Anio Szado (10 page)

Into the night, I picked at the seams of the client’s dress, my eyes stinging with the effort of finding blue stitches in blue fabric, my lips twitching with satisfaction each time a few judicious snips released three or four inches of thread into my pulling fingers.

Soon, or later—there was no point in marking the time—the sleeves, the bodice, each section of the dress was detached and smoothed, and rested like a blue island on the brown sea of the table. I gathered the pieces without labeling them—I could read their shapes as easily as one reads words—and unspooled a roll of paper.

The new muslin I designed and sewed wasn’t exactly as the coat Madame had planned for the client. I had interpreted the form for a woman of girth, drawing the imaginary waistline at a higher latitude, closer to the bosom—a trick that had been employed in the Vaudoit dress—and extending the V-neck lower to exaggerate the vertical effect. The narrowness of the coat’s line, a necessity of the times, would skim the client’s ample curves without accentuating them; I had planned it so.

When I retrieved the herringbone wool and reclined on the sofa to complete the short stretch until morning, my shoulders were tight, my back sore. My facial muscles were clenched as though I still held straight pins between my lips. But soon enough my lips and my hands fell open, and I was asleep.

A couple of weeks later, on a changeable April afternoon, I was hunched over hand-sewing while Madame Fiche sat sketching: a satisfied Mrs. Brossard had requested a dress to match her coat. Madame blew a stray hair off her forehead, her upward exhalation less a solution than an expression of frustration. It was pleasing to see her with at least one hair out of place.

Someone knocked on the studio door.

I could swear Madame growled. “The landlord. Son of a pig.” She bent her head lower over her paper.

Pity the man who had to try to squeeze rent out of her.

The knock came again. Madame curled her lip and put down her pencil. “Enter,” she yelled without leaving her table.

The door cracked open. “Excuse me.”

I stood up so quickly, I almost upset my chair.

Madame Fiche’s carriage was perfectly erect as she stood, her hands clasped tightly, the knuckles sharp peaks. “Count de Saint-Exupéry,” she breathed. “What a remarkable surprise. Please, do come in.”

Antoine had met my eye with a boyish, amused look. Now his expression took on a formal mask as he faced Madame Fiche.

She minced around her table, her hand extended, her fingers arched. “It is such a tremendous honor to make your acquaintance at last, my lord.”

Antoine obliged with a chivalrous kiss of her hand. “My wife has been speaking highly of your enterprise.”

“Has she, now?”

“Please forgive me my whim,” said Antoine. “I wished to see your studio for myself. It is good for the spirit to be in a working space. One’s apartment isn’t always conducive to creativity. But I see that your studio …” His voice drifted off, then rose in excitement. “But what a studio, Mignonne!”

“It is Madame’s.”

Instantly, he caught himself. His visage was again that of a refined and formal military man.

Madame said, “It is a place for only the crudest elements of our profession. The cutting and sewing; the fight to the death with one’s sketch pads. The most important part of our work happens in the salon, where we see our clients. It is there that the magic happens, where even the ugliest of society ladies is given the opportunity to be beautiful.”

“I admire your perseverance. I too battle to put pen to paper in a way that, if fortune smiles, might have a chance of withstanding the test of time. But allow me to say, surely this is the sort of studio that brings creativity to life. The openness and the light … The light is profound.”

It was true. At that moment, the light had a clarity that made me wonder if by some trick I was seeing through the eyes of God.

Madame asked, “Are you searching for studio space of your own?”

“Searching, no. But I do find myself working in a few favorite places where friends are kind enough to indulge me.”

Madame put a hand on his arm and said with a coy smile, “You might like to sit with us for a while, and write. It’s very jolly to have many creative hands at work.”

“He works only at night,” I said, then cringed as Madame eyed me.

Antoine’s expression betrayed nothing. I thought, I must learn to be more like him.

Madame said, “The space is fine at night as well. I imagine
you would find it inspiring. You should try borrowing it in the evenings, when we are not here. You could have your own key.” She tilted her head as though a thought had just occurred to her. “Bring your wife to see our studio! She will know what is best for you. Wives always do. I would be delighted to show her the space, as well as the wonders we create here.”

Antoine bowed slightly. “I will let her know. Thank you.” He turned to me. “Would you be so kind as to guide me to the exit, mademoiselle? The elevator seems to be broken, and the route to the stairs is somewhat confusing.”

He opened the door to the hallway. As he followed me out, I caught a glimpse of Madame Fiche watching from the middle of the studio. Her mouth was set. She was raising one eyebrow—or would have been, if she had had any eyebrows.

Even with his inflexible leg—a souvenir of a crash—Antoine moved swiftly, pulling me along the hallway with his hand cupping my elbow. We reached the stairwell and braked to a stop.

He said, “So you have not forgotten me as Consuelo claims.”

I shook my head.

“You even remember my work habits.” His smile hadn’t changed: it was quick and candid, full of playful mischief. “I’m glad I found you. I scoured the city! I asked your whereabouts of every person I met!”

“That must have been difficult given that you don’t speak English.”

“My point exactly. My tutor abandoned me.”

“My student rejected me.”

A pained expression crossed his face.

A year ago, he had told me that he and Consuelo had long since agreed to follow the dictates of their own hearts. He had kissed me—on a studio rooftop, in the back stairwell of the Alliance, in the inexplicably empty foyer of the Central Library,
behind a shelf in a musty used bookstore while the aged proprietor napped. He had touched me, his mouth descending to my breast, his hands pushing aside my dress. I had told myself every time that this was all I would allow, that it was enough.

But Antoine bested my restraint with his own. Before I could protest, he would be fixing my blouse, pulling away, apologizing for his thoughtlessness, his recklessness, his distress. If he had wanted to leave me pure, he had succeeded instead in leaving me feeling deprived, depraved, and ashamed.

I continued. “He told me that he, too, was about to leave New York.”

“I remain hopeful. The minute Roosevelt approves it, I will join the American Air Force and be gone. My plans have not altered; I only expected it would not take so long. I wish I could say otherwise, but nothing here has changed.”

“Nothing?”

There was an awkward pause.

He said, “I should have warned you about Consuelo.”

“There was no need. You’re entitled to be with your own wife.”

“But you’re wrong, Mignonne. The need is clear. If I’d known you were back, I would have told you to be careful of her. Look how she has already gotten her hooks into you. She is using you to get closer to me.”

I was wary of discussing fashion with him; it had never stopped being something of a sensitive topic between us. But surely he hadn’t tracked me down simply to resume our old argument. Last year he had insisted I should be doing work that contributed to the war effort, though at the time the U.S. was still rabidly isolationist; it had not yet been attacked and was eight months from declaring war. He had told me, “With your language skills and allure, you could get into places a man could never go. How can you throw yourself into a fashion career when you could be working for the good of the entire world?” In Montreal, I had begun to ask myself if he had been right. But
now I was working for Madame. I was on a path; I was finally on my way.

I said, “Consuelo is not using me to get to you. She’s interested in my work.”

“She is only interested in things she cannot or should not have.”

“I should get back,” I said. “Is there a purpose to your visit? Or did you really come just to see our studio?” It wasn’t impossible. He used to tell me about his friends’ apartments and studios, where his creative juices flowed more freely than in his own home.

“There is something I must ask of you.”

“Yes?”

“I am glad to see your career is going well.”

He didn’t look glad. I said, “But?”

Antoine tucked his hands under his armpits, which raised the shoulders of his suit jacket unnaturally; he looked like a hulking brute. “I wanted to speak with you about the Alliance Française.”

“The Alliance?”

“I would like to continue to frequent it regularly. But it has changed. And now you threaten to take from me its last remaining virtue.”

“What have I done?”

“You can have your pick of clients, yes?”

Not a single high-worth client had darkened Madame’s doorway since I had joined the atelier. Women came with sewing jobs or low-paying, straightforward commissions. Madame had bragged to me of the interest of this or that socialite, but no one of significance had come on board. As for my contacts, only Consuelo had hinted that a commitment might be coming. I said, “Maybe.”

Antoine lowered his voice. “Then you will not mind if I ask a favor of you. If you still harbor any affection or compassion for me, I would like you to stay away from my wife.”

The hallway was so quiet, my ears were nearly ringing. Somewhere down the hall, a door scraped open.

Antoine peered toward the bend of the corridor. He took my arm and led me down the stairs, all the way to ground level and out onto the sidewalk, into the cacophony of the street and the strange pressure of an imminent summer storm.

“You must think I’m crazy,” he said. “The truth is, I desperately need my bit of refuge. The Alliance is not what it once was for me. Its members misunderstand me. The things they say—your father would be outraged. The community has turned on one another with the worst sort of gossip and lies.”

“So stop going to the Alliance.” Immediately, I regretted the words. God willing, Papa wasn’t listening.

“I could not; not simply on account of being maligned.”

I nodded. The club needed its members.

“But there is one thing that would change my mind. May your father forgive me, but I will cancel my membership if I am forced to see Consuelo there.”

A man had been passing by, pulling a cart stacked with newspapers that were weighted down with a rocking brick. He had clunked and rattled along the uneven sidewalk. Surely I had not heard right. “You don’t want to see your wife?”

A playbill somersaulted toward us and pressed itself against Antoine’s ankle. The sidewalk beside it sprouted droplets like small dark mouths.

Antoine said, “I have forbidden Philippe to grant Consuelo membership status. Please, Mignonne, you must not let her come with you as a guest.” He removed his hat and put it on my head. “I would like to see you at the Alliance, very much so; only not with Consuelo.”

Is that what this was about? A rendezvous place for us? Or maybe there were others in his life now, girlfriends he hoped to entertain.

I brushed a drop from the end of my nose and retreated into
the shelter of the doorway. “Believe it or not, I’d like nothing better than to have never seen or heard of your wife. But you’re the one who wanted her here. You can’t have it both ways. Unfortunately, I’m not in a position to turn down a prospective client. Where would you prefer I meet with her, if not at the Alliance Française?”

Antoine worked the muscles of his jaw. He said, “Anywhere else. Your salon.”

“That was a fable Madame pulled out of nowhere. We have no salon.”

“Then your studio. It is the perfect place.”

“Unless you’re a discerning client.”

He huffed. “Where do you generally see clients, then?”

“If they’re the sort we want, Madame goes to them.”

“All right. Fine. Come to the apartment. But come alone; do not bring Madame Fiche.”

Drivers were starting to turn on their windshield wipers. A metal handrail just beyond the overhang was growing goose bumps. I ran my fingers along it, displacing water down its sides.

Come to his apartment. Let Consuelo see me mooning over Antoine in their own home. Let Antoine see me humiliated again by my desire.

“You prefer not to?” he asked.

“What do you think?”

“I am sorry if it is uncomfortable to have to make arrangements that exclude Madame Fiche. Only, I hardly know anymore whom I can trust with the details of my life. Every week there is a new scandal at the Alliance or in the newspapers over something innocuous I have said or done. There are some who would be happy to see me disgraced. There are also those who would rather I do not disappoint them.”