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.”
39
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 loc
ksmith 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.
But no—someone pounded on the door.
“Miggy! Are you in there?” Leo! I had left him a note at home. I unlocked the door and he barreled in—followed by Yannick. “Oh my God, Miggy, you’re stupid. You want to be hauled off to jail with your head busted in?”
Yannick strolled around. “Nice space. It’s like my first restaurant. The floor is fabulous: so full of history. You just need a few tables, candles, maybe some gas lamps.”
I listened for Antoine with half an ear. “Look, I’m fine. You should both just go.”
Yannick opened his bag and handed Leo a bottle. “We’ll keep you company for a while. I brought beer. It’s cold.”
If there was one way to pacify Leo, that was it. He dropped into a chair and used his lighter to pop the bottle cap. “You’re not pulling this stunt again after tonight, Mig. This is the last bloody time.”
A collection of empty beer bottles littered the floor of the sitting area. Yannick was telling stories when we heard footsteps and the raking of the key in the lock.
Leo jumped up. “Get the hell—” he began.
We all stared at Antoine. His gaze sliced past the men and gripped mine. “My apologies. I did not realize you were entertaining tonight. I only came to pick up … uh …” He may have been a master of words, but voicing an outright falsehood left him stumbling. “My trousers,” he said—and Yannick burst out laughing. “The trousers Madame Fiche designed for me.”
“ ‘Jacket’ would had been better,” said Yannick. “Or ‘book.’ That would work. Heh-heh. Ah, Saint-Ex, I bet you’re a lousy poker player. I wish I’d brought my cards.”
“Who is this?” asked Leo. I could tell from the set of his shoulders that his agitation was extreme.
I said, “Leo Lachapelle, meet Antoine de Saint-Exupéry.”
Antoine held out his hand. Leo ignored it.
“Leo is my brother,” I said.
Yannick said, “And Saint-Ex is my very good friend.”
“I’ve seen him at the Alliance,” said Leo. “Mooning over Mig. Why does he have a key?”
Yannick spoke up. “Antoine, do you have cards?”
“Always.” He pulled a pack from his jacket pocket and took a step.
Leo blocked him. “Why do you have a key to my sister’s studio?”
“It is Madame Fiche’s studio.”
I said, “And Madame invited him to work in it when it isn’t in use at night.”
“Just so. Which necessitates a key.”
“Yeah?” Leo turned to me. “Is this guy paying rent? Because people borrowing your space won’t stop the landlord from changing the locks.”
“Which is why we’re here,” Yannick said. “The wolf is at the door, and all that. Mignonne is keeping him at bay. We are her reinforcements.”
Antoine tossed him the deck of cards.
Soon the men were deep into poker. Antoine won the first game, then, after one loss each to Leo and Yannick, won three in a row.
“Wait a minute,” said Yannick. “What happened to Mr. Trousers who couldn’t bluff to save his skin?”
“Winning is not about bluffing.”
“Lots of it is,” said Leo.
“Not if one’s definition of bluffing is to put on a mask and fool others,” said Antoine. “The secret is to see yourself as others wish to see you, and to intuit their expectations of you. It has much to do with putting oneself into another’s shoes.”
“A writerly perspective,” said Yannick.
I said to Antoine, “Not that you’re above putting on a mask. Antoine shuts off, Captain de Saint-Exupéry comes on.”
Leo folded. “Captain—as in the Marines?”
“The French Air Force. There are worse places to perfect one’s poker skills.” Antoine handed me the deck. “You be the dealer. Triple or nothing, no limit. Who’s in?”
“Are you kidding?” said Leo. “I’m not suicidal.”
“Then it’s you and me, Yannick. The pot goes to Mignonne’s landlord if I win.”
“Then I guess it goes to Leo’s if I win.”
“Amen,” said Leo. “But can we switch the teams around?”
Antoine grinned. “Ready? Let’s play.”
It was past three o’clock when Antoine and Yannick sauntered out in search of Bernard Lamotte and a supply of liquor. Antoine had won. Leo had settled in an armchair to wait out the rest of the night with me. I shifted onto my side on the sofa.
For a few minutes we were silent in the dark studio. Enough light filtered in to allow me to make out the planes of my brother’s face. Every once in a while the tip of his cigarette flared bright as he inhaled. He said, “He reminds me of Papa in some ways.”
If we had to talk about Antoine, this was not a bad way to start. “But years ago, right? Before Papa started being so exhausted all the time.”
“Yeah.”
“Papa would have liked him, I think. That’s what Yannick said when he introduced us.”
“How long has this been going on? You and Saint-Ex.”
“You’re not mad?”
“I guess not. You need someone like that. Older. Successful.
He’s already done his military service. He’s sown his oats. I can see how he’d be more than ready to take a wife and settle down.”
The studio fell quiet. “He’s done that, too,” I finally said.
Leo didn’t hesitate. “Sure—guy like that. Course he’s been married before. He’s not going to get to that age without being hitched. No kids from the first wife, though, Miggy, right? Run from that. She keeps hers. You want your own.”
I rubbed my eyes. “I can’t marry him.”
“You better.”
A sort of laugh escaped my lips.
“Okay,” said Leo. “He’s a lot older. I get it. But he can still give you a family.”
“I don’t need a family.”
“Sure you do. Little Antoine and Antoinette bashing around your knees.”
He was right. Yearning swelled in me.
Leo said, “Just tell him you’re not ready to give up fashion yet. The guy looks at you like you’re a goddamn goddess; he’ll wait. In a couple years …” He faded out.
Somewhere on a floor below us a machine rumbled. It picked up its pace, advancing toward a steady thrum.
“Hey.” Leo’s voice was gentle. “Things can change. Couldn’t things be different in a couple of years?”
Could they? Maybe Consuelo would give up Antoine. Maybe I could find a way to make him want a life with me. If I could keep him in New York. If I could show him what could be. If there were a little one growing in me from his seed.
“You awake, Miggy?”
“Yes.”
“I just want you to end up happy. Give it a few years. You’ll be glad you picked someone settled and respectable—and with trunkloads of money, to boot. Not to mention he’s a hell of a card shark. Holy Jesus! He’s a bloody magician.”
“That’s true.”
“You could do a whole lot worse. You could end up with someone like me.”
40
I was sketching wearily at my worktable when Madame arrived.
“Where is the stationer
y?” she asked. “I must invite Mrs. Wilson to our salon.”
Despite my exhaustion, I sprang to my feet. “Fantastic! I’ve already started to pack. And I’ve arranged for the late rent to be paid.”
“Vraiment? But this is incredible. You have my utmost appreciation. I did well to hire you.”
“And to make me a partner,” I dared to say, my stomach clenching.
“Yes indeed, perhaps one day to make you a partner. As for now, I have a partner. As you say, we need the salon, and immediately.”
“You offered the partnership to Consuelo?”
“She wished it.”
“You promised that partnership to me!”
“Are you so surprised? You astound me, Mignonne: you have absolutely no head for business. I have told you before and I say it again: it is fortunate for you that I have taken you under my wing.”
We arrived at Central Park South with as much as we could carry on the subway, including a judy whose metal base had battered my ankles along the way. Already Consuelo had removed many of her personal items—and had added an eight-by-ten of the portrait of her reclining in Garbo’s bed.
She said, “I’m so glad Véra and I could come to an arrangement. We are going to have so much fun.”
“You think so?” I ignored the threatening look Madame shot my way. “Because Atelier Fiche hasn’t been what I’d call a barrel of laughs.”
“Aha,” said Consuelo. “That’s exactly why a rebirth is in order. Don’t you agree?”
Did it make any difference whether I agreed or not? I said, “Sure,” and pushed the judy into the corner.
“Then we are all simpatico. Wait until you see the sign for the door. I’ve commissioned Romescu, the Surrealist. Should I open champagne? It’s never too early.”
“It is certainly too early,” said Madame.
I began to ease a heavy box to the floor.
“Oh well.” Consuelo raised her coffee pot like a stein. “Here’s to us: Studio Consuelo!”
The box landed with a loud thump.
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