by Judith Gould
'Lilies!' Zelda stared down at them malevolently. 'And such a big bunch! You should have saved your money. A spendthrift my Louie doesn't need.' She shook the lilies at Tamara. 'You want I should tell you how many ways you can keep your money from being stolen on a bus?'
Tamara blinked. She was taken aback and slightly confused, but determined to be undeterred. 'And I helped bake you this apple strudel.' Smiling, she proffered the covered platter like a prize.
'Strudel!' Mrs. Ziolko scoffed, her eyes flashing dramatic shards of brittle ice. 'You want strudel, you taste my strudel. It's baking in the oven right now. Two hours I took just to make the dough so it comes out so nice and flaky it melts on your tongue. I'm famous for my strudel.' Eyebrows raised, Zelda Ziolko turned on her heel and marched into the bungalow. 'Ha!' Tamara heard her mumble under her breath. 'Strudel she brings. Strudel!'
Louis smiled apologetically and gave an eloquent shrug of helplessness as he held the screen door open for Tamara. She smiled at him with a cheerfulness she did not feel. Her eyes were angry and her heart pounded with a fierce fury, but she arranged her face into an expressionless mask. She wasn't about to give this monster the pleasure of seeing her upset.
She's a dragon, Tamara thought with a sinking feeling. My God, she's even worse than anything I'd imagined.
It was getting dark out by the time they finished eating. Zelda suddenly pushed herself to her feet and switched on the small chandelier with its meagre crystals. It threw a garish, surreal glare, and Tamara had to blink against the six 60-watt bulbs.
'Louie, you go on into the living room,' Zelda ordered shortly. 'Listen to the radio. Read the Sunday paper. Tamara here is going to help me to clean up.'
He and Tamara exchanged quick glances. With her eyes and a smile of infinite patience, she managed to convey to him that it was all right with her. 'Okay,' he said, crumpling his napkin into a ball and getting to his feet. He came over to Tamara and kissed her. Then he turned to Zelda. 'That was a fine meal, Mother.'
'If you like my cooking so much, you could come visit your poor mother more often,' Zelda complained.
He kissed her cheek and made himself scarce.
Zelda shut the kitchen door behind him, but Tamara could hear the low volume of the radio coming from the living room. She recognized the symphony. Mahler. Funereal and depressing, but somehow appropriate in this cheerless house. She wondered how Louis could bear to visit as often as he did.
Zelda washed while Tamara dried. For a while they worked in uncomfortable silence. Tamara couldn't get over the feeling that there was a greater purpose for her participation in this ancient female rite. She waited, knowing that Zelda would tell her in her own good time.
She didn't have long to wait.
'So you want to marry my Louie,' Zelda said at last, and Tamara wondered whether the accompanying sigh was the result of their marriage plans or the recalcitrant dried crust on the bowl Zelda was scrubbing. 'It goes without saying that I want my son to get married. I'm his mother, I want what's best for him. What mother doesn't want that, I ask you?'
Tamara remained silent, guessing that Zelda didn't really expect a reply.
'After all, Louie is thirty years old. It's time he gave me grandchildren.' Zelda flickered a sideways glance at Tamara, suspicion evident in her sharp, piercing gaze. 'So do you like children?'
Tamara's mind shifted gears, alerting to this unexpected course of conversation. 'I . . . ah, yes, ... of course,' she murmured.
'Humph.' Zelda dipped the bowl into the steaming rinsing water and handed it to Tamara. 'Marriage is much more than playing house and making babies,' she continued, stuffing the soapy dishcloth into a glass and twisting it around and around inside it. Then she pulled the cloth back out, plunged the glass into the rinsing water, and held it up to the light to check that it was clean. 'Marriage is making a home. Running it smoothly. It takes dedication, and it's a full-time job, let me tell you. Louie tells me you want to continue working. So tell me, how do you expect to make a home, have babies, and be in the movies too?' She looked at Tamara searchingly. 'I suppose you can do three times as much as anybody else?'
Tamara could feel herself flushing under the unwavering scrutiny, but she raised her chin stubbornly. 'Louie and I love each other,' she countered challengingly.
'Do you?' Zelda held her gaze. 'Maybe you think you love each other—'
A brilliant kind of sureness flared in Tamara's eyes. 'I know we do,' she said definitely.
'You're so young,' Zelda hissed impatiently. 'So tell me, how old are you, child?'
'Eighteen.'
Zelda's eyes blazed. 'All of eighteen! Oy! And already she knows everything!' She shook her head and washed some plates in brooding silence. Then suddenly she flung her hands out of the dishwater and whirled on Tamara. 'Let him go!' she demanded abruptly, her eyes dancing with a mad light. 'Louie is only thirty. Already he's been divorced once. Don't let him make the same mistake twice. I beg of you—leave him!'
Tamara was so stunned that she was momentarily speechless.
Zelda sensed that she'd gained the upper hand and drew closer. For an instant she glanced over her shoulder at the door, making certain that Louis had not come in without her noticing it. When she spoke again it was with such force and fury that Tamara had to wince against the spray of spittle. 'I know what it is you want! You're like all the other women who try to throw themselves at him. Louie is a famous director, and you think he has a lot of money. You believe he can make you a star!' Self-righteous triumph blazed crazily in her eyes.
'That isn't true!' Tamara whispered vehemently. 'I love him!' She felt suddenly dizzy and the kitchen seemed to turn slowly, tilting in carnival-ride revolutions around her. She grabbed hold of the counter to steady herself.
'Then prove it to me.'
Tamara wiped her eyes. 'How? By giving him up?' She gave a snort of mirthless laughter and turned away.
Zelda paused. 'No,' she said finally, taking Tamara by the arm and turning her around to face her. 'There is another way.'
Tamara raised her eyebrows.
'By signing a document my lawyer has drawn up.'
Tamara regarded Zelda suspiciously. 'What kind of document?'
'A marriage contract of sorts, only it is between me and you instead of you and Louie. It is very simple and states that should you get a divorce for any reason or, God forbid, Louie should die before you, you relinquish all rights to his estate. At least while I'm alive.'
'In other words, you want to make sure that I get nothing . . . and you get everything.'
Zelda frowned. 'I didn't put it into those words, you did. But I guess in a way you're right. The thing to remember is that by signing, you will prove to me that you are not marrying my Louie for his money or influence.'
'Does he know about this?'
'No!' Zelda emphasized. 'And he does not need to. Why worry him, I ask you?'
Tamara stared at her in disbelief. 'You're sick!' she whispered.
'Am I?'
'Perhaps I'm wrong. Maybe you're just a greedy criminal. You are trying to blackmail me.'
Zelda's eyes were icy. 'I see now that I might as well not have bothered with the contract. I was right about you all along. I should have known.'
Tamara gaped at her. 'You're serious about this, aren't you?'
Zelda raised her chin in certainty. 'I am. I have the contract right here.' She slid open a drawer and took out a two-page legal document stapled to a pale blue backing. She thrust it at Tamara.
Slowly Tamara took it and read through it, her lips silently mouthing each cruel word. There were a lot of whereases, theretofores, inasmuches, and hereunders, the precise, unemotional legal jargon maintaining a judicious distance from the emotions that had been the basis for it. Despite the strange nature of the contract, she didn't at all doubt that it was perfectly legal and would stand up in a court of law. She was certain Zelda had seen to that. She didn't strike her as the kind of woman who could make a
mistake about something like that.
Tamara's voice was weak and strained. 'And if I don't sign?'
'Then I will not give Louie my blessing to marry you. Oh, I know my Louie is headstrong and might go ahead and marry you anyway. But how long do you think your happiness will last after his own mother has disowned him?'
'You've had it all figured out from the start, haven't you?' Tamara said bitterly. 'You went to your attorney and had this prepared'—she rattled the document—'before you even met me. You decided in advance not to like me.' Tears stung in her eyes.
'Like or not like, you had nothing to do with it. Louie is my only child, and I intend to protect him at any cost. I would gladly die before I see another woman take advantage of him.'
'That makes two of us.'
'So.' Zelda looked at Tamara evenly. 'You will sign, then, won't you?'
Tamara drew herself up with dignity. 'Yes, I will sign,' she said wearily. 'And you need not worry.' Her voice became choked with emotion. 'I will never tell him about this. I would never want him to know just how heartless his mother really is. No son should have to know that.'
For a brief moment the steel in Zelda seemed to soften. Then, before she became too pliable, she caught herself and hardened again, as tough and unbendable as ever.
She held out a pen. Tamara snatched it from her and signed.
'In triplicate,' Zelda said, producing two more copies of the contract.
'There.' Tamara slapped the contracts down on the counter. 'And now, if you'll excuse me, I think it's time Louie took me home.' Her voice was quivering as she fought to keep her rage under control. 'Thank you for the dinner.'
She went to the door, struggling to compose herself and, pushing it open, went out into the living room. The Mahler symphony sounded louder and more tragic. It reminded her of a dirge, the unseen instruments weeping in low, rhythmic mourning as a lone soprano wailed her way up the scale before plunging back down into the abyss of bleak darkness.
Chapter 11
Tamara, eighteen years old, International Artists' much-publicized new discovery and, according to the press releases, the daughter of a brilliant Russian actress and a powerful prince, a displaced refugee, and would-have-been heiress to an awesome fortune, married Louis Frederic Ziolko on the set of The Flappers on Sunday, April 20, one day after the film's final scene had been shot. For Tamara, the wedding wasn't so much a ceremony of exchanging vows as a scene in a maddeningly overcrowded zoo. It turned into a national spectacle, as royal an occasion as there ever could be in a democracy. It was a civil rather than a religious ceremony, and if there was anything religious about it, it was the pomp and splendour of Hollywood idolatry.
Oscar Skolnik, ever the entrepreneur and never one to let a moneymaking scheme slip idly through his fingers, seized the opportunity to cash in on what he believed must surely be the most brilliant publicity stunt ever devised. Having pumped fifty thousand dollars into the ceremony, and beaming as brightly as any genuine father, he gave awly the bride on soundstage twelve, amid the still-intact massive ballroom set of The Flappers, which had been specially decorated with fifteen thousand dollars' worth of snow-white flowers for the occasion.
Gossip columnists would report that there wasn't another white flower to be found as far north as San Francisco or as far south as the border.
While flashbulbs popped unceasingly, shutters clicked, and newsreel cameras rolled, Tamara, in a Jean Louis-designed gown of dazzling Valenciennes lace with a twenty-two-foot train and a diamond tiara borrowed from Tiffany, arrived as royally as any genuine princess in a regal, flower-festooned coach pulled by six matching white horses, thanks to IA's considerable backlot jammed with props. Page boys in medieval tunics announced her arrival with triumphant trumpet blasts. Sixteen bridesmaids, all major Hollywood stars, scattered white orchids in her path.
'Something old' was a treasured lace handkerchief given her by Garbo, 'something new' was the pearl choker Oscar Skolnik presented her with, something borrowed was the Tiffany tiara, of course, and something blue was a garter belt courtesy of Mae West.
Holding a small bouquet of white cymbidiums as she exchanged vows with her exceedingly handsome director-husband, who slipped a twenty-carat (also borrowed) diamond on her finger, Tamara instantly became the consummate bride, ingrained in the public's consciousness as a vision in white. The picture of Louis lifting her veil and kissing her made the front pages of every newspaper from coast to coast.
ROYAL FILM STAR TAMARA MARRIES DIRECTOR.
FIFTY-THOUSAND-DOLLAR WEDDING STUNS COUNTRY—Thousands Are Homeless as Hollywood Parties.
RUSSIAN PRINCESS HAS STARS IN HER EYES.
TAMARA: 'I lost my country but won a husband.'
TAMARA’S STORY: The Star They Call 'Your Highness'.
Among the hundreds in attendance at the ceremony were Hollywood's elite, as well as a flock of stars-to-be. Rival studio moguls called a truce for the occasion, shared gossip, and toasted the bride with glasses of fruit punch. All around them, dressed to the nines, was an eye-popping roster of their producers, directors, stars, and stars-to-be. Inge and Jewel, both sniffling happily and dabbing their eyes with handkerchiefs, sat in the first row. Zelda Ziolko was anything but the picture of the bridegroom's happy, proud mother. For her, this wedding, performed by a justice of the peace, was a mockery of both religion and the solemn vows of matrimony, with its hundreds of stars and celebrities vying for attention with the bride and groom. Her idea of a wedding was a sacred ritual presided over by a rabbi and performed under the chuppa, with a goblet of wine and lit tapers and shouts of 'Mazel tov!' and the traditional Jewish dances. Much as she was secretly flattered by the stars that had come out for her son's wedding, the public spectacle was a shameful affair that she forced herself to endure in grim, uncharacteristic silence, or so she very vocally claimed.
Lily Pons, who made her American debut that year, sang two arias; there were also a choir, a thirty-seven-member orchestra, and fireworks at dusk. As party gifts, every last one of the eight thousand oysters served to the guests came with a lustrous, carefully placed pearl. The vast publicity mills which had made the 'newly discovered Russian princess, Tamara,' into a household word even before filming of The Flappers had begun, now catapulted her into the lofty firmament to which she had always aspired—before the film was even edited. The Depression-weary public ate it all up. Poverty and despair were all too commonplace. What people wanted was a glimpse of lavishness, and in Tamara they were not to be disappointed. If glamour was a beacon of happier times ahead, then she was it.
There was little surprise when, two months later, The Flappers was released in IA's string of nationwide theatres and its box-office receipts earned it the distinction of being the highest grossing motion picture made to date.
For Tamara, 1930 was a particularly wonderful year. So many dreams had come true. She had a handsome husband. She was a major Hollywood star. She had plenty of money. She was in love.
It seemed that nothing could go wrong.
Chapter 12
For a long time, nothing did go wrong. Tamara and Louis' marriage was cementing nicely, their lovemaking was mutually satisfying and, overall, their lives were charmed if frenetic. Tamara found herself in the midst of such an exhilarating but hectic whirlwind that she was reminded of a queen bee around whom the swarm hummed and buzzed incessantly. She was in constant and glorious demand, and it felt good. Thanks to her instant celebrity status, she and Louis were Hollywood's most sought-after couple. So many invitations poured in daily that they had to sift through all of them, carefully paring them down to the two or three most advantageous for their careers, and with a thousand-odd pieces of fan mail pouring in each week, Tamara was forced to hire a full-time secretary in the person of Lorna Nichols, a formidable widow of forty-three who mothered her, jealously guarded her privacy as though it were her own, and adroitly juggled both of the Ziolkos' busy, ever-changing schedules.
With filming, research
ing her characters, perfecting her diction with the help of a dialogue coach and her acting at IA's on-lot acting school, memorizing her lines, and the little but therefore all-the-more precious home life she and Louis enjoyed, there was a multitude of obligations for Tamara to fulfil. A star, she was discovering, could not call her life her own. She was the property of a fickle, ravenous public which had to be kept appeased. Her moviegoing fans had made her; they could just as easily desert her for someone else. So there were whirlwinds of still-photography sessions, both for the studio and reporters, no end of interviews to conduct, film premieres to attend, products to endorse, and charity functions to host or support—all of which were shrewdly calculated to keep her in the public eye. The demands made on her were awesome, but she cheerfully complied. If she had any complaint, it was that she had been swept into the eye of a hurricane and had too little time to spend along with Louis. Still, she wouldn't have had it any other way. Her public took precedence. Her own life had to take second place. And besides, being the queen bee was intoxicating. She basked in all the attention.
Rival studios were bidding unheard-of sums to borrow her for films of their own, but Skolnik wasn't having any of that, at least not yet. He was still smarting from not having had a major female star of his own for so long, and having been at the mercy of whomever the other studios could spare still rankled him deeply. Not that he was one to carry a grudge, especially if forgetting it could earn him money. It was just a matter of good business. Now that he was on a major winning streak with Tamara, he was anxious to take full advantage of it and ride it out. He didn't want to waste her. She was money in the bank.
The Flappers was followed by Marie Antoinette, a long, lavish costume drama with an enormous budget, dazzling costumes, and stupendous sets. Meanwhile, Rhoda Dorsey's reading department was under constant pressure to hurry up and find a new property that could be begun as soon as the filming of Marie Antoinette was wrapped up. The following year Skolnik was planning to use Tamara in four pictures, all in major starring roles, and all involving endless, gruelling work.