You did not leave me when you went to Montreal, Mignonne. You left a shell. A man without choices or responsibility is not a man.
I summon the energy to write you now only because life may be starting anew. I have received a letter from a colleague who assures me he will have me reinstated into active duty. He swears the U.S. will join the war before long. I should not allow myself to feel excitement, but it has been months since I’ve seen even a glimmer of promise. Perhaps I may yet catch up to the world that has rushed so heedlessly and heartlessly ahead of me.
I write in careless haste driven by an impulse to tell you, after all this time and before I depart, that I have come to see your wisdom. You were right to discard the empty casing I had become, and to not permit falsely optimistic thoughts of me to draw you away from your duty to your mother. And you are right to follow your own path without me now, wherever it leads, for I will at last be on my way, too.
I do not ask when you will come back to New York, or what you will do upon your return. I do not ask that you write to me (though should you wish to upon my departure, simply request my overseas address from Lamotte). I only say remember me, and in doing so, let there be no disagreement between your thoughts and your acts.
Antoine
I remembered him—in Montreal as well as in New York, as I walked the streets of the Garment District wondering what, indeed, I would do now that I had returned.
On West 50th, I found myself in the middle of a string of chatting, shapely girls.
“Almost there,” said one, smiling broadly at me.
“Where?”
“Oh! The union office. They’re picking the prettiest machine operator. You ain’t in the pageant? You don’t want to be famous? Gosh, that’s lucky for me!”
I almost followed her through the door of the Ladies’ Garment Workers building. I had the looks then; I know that now. I had a name, for what it was worth. Beyond that? A stack of drawings no one wanted to see, a stolen collection I couldn’t sell, a heart yearning for a man whose own heart was pledged to the stormiest of skies.
Only Madame Fiche had spoken of a real future. Of designing, of talent.
Of success.
4
Madame opened her studio door without a hint of surprise. She had me sit with my back to the butterfly dress again, as if not seeing it would lessen my resentment. Instead, I felt its presence spur me to boldness. “All right, Madame. Tell me: why should I work for you?”
She said, “You went north after final exams last year, yes? Were you in New York in March, when the L-85 regulations were announced?”
“I came back just two weeks ago.”
She ticked garment regulations, like grievances, on her fingertips: “Tucks, pleats, sleeve widths, dress lengths. Everything not slender and stingy: gone.” She fluttered her fingers as though to say goodbye. “You fancy yourself a designer; I require assistance. I am willing to let you prove your value. To create memorable work within the new regulations requires a master craftswoman as well as a couturier’s flair. But as you are here, you will suffice.”
Madame Fiche knew exactly what I could do, how hard I could work. At NYFS, I had learned to make patterns, and to cut fabric, and to sew swiftly and carefully, tirelessly. I had learned finishing techniques. I had learned that the harder you work, the harder you are asked to work; the greater your desire and pride, the more the fool. Under Madame, I had worked harder than anyone. She had pushed me, loading me with extra assignments in addition to those given to the entire class. It had been clear that she had been testing me, maybe even grooming me.
I said, “I’ve already shown my worth by creating the butterfly designs.”
“You think socialites today desire to look like insects? Do you? If that is your vision, tell me now. I would very much like to know.”
“You tell me, Madame. Did you get any orders?”
“They were immediately withdrawn when the restrictions came down.”
“I’m sorry,” I said, though I was not; I was relieved there were no women walking around in the dresses I had designed.
“You did not come here to console me, n’est-ce pas? I have much to do to get this business back on track, and no time to waste. I have heard there are plans for an event that showcases American designers. It will bring newsmen from all over the country. Fashion Week, or Fashion Press Week, I believe it will be called. We must secure an invitation to participate. We must develop our reputation, our own clientele. First we conquer within our niche. For this, I need you.”
“You said I didn’t understand American women.”
“I am not hiring you to understand them. The less we see of them, the better—until we are so successful that they come begging to wear our clothes. Do you know what they call our countrymen? ‘Nazi-lovers.’ ‘Cowards.’ They say these things to me, as I stand in their drawing rooms with a measuring tape around my neck. What do you think they will say when their own sons are sent to die along the Seine? Do you think American mothers will wish to wear a label that says ‘atelier’ instead of ‘studio,’ or a dress that emulates the Parisians? No, Mignonne, we will not focus our efforts on Americans. We will focus on the French.”
The French? How was even a single Frenchwoman to order an Atelier Fiche design?
Unless she had fled to New York. Of course. Madame had decided to focus on the émigrés. This would be her niche: the largest, wealthiest group of French cultural elite outside of Paris. No designer had yet made this clientele his own.
Madame was not a member of the community’s exclusive club, the Alliance Française. From the looks of things, she could not afford the fee. Neither could I, for that matter—but my relationship with the Alliance ran deeper than money could reach. She wanted to use my connections as she had used my designs. This from the professor who had driven me to work the skin of my fingers to bleeding, to perfect the details, to never compromise. She hadn’t even let her students backstitch to lock the thread at the end of a run; she had insisted we pull both threads to the same side and knot them by hand.
“I thought you didn’t go in for shortcuts, Madame.”
“And yet I offer you this one.”
That wasn’t what I meant.
She said, “I suppose I am a sentimentalist. You have so much potential, yet no future in this industry. Your family name won’t bring you success on its own; it will take you years to build a fledgling reputation such as I already enjoy. Even if you can afford a workspace and supplies, much of the fabric I have here can’t be purchased anymore; just try to find European wools and Oriental silks. It could be years before the shelves are restocked. But shall I tell you why I really pity you? It is because you don’t have the character to make it in fashion on your own.”
“You’re wrong,” I said, but I could not hold Madame’s gaze. How could she be anything but right? The proof was in the outcome of my portfolio critique: I had let myself be tricked and used. I had been prepared to fail.
“Then perhaps you are too proud to earn your keep?”
“I work very hard, and you know it.”
“You used to. I offer you the chance to do so again.”
“For pay.”
“Mon Dieu. You are so pedantic. Naturally there is little salary until we have an established clientele. I expect you to prove your value.” She paused. “I will give to you a weekly stipend to start, as a gesture of goodwill, plus a percentage of sales. Not all underlings could hope for as much. Naturally, you must bring in commissions.”
“Me?”
“You are expecting to be rewarded for simply showing up?”
The old nervous shaking started up in my knees, but I took a deep breath. Madame might be able to find someone who matched my skills, but none who was a Lachapelle. If she really wanted me, if she needed me in order to gain a foothold with the wealthy expatriates, I wasn’t powerless.
I lifted my chin. “I’ll prove myself. And when I do, you’ll make me a partner in the studi
o. Promise it.”
“But of course,” Madame said lightly, as easily as if I had asked her to pass a box of pins.
Leo didn’t come home that night—he seemed to have more on the go than just building rides and rails—so I left him a note the next morning: “I got a job. I’m starting today. I’ll tell you about it when I get home.”
At the studio, I had hardly put down my purse when Madame Fiche handed me a sheet of paper and pointed to a haphazard pile of pattern pieces. “Redraft the pattern to these measurements and sew up a muslin for fitting. My new client, Mrs. Brossard, had her former couturier drop off her measurements so we can get under way immediately. The client is in a terrific rush, a crisis. You’ll need to confirm or correct the size tomorrow when we see her. Leave a good degree of selvage on the muslin. In fact, construct a second muslin at least a size larger all around; when we see her we will know which one to work with.”
“Wouldn’t it be better to take the client’s measurements ourselves?”
“She is away until tomorrow; even I have not yet met her. Shall we proceed immediately, or do you prefer that we render it impossible to meet her deadline? The lady demands speed. She shall have it—if you will deign to apply yourself to that which you have been hired to do. Tomorrow we will go with the two muslins and fit the most appropriate one directly on her. The next day, we deliver the finished coat. It will be fun to work so quickly, don’t you think?”
Maybe not, but I felt the exhilaration of having finally returned to the work I was meant to do. I smiled throughout each step: planning, shifting pattern pieces to maximize use of the fabric, tracing shapes onto the muslin with dressmakers’ chalk. At one point, I laughed aloud, delighted by the weight and fit of my favorite old shears in my hand.
Madame, who was grumbling through a box of paper on the floor, looked up in surprise at the sound. Her hand stopped clawing through the stack of papers. I thought her mind paused its churning, too. She sat back on her haunches to watch me work, and her face slowly released its tightness. For a moment—it could have been the light; it could have been the odd angle (for I had rarely had occasion to look down on her)—Madame looked vulnerable, open. She looked human.
A few minutes later, she wandered over to critique my work, but her inspection lacked focus and her criticism was without basis or bite. By midafternoon, she took a ring of keys from a nail near the door, removed one, and handed it to me. “Lock up when you leave. I will meet you here at ten o’clock tomorrow; we depart at ten fifteen for Mrs. Brossard’s. Ensure that the muslins are what they should be.”
I worked alone, relishing the wide-open workspace, content in the relative silence. I completed the pattern and the simple muslins, and then—as the sunlight pulled away from the studio walls—I treated my surroundings to a much-needed general cleaning.
Before drawing the door closed behind me and locking it, I stood gazing at the space. It was generous and, even in the early evening’s slanting light, blessed with a brightness that I had come to crave since moving into my brother’s apartment. I could survive living in that dungeon, shoulder to shoulder with Leo, if I could escape every day to this. The immense space that was Atelier Fiche would be, in every hour I could manage to be here in solitude, mine and mine alone.
5
I stopped at a liquor store after leaving the studio, slipping through the iron-hatched door just as the proprietor was ambling over to lock up for the night, and picked out a bottle of wine. I checked the contents of my pocketbook, then bought a bottle of whisky, too, selecting one with a familiar name.
Leo greeted me at the apartment in his work uniform, the shirt open and belt undone. “Hello, Mig!” There were dark crescents under his eyes. The skin of his face was dull and shadowed. He bared his teeth in a slightly frightening grin.
I handed him the paper bag.
“And hello, Jack Daniels!” he said. “Looks like you got your first paycheck already.”
“That could be a while coming. But pour us a couple of glasses and we’ll talk. Have you eaten?”
“We’ll have dinner at the Alliance Française tonight to celebrate. But first,” Leo readied our drinks as I settled onto the couch, “here’s to my little Miggy. To the success of your new job. Clink, clink.” He touched his whisky glass to my wine goblet.
“Thank you.” I sipped.
He tossed back his glass and rubbed his hands together. “Okay, out with it. Story time! Going to be a good one, I can feel it.”
I swirled my wine and took a drink, and Leo topped up my glass before I could even set it down. “I went back to Madame Fiche’s studio yesterday.”
“You did? Excellent. Now you’re learning to turn the screw. How much did you get out of her?”
“Nothing yet.”
“What did you ask for?”
“She hired me.”
“Wait a minute. That’s your new job? Working for her?”
“It’s a good opportunity. She has a big space and all the tools, and fabric stacked up like you wouldn’t believe. And she says I can use whatever I need. I can design there. And she’s a rising star.”
“Christ, Miggy! You’re supposed to be the bloody star in this picture, not the salope who stole your stuff. Work for some other designer.”
“No one will even consider me. Madame knows me; she knows what I can do.”
“She better be paying you good.”
“She’s going to make me a partner.”
“When?”
“Eventually.”
“Oh, eventually. Well, that makes everything okay.” He twirled the cap from the whisky bottle on the table. “You said your first paycheck could be a while. How long is a while?”
“I have to prove myself. That’s how it works. Besides the regular work, you’ve got to bring in clients and commissions and help make the studio a success.”
“Goddamn it, Mig. There are loads of jobs for girls now. Good regular jobs, nine to five, punch the clock and cash the honest-to-goodness check.”
“Not in fashion. If you’re trying to make a name for yourself it can be kind of all or nothing.”
Leo poured another whisky and downed it, then went to the shotgun kitchen and came back holding my note. He read aloud: “ ‘I’ll tell you all about it when I get home tonight.’ Notice something? You called this place your home.” He flicked the paper close to my nose. When I didn’t flinch, he slumped onto the couch and drank. “That’s fine,” he said. “Stay as long as you want. But you’re going to have to make an actual wage—eventually—or start digging into Papa’s treasure trove.”
“You have a mean way with words.”
“I’m just telling you straight. I can’t keep us in mink on my own.”
“I’ll get my own place.” How could I, though? I couldn’t chip away at my inheritance. I had promised myself (typed it up like a contract, signed it, and filed it away) that I’d use that money to start my own design studio one day. Any other use would “expressly constitute and represent” notice that I had given up on my dream—and on Papa’s hopes for me.
“Nah, stay. It’s not so bad having you here. Besides, Mother would kill me.” He opened a drawer in the side table and pulled out a pack of cigarettes and a Zippo. After flicking the lighter and pulling smoke into his lungs, he let his shoulders relax. His head tipped back against the fraying brocade. He spoke through smoke rings. “At least you haven’t asked me where I was last night.”
“Where were you?”
“Leaving everything but my body on the poker table.” He emptied his lungs with a forceful sigh.
“I can get a second job to help with the rent. I can probably wait tables for Uncle Yannick.”
“You think so? Because I’m thinking an ‘all or nothing’ job is ‘all or nothing,’ if you know what I mean. Put it this way. If you’re ever not here when I get home, I’ll know exactly where you are. And I get home very, very late sometimes.” He picked up the wine bottle and filled my glass. By the
time we left for the Alliance, I was woozy.
As I’m a tiny bit woozy now. But mustn’t nap in the airport, much as I would like to. A slack, snoring maw is not quite oh-so-Mignonne-NYC. I could catch a cab home, sleep. Or return to the studio, back to the fray.
Or give myself over to waiting, stranded by rain: unreachable, not at work, not at home, not away. Think through my talk for Expo. Inspiration is like reimagining a garment. Parse the elements, recut the pieces, use from the past what resonates today. There’s no backstitching in stories. Nothing can be locked in place.
“Tell me a good one, Miggy.” That’s what Leo used to say. “Use your noodle and lay on the sauce. Can’t remember? Make it up. Can’t know? Don’t tell me so. Borrow someone else’s story if you don’t like your own.”
6
Consuelo starts awake. The days are like this now: either she is all on, a whirlwind, or she is nodding asleep. Once upon a time, she could not have imagined growing sleepy in an airport. Airports were places of drama: of passionate reunion, of desperate waiting for news, of fears so acute they poisoned her veins and made her faint. She had been in her prime then. In her thirties—for love, not age, is the measure of a woman’s prime.
Love and passion—and, it follows then, fear.
There is the problem. She has nothing to lose anymore, nothing to fear. So little to stay awake for. At sixty-six years of age, she lives a quiet life in Paris with her gardener, she writes her memoirs, she sculpts. She makes it her life’s mission to keep her late husband’s stories alive. One above all: the story of their love. Without her love, he would have been nothing. Without his story, she would be nothing now.
An announcement is broadcast: New York–bound passengers, expect delays and cancellations. In Paris, it is a perfectly sunny morning, hot for late May. Consuelo takes off her cat-eye sunglasses, moistens a fingertip with her tongue, and smooths her eyebrows before approaching the counter at her gate.
Anio Szado Page 3
