After the Fire (30 page)

The room was large. Enormous windows brought in the sky, and an enormous desk littered with magazines and sheaves of folders stood behind a large wall of shelves filled with photographs of famous people. In the midst of all this bigness, behind the huge desk, sat the
tiny woman. In the classroom, she had not seemed quite that small.

She stood up, giving Hyacinth a warm smile. Then speaking brusquely, she got immediately down to business. “You needn't have lugged all that stuff with you. I know your work, your sketches. You don't remember that I was at your class?”

“I remember it very well,” said Hyacinth, thinking, how could anybody forget?

“Yes. I remember you, too. I had had it in my mind to talk to you at the end of the semester. I don't believe in distracting students in the middle of the year. But you beat me to it. You made an impression over there.” With this statement came a wide gesture toward Madison Avenue. “I do four collections a year, you know, and they buy heavily from all of them. But I suppose you've already heard that, too.”

Hyacinth had only a chance to nod before the flow of words resumed. “And you made an impression on me, too. I have a feeling that you know something about art. Also, that you have a feel for nature. Am I right? Won't you sit down?”

Hyacinth was oddly affected. This woman was most out of the ordinary, certainly most intelligent, maybe a clairvoyant judge of people, and possibly possessed of a fierce temper.

“Well, am I right?” repeated Ms. Libretti.

“I do, or I have done, a great deal of painting. And I did grow up in a very small country town.”

“You see,” Libretti interrupted. “I saw it in your
work, all those leaves and shades of sky. The freshness. Maybe that sounds like a lot of nonsense to you, and maybe it is, but anyway, you're very good, my dear, very good. I'm an old woman, way over seventy, and I've seen hundreds come and go. They all think they have the talent, the touch, poor young things, because very few of them have it. They all think they're original, but how many are?” She laughed. “I'm not all that original myself. Listen. Would you like to come work here with me? I can teach you twice as fast as they can teach you in a class.”

It seemed as if Hyacinth's heart was hammering in her chest, her ears, and possibly in her toes as well.

“All right. I see it on your face. You'll come. Now undo this box and let me take a look at your stuff. You practically knocked that poor man off his feet with it the other day.”

Looking back long afterward, Hyacinth estimated that it had taken about half a year for her to accept the full reality of events. For one thing, there had been so much for her to learn that her first hour's euphoria had been completely squelched by the second day in Lina Libretti's establishment. At any moment, she had expected to be informed that she was, after all, not fitted for the work and that the whole thing was a regrettable mistake.

She had never before seen a workroom where, under ultimate strong lighting, sat and stood rows of men and women sewing, cutting, pressing, and finishing the objects of the designer's imagination. Except in fashion
magazines, she had never seen a designer pin and fit a living model; the only such experience she had ever had was when she had fitted the green dress on Francine. She knew nothing about cutting knitted fabrics, not much about two-faced cloth, and practically nothing at all about costs or the whole price structure on which survival depends.

Her mistakes were discouraging, and she feared the reprimands that, like a whip, came cracking out of Lina's mouth whenever Hyacinth blundered or forgot. On one discouraging afternoon, she even went so far as to suggest that perhaps Lina would like her to leave. The response was another verbal whiplash of words, followed by a pat on the back and the words, “Don't be an idiot. You'll be here long after I will—if you want to, that is.”

If you want to?
Her head seemed to teem with ideas. She went to the costume museum, to the Chinese exhibit, to the Central Park lake, and all were fertile ground for her imagination. The lace on a baby's bonnet turned into a pyramid of flounces on an almond-colored ball gown, and a patterned sari became the flowing sleeves on a cream-colored sheath.

Lina nodded. “Good. Now let's cut them. Watch me. Pay attention.”

When the same store to which Hyacinth had taken her early samples ordered several of the pieces and displayed them under the Libretti name, an article in a popular fashion periodical reported that the new designer was young, and that her name was Hyacinth.

Lina was generous. “If you keep on as you've begun,
I'm thinking about giving you full credit. You will work in a lower price range, not low, but lower, and we'll call your line ‘Lina Libretti's
Hyacinth
productions.’ ”

It was interesting to see how individuals reacted to this sudden alteration in her life.

Francine was the loving mother. She made an immediate trip to New York, took her to a gala dinner at one of the city's grandest restaurants, and bought her a bracelet to go with her new celebrity. Yet on her face behind the proud smile, there could be discerned a slight, the very slightest, shadow of doubt or incredulity, as if to say that the whole business was unreal.

Arnie showed his typical boosterism and his typical skepticism. “Great! Great! That's showing the world! But you're new at this, so take care. Look around, and find out what the going pay rate is. Don't let anybody take advantage of you.”

From Gerald there came a short, friendly letter of congratulation. Hyacinth threw it into the wastebasket and most certainly did not acknowledge it. Since Gerald had not been known to subscribe to fashion papers, it was surprising that he had even heard this piece of news.

“You told him,” she said to Arnie over the telephone.

“I swear I didn't. Face it, Hy, you're making a name for yourself. And after only six months, too. But don't get a swelled head, kid.”

“Time assuages sorrow.” Out of silence emerged a tag end of wisdom, something Hyacinth had learned in school so long ago that it might have been in another
life. “Time heals everything,” it meant. But for her it didn't. It only taught her to cover up and cope, to be grateful for work, for the health of the children, and for an escape, so far, from the storm cloud that still hovered overhead, ready to burst.

When I'm on the bus, thought Hyacinth, and I see a jolly boy with his bookbag, I must think of my own boy, who also is ten years old and jolly. Then I think of Emma, a lanky little girl, sensitive and full of curiosity. She looks like her father but also like Francine, and she will be tall, like me. Unlike me, my children have both become accustomed to the way they live.

Everything has changed, or nothing has, depending on what you are looking for. Between Francine and me there is now an unspoken truce; she knows I will not tell, so she no longer asks. Arnie is still Arnie, lively, extravagant, and faithful; between us two are things unspoken since the night when I broke away from his arms. Lina is still enthusiastic. Indeed, she is very pleased, because now, after just one year, the Hyacinth collection is selling out in eighteen of the most prestigious stores from coast to coast. I am having my first taste of trunk shows, photographers, and interviews.

Yes, everything has changed, and nothing has.

“I have something to tell you,” Lina said. “Come into my office and close the door. This is between you and me until next week, when everybody will know it. I am getting ready to sell this business.”

“Selling it, Lina? But why? What will you do with yourself?”

It was impossible to dissociate the little dynamo from this building on Seventh Avenue or even from this room, where she sat now like a queen behind that enormous loaded desk.

“Well, I'm not thinking about doing it right away. I'm just preparing. Then I shall enjoy the millions that they are paying me.” Lina laughed. “No, seriously, I'm tired—oh, not too tired for a trip around the world or something, but I'm getting older, and it's time for a change. That's where you come in, Hyacinth.”

“Me? I should think rather that it's time for me to go out.”

“Nonsense. You happen to be one of the several reasons that these people want to buy me. They're a tremendous clothing manufactory, and like most of the world today, they're looking to expand. Frankly, although the gentlemen were too diplomatic to say so, they would like to inject some young blood into this firm when they take it over. You are the young blood, Hyacinth.” And Lina's black eyes twinkled as she waited for her words to take effect.

Hyacinth was stunned. “You can't really believe that I'm competent to
manage
this whole place, can you?”

“Not by next Monday morning, nor even by Monday morning six months from now. Of course not. I shall stay on as adviser for as long as seems necessary. You will keep the same staff, sales managers, accountants, the whole lot of them, to help you. You will go on as you have been doing. Eventually, if you keep up as I expect, you'll sit where I'm sitting.”

Was it yesterday afternoon that she had left class and
walked into this room, so vast and imposing, to meet Lina Libretti? Yesterday that, on her front steps she had said a sad good-bye to Moira? Yesterday that she had sat in the church at that poor man's funeral?

“I can't believe that this is happening to me,” murmured Hyacinth.

“I couldn't believe it either, when it happened to me. Yes, yes.” Lina tipped the chair back and gazed up at the ceiling as if a parade of her years might be reflected there. Then, tipping down again, she spoke briskly.

“This is a big outfit, this group, as I've said. Now they want to expand their market to acquire some upper-bracket luxuries like a name parfumeur, top-of-the-line costume jewelry, fine shoes and bags—well, that's the picture. I must tell you, one of their people saw your evening group in California, your ruffles and your bright flower colors. I'm sure that was one of the things that got them interested. You might keep it in mind, Hyacinth.”

“I still don't believe I'm awake and hearing all this.”

“Well, you are awake, and you'd better be awake, because they'll be sending some of their people to talk over details either tomorrow or the next day.”

“How thrilled your grandmother would be!” Francine exclaimed, which was a nice tribute from a woman who had never really liked or been liked by the grandmother. Then came the amendment: “There is really not much comparison, of course. She taught you the mechanics, it's true, but her taste was dreadful. Those terrible pea greens and maroons! Like decaying grapes, they looked.”

“Better get a top-notch lawyer,” Arnie said when he telephoned, ostensibly to give his report on Emma and Jerry. “You never know what can happen with these buyouts and takeovers. You need to protect yourself, Hy.”

She was idly recalling these two reactions when she walked into Lina's office the next morning. There was only one man there, facing Lina, with his back to the door. As Hyacinth opened it, he rose and faced her. He was Will Miller.

The first thing she saw was the twinkle. It was all over his face, on his lips, which were about to open in laughter, and in his eyes; she had forgotten how green they were.

“Well, well,” he said. “Imagine meeting you.”

Lina was surprised. “So you know each other?”

“Well, we did. But we had a bit of an argument the last time, didn't we, Hyacinth?”

She could not have described how she felt. In a way, her anger still rankled, for had he not been unnecessarily disdainful that day? But in another way, should she not feel pleasure in seeing him again? She had thought of him often enough! And in still another way, she knew that because it was impossible for her even to think of becoming seriously involved with anyone, his appearance now was only another complication. She had enough complications.

“You see,” she said with cool politeness, “that I took your advice.”

“I had no idea, when I gave it, what marvelous advice it would turn out to be.”

This short dialogue was interrupted by the arrival of more people and was not resumed until noon, when the meeting ended.

“What about lunch?” Will asked.

“Sorry, but I mostly have a sandwich delivered here. We're rushing through the resort collection.”

“Then we can have a drink and dinner.”

“Sorry, but I'm invited to dinner.”

“Today's Friday. We'll go to dinner tomorrow night.”

“I'm having guests. Some friends of my mother's,” she added quickly, lest it appear that she was unkindly letting him know he could not be admitted to her party.

“Then we'll go for a walk in the park on Sunday afternoon. You're not going to get away with it, Hyacinth. Don't forget, you're about to become an employee of the corporation.”

There went the twinkle again! Defying it, she retorted, “Don't you tell me that
you
own the corporation.”

“Not all of it. Nobody ever owns all of a corporation. What do you think
corporation
means, anyway? Go look it up in the dictionary.”

He amazed her, scoffing as if they had known each other for umpteen years. Or as if they were—they were intimate as—well, as Dad and Francine, who used to talk to each other like that.

“Well, what are you, then?” she asked.

“Okay. The R. J. Miller Company broke up when my father died, not long after I last saw you. It wasn't exactly a breakup, but a buyout, and now I'm one of the vice presidents in the new company. I'll be living in New York.”

Reaching into his pocket, Will brought out and put on a pair of horn-rimmed glasses. “I've bought a new pair to use when I need to look older again. Do you remember when I needed to look younger? With you, now, perhaps I need to look older again. You'll have more respect for me since, thanks to me, you've become so important. Come on, Hy, smile. Here I am clowning, and you won't even smile at me.”

Ah, go away, she thought. Go away, I don't want you, I don't need you. I do want you, but I can't have you, it's no good, you don't know anything about me, it's not fair to you, this makes no sense, leave me alone.