Dazzle The Complete Unabridged Trilogy (77 page)

Skolnik turned now to the art dealer. 'Bernie, like you said
earlier, I had an ulterior motive when I invited you. Well,
here it is. I've trusted your judgment enough so far to have
bought . . . what, twenty paintings off you?'

The art dealer waited.

'Now I want your professional opinion of Tamara. Not your
personal
opinion, mind you, but the art critic's. Don't be afraid
to be harsh. I want you to be truthful. What does your experi
enced, appraising eye tell you when you look at her? Be as
objective as if she were a painting you'd consider buying and
selling.'

Bernard Katzenbach frowned mournfully down at the table.
He was clearly being put on the spot, and he didn't like it.
Discussing the merits and demerits of a painting or a piece of
sculpture was one thing. After all, paintings and sculptures didn't have ears. But openly discussing a person's physical
perfections and shortcomings, especially with that person
present, horrified him. Yet what choice did he really have?
He had the peculiar sensation that his business relationship
with his best client hung precariously in the balance.

Katzenbach raised his eyes across the table to study Tamara.
She was holding her breath, sitting as immobile as an ancient
statue hewn from marble, her face in three-quarter profile, so
beautiful it nearly hurt. Despite her extraordinary beauty, he
began seeing flaws . . . serious flaws. If she were a work of
art, he knew that he would have to reject her. She was not the
perfect woman, not a masterpiece after all.

'I see a very beautiful woman,' he said carefully, 'but like
all living creatures, and unlike art, she is far from perfect. She
is neither skinny nor voluptuous
...
a little too much baby
fat still there, I think.'

Tamara flinched as if she had been slapped; the others nod
ded in solemn agreement, as if this were something they
already knew.

'Go on,' Skolnik said.

'Her upper teeth are crooked,' Katzenbach pointed out.
'Her nose angles off to one side . . .'

"Then you don't consider her a goddess,' Skolnik pressed in
a quiet voice.

A flush crept into Katzenbach's face and his usually gentle
topaz eyes flashed fire and then dimmed. He wanted nothing
more than to leap up and stalk out of this wretched house,
never to return, but he was a cautious man not about to jeop
ardize future sales. 'There is a difference between a goddess
of art and a goddess of the cinema,' he said tightly. 'Surely
you don't need me to point that out. In art, perfection is gener
ally the highest achievable plane, at least in the opinion of the
West. The Japanese consider perfection so commonplace that
their artists often create a single flaw in an otherwise perfect
masterpiece in order to make it
truly
perfect.'

Tamara remained motionless, looking into Katzenbach's
eyes. Quickly he shifted his gaze.

'But she has more than one flaw,' Skolnik said. 'You just
got through saying so yourself.'

Katzenbach hesitated. 'I did. However, in the motion-
picture industry there are tricks of lighting, makeup, who
knows what? I am no cinematographer, so I don't really know.
I have heard that the camera sees only what one wants it to
see. However, as far as the excess weight, the teeth, and the
nose go
...
I don't see how a camera can disguise those.' He
shrugged eloquently and shook his head sadly. 'I fear close-
ups would only exaggerate those flaws, magnifying them for
all the world to see.'

Skolnik nodded slowly. 'You have been truthful,' he said, 'and I appreciate that. I also want to apologize for taking up
so much of your time. It has been a pleasure having you with
us.'

Bernard Katzenbach recognized a cue when he heard one,
and he pushed his chair back from the table. He dropped his
damask napkin to the left of his dessert plate as he rose to his feet. 'Ladies,' he said with a bow of his head, pointedly avoid
ing Tamara's accusing eyes. He could see that she was breath
ing deeply, forcing back her tears. 'Gentlemen. You must
excuse me, it is getting late.'

'Frederique will show you out,' Skolnik said smoothly, and
the black butler appeared as if on a predetermined cue.

Katzenbach nodded and went to the door.

'Bernie . . .'

The art dealer turned and looked back at the table.

'Leave the Malevich.' Skolnik allowed himself a faint smile. 'A messenger will drop by your hotel in the morning with the
cheque.'

In the dining room, the tapers in the heavy sterling candelabra were burning low. Skolnik turned to Tamara, his face showing
not the least remorse. 'I think it's time we went to the screen
ing room and watched your test,' he said with an unrepentant
smile.
She turned to face him and stared dumbly through him. She
was suddenly exhausted, her entire body feeling as ravaged as
if she had been drawn and quartered. The thrill of the evening
was gone. She felt completely drained.

Like an automaton she somehow managed to push herself
to her feet. For a moment she swayed unsteadily. She couldn't
remember ever having felt less confident of herself.

She was devastated.

For the first time in her life she felt truly ugly.

She couldn't help thinking: If I'm that ugly, and he doesn't want me in his films, why should I sit through the test? Why
make me suffer more?

In the centre of the luxurious screening room Tamara found
herself swallowed up in the suppleness of an overstuffed jade-
green leather armchair. To her left, seated in an identical
chair, was Skolnik; Ziolko sat on her right. The others sat on
the proportionately smaller, armless chairs around them, the
position of the chairs attesting to the pecking order at the
studio. 'All right, Sammy,' Skolnik called out, 'let it roll.'

The screening room was abruptly dark and the film began to
roll. Tamara held her breath while the giant black countdown
numbers, trapped inside a swiftly moving one-handed clock
face, flashed upon the flickering screen: 9,8,7,6 . . .

. . . 5,4,3,2 . . .

The numbers suddenly disappeared from the screen alto
gether, and then she emitted a startled, throaty sound. There
she was in the identification shot, gazing directly out at herself.
Her huge black-and-white face filled the screen, and she
seemed so improbably huge, so
...
so unlike herself as she
smiled tenuously, that she burrowed even further back into
the refuge of the huge armchair. Never before had she realized
that she smiled quite so horribly. That it was more a mon
strous, toothy grimace than a smile.

A sickening feeling engulfed her. Worst of all, the sheer
immensity of that ten-foot-high face seemed to magnify the
trembling corners of her lips while her blank, unmoving eyes were focused straight ahead. She looked as stiff, as immobile,
as un-movie-star-like as a police-department mug shot.
Bernard Katzenbach's cruel critique of her beauty had been
justified, she had to admit now. In fact, he had been tactful,
all things considered. Her nose
did
curve unattractively off to
one side, throwing the rest of her features slightly off balance.
Her body was
not
perfectly proportioned. Also, she
was
far
too heavy, dammit. And as for her teeth . . . Good Lord,
could they really be
that
crooked? She shuddered, suddenly all too painfully aware of her physical shortcomings. Why
hadn't she noticed them before?

Tamara was filled with an ugly sense of self-loathing. The
tears were threatening to burst from her eyes in a violent
cloudburst. As if to emphasize the mug-shot image, against
her bodice she was holding the small white cardboard sign,
die-cut in a wide spatula shape so that she could hold it by its short, squat handle. It shook in her trembling fingers like a paintbrush, the printed letters shaking violently with every
anxious, magnified twitch. The blank spaces had been filled in
with neat black letters.

At last, to her immense relief, the long introductory shot with
her hideously vapid smile faded, and a wooden clapper let
tered
The Flappers
snapped shut like a zebra-striped jaw. In
the dark, Tamara's hand crept up to her face. She gnawed
mutely at a crescent thumbnail, her eyes remaining steadily
focused on the screen.

Then the dazzling miracle of Hollywood unexpectedly and
shiningly occurred. It was the Creation of Eve, Columbus'
first glimpse of the New World, the initial golden glint of the
mother lode to a jaded prospector's weary eye. Like the prov
erbial ugly duckling metamorphosing into a stunning swan, so
too Tamara had been transformed from that ungainly girl into
a sleekly graceful young woman. The combined talents of Louis Ziolko, Pearl Dern, and the rest of the test crew had
created a person who had not previously existed, except poss
ibly in the uncharted reaches of a god-like imagination.