Anio Szado (31 page)

But no—someone pounded on the door.

“Miggy! Are you in there?” Leo! I had left him a note at home. I unlocked the door and he barreled in—followed by Yannick. “Oh my God, Miggy, you’re stupid. You want to be hauled off to jail with your head busted in?”

Yannick strolled around. “Nice space. It’s like my first restaurant.
The floor is fabulous: so full of history. You just need a few tables, candles, maybe some gas lamps.”

I listened for Antoine with half an ear. “Look, I’m fine. You should both just go.”

Yannick opened his bag and handed Leo a bottle. “We’ll keep you company for a while. I brought beer. It’s cold.”

If there was one way to pacify Leo, that was it. He dropped into a chair and used his lighter to pop the bottle cap. “You’re not pulling this stunt again after tonight, Mig. This is the last bloody time.”

A collection of empty beer bottles littered the floor of the sitting area. Yannick was telling stories when we heard footsteps and the raking of the key in the lock.

Leo jumped up. “Get the hell—” he began.

We all stared at Antoine. His gaze sliced past the men and gripped mine. “My apologies. I did not realize you were entertaining tonight. I only came to pick up … uh …” He may have been a master of words, but voicing an outright falsehood left him stumbling. “My trousers,” he said—and Yannick burst out laughing. “The trousers Madame Fiche designed for me.”

“ ‘Jacket’ would had been better,” said Yannick. “Or ‘book.’ That would work. Heh-heh. Ah, Saint-Ex, I bet you’re a lousy poker player. I wish I’d brought my cards.”

“Who is this?” asked Leo. I could tell from the set of his shoulders that his agitation was extreme.

I said, “Leo Lachapelle, meet Antoine de Saint-Exupéry.”

Antoine held out his hand. Leo ignored it.

“Leo is my brother,” I said.

Yannick said, “And Saint-Ex is my very good friend.”

“I’ve seen him at the Alliance,” said Leo. “Mooning over Mig. Why does he have a key?”

Yannick spoke up. “Antoine, do you have cards?”

“Always.” He pulled a pack from his jacket pocket and took a step.

Leo blocked him. “Why do you have a key to my sister’s studio?”

“It is Madame Fiche’s studio.”

I said, “And Madame invited him to work in it when it isn’t in use at night.”

“Just so. Which necessitates a key.”

“Yeah?” Leo turned to me. “Is this guy paying rent? Because people borrowing your space won’t stop the landlord from changing the locks.”

“Which is why we’re here,” Yannick said. “The wolf is at the door, and all that. Mignonne is keeping him at bay. We are her reinforcements.”

Antoine tossed him the deck of cards.

Soon the men were deep into poker. Antoine won the first game, then, after one loss each to Leo and Yannick, won three in a row.

“Wait a minute,” said Yannick. “What happened to Mr. Trousers who couldn’t bluff to save his skin?”

“Winning is not about bluffing.”

“Lots of it is,” said Leo.

“Not if one’s definition of bluffing is to put on a mask and fool others,” said Antoine. “The secret is to see yourself as others wish to see you, and to intuit their expectations of you. It has much to do with putting oneself into another’s shoes.”

“A writerly perspective,” said Yannick.

I said to Antoine, “Not that you’re above putting on a mask. Antoine shuts off, Captain de Saint-Exupéry comes on.”

Leo folded. “Captain—as in the Marines?”

“The French Air Force. There are worse places to perfect one’s poker skills.” Antoine handed me the deck. “You be the dealer. Triple or nothing, no limit. Who’s in?”

“Are you kidding?” said Leo. “I’m not suicidal.”

“Then it’s you and me, Yannick. The pot goes to Mignonne’s landlord if I win.”

“Then I guess it goes to Leo’s if I win.”

“Amen,” said Leo. “But can we switch the teams around?”

Antoine grinned. “Ready? Let’s play.”

It was past three o’clock when Antoine and Yannick sauntered out in search of Bernard Lamotte and a supply of liquor. Antoine had won. Leo had settled in an armchair to wait out the rest of the night with me. I shifted onto my side on the sofa.

For a few minutes we were silent in the dark studio. Enough light filtered in to allow me to make out the planes of my brother’s face. Every once in a while the tip of his cigarette flared bright as he inhaled. He said, “He reminds me of Papa in some ways.”

If we had to talk about Antoine, this was not a bad way to start. “But years ago, right? Before Papa started being so exhausted all the time.”

“Yeah.”

“Papa would have liked him, I think. That’s what Yannick said when he introduced us.”

“How long has this been going on? You and Saint-Ex.”

“You’re not mad?”

“I guess not. You need someone like that. Older. Successful.

He’s already done his military service. He’s sown his oats. I can see how he’d be more than ready to take a wife and settle down.”

The studio fell quiet. “He’s done that, too,” I finally said.

Leo didn’t hesitate. “Sure—guy like that. Course he’s been married before. He’s not going to get to that age without being hitched. No kids from the first wife, though, Miggy, right? Run from that. She keeps hers. You want your own.”

I rubbed my eyes. “I can’t marry him.”

“You better.”

A sort of laugh escaped my lips.

“Okay,” said Leo. “He’s a lot older. I get it. But he can still give you a family.”

“I don’t need a family.”

“Sure you do. Little Antoine and Antoinette bashing around your knees.”

He was right. Yearning swelled in me.

Leo said, “Just tell him you’re not ready to give up fashion yet. The guy looks at you like you’re a goddamn goddess; he’ll wait. In a couple years …” He faded out.

Somewhere on a floor below us a machine rumbled. It picked up its pace, advancing toward a steady thrum.

“Hey.” Leo’s voice was gentle. “Things can change. Couldn’t things be different in a couple of years?”

Could they? Maybe Consuelo would give up Antoine. Maybe I could find a way to make him want a life with me. If I could keep him in New York. If I could show him what could be. If there were a little one growing in me from his seed.

“You awake, Miggy?”

“Yes.”

“I just want you to end up happy. Give it a few years. You’ll be glad you picked someone settled and respectable—and with trunkloads of money, to boot. Not to mention he’s a hell of a card shark. Holy Jesus! He’s a bloody magician.”

“That’s true.”

“You could do a whole lot worse. You could end up with someone like me.”

I was sketching wearily at my worktable when Madame arrived.

“Where is the stationery?” she asked. “I must invite Mrs. Wilson to our salon.”

Despite my exhaustion, I sprang to my feet. “Fantastic! I’ve already started to pack. And I’ve arranged for the late rent to be paid.”

“
Vraiment?
But this is incredible. You have my utmost appreciation. I did well to hire you.”

“And to make me a partner,” I dared to say, my stomach clenching.

“Yes indeed, perhaps one day to make you a partner. As for now, I have a partner. As you say, we need the salon, and immediately.”

“You offered the partnership to Consuelo?”

“She wished it.”

“You promised that partnership to me!”

“Are you so surprised? You astound me, Mignonne: you have absolutely no head for business. I have told you before and I say it again: it is fortunate for you that I have taken you under my wing.”

We arrived at Central Park South with as much as we could carry on the subway, including a judy whose metal base had battered my ankles along the way. Already Consuelo had removed many of her personal items—and had added an eight-by-ten of the portrait of her reclining in Garbo’s bed.

She said, “I’m so glad Véra and I could come to an arrangement. We are going to have so much fun.”

“You think so?” I ignored the threatening look Madame shot my way. “Because Atelier Fiche hasn’t been what I’d call a barrel of laughs.”

“Aha,” said Consuelo. “That’s exactly why a rebirth is in order. Don’t you agree?”

Did it make any difference whether I agreed or not? I said, “Sure,” and pushed the judy into the corner.

“Then we are all simpatico. Wait until you see the sign for the door. I’ve commissioned Romescu, the Surrealist. Should I open champagne? It’s never too early.”

“It is certainly too early,” said Madame.

I began to ease a heavy box to the floor.

“Oh well.” Consuelo raised her coffee pot like a stein. “Here’s to us: Studio Consuelo!”

The box landed with a loud thump.

Interesting. If Mignonne had been foul and sullen before, all at once she seemed as irate as a typhoon. So Véra hadn’t filled her in on the arrangements? What fun! Consuelo settled on the sofa, prepared to enjoy the show.

Mignonne said, “Studio
Consuelo
, Madame? You’ve given up your name?”

Véra gave the girl an imperious look. “Keep your voice down, and keep some perspective. We are trying things out. If it would help you, feel free to think of it as temporary.”

“Of course it’s temporary—you can’t commit to anything! You won’t even commit to your own business without planning to teach in the fall.”

Consuelo sat up straighter.
Teach
? Véra had said nothing about teaching.

“Even your studio is disposable,” Mignonne went on. “Stiff another landlord. Fire me. Eventually you’ll design your own collection, but in the meantime, you steal mine.”

“
Ta gueule!
”

“It’s all the same to you. And now you’ve actually given up your name!”

Goddamn it, Consuelo thought, Mignonne’s got fire in her. The stubbornness and strength of a bulldog in the body of a whippet. A familiar craving moved through her as she watched Mignonne’s cheeks and throat grow pink. She touched her own chest and found it too was warmly flushed. The excitement they would generate working together! Consuelo’s very skin was prickling in anticipation of it.

“How self-righteous and ungrateful you are,” said Véra. “If
la comtesse
is to support an enterprise, naturally it must bear her name.”

“We’ll see what happens to your partner’s name when it’s stuck to a stick-in-the-mud who only knows how to give women things they already have.” Mignonne picked up her sketchbook, brushed off her skirt, and walked away.

“Get back here,” said Véra, “or you’re fired.”

The door slammed.

Consuelo almost applauded the performance, but her hands were stilled by a dawning realization. She had done something almost unheard of: she had made a mistake.

As I slammed the door behind me, Antoine’s apartment door opened.

He took my arm and pulled me inside. “Consuelo gave me the news about the salon. Congratulations.” He touched my face. “You don’t look happy.”

The sleeve of his jacket was wet and cold against my cheek. I pushed it away.

“Sorry,” he said. “I got soaked carrying out experiments with toy submarines.” He made a rumbling engine sound as he leaned over an imaginary bathtub. “Consuelo ran the bath before she left. I didn’t realize until too late that she added oils to the water. It changes the properties. All my calculations are off.”