Dazzle - The Complete Unabridged Trilogy

by Judith Gould

  Still, she would be glad to be back on the ground. She was anxious to be back in New York and have Najib carry her across the threshold into her new home—four entire floors of the Trump Tower. The first thing she intended to do was to banish all the help and lock herself up with him for one entire glorious week. Just the two of them. Alone.

  They could use the rest.

  The last five days had been hectic. There had been the media circus to contend with, then Ari and Sissi's delayed wedding, and finally her parents had hosted an impromptu engagement party for her and Najib. She was pleased that Tamara found Najib delightful, and gratified that most of her parents' Jewish friends seemed, if not exactly overjoyed at the prospect of her marrying an Arab, at least accepting of that fact.

  And then, finally, when they'd boarded the jet, she'd got her wish—to be alone with Najib and not have to share him with anyone.

  His proximity gave her a cosy, serene security. Was this the way she would always feel, she wondered, or would the novelty of wanting to be at his side at every moment wear off in time? She laughed at herself. As long as he was hers, and she was his, that was all that mattered.

  She turned to him and clasped one of his hands in both of hers. He looked so handsome and so gentle, and yet under his noble features he was as strong as steel; if he hadn't been, she wouldn't even be alive. Passionate, sensuous, powerful; he was a man who could hold his own beside her. She didn't have to worry that anyone would ever make the mistake of calling him Mr. Boralevi.

  'Do you know what I was just thinking?' she asked him softly.

  'Were you maybe thinking what I was thinking?' he retorted with a wicked little laugh.

  'Hmmm.' She grinned back at him and drew him close. 'I believe so.'

  He gave a little sigh. 'Unfortunately, our fuel tanks are nearly empty. A thirteen-hour flight is all this plane can handle. Otherwise, I'd be the first to suggest circling for a while.'

  She wagged a finger at him. 'In that case, you owe me one!'

  'The moment we get home!' he promised fervently. Then he smiled. 'It won't be long. Customs is only a formality, and then it's into the limo, across the river, and up in the lift. Thirty minutes. Maybe forty, depending on the traffic.' He grinned again. 'Do you think you can wait that long?'

  She sniffed and turned her face away. 'If I'm forced to . . .'

  A small welcoming committee was clustered in the terminal after they were rushed through customs.

  'Yoo-hoo! Daliah!' The shrill Brooklynese shout came from Patsy Lipschitz; even a nearby jet taking off couldn't muffle her stridency.

  'Oh, no.' Daliah looked panic-stricken. She recognized Jerome and Patsy easily enough, but . . .

  She did a double-take. A long stare proved that it really was Cleo, and Daliah let out a squeal of pleasure and rushed for her. 'Miss Cleopatra, honey!' she cried, hugging her and laughing. Then she pulled back. 'I almost didn't recognize you!'

  The change Cleo had undergone during the past three weeks was astounding. Cleo's casual urchin look had been shed, along with the corn-rolled hair and ubiquitous men's trousers and T-shirts that had seemed to constitute her entire wardrobe. In fact, Daliah had never before seen her friend wearing a dress. Now, seeing her dressed like a lady for the first time, she could only stare as though struck dumb.

  Cleo was a gorgeous sight, from the slim black turban with its foot-long black feather sticking rakishly up in the air, to the beautifully tailored indigo-and-black Jean-Louis Scherrer dress and the black kid gloves encircled with three huge gold bracelets on each wrist. She was even wearing makeup, and it was masterfully applied, accentuating her extraordinarily high cheekbones and adding a regal exoticism to the slight slant of her eyes.

  It took a moment for Daliah to find her voice. 'What's happened to you? Why the fancy get-up? Is there a wedding or a funeral?'

  'These threads,' Cleo announced succinctly, 'are part of the new me.' She stretched her magnificent elongated swan's neck and fluttered her lashes. 'You better git used to it. I'm gettin' married in September!'

  'Whoa!' Daliah blinked suspiciously and made a little gesture with a finger. 'Back up there for a moment. You? Married? Since when were you the hausfrau type? Why, I don't even recall your telling me you were dating anybody after you broke up with Serge. Is it him? Did you two kiss and make up?'

  'Rich woman, you know he's ancient history.'

  'Rich woman?' Daliah burst out laughing. 'I thought I was White Woman.'

  'You was till you met Daddy Warbucks, here.' Cleo smiled at Najib and said, 'Hel-lo there, handsome.'

  Daliah affectionately placed an arm around Cleo's waist. 'Cleo, I want you to meet Najib; Najib, this is Cleo, my best friend, confidante, and sometime pain in the ass!'

  Najib held out his hand, but Cleo ignored it and gave him a hug and kissed his cheek.

  'And this is Jerome St.-Tessier, who I've told you so much about,' Daliah continued dryly. 'And this is Patsy Lipschitz, my agent. And this . . .' Daliah frowned and looked at Cleo for help.

  'This,' Cleo said as she pulled the reluctant black man forward, 'is Coyote.'

  Daliah stared at the tall man, and then at Cleo. 'That's not the same Coyote who—'

  'The very same.' Cleo nodded happily. 'How's he lookin'? Good, huh?'

  Daliah looked at Coyote more closely. She had to admit that there was some resemblance to the pimp, but it just couldn't be the same man. This one was a tall, lean man who was well-groomed and handsome. In fact, he looked like a high-fashion model.

  Daliah was dazed. 'Miss Cleopatra, honey, you must forgive me. I feel like I'm in some sort of time warp. Would one of you kindly explain?'

  Cleo grinned. 'Well, while you were gone, Patsy came to see me. Seems she wanted to pump me for information about your whereabouts, and then remembered they were looking to cast a black chick in a feature film, so before you know it, she had me sign with her agency.'

  'And?' Daliah demanded. 'Did it work out?'

  'Uh-uh.' Cleo shook her head morosely. 'They didn't want me, but the same producers are castin' a prime-time TV crime series, and when I went to the audition, Coyote was with me and they wanted him! They tested him and he got the part. How you like that? So it's good-bye pimpin' an' hel-lo, Hollywood, hello.'

  'Daliah . . .' Jerome grabbed her by the arm and pulled her aside. As usual, he looked sullen and moody, and she wondered what she had ever seen in him. He was handsome enough, and no one knew better than she how talented he was, but next to Najib he looked like a spoiled brat.

  'We have to talk,' he said in a low voice. 'Before you do anything rash, I want you to know how I feel about . . . uh . . . things.' He looked around pointedly. 'Isn't there any place we can go and talk in private?'

  She shook her head. 'Sorry, Jer,' she said. 'Anything you have to say, you can say in front of Najib.'

  'All right.' Jerome looked unenthusiastic but plunged ahead. 'I missed you, dammit!' When Daliah didn't respond, he looked down at his feet, sighed, and looked back up at her. 'Look, I want you to come back to me. I've found alternative financing for the movie, and we can still live and work together. What do you say? It'll be just like old times.'

  'I'm sorry, Jerome. It wouldn't be like old times. Things have changed. I've changed. And besides, I'm in love with Najib.'

  There was a hint of cruel anger in his laughter. 'That's a joke! First, you walked out on me because Arabs wanted to finance your film, and now you won't come back to me because you're in love with one? Really, Daliah, I'm not a fool, you know.'

  'I never said you were, but that's the way things are. I'm sorry, Jer. I really am.'

  'Bitch,' he hissed, and turned his back. Hands in pockets, he stared sullenly across the terminal.

  Patsy took the opportunity to push herself in front of Daliah. 'You were brilliant, dollcake!' she crowed. 'Brilliant!' She grabbed Daliah's arm and started to walk her away from Jerome. 'You know, that kidnapping was the best publicity stunt anyone's ever cooked up!
'

  Daliah stared at the gargantuan woman. She couldn't believe she was hearing this. 'For your information, Patsy, what I went through was bloody hell! It wasn't make-believe like some fucking movie!'

  'Of course it wasn't,' Patsy agreed. 'But that's beside the point. You're the talk of the country. It's made you real hot stuff. My phone's been ringing off the hook, and the offers have been pouring in. Bolotsky at Paramount's offering you six mil to do one film! Six mil! That's right up there with Brando and Hackman. Of course, Jerome's agreed to match it.' She looked over at him. 'Haven't you, Jerome?' she called out. She didn't wait for a reply. 'That makes twelve mil for not even a year's worth of work. And Karl Lorimar's topped CBS Video's offer for the exercise tape by two hundred thou— Daliah!' Patsy stared at her. 'Aren't you listenin' to me?'

  Daliah sighed. 'I'll think about it, Patsy. If I do decide to make another movie, 1 promise you'll be the agent, okay?'

  'Daliah!' Patsy looked ready to faint. 'What are you tryin' to tell me? Of course you'll make another movie! Why, the money—'

  'Patsy,' she said wearily, 'in a few days I'll become one of the richest women in the world. A few million is a drop in the bucket. Now, please . . .'

  Jerome and Patsy both started yelling so loud that she didn't even try to make out what either of them was saying. She drew up alongside Najib. It was then that they saw a horde of photographers, who must have been tipped off, come running. Daliah glanced up at Najib.

  He seemed to read her mind. Leaning down to kiss her, he murmured, 'We can run back through customs to the plane, and it can be back up in the air within forty-five minutes. That means we would be at the yacht in another thirteen or fourteen hours—'

  'And no one can bother us at sea.' She smiled dazzlingly. 'Verrrry interesting.'

  Laughing like children, they dashed back toward customs and the 727.

  Epilogue

  On September 3,1983, Inge celebrated her ninetieth birthday. The local newspaper printed a front-page article about her, using a photograph she complained bitterly about, claiming she couldn't possibly look that old, and when the mayor came to congratulate her, she feistily said, 'Come back when I turn one hundred, sank you very much.' She had lost none of her spunk and was as lucid and spry as ever.

  No tourists occupied the motel that Labour Day week. Inge had kept the Sou'westerner Motel purposely vacant so that it would be at the disposal of her friends. To discourage off-the-road tourists, the No Vacancy sign was prominently lit, and soon the cabins were full of the guests of her choosing. From Tel Aviv came Tamara, Dani, Schmarya, Ari and Sissi, and their two children; from Lebanon came Najib's parents; and Daliah and Najib and their not-quite-two-year-old daughter, Jasmine, came up from Manhattan.

  They arrived quietly, almost furtively, flying in on Najib's jet so that the press would not be aroused.

  It was to be a quiet family affair.

  There were no caterers, no musicians, and no local guests save for Otha, who, as the only concession to Inge's age, was grudgingly allowed to run the motel. The party took place in the biggest room—Inge's kitchen—and everyone pitched in. Colourful construction-paper chains crisscrossed overhead, and Sissi draped the utilitarian dinette chairs, which Inge wouldn't have dreamed of allowing to be replaced, with festive lengths of fabric, while Tamara fashioned cloth bows to stick onto the backs. Daliah arranged the voluminous buckets of flowers.

  The food selection crossed all borders. Sissi prepared her Jewish specialties—whitefish and mazoh-ball soup and pungent red cabbage—and Najib's mother roasted a shank of lamb in the Middle Eastern manner and cooked up bistella. Otha added her Southern-fried chicken, kernel-studded cornbread, and hot dogs for the kids. Najib added a hamper of Middle Eastern delicacies and two king-size tins of caviar—nutty-flavoured golden osetra, and large-grained greyish beluga—as well as a case of 1979 Dom Perignon. Tamara and Daliah baked and decorated the birthday cake themselves, and if it didn't look exactly professional—with a mountain of icing drooping at one end—everyone exclaimed over it.

  Throughout the day and long into the evening, the family ate, caught up on news and gossip, and doted on the children, the familiar sounds of English punctuated with occasional bursts of exotic Hebrew and Arabic. The family was, after all, a United Nations in microcosm. This was the third year in a row that they had congregated on Cape Cod to celebrate Inge's birthday, and the third of September had become known as the unofficial but acknowledged date of their family reunions. Inge, not tied to them by blood, but by bonds of love that were equally strong, looked forward to these occasions, even though they left her feeling tired afterward and glad for the stretch of quiet ahead. But the weariness of age would not make itself felt for another day or so. Meanwhile, she revelled in the noise and laughter, and spoiled the children shamelessly.

  If only Senda could have been here, Inge couldn't help thinking wistfully. How proud she would have been! The Boralevis had turned out far more special than anyone would have imagined. She eyed the people crowded into the kitchen. Two generations of film stars—Senda would have liked that. And a billionaire, an archaeologist, and Dani and Schmarya . . . Senda and Schmarya had been too young, Inge reflected, and history had conspired to tear them apart. Given time and other circumstances, their love would have cemented. Inge smiled at the three toddlers. Jasmine, Ruth, and Asa. They were the future, and only time and God would tell what they would become, and she thought: Oh, they'll become something, all right. That's one thing I don't have to worry about. It's in their genes.

  Tears welled up in her eyes as she wished again that Senda could have been part of the festivities and felt the love. But perhaps she was here in spirit, invisible and undetectable. Inge hoped so.

  'Inge!' Daliah was bending down to fuss over her. 'You're not crying, are you?'

  Inge's cornflower-blue eyes flashed as she drew her head up. 'You know me better than that, Daliah!' she declared indignantly.

  Daliah kissed her cheek affectionately. 'It's nearly sunset, and we're all going for a walk along the beach. Well?' She waited. 'Are you coming or not?'

  'In a minute, in a minute,' Inge muttered, turning her head and wishing for some privacy so that she could sniffle and wipe her eyes without it becoming a family fuss.

  Otha stayed behind in the cabin, as had been prearranged, ready to light the cake's candles when they returned, and the rest of them walked barefoot along the beach, slowly for the sake of Inge, Schmarya, and the elder al-Ameers, a straggling, chattering group led by Inge's dog, Happy, running ahead and barking as he splashed around in the water or tugged at pieces of driftwood. Offshore, a large sailboat tacked into the spectacular gold-and-vermilion sunset, and Sissi pointed it out to Ruth while Asa tugged on her windblown skirt for attention.

  Inge regarded the sight warmly. It was like a gentle painting, the way mother and children were posed. Sissi had that bronzed earthy look of an early Picasso mother. Her rich brown skin attested to the hours she spent out-of-doors on archaeological digs; her career as a bones-and-trinkets sleuth was well on its way toward international recognition with her recent discovery of a heretofore unknown tell in Samaria.

  Inge's gaze switched to Ari. Sissi's husband's looks had matured over the past three years; he no longer had that lean, rakish sabra sleekness, but he was still exceedingly handsome. He was no longer a boy, but a man comfortable in his skin, and it showed. He was steadily working his way up the ladder in the Israeli parliament.

  Ahead, Daliah and Najib were walking side by side, his arm around her shoulder and hers around his waist, their feet kicking up bubbles of frothy salt water. Najib's other hand was raised, holding on to Jasmine, who sat atop his shoulders, gripping tufts of his hair. Inge nodded to herself. Daliah and Najib were well-matched. To make certain that their respective careers did not damage their marriage through long absences from each other, Najib and Daliah had wisely moved to London for the two-month duration of the location shooting of her last film. Theirs wa
s a marriage of commitment, love, and mutual respect.

  The sky reflected pools of molten gold on the heaving green waves. Lacy breakers curled and rushed and spent themselves upon the incline of beach with a massive sigh. Inge nodded. Life is like that, she was thinking. We're each of us waves, formed out there beyond the horizon somewhere, and then let loose to make our own run through life.

  She smiled as she listened to the chatter rising and falling, and the cries of gulls swooping overhead. For an instant, time merged and the telescoped years contracted. The dunes could easily be snowdrifts, she mused, and behind them the huge palaces could be hiding. Sand . . . snow . . . oceans and borders ... in the end everything was one and the same.

  Strange, how it took so many years to discover that.

  The individual incidents of the past were hazier now, less lethal and heartbreaking than when they'd occurred. Memories. There were so many of them. Schmarya, so young and brash; Senda, caught in Prince Vaslav's tightly meshed net, forced to choose either saving Schmarya and losing him, or killing him and losing him. Giving up her heritage and religion for a life on the stage. Captivating St. Petersburg in those frantic pre-revolution years. Geneva . . . New York . . . Hollywood. Tamara's incredible success, her tragic loss of Louis, and finally her joyous embracing of the heritage and religion her mother had forsaken. And now Daliah, so fervent in her beliefs, yet willing to break all the rules and cross any boundary to marry the man she loved. Inge shook her head. So many years had passed, and the painful memories no longer stabbed; time and happier days had reduced them to a bearable throb.

  Life went on.

  New generations of waves were making their run for the beach.