'Madame Courbet is taking good care of her.'
Hélène sighed and jumped to her feet. Angrily she started to pace the room. 'Madame Courbet is the concierge, and she's busy. Perhaps she's adequate, but she can't focus all her attention on Petite Hélène. She's a growing child, Edmond!' She stopped pacing suddenly. 'She needs company. Guidance. A family.'
He jerked his hand suddenly. His cigarette had burned itself down to the filter and scorched his fingers. Quickly he half got up and tossed the butt into the fireplace. Then he sat back down.
'Edmond, Petite Hélène needs a nanny.'
His lips tightened. 'Nannies are for babies.'
But she kept pressing him until he would finally admit that none of the arrangements he had come up with thus far had worked out. At first, there had been an irresponsible au-pair girl; then a woman who came in every day while he was gone, took Petite Hélène to school and picked her up again in the afternoon. Hélène discovered after a while that the woman drank heavily. Several times she had even had blackouts and couldn't remember a thing that had happened. And Madame Courbet just wasn't suited for the job.
'I'd be no good at picking out a nanny,' Edmond said lamely. 'I don't know the first thing about it!' He looked at her beseechingly. 'I know you're awfully busy, Little French Girl, but. . .'
Hélène nodded. 'I'll see to it,' she said with satisfaction.
Now that it was settled, she didn't waste another moment. She took a week off from work during Petite Hélène's Easter vacation and flew to England with her. After all, nannies were one thing the British were famous for, so what made more sense than trying to find one in London? After the histories of the au-pair girl and the drunk, Hélène wasn't about to compromise. Of course, the thought that she might run into Nigel while in London did enter her mind.
They stayed at Claridge's, where Hélène had booked a suite. It had a quietly luxurious living room, two bedrooms, and two baths. For once, Hélène was content to do nothing but play tourist and enjoy Petite Hélène's company. The girl's energy was boundless, her excitement infectious, her quick intelligence stimulating. Sometimes Hélène just stood back and watched her niece as she approached something new with a cautious, almost adult curiosity. Together they explored London from top to bottom, holding hands and skipping along the Thames esplanade through the fine-mist fogs and marveling at the patience of the polite English as they queued up for the double-decker buses or the Underground. They attended a performance of Der Rosenkavalier in the sweetly gaudy Covent Garden opera house, visited Tower Bridge, the Houses of Parliament, and saw the crown jewels guarded by the Yeomen of the Guard in their colorful uniforms in the Tower of London. They marveled at the Egyptian antiquities in the British Museum, shopped Regent Street and Harrods, visited the Old Curiosity Shop immortalized by Charles Dickens, and shuddered when they saw the wax figures at Madame Tussaud's. One afternoon, Hélène hired a chauffeured car and they drove out to the country to see Windsor Castle. On the way back, they stopped in a delightful old country inn and ate sliced roast beef and Yorkshire pudding and drank Earl Grey tea.
They were in England to look for a nanny, and every day before they went out exploring, Hélène patiently interviewed the various potential nannies the services sent over.
It seemed to Hélène that she would never find one both she and Petite Hélène could get along with. Some were dour, some patronizing, some overly sweet.
But if she had hoped to run into Nigel, it was in vain, even though the week stretched into two. She never saw Nigel, but she did finally find a nanny who was satisfactory.
Her name was Elizabeth Stewart and she was a stout Scottish woman in her late forties. She had a natural way with children—that much was obvious from the start. She and Petite Hélène immediately took to each other— something that stirred up irrational jealousies in Hélène. It was she who had insisted on getting a nanny, but at the same time, she wanted all of Petite Hélène's affections for herself.
With the nanny engaged, there were no more excuses to keep them in England, so they flew back to Paris. However, Hélène was not content with just having found a nanny. Every family needed a home, a constant refuge to go back to in times of joy and crisis, a place where they could spend the holidays together. The old house with the canary-yellow door in Montmartre would have been her home had Maman been alive. She missed not having had it. She knew, instinctively, that Petite Hélène needed such a place, too. But not in the city. It would have to be out in the country; as far as Hélène was concerned, they all spent too much time in the city. And it would have to be a secluded place. A private place.
When she found what she wanted, she signed the papers, bought it for just over a million francs cash, and took Edmond and Petite Hélène to see it one Saturday afternoon. She had kept the purchase a secret. She didn't even tell them where they were headed.
Two hours after they left Paris, Hélène rapped on the glass partition of the Citroen limousine. The chauffeur glanced back through the rearview mirror. Hélène pointed to the left, and he nodded. As soon as the next intersection came up, he slowed down and made a left turn into a bumpy, rut-filled road that branched off into a forest.
'Where are you taking us?' Petite Hélène asked with growing excitement.
Hélène smiled secretively. 'I've just bought a little cottage in the country. I thought we should have a refuge to escape the bustle of Paris.' She leaned forward, looked around Petite Hélène, and smiled at Edmond. 'You don't mind my not telling you? I wanted to keep it a surprise.'
Edmond smiled. 'I don't mind it at all as long as you'll agree to take some time off every now and then, too.'
'And likewise,' she said. 'Look who's telling me.'
But she was pleased. Ever since Nanny had joined the household, even Edmond was starting to come back to normal. The curtains were drawn aside each morning, the rooms aired out, the cooking done. Nanny's influence even showed in their family relationship. Once again they had become close-knit.
Edmond sat up straight as the car came into a clearing. 'A cottage, did you say?'
'Well. . .' Hélène shrugged and made a helpless little gesture with her hands. Petite Hélène was suddenly trying to crawl across her lap, 'ooohing' and 'aaahing' excitedly as she pressed her nose against the window.
Hélène couldn't help but smile as she looked out. The sun was high in the sky and bathed the clearing. The grass and moss were moist and lushly green, and the sunlight between the cathedral like trees was like flashes of silver. The chateau was a brownstone island with corner turrets, a central cobblestoned courtyard, and a moat that emptied into a big green pond which had ducks and swans gliding gracefully across their own reflections.
As soon as the car came to a halt, Petite Hélène jumped out and ran over to the pond.
It was a beautifully proportioned house, Hélène thought as she looked up at it, her hands in her pockets. It wasn't nearly as lavish as Hautecloque, but it had an unpretentious charm of its own. It was neither haughty nor majestic. It was simply a manageable country chateau 160 kilometers south of Paris. And it was steeped in history, parts of it dating from the sixteenth century. Originally the chateau had been owned by Diane de Poitiers; then it had undergone various changes in family ownership. It had a caretaker's cottage, a guest house, stables, and a livable three-story stone tower on the far side of the pond.
Hélène had decided to keep on the old caretaker couple, Monsieur and Madame Greuze, to run the place. And she had bought Petite Hélène a pony of her own.
Jeanne was gone, never to be part of them except in their memories, but Hélène couldn't help thinking that Jeanne would have been pleased. Petite Hélène now had a house she could come home to, that would eventually be her own.
2
The Banco di Milano was located on the ground floor of a thirty-story office tower that rose out of the ancient pedimented buildings of old-town Milan. An inverted black cone, it dominated the skyline like a huge, u
ncircumcised phallus. When Hélène came out of the building, she squinted in the bright sunlight, put on her sunglasses, and took the flight of low, curving steps down to the sidewalk. There she skirted the crashing water fountains that split up the concrete piazza like an enormous ultramodern cupcake pan. The warm May breeze carried the shroudlike mist from the fountains over to her. It felt cool and refreshing.
A slight smile of satisfaction played across Hélène's lips. Things were going well. It was the second month since she had officially become a millionairess in her own right—not counting her inheritance from Stanislaw, and not in worthless lire or in so many, many francs, but from Les Modes, and in the currency that counted. Dollars. Not bad, everything considered. The first issue of La Moda, Les Modes's Italian counterpart, had already hit the newsstands.
She smiled, thinking of how Signor Piarotto, the bank president, was becoming increasingly ingratiating every time she entered the bank. He was beginning to realize her worth and saw to it that he always took care of her personally, a fawning smile on his face. How different things were now from a few years earlier, she thought, when she hadn't had as much as a sou in her pocket. When she'd arrived 'fifth-class' on the Right Bank of Paris and couldn't afford to eat anything but old bread and scavenged fruit—and only when she was lucky.
She glanced at her gold watch. It was nearly ten o'clock; she'd have to hurry. She had meetings scheduled with paper suppliers and advertisers, and at noon there was a working lunch with the Czarina.
She turned right on the via Montenapoleone and headed for the offices of Edizioni Hélène Junot S.p.a. They were located several blocks away in an enormous old Medici palazzo that had been carved up into high-class commercial space. The building was shared by several fashion designers, three giftware wholesalers, a parfumerie, and La Moda.
On the way, she passed the newsstand where she always bought her morning paper. It was run by a wrinkled old widow. Hélène paused; something had caught her eye. There it was. A stack of La Moda. She watched as two blond women hesitated between it and Vogue. Finally curiosity won out over habit. They picked up La Moda and flipped rapidly through it. The expressions on their faces immediately changed: they were transported from their drab, humdrum lives into the exciting world of couture and makeup and fine jewelry, a Cinderella world where anything was possible, where a slickly photographed pair of seventy-thousand-lire Ferragamo shoes replaced the traditional glass slipper.
Hélène felt a wave of pride coursing through her. She was sharing her taste and knowledge—indeed the entire fashion world—with these women, perhaps making their lives more beautiful, more worthwhile. At any rate, bringing their dreams into perspective and putting them down on paper where they couldn't evaporate. Perhaps even giving them ideas to apply to themselves, to make them feel more beautiful and secure, desired. How well she could still remember how the magazines at Madame Dupre's had changed her life.
Without another glance at Vogue, both women reached into their purses and snatched up La Moda. Happily they began to chatter and walked off.
Hélène smiled. It was only the first issue, but already she had witnessed two tiny victories—two minor miracles—two women reaching for La Moda instead of Vogue. On an impulse she walked over to the newsstand. The old woman knew her already, but she didn't know who she was. So much the better.
'Good morning, signorina,' the old woman said.
'Good morning.' Hélène looked down at the stack of La Moda. 'A new magazine?'
'Yes, signorina, but finally one that is bellissimo!' For emphasis the old woman made a circle with her thumb and forefinger and kissed it noisily.
Hélène reached into her purse, took out a thousand-lire note, and picked up a copy. It was thick and heavy.
Thanking the old woman, she left the newsstand and strode down the street, the magazine tucked proudly under her arm. When she came across a sidewalk cafe she took a seat under the striped canvas awning and ordered a cup of espresso; the meetings would have to wait. Then she laid the magazine face up on the table, took off her sunglasses, leaned her elbows on the table, and proudly stared at the cover.
The block letters 'LA MODA' were huge and white and dazzling.
As Hélène flipped through the magazine, she found it hard to believe how much had happened in the last two years. Les Modes was here to stay, a growing giant that was a power to be reckoned with. The Italian edition, La Moda, was out only a month behind schedule. And, most important, men's editions of both magazines—Les Modes Homme and La Moda Uomo— were in the planning stages. But that was only a fraction of what she had up her sleeve—the visible fraction. Like a deceptive iceberg, she chose to keep her ambitions and future plans well hidden. She knew—instinctively, and from experience with Stanislaw's inheritance—that it took money to make money. And she knew perfectly well that having money, like owning art, was an awesome responsibility. Once you had it, you had to make sure that it was constantly working for you, increasing steadily. What good did it do you otherwise? By simply banking it, you lost it steadily but surely. Nothing shrank as fast as idle money.
She put this knowledge to good use by expanding her empire and thinking of starting another, entirely different but related business. But as always, she combined caution with just the right amount of shrewd daring. Instinctively she sensed when to wait and when to go all-out. Her instincts had served her well in the past, and she relied upon them completely. For her, Paris and Les Modes had only been the jumping-off point. Italy was where her fortune would skyrocket. She knew that as surely as she knew that Thursday followed Wednesday, and she was already planning for it. She saw things happening in Italy that were not happening elsewhere. Design was new and bursting and alive; the young designers were branching out, freed from the shackles of conservatism to forge ahead and create exciting new styles previously unheard-of.
Yes, a lot was happening. And she planned to be where it was happening.
Hélène entered the building, crossed the hollow-sounding lobby, and hurried past the glass cases filled with expensive giftware. She didn't bother to glance at them. She had seen that same display a hundred times already. The air in here smelled expensive. It was the fragrance of perfume.
The glass cases belonged to the giftware wholesaler who occupied the ground floor; the scent drifted down from the parfumerie on the third. Quickly she ascended the wide balustraded staircase to the second floor and crossed the marble landing to the carved double doors. She glanced at the engraved brass plaque:
'EDIZIONI HÉLÈNE JUNOT S.p.a.'
She pulled open the door on the right and went inside.
For a moment, she paused. As usual, the offices were humming with the activity of the business day. She could feel the cogs turning, could almost reach out and touch the creativity that crackled visibly in the frenetic atmosphere. The persistently ringing telephones, the clattering of typewriters and telex machines, and the fragments of raised voices coming from the conference room, where she knew a 'creative meeting' was in progress, were music to her ears. The big office space reminded her of the Place Vendome headquarters. The language here was Italian, but the flavor—for a moment she closed her eyes—the flavor of the Milan offices was exactly like that of the Paris headquarters. The business of reporting on and predicting style and elegance, of 'making' promising new designers or sending established, staid ones to their death—not through spectacular battle, but by simply ignoring them—here the power of fashion pulsed strong and loud.
Hélène hurried down the plush-carpeted corridor to her private office. She was sorry to have missed the meetings scheduled for that morning and the working lunch with Luba, but she had been too involved with her plans to notice how much time had passed. It was already two o'clock.
She crossed over to her chrome-and-glass desk and put down her purse and her copy of her magazine. A pink note under the small Jean Arp bronze she used as a paperweight caught her eye. Carefully she slid the note out from under it. The wri
ting, she could tell from a glance, was Luba's. It was as elegant and spidery as the woman herself. True to the Czarina's fashion, it was both cryptic and dramatic: 'I've found him! L.'
Hélène crumpled it up into a ball and tossed it into the wastebasket. Then she picked up her telephone and summoned the Czarina to her office. While she waited, she sat down in her upholstered swivel chair, swung around to the molded filing cabinet to her left, pulled open a drawer, and took out a report. The light blue cover was stamped in red ink: CONFIDENTIAL.
She sat back, opened the report to the first page, and started to read. Within a moment she was as immersed in it as a housewife reading the latest blockbuster novel.
La Moda
Projections
Issue: November
Start Production: June 1
Advertising Deadline: July 1
Projected Advertising Pages: 230
Advertising Pages Sold to Date: 223
Projected Article Pages: 70
Monthly Features
Editorial: La Moda's Point of View: ?
Guest Speaker: ?
Society: Bonacossi-Peretti wedding in June
Charity ball in Florence (send Luba and photographer)
Cuisine: Heartwarming Soups
Eating with Flair: Tureens
Travel: Sun in the Alps—Switzerland, France, and Austria
Sun on the Beach—the Great Barrier Reef,
Tunisia, and Malibu
Interiors: John Fowler
Health: Avoiding Skin Cancer on the Slopes
and Beaches
Beauty: New Skin Tones for Winter
Interviews with Six Plastic Surgeons
New Colors for Eyes and Lips
She pursed her lips thoughtfully and drummed her nails on the glass desktop. So far, everything was too predictable. Too much like the first issue. Like the others that were in production right now. What was needed was a new approach.
Sins Page 63