Anio Szado (26 page)

Neither Consuelo nor Binty had much to say in response.

I stepped out into the center of the studio, into the afternoon light, and all eyes turned to me. The dark velvet train followed my progression, in fluid steps, toward the sitting area. I paused before reaching the rug and walked a wide, graceful circle in the skirt, butterfly jacket, and black sleeveless blouse.

Madame announced, “Allow me to present the first item in my Butterfly Collection.”

“Very glamorous for a red carpet entrance,” I said, “and a dramatic departure in your limousine.”

Binty watched dispassionately. Consuelo was rapt, Madame anxious.

When I was sure Consuelo had taken her fill of the heavy detailing, I slipped off the jacket and placed it on the remaining empty armchair. Now I was wearing only the black blouse and the long velvet skirt.

“Perfect for an elegant evening with your husband,” I said.

Consuelo put her fingers together in a steeple and smiled from behind them as I rolled my hips to catch the light in the velvet pile.

Then in one smooth motion, I pulled the blouse straight off, over my head, and dropped it onto the chair. “Or a special evening with someone else’s husband.” I twirled in the velvet skirt and my sleek black corselet.

Consuelo clapped and laughed. “More!” she cried. Binty cracked a smile.

Madame’s mouth dropped fully open.

She was right about the importance of good undergarments.

When I had modeled all the remaining variations of the butterfly line, I got back into my green dress and hauled the two
racks closer to our guests. I met Madame Fiche’s eye and gave her a nod.

Madame picked up the baton. “
Voila
. You have seen the collection. It is dramatic, extravagant, and bold—entirely fitting for a woman of your beauty and charisma. You may not know this, Madame de Saint-Exupéry: after its explosive premier and all the attention lavished on it by the press, I refused to take commissions for this line. I waited for just the right woman, searching for the very figure of drama and poise to take the butterfly into the world. Now, at last, she has entered my atelier. The collection has found its muse.”

Standing by the racks, I awaited my cue. Consuelo seemed to be considering Madame’s pitch. Binty was already restless; he got up and strolled to the windows.

Madame said, “It would be a small matter to adjust the design to accommodate the governmental mandate, if this is your concern. We simply reconfigure the sleeves, and shorten and narrow the skirt—unless you’d like to keep it formal length, in which case we are granted greater freedom to do as we please. Would you care to try on the jacket, to feel the luxurious weight and hand?”

I shifted the other garments to display the jacket more prominently. The size should be right—the cut would accommodate Consuelo’s bust, which was larger than mine—but we would have to shorten the sleeves.

Binty called over, “Do you have anything to drink here?”

“Of course,” said Madame. “Mignonne, make tea.”

“Don’t you have a bottle—of anything at all? Christ, I could use a slug of something.” He was at my worktable, slouching in the chair with his legs extended in front of him and his hands dangling. He looked as though he could melt from boredom and slide off the chair to join the pile of silk on the floor.

“Attend to Mr. Binty’s needs, Mignonne,
immédiatement
!”

I was easing the jacket off its hanger. Consuelo looked
expectant—but not for the prospect of trying on the garment. She was interested in seeing how willingly I would submit to Madame.

Now Binty said, “Aren’t you done yet, Consuelo? Let’s go. There’s nothing more tedious—”

I rushed across the studio to serve him. “There’s a liquor store just around the corner. Sit tight for a second, Binty. I’ll be back before you can breathe.”

When I returned with the bottle, Consuelo was standing on the coffee table wearing the first combination I had modeled, with Binty and Madame standing nearby. Madame was assessing the effect from every angle, her hands held up as though she were molding the fabric onto Consuelo from several feet away. Binty had been pressed into action to hold a full-length mirror, which he did with a scowl, as Consuelo directed him.

“A little lower and step to the right a bit. My right, Binty. Move that edge toward me. Will you concentrate?”

“Just decide if you want the damn clothes and let’s get out of here.”

I came forward with the bottle extended. “Let me do that. You pour yourself a drink. There are glasses on the ledge by the table.”

Consuelo pouted at the mirror. She asked, “Why does it look the way it does on Mignonne, and on me it’s dead?”

Madame Fiche said, “It is magnificent on you! Very suitable for a countess.”

“It’s true,” I told her. Her coloring, her dark hair and eyes, gave the jacket’s jewel tones greater depth. “It suits you very well. We just need to make a few minor adjustments so it will drape as it should. The size is basically right. We’ll just take it in a little there”—I tried to point and almost dropped the mirror—“and around the waist.”

“Come show me,” said Consuelo.

I carried the mirror to Madame Fiche, who swore under her breath as she took it, and resumed explaining the alterations.

“Stop gesturing and pointing,” said Consuelo. “Just do whatever it is you’re planning to do, so I can see what you’re talking about.”

“I’ll get my needle and thread.” I hurried over to my table, where Binty was drinking.

As I was returning, I heard Consuelo say, “Higher, Madame Fiche. You’re going to have to hold it higher and tip it back. I already know what my lovely feet look like.”

Consuelo loved standing on tables. All the more so when her audience was Mignonne. The girl had a light touch, like that of a tentative kitten. Or a pickpocket.

“You have such lovely wrists,” Mignonne said as she folded the butterfly jacket sleeves.

“As do you, darling,” said Consuelo, and felt pleased by the kindness of her lie. Of course the girl’s wrists were slender—everything about Mignonne was—but they weren’t particularly notable; they weren’t frightfully, delightfully delicate like Consuelo’s. Nobody’s were.

“Let’s show them off with a three-quarter-length sleeve.” Mignonne used a quick tacking thread to mark the desired length. When she had finished, she peered at the fit of the rest of the jacket.

It was delightful to have Mignonne reaching up to Consuelo’s shoulders as though inviting her to dance. If it weren’t for the probing glare of Véra Fiche, or the effects of the fumes from the hallway that were making her sinuses ache and swell, she would encircle Mignonne’s waist and lead her in a tango across the floor.

The girl pinched the fabric atop Consuelo’s shoulders and lifted it slightly, then let it drop back into place to see the jacket’s natural lie on her frame. “That isn’t bad at all. Just a few more minor adjustments.”

Mignonne was certainly meticulous in her work. Consuelo tried to take enjoyment in the routine—the fingers sliding down
the front center edging of the jacket closing, the girl checking how the sides aligned, inspecting for imperfections due to idiosyncrasies of structure or posture—but it was quickly becoming too much for one day. She needed a break from all this concentration. Too much standing still.

Why was Binty the only one with a drink?

Time for mischief. She leaned down to Mignonne and said, her voice low, “Visit me again in my apartment. It’s a much more comfortable place to play with each other’s clothes.”

She was rewarded with the instant hot reddening of Mignonne’s cheeks.

That was good fun, but it made Consuelo feel even more unsettled. “Forget the jacket. I don’t know if I want it. I don’t have all day. Just fix the fit of the skirt.”

Mignonne spread her hands over the fabric at Consuelo’s waist and hips, shifting the velvet until it lay properly against Consuelo’s magnificent curves and eased smoothly into the waistband. She walked around the table to view the garment from the back.

“Binty,” called Consuelo, “bring me a goddamn drink.”

He came over with a half-full glass. Stingy bastard.

“Now help me down.”

Mignonne said, “It’s better to be up on the table when we do the hem.”

“We’re not doing the hem. I’ll think about the skirt. Pack it up and I’ll try it on at home.”

“Mignonne,” Madame Fiche barked, and the girl hurried over to take the mirror. “The skirt is outstanding on you,
comtesse
. Divinely inspired.” The crow seemed to believe all could be set right with a little simpering. She went on and on, accelerating the spread of pain in Consuelo’s head. “Should you wish to purchase it, Mignonne can make the alterations tonight. You could be wearing it as early as tomorrow, and decide on the rest of the ensemble at a later date. Or simply choose to purchase
the skirt and the jacket; it is not necessary to pair them with this particular blouse. The skirt goes with so many things.”

“As we’ve seen,” said Binty dryly.

“Then we will indeed continue with the hemming?” asked Madame Fiche, clasping her brittle hands together.

Indeed we would not. Not here, not now. “Send Mignonne to my apartment with the skirt tonight. I can just as well climb onto a table there.” Consuelo lifted the hem and started across the studio to change.

When Consuelo and Binty had left, Madame turned on me. “This is how you present my work? Clothing for the promiscuous? An outfit to turn a wife into a whore?”

“It was all in fun.”

“You are an embarrassment!”

“How else was I to keep their attention?”

“A model does not draw attention to herself. She walks. She turns around and returns. It may be insipid, but that is what women expect and applaud these days. The girl does not open her mouth or throw off her clothes like a trollop—and yet somehow department stores sell truckloads at their fashion parades.”

“That’s all fine if you’re selling copies of some other designer’s work. But if we’re going to make a name for ourselves and our own designs, don’t you think we should try to be original?”

“Your vanity is unbecoming and unwarranted.”

“Consuelo is used to being entertained. Valentina’s shows aren’t traditional. They aren’t stodgy. They amuse people. She makes women laugh.”

“
Oui
, I laugh at Valentina, too. She is precisely what I do not wish to be.”

“It’s the way things are headed. She turns fashion into theater, and her clients love it.”

“Valentina Schlee prancing around her parlor is not theater! You think I don’t know about theater? It was my life at your age.”

“You worked on the stage?”

“I apprenticed to a costume designer.”

“You went from costumes to
haute couture
?”

“That was my master’s path and it became my own.”

“It seems like a strange shift.”

Madame looked disgusted. “There was a time when knowledge of costume and stage was still valued and in demand in the fashion world. We didn’t just send out girls to walk up and down. Instead of parading, there would be a dramatic production, with a narrative. The story of Napoleon and Josephine.
The Golden Slipper. The Princess of the Peacocks
.”

Each collection would be about a story? An existing story. No wonder Madame struggled to develop concepts of her own.

“Fashion theater is hardly a new invention. Neither was your cheap spectacle. At least the fashion parades do not pretend to be what they are not. What you did today was nothing better than burlesque. I have had enough of you exposing and prostituting yourself in the name of Atelier Fiche.”

Madame’s face gathered like a drawstring handbag. Efficiently, decisively, she spat on the floor.