Anio Szado (33 page)

He lit a cigarette and forced a long, slow stream of smoke into the humid air. “You travel many avenues of persuasion. What other dead ends shall we go down today?”

Tears stung my eyes, but I refused to let them drop. He could say what he wanted to quell my efforts. He could dismiss the power of his storytelling, but I would not. If he insisted on leaving before Christmas, I would find a way to tell the story of
The Little Prince
before the book’s official launch. I might be naïve, I might not have a job or a studio, but I was not going to let that stop me. He might find it as easy to ignore my pleas as those of the next girl, but I would not be pushed aside.

By the time we reached Central Park South, I had the beginnings of a plan.

We would work together. I would make the expats fall in love with him. I would make him fall in love with me.

Consuelo had spent a tiring hour directing and accompanying Elmore as he moved Véra’s boxes to the mailroom in the lobby. She was at his desk when the doorman came in and gave Elmore a warning look. Consuelo immediately focused past him to the sidewalk.

Nothing. No Tonio giving a girl a goodbye kiss. No couples lingering in a cab at the curb. But when she turned back to the lobby, there was no mistaking the doorman’s relief. She looked again.

There: in the park, on the other side of the stone wall. All she could see of Tonio were his head and his shoulders. All she could see of his companion was the back of her blond mane. Mignonne?

Whoever it was, she was getting nowhere. They were both gesticulating angrily. When the girl reached up, Tonio all but sprung back. Now he veered away and left her. There had been no kiss and unlikely even a goodbye. Consuelo chuckled as she returned to Elmore’s desk.

Tonio came storming in from the street.

Consuelo joined him at the elevator. “Darling? Can I help?”

“Help your designer friend.”

“Véra? We’ve decided to part ways.”

“Not her. Mignonne. She has just tried to convince me I should turn
The Little Prince
into a fashion show.”

So it had been Mignonne—with a business proposal. And such an outrageous one! No wonder she had been quick to drop Véra: the girl had a brilliant idea and no intention of sharing
the rewards. “How intriguing. And you want me to help her with it.”

“My God, no. Help her get her head on straight. Her idea is ridiculous. She thinks that by dramatizing my story, she can smooth things over at the Alliance Française.”

Of course she would tell him that. How else was she to get him to agree?

He said, “Can you imagine the prince as a mannequin? The fox? The rose?”

Indeed she could. Mignonne had already proven the power of the concept with the rose-embellished pieces; a
Little Prince
show would bring them to life. What was more—ingenious idea!—Consuelo herself could model the central piece. It would show the world, in a way the book could never do on its own, that the prince’s beloved rose was Consuelo, only ever Consuelo, for ever and evermore.

As they stepped from the elevator, she put a calming hand on her husband’s arm. “Just think of it as another medium of expression. Besides, it wouldn’t be fair for you to stop her. It was you who gave her the idea.”

“Me?”

“Didn’t you draw the rose for her?”

Tonio’s face changed: it took on the unreadable veneer she detested. His voice became impassive. “What are you saying?”

“Mignonne told me that she asked you what you love about me, so she could design something completely unique to me. She said that you drew a rose and explained how it represented me.”

He nodded slowly. “This is fundamentally true.”

“If you directed her to design a collection using the rose as her muse and motif, you can’t blame her if she went ahead and did so. And once you have a collection, well, a collection needs to be shown.”

The facade dropped for the briefest moment: Tonio looked trapped.

“Lots of factories are looking to hire ladies these days,” said Leo. He took my arm as we stepped off a high curb and crossed the street. “I’m thinking of buying a wig and nabbing one of them jobs myself.”

It was midday, midweek, the day was bright, and we were taking a stroll. I had nowhere to go and Leo hadn’t been going to work. He wouldn’t tell me why or what had happened, but he admitted that no, he wasn’t sick; no, he hadn’t told Mother; no, he had no savings or prospects or brilliant plans.

“See that?” Leo pointed at a young man in neat clothes with a crisp haircut and a clean, honest face. “One of the best jobs you can get in all of New York. Fresh air, flexible hours, lots of folks helping you succeed.”

“Doing what?”

“He’s a slicker, the smoothest kind of no-good bum. He’s out here stemming for maybe five hours a day. ‘I just lost my job, I hate to ask but I have to eat, boo-hoo.’
Crème-de-la-crème
, sister. Ten dollars a day, that’s what a good slicker makes. That guy probably makes enough to keep his girlfriend in a hotel in the 70s, take her to the El Morocco and have a maid.”

“Why wouldn’t someone like that be in the military?”

“Probably wrangled a deferment, like me.”

“You have a deferment? All this time, I thought some sort of official was going to grab you off the street.”

“Nah, I’m fair and square. I told the draft board I was eager. I knew the railroad was going to get me a six-month deferment,
and then another. They could have kept getting me more and more.”

“What do you mean, the railroad?”

“Working on a railroad’s an important job. Can’t fight a war without a system on the home front.”

“But you were building carnival rides.”

“For Carson Unity, owned by Carson Unity Railroad. I keep telling you, it’s all about what you do with what you got.” He stopped at an open window to order breakfast.

I wondered if the last of Leo’s inheritance was now crisping his toast. My own nest egg was still stashed away. “We need a plan.”

“I got a plan. You marry Antoine and buy a place in the Hamptons. I live in your garage.”

“I’ll look into teaching at the Alliance. And there’s always Le Pavillon.”

“I’ll be your driver. Does Antoine have a car? Hold on—I can’t live in your garage. Where are you going to put the car? I’ll live in the servants’ wing. Me and a feisty little maid.” He rubbed his palms together.

“I’ve been meaning to call Yannick. You could probably wash dishes while I’m waitressing.”

“You really think I’d go begging at Yannick’s feet?”

“What are you going to do? Seriously, Leo.”

“I’ll find something in a war plant for a few months. By November or so, the draft board will come sniffing around.”

At home, Leo slipped his lighter, his Lucky Strikes, and a flask into the pockets of his robe. “Nothing better for you than a cigarette in the bath. The steam opens up your lungs.” He disappeared into the hallway.

I phoned Yannick. “Remember you said I could wait tables at Le Pavillon?”

“I heard about what happened.”

Madame Fiche had been right: everyone did know everyone’s business. All that talk about tight lips was just more talk. “You know I quit Atelier Fiche?”

“I had lunch with Saint-Ex. He was very worked up. Apparently, you want to destroy his reputation and ruin his name. Also, you’re just like Consuelo.”

“Oh my God.”

“He said … Let me get this right. ‘Your niece and Consuelo are birds of a feather. Why is it that when one loves a woman …’ ” He stopped. “I forget the rest.”

“Yannick!” I slapped the wall beside the phone. “Who did he mean?”

“ ‘One loves a woman.’ You don’t know who that would be?”

“I don’t know what to think or do anymore.”

“Do what is best for you.”

“And what, in your wisdom, is best for me?”

“It isn’t waitressing at Le Pavillon; I can tell you that.”

Montreal, June 26, 1942

Dear Mignonne,

Your uncle had the courtesy to telephone tonight to tell me not to worry, that he was sure you would be fine. Not being a family man, he didn’t realize that a mother’s worst phone calls all begin that way. It took some doing to convince me you were not disfigured or barely clinging to life.

If you had only written, I would have told you about the struggles your father went through in his career. He would say that success rarely comes easily, and when it does, it rarely endures. I would add that there is no failure in turning away from a fruitless path.

Don’t be upset, Mignonne. It is a sign of maturity to know one’s limits. You completed your education, you tried your hand at fashion. Now your only worry will be to find a fellow who doesn’t mind a girl who has been around a bit. A few months’ rest, and then perhaps a normal job here, will put that all in the past.

I have enclosed a check for the train fare. Your room awaits, as pretty and calm as when you left it. Soon you too will feel calm. As always, I look forward to your return.

Yours,

Mother

June 29th was Tonio’s birthday. His publishers were throwing a party; he had told Consuelo she was expected to attend. She had feigned indignation—of course she was expected!—but secretly she had been thrilled. So often he went to parties and celebrations without her. She never knew if it was because he alone had been invited or because he preferred to go alone.

To be sure, many of his friends disliked her. From the beginning, they’d thought her overbearing and unreasonable. One had gone so far as to cast the opinion in stone—or on paper, which was more permanent in these bomb-infested days. He had written that Tonio had introduced him to two new developments, of which the friend far preferred the manuscript to the wife.

That was what Consuelo had been up against all these years! Well, she always got the last laugh. She would make an unforgettable entrance tonight, dressed in her best—and her best was impressive indeed. She chose a fuchsia gown, added a black lace bracelet sprinkled with slivers of white diamonds, and topped off the effect with a tiny, perfect tiara. Then she waited like a princess for her knight.