Anio Szado (42 page)

“Having you has always been a pleasure. How do I look?” Holding her arms out to show off her wings, Consuelo spun in place. The dark skirt twirled with her, wrapping softly and sensually around her legs as she stopped, then releasing reluctantly, falling sensuously back into place. “The jacket was hand-delivered this week by the designer herself. A gift to honor the success of our
Little Prince
show. Or consolation for the imminent departure of my husband. Or possibly a brilliant little reminder that I could still commission something or other from Atelier Fiche.”

She led Mignonne up the staircase to a dark green library room. “See how my husband works like a king! I bought him this gorgeous table. It’s a Spanish antique.”

Tonio shook his head. “A complete waste of money. I told her I don’t care what I write on, as long as it is stable. I have something much better to show you.” He opened a drawer and riffled a stack of paper. “Print proofs of the text for
The Little Prince
.”

Mignonne clasped her hands together. “It will be published in time for Christmas after all!”

“It is far too late for that, but the important thing is …” He flipped to the last few panels. “Reynal & Hitchcock approved my original ending without changing a word.”

Consuelo bustled us into the sitting room for drinks and appetizers. The talk was small. No, Bernard had not been able to make it tonight. No, Leo hadn’t been called up for duty yet. Yes, Antoine was all set; but no, he still didn’t have a firm date.

“Get dressed for dinner,” Consuelo told him, and he got up from his seat.

I shared the news from Montreal: my mother was engaged to be married this spring.

Antoine paused at the stairs. “You will come right back afterward?”

“It depends if history repeats itself. My mother wants me to stay in Montreal.”

“But your fashion career,” he said.

“Oh, Tonio! Not everyone has what it takes to make it in New York these days.”

I set my glass down sharply.

“Consuelo …” Antoine began.

She assumed an offended look. “What? Did you think I meant you, Mignonne? I was thinking of your old mentor, Véra Fiche. The poor thing is going back to teaching in the new year.”

I felt the hair rise at the nape of my neck. “No one should hire that woman. She steals her students’ designs.”

“Oh, that’s right—Véra told me about your inane accusation.”

“And my proof?” For Leo had recently retrieved it from one of his lady friends: the much worn and slightly torn, quite humbled butterfly dress. “It’s not too late for me to take it to the administration at NYFS.”

“Don’t you realize they’re not interested in your proof? Their illustrious professor has brought acclaim to the school with the provision of a showcase piece to the Countess de Saint-Exupéry—and at a time when all of New York has its eyes on me. We’re going out for dinner; I’ve given the cook the night off. Tomorrow, everyone will be talking about the Atelier Fiche jacket I wore.” She speared an olive. “You see, darling? Start making accusations and your own
alma mater
will laugh you onto the street. Véra and I shared a giggle about it ourselves.”

In April 1943, Bernard and I joined a crowd that had gathered at Grand Central Station to say goodbye to husbands, brothers, and sons. Antoine’s train idled, waiting to take him to a port from which a convoy of ships would plough the width of the Atlantic carrying thousands of men, one of whom had told me he was eager to till the clouds. My heart bucked when I saw him appear at an open window, but I kept my place. Bernard pressed forward and clasped Antoine’s extended hand.

Antoine scanned the faces all around. As the train began to move, he swept his large fingers through the air in a broad, easy wave.

He must not have seen me, I thought. He would not be so cruel as to leave in such a way: with his face aglow with anticipation, his smile clear and wide.

INSPIRATION AND ANTOINE

If you enter from the east door, the work on your right is from Press Week, July ’43. These six grey bolero jackets comprised the whole collection. No fuss: just gunmetal lining with a thin border of red binding tracing the edges of selvage inside. I paired them with grey chiffon skirts, short grey gloves, peacock-feather broaches on felted berets.

This was the first-ever Press Week, the first time reporters had come from across the country to cover a fashion event in New York. They were exhausted. They were glad for simplicity. So glad that they proclaimed this line the epitome of minimalist wartime chic—and I launched my first fashion house with commissions from all quarters. You never think you’re ready to act until someone claims you’ve already made the leap.

I skipped the next Press Week, that winter. I was setting up my new studio and staff, I had a new apartment, my brother had just gone overseas. So my next collection—there’s a sample in the revolving case—came in the summer of ’44. That Press Week had a theme: the People’s Fashion Show.

And what was people’s fashion then? Women were wearing epaulets and insignia, eagle emblems, brass studs in the shape of bullets accenting sleeves or a yoke, Bakelite sailors pinned at wide, padded shoulders, cap badges on hats and scarves. Airplane-shaped buttons flew around waistbands or down from throats. The de rigueur colors had names like Valor Red and
Salute Blue. Women’s fashion made men’s uniforms seem like jaunty fun, and turned weapons of war into trinkets and trim.

Instead, I wrapped synthetic silk tight around my models’ chests. Frothy, stormy purple-green clouds billowed around their waists and hips. You know the sort of sky that makes your stomach feel hollow and scared? The models looked as though they could be blown away. Underneath the clouds, their bindings hobbled them and stunted their breath.

They’re tired, I thought. My second design assistant was quarreling with my apprentice about the translation of
peau de soie
. “
Peau
doesn’t rhyme with cow,” I told them, “but doe.
Peau
means skin.
Peau de soie
is a skin of silk.”

None of them knew more than a few words of French. There was not a big demand for it; the émigré community was no longer the largest segment of my clientele. It had been twenty months since the
Little Prince
production. It had been a year since the first Press Week and Yannick’s prodding had convinced me to put my inheritance to use.

I had presented my second Mignonne NYC collection just days ago. There had been no bright spot in the line, no giving women what I presumed they hoped to see. Afterward I had retreated into the studio, not ready to know the effect the designs would have on my career. When the girls tried to read to me from the newspapers, I declined to hear.

But one thing was unmistakable: the collection had been noticed. I had been forced to hire a girl to answer the ever-ringing phone.

The new receptionist came in from the foyer. “A man to see you, Miss Mignonne.”

“Give him my apologies, Esther, as with everyone. And if you have time, please type up the messages from the last few days.”

“I’ve been trying to send him away, miss. He insists that I tell you he won’t ever leave.”