Anio Szado (34 page)

He didn’t come. He didn’t even answer when she rapped on his door.

Finally the phone rang. “Consuelo, where are you? I told you I’d be waiting for you downstairs.”

She put on her fur stole in case it grew cool in the night, gathered her abundant hem, and escorted herself to the elevator.

In the lobby, Tonio regarded her gown, flawless makeup, and upswept hair. “No wonder you are so late.”

She took his arm, and they walked ceremoniously to the sidewalk. “Stay close to me, darling. Protect me. I feel as nervous as a new bride.”

“You will stand out like one, too.” Instead of hailing a cab, he led her to the casual bistro at the foot of the apartment building, the little hole-in-the-wall from which he ordered lunch or dinner every day.

“Tonio, no! The party can’t be at Café Pedro!”

“It was my duty to choose the venue. I like Café Pedro. Did you think I would opt for an embassy or opulent club? Maybe I should have put out a press release so the
Times
could announce that I’m getting old.”

His friends had already seen them through the window; the proprietor himself had come out to usher them in; it was too late for Consuelo to go back upstairs to change. Fine then: she would simply make the others feel underdressed.

She spent the evening drinking heartily, laughing merrily, then raucously, saying who-knows-what about who-knows-whom, dancing between the tables, then on the tables themselves.

June 29th was Antoine’s birthday. I had made him a simple white scarf from what remained of the ribbon dress. I wrote his name on the package and took it to Central Park South to leave at the concierge desk.

Elmore said, “They’re just next door in the café, if you want to give it to him yourself.”

It was a kindness, a warning: your lover’s wife is with him nearby; you might want to watch your step.

But it didn’t matter. I thought it unlikely I would ever see Antoine or Consuelo again.

“Thank you for coming,” said Consuelo, as she ushered in a wan and tired-looking Mignonne. “It’s been lonely here.” The hours stretched on endlessly when there was nothing to divert the boredom. The apartment sounded hollow, Tonio had been refusing to answer his door, and Binty had gone out of town.

Consuelo walked toward the sofa, but the girl remained standing. “Sit down. I don’t bite. At least, I don’t think I do. Have I bit you yet?”

Mignonne didn’t even crack a smile.

“All right, then. I’ll get to the point. Tonio told me you’re planning to use his
Little Prince
story in a fashion show.”

Mignonne gasped lightly.

How everything showed on that girl’s face! Consuelo asked, “True?”

“No. Not really. I didn’t propose a fashion show. I suggested we collaborate on a dramatic production.”

“With fashions.”

“Costumes.” The girl squirmed. “A production has to have visual appeal. It’s not a reading. And the fashion aspect would have helped bring in an audience.”

“Which Tonio could not do without your designs? He must have been thrilled to hear you say so. Do you think he has no ego at all, darling?” Consuelo put her feet up on the sofa. “Man is pride, Mignonne. If he appears humble, it’s because he is proud of his humility.” She chuckled. “Ah,
well. He may never forgive you, but I think it’s all terribly cute.”

Mignonne’s face had flushed. Now the pink had spread to her chest. Such an endearing thing, her familiar betraying blush.

“Your plan,” said Consuelo. “It’s all about helping Tonio—is that the pitch?”

“I want to help people understand him.” Mignonne looked down at the floor. “To stop him from being attacked all the time.”

“And why do you care if he is attacked?”

Mignonne turned her face toward the wide window and gazed out silently, long enough for the high color to leave her skin, long enough for Consuelo to see the answer. The girl’s jaw held no defiance. There was no fighting spark in her eye. The planes of her face were smooth and still.

It was nothing new to see a girl in love with him. Every girl was smitten by Tonio. They were swept away by his writing. He wounded their hearts with his smile. Consuelo had come to expect that they would want him. But those girls wore entitlement like cats carry musk. They did not stand with sunlight and sadness rendering their features as lustrous and fragile as that of a marble Virgin. Consuelo had not touched them through their clothing, nor eased away the fabric to cool their skin with hers. She had not lain with them, nor lain awake aching to sculpt them, nor been unnerved by the softness of their mouths.

She shook off the memory. “Tonio censured you. You must be very disappointed. It would have been so handy to take my husband’s art and money for your debut.”

In a flash, Mignonne was at the sofa, leaning over Consuelo, her face close. Anger amplified the blue of her eyes and the force of her breath. “I am not taking anything.”

It was as Tonio used to be, his shadow swallowing her, his body and his passion engulfing her. Let her want me, begged Consuelo silently. She lifted a hand to touch the girl’s lips.

The aggression seeped out of Mignonne. “I just wanted to help.”

“Hush. We will do the fashion show. And I will play the role of the rose.”

The peculiar conjunction of fashion design and the momentous art of Antoine de Saint-Exupéry would not only sell out in Manhattan, it could pique the interest of the whole besieged world. And then the magic would begin. The audience would see for itself that—above all and above anyone—Tonio, the prince, needed Consuelo, the rose. The reviews would broadcast the message in advance of the book’s publication. Reynal & Hitchcock would set in print, for all time, the legend of their love. Everyone would know that she and Tonio were one. He wouldn’t be able to hide her away anymore. They would live together again as man and wife. Consuelo couldn’t let this chance slip through her fingers.

Mignonne said, “I’ll make you a rose dress if that’s what you want. But we can’t do a show, not without Antoine’s approval.”

“My husband doesn’t always know what’s good for him. We don’t need his approval to help him—especially since all we’re doing is promoting and honoring his art! You make the clothes and squeeze the old goat for a spot on the Alliance stage; that’s all you have to do. I will put my sculptural talents to use on the sets. We’ll round up some French-speaking lovelies, and block out some action around the story script.”

“I’m not sure.”

“Do you have better plans? Every designer in New York is scrambling to be first out of the gate, and you don’t even have a studio. You can let the train leave the station without you, or you can make a huge splash in a few months’ time and let the mayor himself treat you like a star.”

Mignonne drew the tips of her nails back and forth on the
glass tabletop. “I don’t have space, or fabric, or half the tools I need.”

“I’ve told Binty already that I’ll be starting a new adventure. He’ll open his pocketbook. We’ll work right here in the parlor.” If that meant Consuelo was left with little room, all the more reason to secure a larger home where she and her husband could live together. “I’ll get a copy of the manuscript. I know how important it is for you to make sure every detail is right. You’re a woman of integrity.”

“I would have to get it exactly right if I was representing Antoine.”

“Of course. We want to make sure that everything we do serves our goal. Including the name behind the designs. For example, we can’t use ‘Atelier Lachapelle.’ ” Imagine the ridicule the expats would heap on Consuelo if she tried to ride the coattails of their late, great, founding god.

“I agree: we shouldn’t use the word ‘atelier’ at all. We’ll do the show in French for the expats, but we should keep the door open for an English version down the road. It’s better to go with ‘Studio Lachapelle.’ ”

“You’re not thinking, darling. We want something that supports our objective. Something people will notice.”

“Lachapelle is a respected name.”

“And respectable. It’s too safe. There’s nothing in it to suggest that something revolutionary is in the works. On the other hand: Studio Saint-Ex! ‘A Night of Fashion by Studio Saint-Ex’—now that’s a head-turner.”

Mignonne tightened her cardigan around her. “It makes it sound like Antoine is putting on the show.”

“We are putting on the show. But if you intend on letting the spotlight fall on him, you’ll embrace the chance to present it under the Saint-Exupéry name.” Under Consuelo’s own name: it should be no other way.

She went to the bar cabinet and poured them each a drink.
The liquid shivered as she handed Mignonne a glass. Either the girl would splash the liquor into Consuelo’s face, or Consuelo would control the show and the girl from here on in.

Mignonne looked down. She spoke quietly. “To Studio Saint-Ex.” She raised the liqueur to her mouth and drank.

Stripping her of her name had been almost as satisfying as removing her dress.

I couldn’t guess at how Consuelo managed to convince or beguile Binty, but he had come through. The parlor—Studio Saint-Ex—was crowded with fabrics, notions and tools, plus two antique, freestanding full-length mirrors of much better quality than Madame’s mirror had been. Consuelo had arranged an easel and a table at the window to catch the natural light. In one corner, on a black lacquered tabletop, I had placed my sewing machine. In the other, a fully adjustable judy stood skewered on a brass base.

I moved about in stocking feet, pacing a route around boxes, chewing on the end of a pencil, running my fingers through my hair, stopping occasionally to add some notes or lines to my sketchbook.

Consuelo said, “It’s such a comfort to have another body in here. Besides Binty. He really is getting a little uninteresting. And predictable.” She examined her figure in the mirror alongside the window and walked to the second mirror to study herself in its more artificial light. “Let me know if we’re still missing anything we need.”

I nodded vaguely, distracted. The preliminary rose designs had come so easily; I hadn’t expected the rest of the outfits to be a battle, based as they were on existing drawings. But that was the rub: how could I dare think I might match Antoine’s creativity with my awkward, unyielding own? I had felt stuck now for days.

One morning, I had entered to find Antoine in the apartment, deep in a heated argument.

Consuelo was saying, “You can’t complain about me calling it ‘Studio Saint-Ex,’ not unless you have a claim on fashion design as well as writing.”

Antoine noticed me. “I suppose you, too, are content to exploit the Saint-Exupéry name?”

“I’m not. I wouldn’t. I …” I looked to Consuelo for support.

She lifted a box onto a table. “Come see what I bought. Sand for our desert!” She started pulling out bags. From each one, she poured onto the table a small mound of a granular powder, each a slightly different tone. “It took me days to find these samples.”

Antoine had been moving toward the door. Now it seemed his curiosity got the better of him. He came back to peer over my shoulder. His arm brushed mine as he reached for one of the piles. I hadn’t felt his touch or smelled his cologne in weeks. I had to stop myself from bringing my face to his neck to take in more of his scent.