by Ritz, David
“It’s a bit much, isn’t it?” asked Beauty.
“It’s exquisite. If you note, you’ll see each piece—the bureaus, the end tables, the love seats—is from the eighteenth century. This place is a marvel of elegant opulence. You see how much Primo values you, my dear, by the attention he has spent on this apartment.”
“I thought you said Dietrich Strom spent the time doing this, not Primo.”
“But don’t you see, Primo spent the time making sure that Dietrich would take this assignment. If you’re working for the Pope, Prince Charles, and Queen Sofia of Spain, you’re not easy to get. Last year, for example, I was told that Dietrich personally told Sophie, the Countess of Wessex, that he couldn’t possibly redo her summer castle for another five years. You can imagine then the importance he gives to a man like Primo Dalla Torre.”
As they wandered through the apartment, Anita saw that Beauty had put her things in the small bedroom. Anita began to comment but instead stayed silent. In the white-and-black-tiled kitchen she saw there was a double-door forty-eight-bottle wine cooler stocked from top to bottom.
“Let’s see what sort of refreshment the good signor has provided for us,” said Anita. She opened the cooler and brought out a bottle of red. “By God, a 1985 Barolo. We simply must have a taste.” Expertly opening the wine, she poured herself a glass. Beauty declined. “Well, my dear, I drink alone but I do not drink in sadness. I drink to you, sweet Beauty, and all the good fortune that life has in store for you. Merely to witness that good fortune is, for me, both an honor and pleasure.”
An hour later, after her third glass, Anita fell asleep on the antique armchair in the living room. Beauty had to pick her up and help her out. She couldn’t let her go home alone, so she rode in the car with her. Inside the taxi, Anita passed out again. When they arrived at the Gramercy Park brownstone, Beauty carried Anita out of the cab, into the elevator, into the apartment, and placed her in her bed. For reasons she didn’t quite understand, Beauty went to her old bedroom and spent the night there. The next morning, Anita woke up early and, discovering Beauty asleep, made her breakfast, just as she had done on that first morning, two years earlier, when the young girl had arrived from Atlanta.
It was as though Beauty was waiting for Primo to claim her. At least that’s how she felt. It was September in the city and the days were long and warm. Her initial reaction to the apartment—that it made her feel safe—began to change as time went by. She saw herself as a bird trapped in a gilded cage. She stayed away from the place as much as possible. That was easy because Anita had arranged for her to work in the Seventh Avenue design studio of Lena Pearl, whose women’s-wear line had been a strong seller last season. Unlike Soo, Lena had no conservative instincts. Raised in an artists’ colony by her folk musician grandparents—her own parents were victims of the sixties’ drug abuse—Lena encouraged Beauty to go through books on Abstract Expressionism and Pop Art to get ideas for dresses, blouses, and trousers. She also told her it was important to see foreign films and read good novels. Lena herself had gone to college and majored not in design but in English literature.
“Where will you be going to college?” asked Lena.
“I’m not,” said Beauty. “I guess the plan is for me to work and learn in the real world.”
“The imaginary world feeds the real world,” said Lena, who dressed in all black to make her short chubby body look smaller than it was. She had prematurely white hair—she was only forty—wore lots of rouge, and radiated a warm smile. “Were it not for poetry and music, literature and art, the real world would be drab and gray. The best fashion designers are well-rounded people who look outside their field for inspiration. I really think you should go to college.”
“Not a good idea,” said Anita when Beauty mentioned it to her.
“Why not?”
“I didn’t go to college. I had the chance. I even took a course or two. But I realized—and rightly so—that my youthful energy was better applied in the world of reality, not theory. Besides, the things I wanted to learn—the same things, I presume, that you want to learn, my dear—I learned on my own. And so can you. You can learn the history of fashion by reading books. You can learn about the major figures in the industry today by reading magazines. You can learn by going to runway shows, by going to the library, by digging out whatever information you feel is necessary to your growth as a designer. College will set you back years. You can’t afford to get behind. In our field, the competition is ferocious. I’ve given you a head start. Now Primo is placing you in the very front of the pack. You’ve got an edge, dear Beauty. Get distracted by the world of academia and you’ll lose that edge.”
“But Lena Pearl says a great designer must be well-rounded. She talks about novels and art films. Her best friends are painters and sculptors and musicians.”
“Lena Pearl was hot last year and maybe, if I decide to buy her line again for next season, she’ll stay hot for another year. But I don’t see her going beyond that. What you have to learn from Lena is to read the moment. She understands what a certain kind of woman is looking for today. That woman thinks of herself as being trendy, and Lena has caught the trend. But the trendy woman is a fickle woman. Oh, yes, she is, my dear. And Lena has yet to prove if she’s good for more than one or two seasons. At the most, I’ll give her three. So when she starts to lose touch and her line languishes, what good will her intimate familiarity with the arts do her? Right now it’s easy for her to pontificate because she’s making money. But come back when she’s not and see if she’s still singing the same song.”
Beauty considered Anita’s point of view. She didn’t reject it out of hand, but she also knew that Lena had struck a chord within her. Beauty loved fashion and harbored all sorts of ambition. No doubt about it; she wanted to make it at all costs. At the same time, she was curious about the wider world. She wanted to learn more. She wanted to be around college kids, college teachers. She yearned to take college courses. And when Lena Pearl mentioned that her best friend taught at Pratt Institute in Brooklyn, a noted institution of higher learning specializing in art, design, architecture, and the liberal arts and sciences, Beauty took the subway to Brooklyn to look over the school for herself. She decided to apply and, if accepted, would enroll next semester. She thought it best to mention none of this to Anita.
Meanwhile, the days went by as she waited for Primo’s arrival. He postponed his New York trip three different times because of pressing business somewhere else in the world. These postponements both relieved and agitated Beauty. Part of her never wanted Primo to arrive; another part of her just wanted to get it over with. She imagined what would happen. He’d show up at the apartment, see that she had chosen to sleep in the small bedroom, and immediately insist that she join him in his king-sized bed. She would refuse. He would insist. He would say, “Why in hell do you think I put you in this apartment?” She would say, “Because you want to help me.” He would say, “I am helping you. But this help comes with a price.” She would say, “I’m not willing to pay the price.” And he would say, “Then get the fuck out. And forget any ideas you might have about a design line of your own.”
Beauty would also imagine other scenarios: Before he arrived, she would move her things into his bedroom. The very first night, she would willingly submit to his advances. He would be gentle, kind, and tender. The lovemaking would be wonderful and satisfying. But then the scenario would turn sour when she thought of his age. He was old enough to be her father, even her grandfather. Sexually, older men had absolutely no appeal. In appearance and manner, they could not be any further from Power, the living symbol of her sexual desires.
After five weeks in New York, the phone call finally came on a Friday. Primo was in London.
“I’m finally getting there,” he said. “This has been such a hectic period, but I’ve cleared my schedule and will spend at least three weeks in New York. Monday I’m set to sign the papers that will give me ownership of Bloom’s. Mo
nday afternoon I’ll hold a press conference and announce my new plans. Anita will be by my side. I haven’t wanted to come to New York until I knew that the deal was done. Now it is. So I can relax. I’m terribly eager to see you, Beauty. Anita tells me you’re doing great. Are you getting used to the apartment?”
“Oh, yes, the apartment is lovely.”
“Dietrich Strom did a marvelous job, didn’t he?”
“He did.”
“I hope it’s not too fussy for you.”
“Not at all.”
“I land tomorrow about seven in the evening and should be at the Plaza by eight thirty. We won’t go out, Beauty. For our first night together, I think it would be better if we dined in. I’ve asked Daniel Boulud, the best chef in the city, to prepare one of his five-course tasting menus. He and his waiter may get there a little before me, but go ahead and let them set up. I want this to be an evening you’ll never forget.”
When she put down the phone, Beauty’s heart was heavy. She wasn’t ready to sell her body for a fancy apartment and a five-course tasting menu. But she had to face facts: That’s what she was doing. Until this call, her life had been on an even keel. She had been meeting Anita once a week for dinner at Da Tato. Afterward, she’d help the old lady, more stooped over than ever, upstairs and then put her to bed. She wondered how someone could drink as much as Anita and still be able to work. Beauty’s own work, though, was being supervised by Lena, who had encouraged her to audit a night course at Pratt on nineteenth-century art. Beauty had a found a good rhythm to her work and study. She felt grounded—until this call. This call from Primo had her feeling afraid.
When she awoke Saturday morning, she felt like fleeing, leaving this emotional mess behind her. But to where? And with what money? She had no funds except her monthly allowance from Primo. He was her sole support. She had agreed to this. She had made the decision. She had made her bed and now it was time . . .
She was due to meet Anita for lunch but decided to cancel. She didn’t want to face the old lady, not today. She called her and said, “I’ve got a lot to do today. Primo arrives tonight.”
“Oh, don’t you worry your pretty head about me,” said Anita. “I completely understand. This is a big day for you. And Monday will be a big day for us all. You will be at the press conference, won’t you?”
“I haven’t thought about it.”
“It will be something to see. The international business press will be in attendance. The coverage will be extensive. I’m certain we’ll make page one of the New York Times. After all, Bloom’s is a national institution. I can’t tell you how excited I am to see ownership shift from the Bloom family—those bastards have underappreciated me for decades—to a man of vision and guts. My life is changing, my dear, and so is yours.”
“Well, I must run,” said Beauty. “I have all these errands.”
That was a lie. She had no errands. She had nothing to do except think about what she would wear tonight. And even that problem was solved when, at two P.M, there was a knock on her door. A package was hand-delivered from Francoise Coteau, the most exclusive designer in Paris. It had been flown in from France. Inside were two articles of clothing. The first came with a card that said, “For dinner.” It was a long black evening dress, elegant and simple. The second came with a card that said, “For after dinner.” It was white silk lingerie, revealing and elaborate. Beauty examined them carefully. She waited an hour before she tried them on. The evening dress made her feel like a movie star. It fit perfectly. It was an extraordinary garment. The lingerie, which also fit perfectly, made her feel like a prostitute. She wanted to rip it to shreds, but she didn’t.
At four P.M., another delivery, this one from Tiffany. She opened the small blue box and found a pendant of petite round diamonds set in eighteen-karat white gold. There was no note.
At five P.M., the house phone rang. She was told that her hairdresser had arrived. A few minutes later Beauty opened the door and met Sheila.
“I’m from Elizabeth Arden,” she said. “I’ve come to do your makeup and hair.”
“You have?”
“Yes, weren’t you told?”
“No.”
“Well, you’re a lucky woman. Now where shall we work?”
Beauty wanted to send her away. She wanted to tell her that she wasn’t needed, but Beauty understood that she was needed. The woman had come to remake Beauty in whatever image Primo required.
They went into the master bathroom, where Beauty sat at a vanity table set in front of a large antique mirror. The woman trimmed her hair somewhat radically. “He wants a pixie look,” said Sheila. “And your makeup is not to be heavy. He doesn’t like heavy makeup. He also specified a certain rose-petal-pink shade of lipstick.”
Beauty was relieved that the haircut was becoming and the makeup light. She herself disliked heavy makeup and could derive some satisfaction from the fact that Primo did not want to paint her face to look like a whore. At the same time, he had not asked her whether she wanted this special treatment. But then again, the treatment was not for Beauty’s satisfaction—it was for Primo’s.
By six thirty, the woman was gone and Beauty decided to draw a bath. She did so in the master bathroom. The marble tub was enormous. She was careful not to disturb her makeup. She stayed in the warm bubbly water for a long while, her eyes closed, her mind heavy with thoughts of what the evening would bring. She tried to convince herself that she was the luckiest woman in the world. She had everything she could possibly want. Comfort. Luxury. A promising future. What was there to complain about? Why did she need to fill her head with doubts and regret, fear and self-condemnation? Forget those thoughts. Just enjoy the feeling of the warm water. Just enjoy the bath.
At seven thirty Daniel Boulud and a waiter, both dressed in white, arrived. They went directly to the kitchen to start preparations. Candles were lit in the dining room, where the place settings—antique sterling silver and Rosenthal bone china and crystal—were meticulously arranged. Meanwhile, Beauty put on the black evening dress and the diamond necklace. Inspecting herself in the mirror, she felt more glamorous than at any moment in her life—and more apprehensive. She felt both very expensive and very cheap.
At seven forty-five, Claude Browning, a violinist from the New York Philharmonic, arrived in a black tux. He explained that he would be providing the evening’s music. Beauty showed him to the living room, where he began to play classical selections. He played beautifully.
At eight, the phone rang. It was Primo. “I’m in the car and should be there within a half hour. Has Daniel arrived?”
“Yes.”
“Ask him to serve the pâté de foie gras. You must be starved.”
“I’m fine.”
“Did the clothes arrive from France?”
“Oh, yes, thank you.”
“And you like them?”
“I do.”
“And the necklace?”
“It’s beautiful. Thank you.”
“And did Elizabeth Arden send someone over?”
“Yes.”
“And the violinist?”
“He’s in the living room.”
“Good, so we’re all set.”
“Yes.”
“Just relax. Have a glass of Dom Perignon. See you in a few minutes.”
She sat in the living room while the waiter served champagne. The fragrance of the food cooking in the kitchen was enchanting. The pâté de foie gras was heavenly. Ten minutes passed. Then fifteen. Then thirty. Any second now she would hear a knock at the door. Any second now Primo would be arriving. Forty minutes passed. He must have gotten stuck in traffic. She had another glass of champagne. It was good to drink champagne. Good to get tipsy. Good to feel light-headed and lose her inhibitions. Tonight would be okay. Maybe even fun. And, if she could only wrap her mind around the fact that she was consorting with an older married man, maybe even romantic. The champagne would help. But now an hour had passed since he had called and she
sensed something was wrong. She waited another fifteen minutes and decided to call him on his cell number. It went directly to voice mail. What could have happened?
Daniel Boulud, a most charming man, came out of the kitchen and began to worry with her. “I’ve known Signor Dalla Torre for many years and have never known him to be late. I am hoping that nothing is wrong.”
Beauty felt foolish—sipping champagne, nibbling on pâté de foie gras, dressed in a fabulous evening dress, waiting for a man whom she barely knew. Maybe there had been an accident. Maybe he had changed his mind and remembered another kept woman whom he preferred. Maybe he had been kidnapped and was being held for ransom. Whatever it was, by ten o’clock, Monsieur Boulud, a world-renowned chef who had only agreed to cook this meal himself because of his close friendship with Primo, began making calls. Beauty had stopped drinking champagne. The violinist had stopped playing Schubert. The mood, sublimely romantic, had turned stone-cold. Fear was in the air.
Boulud was in the kitchen, speaking in a hushed voice. When he came to the living room, he was pale. He looked at her and spoke plainly. “I’ve just spoken to Primo’s assistant. In the car over here, he had a massive heart attack and was rushed to the hospital.”
“Is he all right?” Beauty asked.
“He’s dead.”
Her eyes went wide. She had no idea what to say or feel. She went numb. All she could think of was Anita. She would call Anita and Anita would know what to do. But no one responded at Anita’s apartment. She called Da Tato and asked if Anita was there, but she wasn’t.
By ten forty-five, Daniel Boulud, along with the waiter and violinist, had left. Beauty was alone in the apartment. She had never felt more alone in her life. She tried watching TV, listening to the radio, reading the newspaper, but nothing worked. Nothing could remove the confusion from her mind. After the falling-out with Nina, she had made no friends in New York. Solomon and Amir were in Chicago. She thought of calling them, but it was the middle of the night. She thought of calling Wanda Washington in Atlanta, but Wanda didn’t even know that Primo was supporting her. She felt frantic. She felt helpless. She realized that she was still wearing the black evening gown. She went to the small bedroom where she had kept the white lingerie in its box. She opened the box and touched the silky garment. Then she put on a pair of plain cotton pajamas and tossed and turned until sheer exhaustion pulled her into sleep.