Once, at Gucci, he had tried a black evening coat lined in wolf fur. He looked fabulous and impossibly dramatic. The salesmen surrounded him while he studied himself in the mirror showing the usual dissatisfaction. Caterina had kept quietly in the background (she was always nervous whenever they played the game) but that once, taken by a sudden inspiration, she felt confident enough herself and had stepped in closer.
“This would be perfect for the St. Petersburg concert,” she had said out loud, looking straight at him through the mirror with an amused expression. She expected a sign of recognition or gratitude from Pascal for her brilliant idea (an orchestra conductor, of course! Who else would need a wolf-lined evening coat?). Instead he had glanced at her with an icy frown—as if to say, “That was ruinous, why did you have to do that”—and immediately took the coat off.
“I don’t like anything in this shop,” he declared and dropped the coat in the hands of a young man with a perfectly shaped goatee and a diamond earring.
For her part Caterina never possessed the guts to look sufficiently dissatisfied with the clothes so that she and Pascal could leave a shop making the salespeople feel inadequate and not the other way round. So, whenever it was her turn to try on something, Pascal would have to support the act by playing the irritable costume designer, the fussy buyer, the purist. He knew exactly when it was time to end the game and had his own exit strategy figured out. He would look at each dress with an air of exasperation that bordered on disdain, to show how unimpressed he was to begin with. If he felt the salesgirls were getting in any way pushy by praising the dress too much, or saying how becoming it looked on Caterina, how it perfectly fit her svelte figure, he would stare thoughtfully at her reflection in the mirror, incline his head to the side, tapping his chin with a finger, and say nothing for what felt like a long time. Then he’d turn away.
“Sorry, darling, but it just isn’t you. And I’m afraid we are running late for our next appointment.”
Caterina would have to change back into her clothes and he would lead her outside the shop in a rush, as if they’d wasted another hour of their precious time.
“Your turn,” Pascal said, stopping in front of the window of the Chanel boutique in a corner right behind Piazza San Marco.
Caterina laughed. Sure, why not. On a day like this even she could brave Chanel. To her it spoke of Breakfast at Tiffany’s, of the impossible dream of the penniless but eternally chic girl.
The shop was empty. Thick carpet, soft lighting. Sweetly scented. Pascal had sunk onto a white armchair and leaned back like a director before an audition he doesn’t believe in. Someone had brought him an espresso in a tiny porcelain cup with pebbles of brown sugar in a silver bowl. Two salesgirls in shiny ballet pumps and little black dresses with golden chains, hair tied back in chignons, presented themselves. How could they help?
“We are looking for evening wear. Something soft, chiffony. It has to be luscious and light,” Pascal said in his husky voice.
“Of course, sir. Black?”
“Yes, but not just. Surprise me!” He winked at them.
The salesgirls beamed, enraptured. They loved a whiff of petulance, it was so Chanel. They scuttled off.
The dressing room was like a private boudoir, with enough space for lounging and even taking a nap on the velvety couch if one felt like it. Soon it filled up with organza, feathers, sequins. Clouds of silk and tulle, in black, peach, cream, azure and jade green, hung on the walls. Caterina slipped out of her skinny jeans and T-shirt. She stood in front of the mirror in her bra and panties, slackened from too many harsh detergents, and looked at her pale, unmade face, her red tousled hair pinched on the tip of her head with a plastic hairclip. She regretted not having done her face up a bit that morning, and wished she’d remember to always have at least her Rouge Noir lipstick handy.
One of the girls in black knocked lightly at the door and slid inside, holding two boxes. She pulled out two different pairs of shoes from the crinkly paper. A shiny black patent leather sandal with a five-inch heel and a powdery pink one with a grosgrain bow on the tip.
“This one for the black and the other for the pastel colors.”
Caterina nodded and took the shoes, one pair in each hand. They were truly exquisite objects.
“These are the sandals from our cruise collection,” the girl said with a solemn expression.
“Please, let me help you with the dress. Shall we start with black?” suggested the other one.
Getting inside the first dress was like diving through a shimmering substance, each molecule of the fabric caressing her skin. She felt fresh, exuberant, feminine. Her skin flushed.
The two girls in black zipped her up, fastened hooks and buttons, fluffed the fabric, tucked the silk, slid her unpedicured feet into the shiny shoes and sent her out with moans of approval. Each time she wobbled out in front of Pascal (sprawled on the candid armchair, now munching a tiny buttery croissant), she attempted to do an ironic pirouette and in doing so caught a fleeting reflection of herself in the multiple mirrors.
Each time Pascal would stare at her for a few seconds without moving a muscle. The two girls in black would be waiting for the verdict, holding their breath. Pascal invariably shook his head slowly, smiling at them with a hint of disappointment.
“Shall we see something else, please?”
Once the black dresses came to an end, Pascal asked to see the pastels, letting transpire that despite the fact that his faith in the cruise collection was beginning to fade, he was still willing to give the Chanel girls another chance. He glanced at the time on his watch, to suggest that he and Caterina didn’t have all day.
The girls helped her out of a gorgeous pleated chiffon affair, and into a lacy, vaporous pale yellow, shortly followed by a light blue, then pink, then peach, then white variations of the same ethereal idea. Pascal, sipping a glass of sparkling San Pellegrino, remained inscrutable.
It was getting late; the girls in black had lost some of their initial composure. A film of sweat shone on their upper lips and their immaculate hairdos were beginning to lose structure.
The last dress was simpler than all the others, less constructed, sleeveless and knee-length, but the color was a shade of azure green so perfect it almost didn’t exist in nature. Maybe an alpine lake reflecting the woods on a pale morning would come close. Tiny feathers in the same delicate shade floated at the hem and trimmed the collar, giving it a sense of lightness. Caterina walked out once more on the powdery pink heels, in a more assured stride, and again she looked at the multiple images of herself in the mirrors. The aquamarine shade of the dress enhanced her copper hair and the whiteness of her skin. Pascal stared at her and this time his silence had a different quality. She remained still, a hand bent backward resting on her hip, as she’d seen models on the catwalk do. The girls in black were right behind her, hopeful.
“That’s stunning,” Pascal said.
His words filled the carpeted space. The girls in black sighed.
Yes, the dress was stupendo, meraviglioso, elegantissimo.
Caterina glanced at Pascal, a quizzical look on her face. He stood up and moved toward her.
“No, I really mean it. It looks fantastic on you. You should get it.”
The girls in black were already chirping behind her. Of course, of course, they too agreed this was the best dress of all, the color, the shape, tutto assolutamente perfetto.
“How much is it?” Pascal asked, with the authoritative tone a man uses when he has finally made up his mind.
Caterina had shot out of the boutique like a bullet, after an excruciating five minutes attempting to extricate herself from the enthusiasm of the girls in black. Pascal hadn’t offered any help. He had let her deal with them, keeping two steps behind, while she blabbered the usual excuse (I have to think about it) and headed for the door. Outside the light of the afternoon had turned into a golden yellow, the shadows of the buildings had stretched to the edge of the canal.
“You broke the rules! Why did you do that?” she said, burning with shame.
“Because I do think you should buy it.”
“Are you out of your mind? It’s three thousand four hundred euros!”
“It’s the least expensive of all. The black ones all cost around ten. Some even fifteen.”
“So what? I can’t spend that much anyway.”
“It’s an investment.”
“I don’t need that kind of investment.”
“You do. You sure do, my dear.”
Pascal turned around and started to walk away, leaving her behind. He did this to annoy her. She sprang behind him.
“Oh yeah? And how many times would I wear it? Once, twice tops, in my entire life!”
Pascal stopped in his tracks and swiveled toward her.
“You have just been nominated for a David Award. An award that will be nationally televised. I happen to know exactly what’s hanging in your closet, Cate. And I know you have absolutely nothing to wear, other than rags.”
“I already thought about that and I will borrow a dress from my friend Tina.”
“You are twenty-nine and you still live like a student. It’s pathetic.”
“I can’t afford to spend that much money on a dress. It’s fucking crazy!” she exploded.
“That’s exactly what I mean. This is the kind of attitude that reflects on every aspect of your life. Your film is going to win, I know it for a fact. And you are going to step up on that stage in someone else’s dress, a dress that won’t fit you right, in a pair of ugly shoes, and you will look just like another charmless, scruffy independent filmmaker. Fine, if that’s who you think you are.”
Caterina turned white with indignation and shock. This didn’t deter Pascal, who went on.
“You keep thinking anything you achieve is by fluke, by God’s gift or by some random benevolence? That you don’t deserve the attention, that you are an impostor in a world you don’t belong to? Great. Then keep on behaving like this and people will start believing it too. Their excitement about you will taper off, they will see you as less talented, less interesting, less special, because this is exactly what you project. Sorry.”
He made a move to cross the street but Caterina grabbed him by the arm.
“What people? Who are you talking about exactly?”
“I don’t know. People.”
“You mean a producer, like Balti?”
“Possibly.” He put on his dark glasses. “Forget about it. Let’s just go, okay?”
Whatever energy they’d just been floating on a few minutes earlier was gone. She had pierced the balloon with a pin and it had popped.
“What would you like to do now? You want to go back to the Lido and watch another film?” she asked.
“I’m starving. I need something to eat.” Pascal looked the other way.
She hated to have disappointed him. Suddenly she knew their time together in Venice had peaked inside Chanel, and that from now on things would go downhill. The rest of the adventure would turn into endless bickering over the tiniest choices.
“Wait.”
She reached up and slid his dark glasses off his nose with the tip of her fingers so she could see his eyes.
“You know it would be complete madness, don’t you?”
“Not at all. It means raising the stakes. It’s about feeling good about yourself and stepping up.” Pascal slid his glasses back against his brow.
Caterina took a deep breath. There were moments in life that were like thresholds. Caterina distinctly felt that she was crossing one right there, outside that beautifully designed shop window that spelled elegance and charm.
“Let’s go back inside then.”
The transaction took less than fifteen minutes. As they reentered the empty store they were met by such a show of gratitude from the girls in black that Caterina was instantly persuaded she had done the right thing. She and Pascal were made to sit down while one of the girls disappeared to retrieve the green gown in the dressing room while the other served them another espresso in their exquisite porcelain cups.
“How about the shoes, madam?” she asked “They looked so right with the dress …”
Pascal and Caterina exchanged a glance. He shut his eyelids and nodded imperceptibly. It was too late to turn back, and besides, six hundred and fifty euros sounded like a pretty good deal compared to the dress. Any three-digit number would have, at that point.
Caterina had made a few calls before reentering the shop, in order to avoid going into the red. There was a small check she was expecting from her producer, and a bit of credit she could juggle with the bank, plus her sister—bedazzled at the prospect of a real Chanel coming into the family—agreed to lend Caterina some money that she could pay back in installments. There was a moment of panic when Caterina’s card was denied, since the total amount was way beyond its limit. Pascal came to the rescue, offering his own credit card as added support, so that between the two of them the payment could go through. They waited for the slip to buzz out of the machine, and smiled to each other with relief.
Caterina realized she was sweating profusely, adrenaline shooting through her bloodstream as if she had just robbed a bank. She had to sit down, dizzy with excitement and fatigue, while the girls wrapped and hung the dress inside a black zippered bag with the white Chanel logo, and folded it inside another giant paper bag tied with a black silk ribbon.
The ride back to their musty pensione was enveloped in a daze, as though Caterina were coming down from a powerful drug, its energy now reduced to a softness that turned every muscle to mush. The people seated next to them on the vaporetto—a mix of tourists laden with bags and cameras, old Venetian ladies in housedresses and slippers, young mothers coming home from the supermarket—all appeared to be staring with timorous awe at the gigantic shopping bag with the two Cs entwined.
It was getting dark. Caterina turned to Pascal, who also appeared to be exhausted by all the emotions they’d gone through in the last hour.
“I hate that you are leaving me,” she whispered in his ear.
The Chanel dress, safely stowed on the train rack and then in the trunk of a taxi, made it all the way to the dreary neighborhood of Ostiense, where Caterina and Pascal lived in a two-bedroom flat above an electronics store and a cheap hairdresser.
As Caterina unzipped the bag, the silk organza unruffled itself, billowing like a flower in bloom. Gingerly she took the dress out and laid it on the bed. She held it for a moment, incredulous. She still couldn’t quite believe this ethereal, otherworldly thing belonged to her now. It looked so foreign, in its feathery splendor and exquisite details—the minuscule mother of pearl buttons, the silk lining, the bias cut—sprawled over the frayed bedspread, next to the old couch, the threadbare rug, the cluttered desk, the tangle of electrical cords on the floor. She felt bad for having kidnapped it from the plush environs where it had lived till then. Surely a dress like that had never lived in such a dingy place.
There was only one solution for the dress to fit in with the rest of her life, and that was to upgrade its surroundings. Out with the plastic hairclips, the worn-out shoes. Out with the slackening underwear, the faded T-shirts, the ugly knickknacks, the dusty magazines piled on the floor, the Ikea rug. In with fresh flowers, room fragrance, a cleaner desk, a new expensive matte foundation. As a precaution, she kept the dress well zipped up in its bag, so that it wouldn’t be contaminated by the lifeless clothes hanging next to it.
She made a few phone calls.
“Hey, you want to hear something crazy? I bought a Chanel dress!”
Her girlfriends flocked to the apartment, bewildered, as though she had bought a Matisse. Each time someone came for a showing, Caterina unzipped the bag slowly, letting some tiny feathers flutter out first, delaying its full revelation, like a stripper teasing the audience before unfastening her bra.
Not everyone knew what cruise collection meant, so she had to explain—being the haute c
outure expert now—that it was a mid-season collection that came between winter and spring. In the old days it meant exactly that: a line designed for wealthy customers going on cruises in warmer climates who needed extravagant clothes for their encounters on the deck. Think dancing in the ballroom of the Queen Mary. The cruise aspect made the dress even more romantic to her and her friends. Caterina associated it with Scott and Zelda, although she wasn’t quite sure if the Fitzgeralds had ever taken a cruise in their lives.
Invariably her girlfriends begged her to model the dress for them; they too wanted to get a reverberation of its glamour. Wobbling on the powdery pink sandals, strolling up and down the bedroom, which lacked the softness of the lampshades inside Chanel’s boutique, Caterina believed she looked amazing, despite the merciless light of the low consumption bulb.
Two days before the awards ceremony, while Caterina was washing her hair in the sink, the phone rang. A nasal voice announced herself as someone’s assistant who was in charge of the event.
Caterina felt a thrill go down her spine, managed to grab a towel and wrap it around her dripping hair, while the woman was saying something about arrangements for a pickup in a limo. She struggled to find a piece of paper and a pen to jot down the details. The thought of the limo, the image of her waxed and bronzed legs stepping out of it in her powdery pink high heels, occupied her mind for a handful of seconds, obliterating what the woman was saying.
“… pick you up at eleven fifteen, so we’ll make sure you’ll get to the theater by noon. Do you think that will give you enough time?”
“Yes, sure. Forty-five minutes will be plenty.”
She was about to add “It’s not like I live in the jungle” when her brain did a quick rewind.
The Other Language Page 7