Beyond the Snows of the Andes

by Beatrice Brusic

  “I couldn’t,” I say, reddening. “That wouldn’t be proper.”

  “Screw that,” she says. “Be brave, try it on. How often are you going to have a chance to wear a Balenciaga?”

  I don’t know what a Balenciaga is but I figure it must be a designer, and not wanting to appear ignorant, I say nothing. She helps me into the gorgeous garment and zips me up. The garment is tight on me and doesn’t hang the way it does on Mindy and the other models, but I still feel beautiful and rich in it.

  “It suits you,” she says with a smile. “You look great.”

  The door opens and Anne, the other model walks in unexpectedly and catches us in the act. I’m so frightened I’m shaking and taking pity on me, Anne apologizes for scaring me.

  “It’s not your fault,” I say blushing. “I had no business trying it on anyway, and thank God it wasn’t the management.”

  “If you want to do this,” says Mindy retouching her make up under the bright lights of the full length mirror. “I can help you, but it’s a tough business.”

  I can hardly contain my excitement and tell her I’ll do anything. She says the first thing to do is lose ten pounds, then she will take me to her agency and we’ll take it from there. The other models are appalled that Mindy is encouraging me, and they look at Mindy with disapproval. They take turns cautioning me against it but my mind is made up.

  Modeling seems to be meant for me, why else would I have ended up with this assignment? I don’t mind being a dresser temporarily but that’s not what I want to do the rest of my life. Anne, who is the most beautiful of the models, takes me aside and tells me that Mindy was very lucky; she had the right connections and a financial advantage to begin with, but that very few people work all the time.

  “It’s a killer business,” she says, seriously. “You don’t know what you are getting into.”

  I look at her carefully. She is tall and regal and has extremely short cropped hair that brings out her enormous, dreamy blue eyes.

  “I’ve been doing this for a long time and I don’t work all the time,” she says reading my mind. “This is a very competitive business. You get a few lucky breaks; do a few commercials, maybe a few bit parts in a movie but it dies there and you’re back to runway work again.”

  My eyes open wide. Bit parts in a movie, commercials, is she kidding? I would kill for a chance like that. I start taking my diet seriously and the pounds drop very quickly before my three month assignment ends at the museum. True to her word, Mindy puts in a good word for me at her agency, and they agree to see me at once.

  ~~~

  The agency is located on Seventh Avenue and Forty Second Street, and with sweaty palms, I take the elevator to the tenth floor. I stand before the glass door which reads simply, “BlueJay Models, Inc.,” with mounting anxiety. What if they hate me? What if they’re only seeing me because Mindy pressured them? Sometimes I can’t believe the nerve I have that keeps me trying all kinds of crazy things. At last, I open the door and make my entrance. There are lots of pictures of models in all kinds of different poses on the walls, and the receptionist smiles at me and tells me they were expecting me.

  She quickly takes my measurements and weight, listing me as a size seven model. She tells me to sit down and wait my turn and offers me a cup of coffee, which I gratefully accept. I take my seat next to a bunch of pretty women who look poised and experienced and try to appear nonchalant, but it’s an effort because looking at them I feel extremely nervous and insecure. What am I doing here? I’m sure that when my turn comes to see Miss Katz, who is the owner of the agency, I’ll make a fool of myself.

  At last everyone leaves and I’m the only one sitting there. A severe looking woman with dark eyes, dark short hair and a rather long nose ushers me into her office and introduces herself as Miss Katz.

  Mindy has spoken to me about her, warning me not to be intimidated by her stern manner and penetrating look. She said Miss Katz was once a top model herself, can spot potential the first time she sees it, but self confidence is the first thing she looks for, so I must try to appear self confident. But it’s impossible to appear self confident when I’m sitting in front of her nervously, wondering how this rather homely woman was once a top model. She eyes me carefully and finally smiles.

  “Okay, show me what you got, walk for me.”

  I get up and walk back and forth across the room the way Mindy showed me, and feel her eyes on my back.

  “You’ve got to do better than that,” she says lighting a cigarette. “Your posture is simply atrocious.”

  “I’m sorry, I…”

  “Your measurements are fine,” she says reading them. “Thirty four, twenty four, thirty four, and your weight is good at one hundred and twenty pounds, but you should try to get it down to one hundred and ten pounds, that would give you more leverage because in this business the thinner the better.”

  “Of course,” I respond, nervously.

  “But you’ve got to learn to walk like a model first; nobody will hire you with a hump like that.”

  “I practiced with Mindy… I thought I got it right.”

  “Not a chance,” she says getting up quickly. “This is how you walk, your back should be straight and your shoulders back. You must look like a queen, not a camel.”

  “I know I can do better.”

  “Come back when you’ve learned to walk, then we’ll see what we can do for you.”

  I thank her and leave the place quivering with excitement. She hasn’t said no, she hasn’t requested impossible things like losing fifty pounds or adding a couple of inches to my height. Full of joy, I call Mindy to share the news and she invites me to dinner.

  “We’ll practice together,” she says with a big smile. “Learning to walk the right way is a trick like everything else.”

  “But I’ve got a big problem with that, Mindy. My aunt used to hit me on the back every time I slouched. I was the tallest girl in my class and I hated it, so I learned to walk like The Hunchback of Notre Dame.”

  She laughs. “You’re not that bad. Let me get a book and we’ll practice.”

  “Don’t even bother, I can’t walk like that.”

  “Then we’ll do the next best thing, push your shoulders back and suck your stomach in like this when you walk, see how my chest comes out and my back straightens out?”

  I try it, she likes it and she says that’s what I should do from now on. I hug her and tell her I don’t know how to thank her, but she cautions me not to get too excited.

  “You haven’t gotten any jobs yet and that’s where the crunch comes in, a lot of people get sent out but very few gets the jobs, remember that.”

  “You mean the worst isn’t over yet?”

  She utters a little throaty laugh. “Not by a long shot. We’ve gotten to step one, she met you, she liked you, now she has to send you out and they have to hire you, that’s when you really become a model.”

  My face falls. “This isn’t going to be simple, is it?”

  “No, but that’s what distinguishes the amateurs from the professionals, you can’t give up, you must keep knocking on doors till somebody says yes.”

  “I will, Mindy, I’m very serious about this.”

  “You also need the right clothes,” she says observing me. “I don’t mean to insult you but those aren’t going to make it.”

  “I know,” I say looking at the cheap pair of black pants and white sweater I got on sale at Alexander’s. “This was all I could afford.”

  “What do you do with your money? They must be paying you at least a hundred a week at the museum.”

  “They are,” I say, “but I have other expenses.”

  I want to tell her that every cent left over goes to my mother, but that’s a private matter. She was obviously born to wealth and privilege and could never understand someone wanting for the basic necessities of life. She doesn’t know that a thousand new clothes wouldn’t give me the satisfaction I get from helping mother, from fu
lfilling my promise to her. I’m making a difference in her life at last, and that’s a great feeling.

  “Follow me,” she says guiding me to her huge wall closet full of clothes. “I have some clothes here which are too big on me. I lost weight because of the troubles with my ex-husband and never regained the weight. I must say that was the only good thing that came out of that rotten marriage.”

  She pulls out beautiful pant suits, long skirts, jackets and coats, all with designer labels, “Channel, Christian Dior, Oscar de la Renta, Ives Saint Laurent and lots of others, and my eyes are popping and I think I’m dreaming.

  “This is much too fine for me,” I protest meekly. “I don’t know where I’ll wear all these beautiful clothes.”

  “You’ll wear them when you go on interviews, because in the new career you have chosen, you have to look the part.”

  “Oh, Mindy, you’re so good to me. I don’t know what I did to deserve a friend like you.”

  “I’m going to give you some false eyelashes too, and you’ll have to practice putting them on till they feel right. Your eyes are your best feature and we must take advantage of them.”

  She shows me how to apply make up and blush on, and how to delineate my lips with a liner the way I’ve seen my aunt do it hundreds of times when I was a child.

  “We have to do something about your hair too,” says Mindy looking at my shoulder length hair. “It’s very pretty but it has no style and it looks old fashioned. Come see me early tomorrow morning and I’ll take you to my hairdresser, he is a genius and will know what’s best for your face.”

  “I don’t think I can….”

  “Afford it? Don’t worry about it. I’ll take care of it.”

  “But you’ve given me so much already.”

  “Dinner is ready,” she says answering the doorbell. “Let’s go get it, shall we?”

  We dine on salmon and vegetables and my favorite singer Al Martino is playing his huge hit, “Blue Spanish Eyes” which always remind me of mother. She sends me home in a cab with my precious merchandise in tow. I feel elated about the wardrobe but worry about fitting it in my tiny bedroom closet. I solve the problem by putting it in a big plastic bag and keeping it under my bed.

  She takes me to her hairdresser as promised the next day, and he gives me a short, bouncy hairstyle that’s perfect for my face.

  “You’re very lucky with the hair color,” he says running his fingers through my hair. “It’s an old gold, very pretty.”

  His words bring back memories of my aunt when she would put oil on my hair and watch it glistening against the sun like “Oro Viejo.” [“Old Gold”].

  “You should always wear it like that,” says Mindy, proud of her idea. “That’s exactly what you needed.”

  I look in the mirror and I’m delighted. The haircut made my eyes look bigger and my round face thinner. I had read somewhere that men make the best cooks but now I know they make the best hairdressers too.

  I wear a red suit for my second interview and Miss Katz smiles at me appreciatively. I walk for her again and she nods.

  “Better, much better but not quite where it should be. Keep practicing; good posture is extremely important in this business. Do you know why I called my agency BlueJay?”

  “No, I can’t say that I do.”

  “Do you know what a Blue Jay is?”

  “No.”

  “A Blue Jay is a beautiful, graceful bird, and that’s how I want my models to be, elegant and graceful like that bird.”

  I thank her and leave quickly, but the receptionist stops me by the elevator.

  “Where are you going? She’s going to start sending you out today.”

  She hands me a card that reads, “Introducing Vicky Morales as a model, size seven.” I’m thrilled and wonder if everyone feels the same way their first time out. The address is a few stops on the train and in my haste to get there; I get off the wrong stop and have to walk three long blocks in the rain. It’s a big warehouse and I’m wondering whether I got the wrong address when a young man asks me, “Are you looking for Perot and Swartz Dresses?” I nod and he guides me inside and tells me to wait. I look around in dismay. I had hoped my first assignment would be more memorable than this dusty, desolate place but Mindy has said one must take anything at the beginning, and I try hard to hide my disappointment.

  A fat disheveled looking man with a huge belly and a cigar in his mouth comes to meet me and takes me inside without a word. The smell from his cigar is so overpowering, I start to choke. He looks at me with disgust and proceeds to take my measurements as if I were a lifeless store mannequin.

  “Too narrow in the hips,” he mumbles. “I told the agency I needed a thirty six hip.”

  I get out of there angry and confused. What was I supposed to do there if I were the right size? Stand around there all day letting him paw me? I call the agency and they say to go home, come back tomorrow. I call Mindy and she says he was probably a designer, and yes I would have to work there every day and let him take his measurements.

  “But he was so awful, Mindy, and so rude.”

  She sighs and says. “Welcome to the real world, kiddo, that’s what modeling is all about.”

  I go home crestfallen and feeling rather cheap in my expensive two piece suit.

  “That was just one interview,” I tell myself. “Tomorrow will be much better.”

  By now Teresa and Cindy have noticed a change in my appearance, and ask me if I got a raise. I tell them the truth and Cindy’s eyes glow with excitement.

  “Cool! That’s what I want to do too. Maybe you can help me later on?”

  “Cindy,” yells Teresa, disapprovingly. “Where are your manners? I’m killing myself so you can go to college and you’re talking about becoming a model? Are you crazy?”

  She apologizes but they both treat me differently now, with more curiosity and grudging admiration, and I marvel at the power of imagery, they see what I saw at the beginning, a life filled with riches, glamour and excitement, but my little stint with the designer has left nothing to the imagination, and my modeling fee is only going to be two hundred dollars a week, one hundred dollars more than I was already making, hardly enough to allow someone to paw me and treat me like an object.

  I forget that bad experience and keep going to the agency daily, but the reality of what the other models said to me doesn’t take long to sink in, and I begin to realize that in this business designers view a model as a human hanger, an object with no feelings. I’m told to my face that I’m too fat, too short, too shy, too inexperienced for their clothes, and get dismissed with a wave of their hand. They measure me as if I were a straw doll and talk about me as though I didn’t exist. I’m asked to try on the skimpiest gowns and they take turns handling me as they discuss the shape of my buttocks or the outline of my belly which barely shows through their clothes, as though I had committed a crime for having a shape.

  “I wanted Twiggy,” says a distinguished middle aged man, with derision. “And they sent me Marilyn Monroe, big ass and all.”

  I can’t believe what I see and hear. Where is the glamour? Where are the exciting jobs like the one at the Met? I’m mortified and depressed most of the time, and through a fog of hunger, exhaustion and eye irritation due to the false eyelashes, I try to discern my emotions. Is it the constant rejection that’s hurting or is it something else? I’ve always been very clear about my feelings; it’s been both my greatest asset and biggest problem in life, but this time I can’t pinpoint the problem. I expected to struggle, to start up at the bottom, but I never expected to feel this low, as though I were worth nothing, and as I take a long walk in Central Park among the wolf whistles of passersby, it comes to me all of a sudden, and salty, angry tears burn my eyes.

  I can live with all the sacrifices I’m making such as skipping meals constantly in order to maintain my weight, walking on high heels I totally detest, even putting up with the endless rejection, but I can’t live without respect. I’v
e been a wig maker, a saleslady and a dresser but I have been respected. I did my work, collected my pay check and went on from there. I went home, went to bed and woke up still myself, with dignity and a good feeling that I was earning my living decently. I don’t wake up that way anymore. Now I’m anxious and irritated and feel cheaper in these expensive outfits than in the bargain clothes from Alexander’s.

  I don’t like the way they view and handle my body. I don’t like the way they leer at me. I don’t like trying on bathing suits, bras and intimate apparel in front of lecherous old men. I want desperately to succeed but I’m becoming disillusioned and weary, to say nothing of going broke. I’ve been job hunting for three weeks now but it feels like a year. I don’t know if I’ll have the stamina to continue. Mindy tells me I’m too thin skinned and need to develop a tougher skin to survive in this business but I think you need a rhinoceros skin, and I don’t think I’ll ever get it. I realize now that jobs like the Met are rare and that I only saw the glamorous side of the business.

  ~~~

  Miss Katz sends me for a four week assignment in a bridal show and I’m shocked that nobody handles me, nobody makes snide comments, they simply ask me to try on a beautiful, diaphanous gown, walk up and down the showroom, and I’m hired on the spot. Breathless with excitement I call Miss Katz, and she cautions me to save my money because months may pass before I get a similar assignment.

  I call Mindy and she says “congratulations, now you’re a real model.” She takes me out to dinner at the “Tavern on the Green” to celebrate and I think I’m dreaming. It’s simply the most beautiful restaurant I have ever seen, and I can’t get over the romantic, ornate interior. I look at the flamboyant mirrored walls and elaborate chandeliers with awe.