only as Tamara. No last name. Just Tamara. Throughout the world, everyone will be on a first-name basis with you.'
'I ... I just can't believe this is me!' She turned to face him, her moist lips parted, her teeth gleaming iridescently.
He shook his head and smiled slightly. 'It isn't you. The Tamara you used to be has ceased to exist. The woman you see before you is flesh and blood, but she was born of no woman. I have had the opportunity to do that which many men have dreamt of doing, but none has ever achieved. I have played God. I have had you created. I have created an ideal. I have created perfection.'
She nodded silently, gooseflesh breaking out on her arms. 'Yes, yes, you have, Mr. Skolnik,' she said huskily, turning back to the mirror;
'O.T.,' he reminded her. 'You're supposed to call me O.T.' His face slid out of view.
'I'm . . . I'm . . . beautiful!' she cried. 'I'm truly, truly beautiful!' The tears flooded forth unchecked now, blurring her vision, running in mascara rivulets down flawless cheeks.
It was Louis Ziolko who stepped forward, reached for his handkerchief, and dabbed her eyes dry. ' "Beautiful" does not begin to describe you,' he said softly. 'I think you are now the most beautiful woman in the world.'
She swallowed visibly and didn't know how to reply.
'Oh, by the way,' Skolnik said almost negligently, 'you'd better take care of that face. I've got a big investment in it, you know. It's being insured with Lloyd's of London for one million dollars.'
After he and Max left, she and Louis stared at the door for a long, long time.
Night had long since fallen. A brisk alpine wind rattled the windowpanes, relentlessly seeking cracks and crannies through which to invade the room. Under the feather-light eiderdown duvet, Tamara listened to the high-pitched keening of the wind. Somewhere out in the hall a clock chimed twelve times.
She sighed and stared blearily up at the dark ceiling. Midnight already, and still she lay awake. She had tried to go to sleep hours ago, but sleep had eluded her. So much had happened, and so quickly. Since coming here, she had become a woman who previously had not existed.
So many fears wrestled with her mind. Now that she looked different, would she have to act different? More important, would people treat her differently? And if so, how was she to respond? There was no time to get used to the new Tamara, to grow comfortably into the character. She had been born virtually overnight.
Almost angrily she pounded her pillow with her hand, turned it around to the cool side, and shut her eyes again, determined to sleep and exorcise her demons, but she only tossed and turned sleeplessly. The clock in the hall chimed the half-hour. Twelve-thirty.
Resigned, she finally swung herself up into a sitting position and reached for her robe while her toes felt the chill floor for her slippers. Rising, she shrugged herself into the robe and walked to the door. For a long moment she stood there hesitantly, one hand poised on the brass handle. Then, before she could change her mind, she swiftly pulled it open. She glanced up and down the long, pine-panelled hall. It was dark, with only night-lights at the far ends to help illuminate the way. The chalet was quiet, creaking now and then as old buildings will. Ghostly shadows seemed to lurk everywhere, waiting to pounce. Across the hall, she noticed a sliver of bright light shining beneath Louis Ziolko's door. It seemed to beckon her. Throughout her entire nightmarish medical ordeal there had been but a single constant, a solitary anchor. Louis Ziolko.
She took three quick steps forward, held her breath, and rapped softly on his door.
Inside, she could hear a mattress squeaking. Bedcovers rustling. Bare footsteps slapping aga
inst the polished wooden floor.
Louis opened the door. He was wearing maroon silk pyjamas.
She smiled hesitantly, clutching her robe together in the front. 'I couldn't sleep,' she said apologetically.
'Neither could I.' He opened the door further. 'Would you like to come in?'
She slipped inside and he closed the door behind her. 'You're shivering,' he said. He stared at her intently. 'Are you cold?'
She shook her head. Her emerald-green eyes became two limpid pools. 'I'm frightened.'
He looked surprised. 'Of what?'
'Me.' She laughed humourlessly. 'The new me.'
'Millions of women would like to be in your shoes.'
'I know.' She looked away. 'Hold me?' she whispered.
Then she could feel his strong arms wrapping around her. Slowly she turned to him, staring deep into his eyes.
'I know I'm being silly,' she said huskily, 'but I need someone.'
His voice was hushed. 'There comes a time when we all need someone.'
She did not reply, but her eyes were tear-bright as his arms engulfed her and drew her toward him.
Time ceased to tick; the world had slipped into a silent dimension in which they were the only two people on earth. Even the chimes in the hall belonged to another time.
She clung trembling against him; he lowered his mouth to hers and his lips touched her lips, his tongue sought hers. Their gentle embrace grew more heated, their kisses more impassioned and deep. His fingers felt her tight body, groped along the raised ridge of her spine, and then moved slowly to the front of her robe. Then his hands slid inside, found her silky flesh, the perfect soft round breasts, then felt slowly, inexorably downward to her smooth hard belly. She moaned and tightened her grip on him as his fingers curved over the soft forest of hair on her mound. A tremor rippled through her body. Barely touching her, his hands feather light, he felt for the distended clitoris with its tonguelike protrusion and, without warning, slipped two fingers inside her moistness.