Power & Beauty (18 page)
T
wo weeks after her sixteenth birthday, Beauty was seated in the last row of the coach section of a Delta flight from Atlanta to New York’s LaGuardia Airport. She was leafing through
Vogue
magazine when the plane flew into an unexpected thunderstorm. The turbulence was so severe that the elderly white woman next to Beauty grabbed her hand.
“It’s going to be all right,” Beauty assured her.
“How do you know that?” asked the woman. “Have you flown a lot?”
“Actually this is my first flight.”
“Well, it’s not mine, and I’ve never been through anything like this. Something’s wrong. The plane shouldn’t be shaking this much. It’s gonna crash . . . I feel like it’s gonna crash.”
“It can’t crash,” Beauty stated calmly.
“What makes you say that?” asked the woman, her eyes closed as she squeezed Beauty’s hand even harder.
“Because I won’t let it crash,” said Beauty.
“I want to believe you.”
“Believe me, it’s going to take a lot more than a little lightning and thunder to get in my way. My future’s in New York, and nothing can stop my future.”
Just then the plane took a sudden drop. The older woman let out a scream.
“It’s just like a roller coaster,” said Beauty. “It can be scary, but it always comes to a stop and lets you off safe and sound.”
“Roller coasters petrify me,” the woman confessed.
“Roller coasters are fun.”
“I think you’re a very nervy girl, but I hope you believe in a god that answers prayers, because only God is going to get us through this storm.”
At that moment a bolt of lightning struck the plane. The jolt was intense. Sparks flew. A flight attendant, going up the aisle to make certain seat belts were fastened, was thrown to the floor. The woman seated next to Beauty began to cry. But Beauty stayed centered. She closed her eyes and pictured the streets of New York that she had read about; she imagined herself walking through Barneys on Madison Avenue and Lord and Taylor on Thirty-Ninth Street; she thought about the fabulous hat collection at Henri Bendel on Fifth Avenue and the fashion district on Seventh Avenue, where so many of the designers and manufacturers had offices; she saw herself riding the crosstown bus and the uptown subway, exploring Greenwich Village and Central Park and the bright lights of Broadway. When Beauty opened her eyes, the flight attendant had picked herself up off the floor and the plane had flown out of the storm. An hour later it landed without incident.
In the baggage area Beauty noticed a handsome, distinctly Jewish-looking man in his twenties with dark hair, wide shoulders, a broad nose, brown eyes, and a serious look on his face. He held a sign that simply said
BEAUTY
.
She approached him and said, “I’m Beauty.”
“You sure are. Miss Ward sent me. She asked me to help you with your bags and take you to her place.”
“Thank you.”
“My privilege.”
“Do you work with Miss Ward?”
“Yes, I work in her department at Bloom’s department store. I run errands and do some modeling. By the way, my name is Solomon.”
“Like the king,” quipped Beauty, impressed with the man’s powerful physique.
“Actually more like a queen,” said Solomon, who gave her a little wink.
Even though Beauty knew that many gay men worked in the fashion world, Solomon was a surprise. He looked like an athlete.
On the way into the city, while Solomon drove the black Lincoln Town Car and Beauty sat in the back, they began chatting.
“Have you ever been here before?” he asked.
“No.”
“You’ve come to model?”
“Oh, no, I’m just a student.”
“College?”
“High school.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“Why would I lie?”
“To impress me with your youth.”
“I wish I were older.”
“How old are you?” he asked.
“Sixteen.”
“You look nineteen.”
“Thank you—I guess.”
“How do you know Miss Ward?”
“Long story.”
“That you’d rather not tell.”
“Actually, I’m so excited seeing that skyline, it’s hard for me to concentrate on talking.”
“So it’s okay if I do the talking?”
“Sure.”
“I was born in Israel. I’m guessing you were born in Japan.”
“I was born in Atlanta, Georgia.”
“But to a Japanese mother,” said Solomon.
“My mom was black.”
“
Was?
She’s gone?”
“You were going to do the talking.”
“Just trying to be polite and not dominate the conversation.”
“I think you’re nosy,” said Beauty.
“I think you’re right. But my nosiness is harmless. Though to be honest, I wasn’t at all harmless when I fought in the Israeli army.”
“You were a soldier?”
“Highly decorated.”
“How come you have no accent?” Beauty said.
“I have American-born parents.”
“And when did you come here?”
“A year ago.”
“Why?”
“For the same reason you’re coming to New York,” said Solomon. “Fortune and fame in fashion.”
“And how’s that working out for you?”
“Well, I’m driving you to the apartment of one of the shrewdest buyers in America. I aspire to be her protégé. Now it appears that you have that job sewed up. So if I can befriend you, I’ll still be on track to get closer to Miss Anita Ward.”
“She’s that good?” asked Beauty.
“Better than good. ‘Amazing’ is the word.”
As Solomon went on about Anita Ward’s genius, Beauty stopped listening. She had to savor the moment—they were driving over the Queensboro Bridge into Manhattan. Last night’s rainstorm had washed away the smog and left the city sparkling. The energy was high, Beauty was high; Beauty stretched her neck to look up and out and around, Beauty rolled down the window to breathe it all in, to hear the honking cabs, the roar of the traffic, the sounds of a city more alive, more wonderful, more exciting than she had ever imagined.
“Miss Ward lives off Gramercy Park,” said Solomon. “Would you mind if we stopped by my apartment first? I need to make sure Amir is up. He has an appointment he can’t miss.”
“It’s nearly noon. Why wouldn’t he be up?”
“He’s a musician. Musicians work nights and sleep days.”
“This is your boyfriend?”
“My significant other.”
“Also an Israeli?”
“Actually a Jordanian.”
“An Israeli and an Arab living together?”
“In peace and love. Trying to set an example for the world to follow.”
“If you want to wake him up, why not just call him?”
“Because I want him to meet you. If he meets you, he will be crazy for you and you will be crazy for him and that will tighten the bond between the three of us. That way I will be in an even better position to become a part of Anita Ward’s inner circle.”
“How do you know he’ll be crazy for me?” Beauty asked.
“He loves beautiful women.”
“And Israeli soldiers.”
“I didn’t tell him I was a soldier until after our first date.”
“And how did he react?”
“He ran. But then I ran even faster—and caught him. Here’s our place. Come in for a sec. We’ll serve you coffee and sweets on a silver platter.”
Their apartment was in the basement of a Murray Hill town house. It was narrow and dark but filled with white lilies that gave off a delicious scent.
“Amir has a part-time job at a florist. He brings these home for free.”
Amir was still in bed. Beauty waited in their tiny living room/kitchen area while Solomon went to wake him up. The walls were covered with dozens of Polaroid photos of family members of every description. There was also a large calendar displaying the great mosques and synagogues of the world.
After a few minutes, Solomon walked out of the bedroom followed by Amir, who was dressed in a white terry-cloth robe with the words “Holiday Inn Amman Jordan” sewn across the front pocket. He had small sleepy eyes, dark olive skin, and long wavy jet-black hair. If Solomon was five-ten, Amir was five-eight. Solomon was stocky and muscular, Amir was wire-thin and graceful. He seemed to glide across the room.
“Is this Beauty or is this not Beauty?” Solomon asked Amir.
“I am happy to meet you,” said Amir, soft-spoken and a bit shy. “What can we offer you to eat?”
“Oh, I’m fine.”
“Do you like sweets?” asked Amir.
“Say yes,” said Solomon, urging her. “Amir takes offense if anyone doesn’t like his sweets.”
“Well, I do like sweets,” said Beauty.
“Last night I made
kunafa
. It is a kind of cheese pastry with honey on top. Please try it,” Amir beseeched in his softly accented English.
“It sounds delicious,” Beauty said.
“It is good with tea,” said Amir. “I will make you tea.”
A few minutes later, the three of them sat close together on wicker chairs surrounding a small kitchen table. They nibbled on
kunafa
and sipped sweet tea. Beauty loved the taste of the honey-covered cheese dessert. She asked Amir about his music.
“Difficult to explain well,” he said. “It is hip-hop but also jazz, and then we have a rapper who was born in Iran.”
“The jazz musicians are Israeli friends of mine,” said Solomon. “They are how I met Amir.”
“Are you the hip-hopper or the jazz guy?” Beauty asked.
“I do both from a synthesizer. As a boy, I learned classical piano and then fell in love with electronic music. That’s how I happened to come to America. And when I was here, well, I heard so many other sounds that fascinated me. I began trying a little bit of everything. I still don’t do it very well, but I am trying.”
“Amir is modest,” said Solomon. “He is a musical visionary. He put together this current group.”
“What’s it called?” asked Beauty.
“All,” said Amir. “That’s all I could think of.”
“You must hear them,” said Solomon. “You must come to the club where they play. All will blow your mind.”
“Please, Sol,” said Amir, “leave this Beauty alone. She is just arriving here and her heart must be filled with desires to go to lovely places and see lovely things that have nothing to do with my music.”
“Guess her age,” Solomon told Amir.
“It is not polite to guess the age of a lady.”
“She doesn’t mind,” said Solomon.
“If you are twenty-six and I am twenty-five, she must be twenty.”
“She’s sixteen!” Solomon exclaimed.
“My word,” said Amir to Beauty, “you are wonderfully mature for your age. You will have a brilliant life here in this brilliant city.”
“I told you that you’d like this guy,” Solomon said to Beauty, who was all smiles.
“Have another piece of
kunafa,
” Amir told Beauty.
“I’ve got to get her over to her godmother’s,” said Solomon.
“Anita Ward is not my godmother,” Beauty said, correcting him.
“I mean her mentor,” Solomon said.
“She’s not my mentor.”
“She will be.”
“How do you know?” asked Beauty.
“I just know about these things,” stated Solomon.
“My friend can be a little brusque,” said Amir about Solomon, “but he does have a certain feeling for the future.”
In the short drive from Murray Hill to Gramercy Park, Solomon asked Beauty, “When was the last time you saw Miss Ward?”
“I never have seen her.”
“But you do know about—” Solomon stopped himself.
“Know about what?” asked Beauty.
“You’ll see for yourself. It’s okay. Just forget I said anything.”
“Now that’s impossible.”
“You can handle it. You’re the girl who can handle anything.”
“You talk like you’ve known me for years.”
“I have. Here we are at the park. What do you think?”
Gramercy Park reminded Beauty of an illustration out of a children’s book. It was small and clean. The grass was cut and the shrubbery was pruned. Nannies pushed infants in their strollers. An older man wearing a blue blazer and red bow tie sat on a bench, where he smoked a pipe and read the
New York
Times
. Kids played hide-and-seek. Solomon parked in front of an old four-story brownstone that overlooked the park.
“Miss Ward has the top floor,” said Solomon. “They installed an elevator just for her.”
The entryway was small, but the elevator itself was tiny. Beauty had never seen anything like it. The cabin, big enough to hold a single person—and a small person at that—was constructed of wrought iron. Figures of twin peacocks were sculpted on the doors.
“You ride on up,” said Solomon. “I’ll carry your bags up the stairs. Just press number four.”
The elevator rose slowly, rattling as it went. As a little girl, Beauty had read
Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland.
Now she felt like she was in that book. She had never met a character like Solomon or Amir. She had never seen a brownstone before, never ridden on a one-person lift decorated with wrought-iron peacocks. When the elevator reached the fourth floor and the doors slowly opened, Solomon was waiting.
“She has the whole fourth floor,” he said. “You’ll like it—if you like peacocks.”
Peacocks were everywhere—pencil-drawn sketches of peacocks, oil paintings of peacocks, color posters of peacocks. The living room faced the park, and on the long wall between two windows was an enormous Plexiglas frame that housed an elaborate display of peacock feathers. Past the kitchen was a narrow hallway with three doorways. The first was to a bathroom, the second to a neatly furnished small bedroom with a view of an air shaft, and the third to a large master bedroom with a bathroom of its own. The master bedroom overlooked the park and its several windows were covered with elaborate gold-and-blue satin drapes. The bedspread carried the same design as the drapes. An antique vanity table holding an antique mirror sat in the corner.
“I’m guessing this is your room,” said Solomon, placing Beauty’s bag in the small second bedroom.
“Good guess,” said Beauty, looking around and loving what she saw. The walls were covered with framed fashion sketches of female models from the nineteenth century, the drapes were a beautiful shade of grayish green, and the bedspread was dark green chenille.