Anio Szado (30 page)

“Draw women?”

“Nude. I mean, when I’m nude.”

“Then, obviously, you need the practice. Maybe you can become an expert in the genre—nudist fashion design—and get tenure at NYFS.”

I inhaled. Propping the bottom of my sketchbook against my hipbones, I reminded myself of Antoine’s words: “You take yourself too seriously. Play for a bit.”

As soon as my pen hit the paper, I felt different, freer. I wondered whether, despite everything—or because of it—I had found my muse.

After I had filled several pages, Consuelo pulled on her robe and took the sketchbook. I dressed as she perused my drawings.

“What’s this?” She flipped through a few pages rapidly, then returned to the beginning of the sequence and went through them slowly. “What is this?” Her voice was barbed.

My mind raced. She wouldn’t inquire in such a way about my sketches for the white silk. And it couldn’t be the Little Prince’s coat; I had torn out that page and given it to Antoine. What else was in there besides failed ideas for Consuelo?

“This,” she said, jabbing. “How do you know about this flower?”

Oh no.

There was no use trying to pretend; the image was unmistakably Antoine’s. “Your husband drew it for me.”

I braced myself—but Consuelo’s expression crumbled. Had she never suspected that Antoine and I could actually have been together? It seemed that despite her husband’s dalliances, despite her infidelities with Binty and (though already I could not fathom how) with me, despite whatever other liaisons and diversions kept her out at all hours, she still believed that she and Antoine were in a marriage, albeit a marriage in which affairs were not as damaging or as intimate as the bestowing of a rose.

It seemed, too, that Antoine had spoken the truth: he and Consuelo did share some sort of unbroken faithfulness. Had he betrayed their complex loyalty by sketching the rose for me? Had he been aware, as he drew on the studio floor, that he was drawing me into this strange relationship of three? In laying his rose at my feet, had he been passing on some measure of his own responsibilities?

Consuelo’s voice quavered. “Tonio drew this for you?”

“I asked your husband to tell me about the young Consuelo, the girl he fell in love with … so that I could create something worthy of you, something to make you happy. He drew a flower—just like that one. He told me it was you.”

Consuelo looked hopeful. “You mean you designed this collection for me?”

“You are the prince’s rose.” I eased the sketchbook from her hands and shut it. I felt as though I were closing a once-promising chapter of my life.

It’s a world’s fair. You can’t count on every tourist knowing who or what he was.

Transition—

I’ve never been good with transitions. I tap my pen. The ballpoint leaves flicks of ink on my notebook page. Without thinking, I connect a few and doodle Antoine’s rose.

I am immediately aghast.

All these years of refusing to recreate the rose, of weeding the impulse from my fingers, of burying my memories of Consuelo … and she springs whole onto my page the moment I let my defenses down. The drawing repels me. It seduces me.

Maybe it’s time for a resurrection. I picture the image on latex bikinis, on painted cheeks and bellies, a sock-it-to-me, star-age rose …

I could rip up the sketch, and invite the curiosity of my bored-beyond-belief fellow nontravelers. Or submit to the lure of opportunity as I did a quarter century ago.

Consuelo sent me on my way with a gentle kiss and a vague offer. I took the first and brought the second to Madame Fiche. “Consuelo requests that you visit her this afternoon.”

“A potential client is coming at four o’clock. Mrs. RJ Wilson of RJ Wilson Blades. I may visit the countess afterward. She probably wants to pay me for the skirt. It is a lot of money to entrust to an assistant.”

“There’s something else she wants to meet with you about.”

“Yes?”

First, to frame the living arrangements without entirely giving away the marital situation. “The thing is, the Saint-Exupérys have two units in their building. He needs room to write, and she has a place for her creative work, too.”

“How nice for them.”

“One of the units has a large parlor overlooking Central Park. It would make an incredible salon for us. There’s a big difference between inviting clients to a factory studio and entertaining them in the parlor of a countess.”

“Is there any point to this story, or are you only trying to depress me?”

“Consuelo is considering allowing us to use the parlor, rent free.”

Madame’s forehead furrowed. “Why? What would she receive for this?”

I said, “A chance to be associated with you, among other things”—but I had overestimated Madame’s vanity.

“Do not bullshit me. I am not altogether sure I want the countess’s space, but if I do decide to enter into negotiations, I would prefer to be successful. You would be wise to tell me what
you know. All of it. If having such a salon will make or break us, as you seem to think it will, then do me the service of facilitating our success—and reap the rewards of doing so—or take responsibility for our failure.”

I sank my hands into the pockets of my dress and rocked back and forth a little, thinking. Finally I said, “You have to keep it to yourself.”

“I do not share business information with a soul.”

“Okay. First of all, the countess is lonely. She and her husband live separately; their apartments are across the hall from one another. She doesn’t want to be alone. She doesn’t seem to have women friends. There’s Jack Binty, but that’s not the same as having girlfriends. If we use the salon, she gets our company. She gets someone to listen to her.”

“
Bon
. Continue.”

“Second, she’s creative—and she’s bored. She takes drawing and sculpture classes. She spent some time in an artists’ commune in France. I expect she wants to be part of a creative community again. She’s probably hoping to collaborate with us.”

“Go on.”

“Well, obviously, she’s extremely vain. She wants attention and admiration. We can assume she’ll want to use us to attract notice, even envy.”

“That is our job, after all.”

“Except that she might push us to do something we maybe shouldn’t do. Just because something’s right for a client, doesn’t mean it’s right for the designer.”

“Leave off the riddles. What will she want?”

It was one thing to pacify Consuelo with a story; it was another altogether to put Antoine’s drawing on the table as the next direction for Atelier Fiche. I played with the bracelet on my wrist, turning it around and around.

Madame said, “Now is not the time to be circumspect. You are very close to achieving for Atelier Fiche something truly significant.
Setting the groundwork for a salon, as you have done, is work worthy of a partner, not an apprentice: I do see that. What is the third thing Consuelo de Saint-Exupéry will want from us?”

I picked up my sketchbook. Still I hesitated and remained silent.

“Mignonne. Let’s close this deal together on equal footing.”

“She will want to be immortalized.” I opened my book to the series with the rose.

At a few minutes to four, I stood on the sidewalk scanning the street until a butter-yellow Lincoln Continental convertible purred up to the curb, the driver craning. In the passenger seat, a svelte woman in a small, exuberant hat and sleeveless peach dress stared straight ahead through the curved windshield.

The driver caught my eye.

I called out, “You’re looking for Atelier Fiche?”

The woman turned toward me, her face largely obscured by sunglasses.

“I’ll bring you upstairs, Mrs. Wilson.” I opened the car door, and the woman disembarked gracefully. When I opened the studio’s street-level door, she reached for the greasy handrail, then caught herself and pulled her hand back.

“This is where Madame Fiche does her showings?”

“There’s also the salon,” I lied, “but occasionally we like to treat our clients to something a little bohemian.”

She slid her glasses off. “You’ll be familiar with the slogan of our company: ‘Wilson Blades cut to the chase.’ I have my own version. ‘Wilsons cut through the claptrap.’ Unfortunately, I’m not in the business of lending my name to help an untried label gain footing and cachet.”

“You’re not coming upstairs?”

“I’m afraid not.”

“What will I tell Madame Fiche?”

“Tell her that I prefer to visit her at her salon, if and when she has one.”

“Oh, she does. On Central Park South.”

“Excellent. Have her pop a note in the mail. My secretary will be in touch.”

As I entered, Madame looked up expectantly from beside the rolling racks that held the Butterfly Collection. “Where is Mrs. Wilson?”

“She doesn’t want to walk upstairs or spend her afternoon in a filthy factory building or be the first big name to wear Atelier Fiche or any other label that doesn’t even have a bloody salon, never mind a handrail she can put her perfect fingernails on.”

“She’s not coming?”

“She left. She’ll see you on Central Park South.” I wrenched the rack from Madame’s grasp and propelled it toward the end of the studio. It bumped over the uneven floorboards and came to rest a few unsatisfying feet away.

“What did you say to her?” asked Madame, her tone accusing.

“I didn’t have to say anything. It’s a miracle she even showed up. We’ve been acting like there’s a grey area where we can get away with an off-putting address as long as our designs are impressive. It doesn’t exist. It doesn’t work that way. God! It’s not like you didn’t know this all along! Why do we have to be one rent check away from disaster before we do something about it? We could be locked out by the end of the month!”

“I would be surprised if the landlord gives us the week.”

“He’s going to kick us out?”

“I have removed my important papers.”

“How can you be so blasé about this? You’re talking about me becoming a partner, and meanwhile you know we’re this close to shutting down?” I grabbed my purse. “He can’t change the locks
if we’re inside. I’m going home to get some things. I’m sleeping here until this gets sorted out.”

“You would do better to start packing up garments and fabrics. I will bring them home for safekeeping. We will find another location. This city is crawling with space.”

“You’ve done this before.”

“It is how things are.”

“Not in my world. I’ll deal with the landlord if he comes tonight. But you have to get serious about Consuelo and her parlor. We need that salon. We need it right now.”

It was one thing to work oneself to exhaustion and collapse on the studio’s sofa or to wait in the dark for a lover to arrive; it was another to have locked oneself in and barricaded the door and be facing a long night in which every sound and every minute could be bringing the landlord with his locksmith and his anger. I busied myself with sorting and packing, but not as Madame had suggested. I collected items that would belong in a salon: tools for measuring and fitting, an adjustable, full-length judy, a selection of fabrics that illustrated a range of textures and properties to help a client narrow down her preferences.

I went through the garment racks, deciding which pieces were worth keeping. It was startling how thoroughly my aesthetic had come to differ from Madame’s. Of the garments I selected to keep, almost all were pieces I myself had designed.

With hangers squealing and rattling across metal racks, with the effects of my own exertion, at first I didn’t realize there was noise coming from the hallway. Then the sounds sunk in and I froze in place.

Maybe it was Antoine. Let it be Antoine. How perfect that would be.