Zoya (34 page)

“May I see the manager, please?”

“Aha … how nice to hear someone speak French.” The older woman smiled. She looked like a very well-dressed schoolmistress in a very elegant school for young ladies. “I am she. Is there something you wish?”

“Yes,” Zoya spoke quietly, so no one else would hear her. “I am Countess Ossupov, and I am looking for a job.” There was a long beat as the two women's eyes met, and then after an interminable wait, the Frenchwoman nodded.

“I see.” She was wondering to herself if the girl was a fraud, but her air of quiet dignity suggested that she was what she claimed, and the Frenchwoman waved discreetly to a closed door just beyond her. “Would you care to come to my office, madame?” The title was unimportant to her, but she knew it might not be to the clients she served, Barbara Hutton, Eleanor Carson, Doris Duke, and their friends. She had an elite clientele, and titles meant a great deal to most of them. Many of them were marrying princes and counts, just so they could have titles too.

Zoya followed her into a beautifully appointed black and white sitting room. It was where she showed their most expensive gowns, and her only competition was Chanel, who had recently brought her wares to the States, but there was room for both of them in New York. The Frenchwoman's name was Axelle Dupuis, she had come from Paris years before, and had set up the elegant salon known only as “Axelle.” But it had already been the rage in New York for several years. Zoya had even bought a gown there
herself once but she had of course not used her Russian name, and mercifully Madame Dupuis seemed not to remember her.

“Have you any experience at this?” She looked Zoya over carefully. The dress she wore was cheap, and her shoes were worn, but the graceful hands, the way she moved, the way she wore her hair, all spoke of someone who had seen better times. She was articulate, and she spoke French, not that it mattered so much here. And she seemed to exude an innate sense of style, even in the inexpensive dress. Axeile was intrigued. “Have you worked in fashion before?”

“No,” Zoya was honest with her as she shook her head. “I haven't. I moved to Paris from St. Petersburg after the revolution,” she could say the words now, worse things had happened since, and she had Nicky and Sasha to think of. For them, she would crawl on her hands and knees for this job, and she could read nothing in the woman's face as she quietly poured herself and Zoya a cup of tea. The silver service she used was extremely beautiful, the china, French. She had ladylike airs, and she watched Zoya carefully as she took a sip of the tea. Things like that mattered to her, her clients were the most elegant, the most elite, the most demanding women in the world, she couldn't afford to have them served by people with bad manners, crude ways, and as she looked Zoya over with sharp gray eyes, she was pleased.

“When you went to Paris, did you work in fashion there?” Axeile was curious about this girl. There was something unmistakably aristocratic about her every move, as Zoya squarely met her eyes.

“I danced with the Ballet Russe. It was the only
thing I knew how to do, and we were very poor.” She had decided to be honest with her, to a point anyway.

“And then?”

Zoya smiled sadly, as she sat very straight in her chair. “I married an American and came here in 1919.” Twelve years before, it was hard to believe now. Twelve years … “My husband died two years ago, he was older than I,” she didn't tell the Frenchwoman about everything they'd lost. It was unimportant now, and she wanted to save Clayton's dignity, even in death. “I have two children to support, and we just lost everything we had in a fire … not that there was much …” Her voice drifted off, thinking of the tiny apartment where Sava had died. She looked back into Axelle's eyes. “I need a job. I'm too old to dance anymore,” she forced the images of the dance hall from her mind, and went on, “and I know something about clothes. Before the war …” She hesitated but forced herself to go on, if she was going to trade on her title, she would have to say something about that. “In St. Petersburg, the women were elegant and beautiful….” She smiled, as Axelle watched.

“Are you related to the Romanovs?” So many minor Russians had made that claim, but something about this girl told her it might be possible. She was prepared to believe anything, as Zoya's green eyes met her own, and she spoke in her gentle voice, primly holding the cup of tea like a lady.

“I am a cousin of the late Tsar, madame.” She said nothing more, and for a long moment Axelle thought. She was worth a try. She might be just what her clients wanted, and how they loved countesses!
The idea of a countess serving them would excite them beyond words, Axeile knew.

“I could give you a try, madame … Countess, I suppose I should say. You must use your title here.”

“Of course.” Zoya tried to look calm, but she wanted to shout with glee, like a child … she was going to have a job! At Axelle's! It was perfect. The children would both be in school in the fall, and she would be home by six o'clock every night. It was respectable … it was perfect … she couldn't repress a smile of relief as Axeile smiled at her. “Thank you, madame. Thank you so very much.”

“Let's see how you do.” She
stood
up to indicate that the audience had come to an end, and Zoya quickly followed suit, carefully setting the teacup down on the tray, as Axeile watched, extemely pleased.

“When would you like to start?”

“How would next week be?”

“Perfect. Nine o'clock. Sharp. And, Countess,” she said the word with practiced ease as she looked at Zoya's dress, “perhaps you'd like to select a dress to wear before you go … something black or navy blue …” She thought of her beloved black Chanel which hadn't recovered from the fire. It still reeked of smoke, no matter what she did to it.

“Thank you very much, madame.”

“Not at all.” She inclined her head grandly, and swept back through the door into the main room of the shop, where a woman
in
a huge white hat was exclaiming over the shoes. It reminded Zoya that she would have to buy new shoes, with the little money they had left, and she suddenly realized that she had forgotten to inquire about the salary, but it didn't
matter now. She had a job, at any price. It was a lot better than selling apples on the street.

She announced the news to the children as soon as she got back, and they went for a walk in the park, and then went back to their hotel to escape the heat. Nicholas was as excited as she, and Sasha inquired with her big blue eyes if they had little girls’ dresses there too.

“No, my love, they don't. But I'll buy you a new dress as soon as I can.” She had bought them the bare minimum after the fire, just as she had for herself, but now a new day had dawned. She had a respectable job, hopefully she'd earn a decent wage. She would never have to dance again. Life was looking up. And then suddenly, with a smile, she wondered if she would see any of her old friends at Axelle's. Just as they had snubbed her, when she'd first come from France, and then fallen in love with her. They had forgotten her completely when Clayton died, and shunned her entirely when they lost everything. How fickle people were, not that she cared. She had her children, that was all she cared about. The rest had come and gone, and come again, and gone again. It didn't matter to her anymore. Just so they survived … life suddenly seemed infinitely precious to her again.

CHAPTER
34

Her days at the shop were tiring and long, the women she served demanded a great deal. They were impetuous and spoiled, some of them were unable to make up their minds, but she was always patient with them, and she found that she had a good eye for what suited them. She was able to take a gown, pull it there, tuck it here, and suddenly the woman seemed to bloom as she looked at herself in the mirror … she was able to pick the perfect hat to go with just the right suit … a bunch of flowers … a little fur … the exceptionally lovely shoes. She created images that became poetry, and her employer was more than pleased with her. By Christmas, Zoya had made a real niche for herself at Ax-elle's, she had outsold everyone, and everyone asked for the Countess when they came in. It was Countess this, Countess that … and don't you think, Countess … and oh, Countess, please … Axelle watched her perform, always with discretion and a dignified air, her own clothes put together perfectly with quiet elegance, her white gloves immaculate
when she came to work, her hair impeccably done, her faint accent adding to her mystery. And Axelle let it be known early on that she was a cousin of the Tsar. It was exactly what she needed for the shop, and when Serge Obolensky came in to see this “Countess” everyone was talking about, he looked at her, stunned, as tears filled her eyes.

“Zoya! What are you doing here?”

“Keeping amused.” She said nothing about the brutally hard two years she had survived.

“How silly of you! But rather fun perhaps, too, I suppose. You must come to dinner with us.” But she always declined. She no longer had the clothes, or the time, or even the energy to run with his crowd. That was over for her. She went home to her children every night, waiting for her in the apartment on Thirty-ninth Street, near the East River, that she had been able to move into in time for Christmas. They were both in decent schools, and the regular raises and commissions Axelle had been giving her did not allow them room for luxuries, but it was enough to keep them comfortable, which was a vast improvement over the previous two years when she was dancing at Fitzhugh's Dance Hall.

She had been working for Axelle when the Lindbergh baby was found killed in May of 1932, and she read with surprise that Florenz Ziegfeld had died in July of the same year. She wondered what it would have been like to work for him and not Fitzhugh's Dance Hall. She wondered too what had happened to Jimmy by then. She had long since sent him the hundred dollars he had slipped into her bag when she was so desperate, but she had never heard from him again. He was part of another life, another chapter
closed, as she went on working as the Countess at Axelle's. And she was particularly touched when Eleanor Roosevelt came to see her to buy some clothes during the campaign. She remembered Clayton's old friends with warmth, and sent them a telegram when Franklin won, and she sent Eleanor a lovely fur hat, which she said she would wear at the inauguration in March, and Axelle was thrilled with her.

“You certainly have a way with them,
ma chire. ”
The elegant Frenchwoman beamed at her. She was fond of the girl, and she was enchanted by little Nicholas. He had the gentle ways of a young prince, and the stories Obolensky had told her one afternoon, of Zoya and the daughters of the Tsar were easy to believe now. She was an unusual woman, born at an unfortunate time. Had things happened otherwise, she might have been married to a prince of her own, and living in one of the palaces she had frequented as a child. It seemed so unfair, but no more so than the crushing depression that raged on. All except Axelle's customers seemed to be starving that year.

At Christmastime, Zoya took Nicholas to see the movie
Tarzan
, and he was thrilled, and afterward she took him out to tea. He was going to the Trinity School and doing well there. He was a good student and a bright child, and at eleven years of age, he said he wanted to be a businessman one day, like his Daddy had been. Sasha wanted to be a movie star. Zoya had bought her a Shirley Temple doll, and she always carried it with her, along with Annabelle, who had survived the fire. They were happy children, in spite of the difficult times that had happened to them. In the spring, Zoya became the assistant manager of Axelle's. It meant more money and more
prestige, and allowed Axelle herself a little more leisure time. Zoya convinced Axelle to let Elsie de Wolfe redesign the shop, and business seemed to boom.

“God bless the day you walked in the door!” Axelle grinned at her over the heads of their excited customers the first day they reopened after it was redone. Even the mayor, Fiorello La Guardia, came and business was even better than before. She gave Zoya a mink coat as a gift, and Zoya gasped as she looked at it. It was made of ranch mink, and was intricately made, and it only added to her remarkable elegance as she took the bus home to her children every day, and by the following year she was able to move into a new apartment with them. It was only three blocks from Axelle's, and it was convenient for her, the children each had their own rooms now, Nicholas was twelve by then, almost thirteen, and he was relieved not to have Sasha constantly underfoot.

And two years later, on Sasha's eleventh birthday, Axelle invited Zoya to go to Paris with her, for her first buying trip. Nicholas went to stay with a friend, and she hired a baby-sitter to stay with Sasha for three weeks, and she and Axelle set sail on the
Queen Mary
in a flurry of excitement and champagne. As Zoya stood looking at the Statue of Liberty as they pulled slowly out of New York, she thought about how far she had come in the years since Clayton had died. It had been seven years. She was thirty-seven years old, and she felt as though she had already lived several lifetimes.

“What are you thinking about, Zoya?” Axelle had been watching her, standing quietly by the rail as
they reached the open seas. She was beautifully dressed in an emerald-green suit, the color of her eyes, and a little fur hat set rakishly on her head, and as she turned to face her employer her eyes were almost the same color as the sea.

“I was thinking about the past.”

“You do too much of that, I suspect,” Axelle said quietly, she had great respect for her, and often wondered why she didn't go out more. She certainly had ample opportunity. Their clients were crazy about her, and there was always a stack of invitations on Zoya's desk, addressed simply to “Countess Zoya,” but she seldom went out, and always said she had “done all that before.” “Maybe Paris will put some new excitement in your life.” Zoya only laughed, and shook her head.

“I've had enough excitement in my life, thank you very much.” Revolutions and wars, and marriage to a man she had adored. She was still in love with Clayton after all those years, and she knew that seeing Paris again would be painful without him. He was the only man she had ever loved, and she knew there would never be another man like him … except her son perhaps … she smiled at the thought, and took a deep breath of the sea air. “I'm going to Paris to work,” she announced briskly to Axelle, and then laughed at the older woman's words.