by Judith Gould
The small customs office was sweltering, despite the open windows and the lazy currents of air raised by the slowly revolving overhead fan.
Brigadier George Edward Diggins eyed them suspiciously from behind the desk, his fingers strumming the pages of their passports as if they were a deck of cards. His expression was the same as those of the customs officials in all the Mediterranean ports where the Lerwick had docked and she had gone ashore—except that he was British, and the British were notorious sticklers for exactitude. His assistant, Sergeant Carne, was stationed by the door.
As if we're criminals intent upon escape, Tamara couldn't help thinking.
The brigadier stared thoughtfully at her passport picture and then at her, and Tamara stared right back at him, glad at least that her hat hid one eye so that she felt that much less vulnerable. She didn't chat or volunteer any information. Customs men were like policemen; one let them do the questioning.
She considered Diggins, who lifted a brow and pursed his lips as he studied her photograph. He was a slim, pale-eyed Englishman with sandy, sun-bleached hair, a pockmarked face, gaps between yellowing teeth, and a pencil-thin moustache. The moment she first laid eyes on him, she knew he would be difficult. There was something self-important about him, more than a little of the strutting martinet. Clearly he was a dyed-in-the-wool career officer who considered civilians, no matter what their exalted status, far less than his equal.
She was becoming annoyed. 'I was under the impression that I was taken ashore by the launch so that the usual formalities would be sped up,' she said, placing her elbows on the arms of the chair.
'Sometimes that is the case.' He spoke with slow deliberation and frowned, his fingers idly fanning the pages of the passports. 'Oftentimes it's not.'
'Such as?' She held his gaze.
'There might be questions which need answering before we allow certain visitors to remain ashore.' He pushed his chair back on its squeaky casters and leaned back, eyeing her stonily. 'You used a one-way ticket to get here. Does that mean you intend to emigrate?'
'I'm a visitor. In case you haven't noticed, I have another ticket with me, a round-trip ticket. I changed my travel plans and took the Lerwick only because it was the first ship leaving Marseilles for here.'
'A visitor.' He nodded to himself. 'A pilgrim? A tourist?'
'A tourist.'
'And your destination?'
She laughed softly. 'Why, here, of course. Palestine. Isn't that obvious?'
His voice was quiet. 'I meant specifically.'
She shrugged. 'There's a lot to see. I decided to begin with Tel Aviv.'
'That's a curious choice. Most people go to Jerusalem first. Why Tel Aviv?'
'Why not Tel Aviv? I hear it's cooler by the shore, and besides, it's centrally located. From there I can travel north to Lake Tiberias, south to Jerusalem or the Dead Sea . . .it's convenient.'
'I see. Do you have hotel reservations?'
She shook her head.
A glimmer of interest brightened his eyes. 'Then you will be staying with friends?'
'No.' She was becoming more annoyed. 'Why are you asking me all these questions?'
'Then with whom are you planning to stay?'
'It was my intention to stay at the Rehot Dan Hotel. It came highly recommended.'
'The Rehot Dan?' He frowned and sat slowly forward. 'That's not exactly the kind of accommodation I would have expected such a distinguished visitor as yourself to take.'
'What would you have expected?' She looked deep into his pale eyes, almost as though she were challenging him.
'And the . . . ahem . . . purpose of your visit?'
'Just that,' she replied calmly. 'A visit.'
He drummed his fingers on the scarred desktop. 'And how long do you intend to stay?'
She shrugged. 'That all depends upon how we like it here. A few days, a few weeks , . . perhaps even a few months. This is my first vacation in years, and I intend to take full advantage of it.'
'I see.' He pursed his lips and frowned. 'It says in here that your name is Tamara Boralevi,' he said softly. He held up her passport and waved it.
'That's my maiden name. Professionally I'm known as Tamara, but since even filmstars cannot go around with just a single name on documents, I reverted to using my maiden name after my husband died. I do not see a problem with that.'
'Normally, we would have whisked a star of your obvious stature through without formalities of any sort, but seeing that your last name is what it is . . . well, it changes things, what?' His eyes seemed to glare.
Tamara looked at him expressionlessly, crossed one knee casually over the other, and clasped her hands over it. She waited patiently.
'What I need to ascertain,' Diggins said sharply, 'is whether you are, or are not, a relation of one Schmarya Boralevi.'
Tamara barely contained the wave of panic she felt at hearing her father's name, but she was unable to subdue the crimson flush that flooded her face. 'My God, but it's hot in here,' she murmured. She reached for a thin folder on Diggins' desk and fanned herself briskly with it. 'Please, if we can cut this short before I pass out from heat prostration?'
'A glass of water.' Diggins snapped his fingers and the sergeant hurried off to get it. He brought one glass for Tamara and one for Inge. Tamara sipped hers and Diggins continued. 'This is a potentially explosive land. The influx of Jewish refugees has made the Arabs very angry and protective, and it's taking all our efforts to keep some semblance of peace. Believe me, Miss . . .ah, Boralevi, we do not wish Palestine to turn into a war zone, what?'
'Nor do I. But what has all that got to do with me?' Her mind whirled: I should have expected something like this. How stupid of me. Why didn't I go by my married name? Now I'm liable to lead them straight to my father. Damn.
'Your name is the same as that of the most notorious arms smuggler in the territory,' the brigadier was saying. 'Our official policy is that the fewer weapons are in the hands of the civilian population, the more peaceful Palestine is apt to be.'
'Very noble, I'm sure,' she said mildly. 'However, with all due respect, I don't understand the meaning of this. What could my name possibly have to do with this interrogation? I am not an arms smuggler.'
'I did not say you were, Miss Boralevi,' he said patiently. 'You are merely being questioned as to your relationship, if any, with a man wanted for violence and smuggling arms. Those are very serious charges.'
'Brigadier Diggins,' she intoned emphatically, 'you have searched our luggage minutely and found that we are not carrying contraband of any kind. I really cannot sit here and tolerate your accusations—'
'My dear Miss Boralevi. You are not being accused of anything. Please, try to understand our position. The name Boralevi is red-flagged. As soon as it crops up, we are required to investigate. I am not allowed to make any exceptions.'
'Then let me tell you a few things about myself.' Her face was grim and her anger was barely controlled. 'I hardly remember my mother and I cannot recall my father at all. Being a displaced person, I was raised by Miss Meier.' She gestured at Inge. 'I have lived most of my life in the United States and spent the past seven years making movies. For your information, I have no family. This is my first, and undoubtedly my last, visit here. I have no idea what has been going on in this place. Indeed, I know next to nothing about the Middle East in general, but I must tell you that this place is beginning to appeal to me less and less. If I am not welcome here because of my last name, I should think you would be so good as to help me make swift travel arrangements to Greece or wherever the next boat is headed.'
'I didn't mean to imply—'
'Please,' she interrupted him. 'Spare me. I do not wish to stay where I am unwelcome.'
Summoning all her talent, she raised her head so that she could focus an intense gaze upon him and play to him as if he were a camera. 'I should also like to inform you, and this is off the record'—she lowered her voice—'that when I was in London a couple
of months ago, your King invited me to return to see him on my way back and give him my opinions about Palestine. Now I'm afraid there will be precious little to tell him, other than my being traumatized and humiliated by one of his loyal subjects.'
He stared at her as she rose to her feet.
'Come, Inge, let's leave this hellish oven and see if Captain Goodhew will be so kind as to take us back aboard the Lerwick.' She turned and made for the door, and Inge, gaping in disbelief, shrugged in confusion and stumbled after her in silence.
Diggins watched them leave, studying Tamara's moves to see if she was bluffing. She had to be. Didn't she?
Soon she would reach the door. He suppressed a cry of anger and resentment and shot to his feet with such speed that he reached the door before her. 'P-please, Miss Boralevi, d-do not be so hasty,' he stammered quickly, barring her way with his body. 'I did not mean to offend you. I was only asking the questions I'm required to ask.' He cleared his throat and his Adam's apple bobbed visibly. It would be a pity to get off on such bad footing so quickly, what?' His attempt at a confident grin came off feebly.
She stared at him as though torn between decisions. She could see the beads of nervous perspiration on his forehead and staining the armpits of his short-sleeved khaki shirt. She felt shame stealing over her. How easily crafty lies and manufactured emotions sprang to her lips and face; this must be her Hollywood legacy. But her father had to be protected. At any cost.
At last she raised her chin and a frosty smile slid across her lips. 'Very well, Brigadier,' she said abruptly, 'I take that to mean we're free to go?'
He nodded quickly. 'And don't forget your passports. This isn't America. You're supposed to carry identification at all times.'
She nodded, took the passports from him, and slid them into her purse.
'And, Miss Boralevi, I am sure our district commissioner, Sir William Hippisley, will be delighted to meet you. He and Lady Juliet hold open-house parties for English-speaking visitors each Saturday afternoon.'
'How very nice. However, my intention is to travel incognito while here. I don't even want to register into the hotel under my own name. I would appreciate it if my privacy is respected.'
He shrugged. 'As you wish, Miss Boralevi, but Sir William and Lady Juliet will be disappointed, to say the very least.'
'The disappointment will be mine, I'm sure. But I have no desire to be treated as a film star while I'm here. I wish only to melt into the crowd and lead a very ordinary tourist's existence. Good day, Brigadier.'
'Good day, Miss Boralevi.' Diggins turned and scowled at Carne. 'Sergeant!' he barked. 'See that Miss Boralevi's luggage is brought out to one of our cars. Have her driven wherever she wants, courtesy of this department. And step to it man!'
'Yessir!' The sergeant's body went rigid and he saluted smartly. Then he pirouetted, stamped his feet, and marched briskly out.
Tamara stared. 'That really isn't necessary, you know. Tel Aviv is much too far to accept a lift.'
'It is nothing.'
Alarm bells shrilled in her head. By insisting that one of his men drive her, he was regaining the upper hand and would be in a firmly entrenched position to keep tabs on her movements. Sooner or later, this could very well lead him to her father. She had to think of a way to decline firmly and graciously—and get out of his clutches fast.
'Really, I couldn't accept your generous offer. Surely your men have better things to do than escort me about.'
'On the contrary. I can't think of a single man who wouldn't give his right arm for such delightful duty.'
'I only need help in arranging for a hired car,' she protested. 'If you'd be so kind as to—'
'I won't hear of it. Please, accept the ride in the spirit of my trying to make amends.'
She felt suddenly sick. She had been outmanoeuvred, and it was time for her to back down. 'How can I refuse?' she said smoothly.
'It's little enough to offer you for having put you through this . . . this trauma.' He smiled slightly, but his narrowed eyes surveyed her shrewdly. 'And considering that I've permitted you entry into this territory, I'm ultimately responsible for your well-being. You don't mind if I check up on you every now and then?' He paused and held his slight smile. 'To make certain you've come to no harm?'
She looked surprised. 'Who on earth would wish to harm me?'
'Who knows? This is a strange country, and violence is a way of life.'
'You don't trust me, do you?' She forced a weak smile.
'On the contrary. I simply wouldn't want anything to happen to you. Especially since your friend the King might hold me personally responsible.'
She nodded. 'Thank you,' she said tartly. 'I'm sure Miss Meier and I will sleep more easily knowing we are under your protection.' She extended her slender white hand and he shook it. Politely he held open the door for her. Crossing the threshold, she hesitated and turned around. 'Brigadier Diggins. . . '
He looked at her questioningly.
'This . . . this Simon Boralevi.'
'Schmarya Boralevi,' he corrected with a half-smile.
'Whoever.' She waved her hand airily. 'Does this mean he's still at large?'
'I'm afraid it does.'
'Then you'd do well to double your efforts to catch him, I would think,' she told him solemnly.
'I'm in the process of doing just that.' He smiled crookedly, and despite the roasting heat, she felt an arctic chill.
She didn't like playing cat and mouse, especially not when her father was the mouse and she was being used as bait. She would have to stay on her toes; this wasn't at all like making movies.
Chapter 23
Two hours before sunset. A Wednesday. Thirteen days had gone by since she had placed the ad in the Davar and Haaretz, Tel-Aviv's two dailies. She and Inge were sitting under the vine-shaded arbour in the back of the small hotel, the remains of their dinners on their plates. The temperature was dropping, and a delicious cool breeze fluttered past, rustling the leaves overhead and rippling the checkered tablecloths. Tamara sat in silence, tapping a thumbnail against her teeth as she stared out at the sea and the relentless, crashing breakers spending themselves against the shore. She was a million miles away, lost in thought.
Inge was about to eat the forkful of leek-and-potato pie when she noticed Tamara's blank look. She laid her fork down and pushed her chair closer to Tamara's. Smiling gently, she said, 'You will hear from him soon. I know you will.'
'It's been almost two weeks. Something's wrong or he would have been in touch with me by now.'
'Maybe he has gone away somewhere. Or he is very busy. It could be that he is not even aware of your message yet. It may take time for him to see it. You must be patient. I think maybe the problem is that you have been waiting too anxiously.'
'How do you mean?'
'Well, the longer we sit here doing nothing but waiting for him, the longer it will seem to take,' Inge said with philosophical directness. 'There are many things to do and see. I do not say waiting is wrong, but concentrating on only that will drive you crazy.'
'But we did go and see some things,' Tamara protested defensively. 'We went to Tiberias and saw the Sea of Galilee, which was nothing more than a fair-size lake, and we went to Jerusalem—'
'That is exactly what I mean!' Inge said. 'Two little trips in two weeks. You call that sightseeing?'
'I know there's a lot more to see, but do you really expect me to trudge around ruins and churches while I'm dying to hear from my father?'
'It would be better than to climb walls.'
'I'm not climbing walls yet,' Tamara contended halfheartedly. 'I'm just ... a little anxious.' She picked up her wineglass and drained it in one swallow.
Inge narrowed her eyes. 'If you were a cat you would be walking back and forth on the roof.' Her expression suddenly softened and she tilted her head. 'Tamara, you know I only want what's best for you. I only want to make things easier.'
Tamara leaned one elbow on the table and cupped h
er hand on her chin. She looked at Inge and said slowly, 'I'm starting to hate this place. It's awful and boring and filthy. I can't imagine anyone wanting to live here. As far as I'm concerned, the Arabs can keep it.'
Inge looked startled. 'That is because you are not giving it a chance. Myself, I rather like it.'
'Who asked you?' Tamara hissed in a voice that was like a blade of steel. 'Why can't you just shut up?'
Inge could only stare at her in disbelief. When she finally spoke, her voice was crisp and distant. 'Tamara. Do not be like this.'
'Like what?'
Inge leaned across the table and waved her fork angrily in the air. 'You know like what! Like a spoiled child. It is not becoming. You have not behaved in this way since you were two or three, at the Danilov Palace in St. Petersburg. I will never forget how furious you were when you could no longer play in the palace's toy room and had to be content with your own few toys. I spanked you then.'
Tamara looked at her in surprise. 'You did? I don't remember you ever spanking me.'
'I did.' Inge nodded emphatically. 'And you deserve it again.'
Suddenly Tamara felt a smothering guilt. She was sorry for having spoken so harshly, sorry for having taken her anger out on Inge. Through thick and thin, Inge had mothered her, cared for her, uprooted her own life over and over again. 'I'm sorry, Inge,' Tamara apologized huskily, 'I didn't mean to be nasty. I don't know what's got into me.' She shook her head. 'My nerves are so frazzled that I didn't even realize how impossible I was getting.'
'Well, now that you do, you can do something about it. And trust me.' Inge wagged an admonishing finger in the air. 'Yesterday my ears are ringing, and that means somebody was thinking and talking about us, and that somebody will show up. Go ahead. Be sceptical. I am right, you will see.'
At that very moment the sun was suddenly blocked out and a long purplish shadow fell across their table. 'Could it be that your ears were ringing because I was coming to see you?' said a silky British voice.