Anio Szado

by Studio Saint-Ex

The counter girl is putting down the phone. She looks more like a tourist than a representative of Air France, her scarf unknotting, her hat askew. Is she allowed to wear dangly earrings like that?

  Consuelo loathes the 1960s. Its out-there aesthetic has left her behind. She asks, “There is a problem with weather?”

  “A freak system’s stalled over New York. Nothing’s moving in or out. Could last a couple of days.” The girl chews gum steadily as she checks Consuelo’s ticket. “The Montreal flight should be fine, madame. Maybe some turbulence. Visiting family in Canada?”

  How they underestimate her, these people. “I have an open invitation from the mayor of Montreal to return to the world’s fair. I was a guest of honor at the opening.”

  “Expo 67?”

  Consuelo detests the official, generic name. Expo means only exposition, ’67 is only the year. “Terre des hommes,” she says.

  “Well, enjoy. Try to catch Expo, too, while you’re there.”

  An hour later, she has finished a scotch and soda on the plane. She is resting her eyes, settling in for the long boredom of the flight. She would rather face a tempest than tedium—and just as well, for she attracts bad weather like a dog attracts stink. She was born in a cyclone and an earthquake. And a volcano. (As she ages, more details of her birth come to her, each more lurid and surreal.) She used to blame herself for the storms that threatened her husband’s planes. She suspected floods in India and mudslides in Mexico were somehow her doing. She was like the quake that had birthed her: her tremors spread wide.

  She used to pray that the Lord would relieve her of her curse, but today her powers of disturbance have proven their worth. A freak system stalled over New York! Today of all days, when, according to the American fashion news, Mignonne Lachapelle means to fly from New York to Montreal. To the fair, to a podium. To take credit where no credit is due.

  Consuelo, if anyone, deserves the honor. It was her husband’s book, his art, their life. Mignonne only used him, and her, and the story Consuelo holds so dear. Consuelo had been planning to say so at Mignonne’s presentation, speak up and make a fuss, draw the attention of reporters her way. It is why she chose to fly to Montreal this day.

  What fun it would have been! Now she wishes Mignonne would make it to the fair after all.

  Consuelo would call off the storm if she only could. She would propel the designer from runway to runway, and cross their fates again. But how?

  She had done it before, long ago: drawn Mignonne into her path, into her home, into her arms. What powers Consuelo had possessed then! But how had she done it? How had she set the stage and laid her traps?

  She has always been her own best teacher. She settles deeper into her seat and casts her mind back.

  In the dim evening light of a Checker cab in Manhattan in April 1942, Consuelo glanced seductively at her companion as she nudged her dark hair into place behind her ears, but Binty paid her no mind: he was practicing the words she had taught him for the night’s visit to the Alliance Française. She could teach him a hundred languages! Spanish, French, English … though he already spoke English … and if she concentrated, probably several more. But there were so many demands on her time. And why should she bother to educate him? He couldn’t even summon the decency to look at her. He was mouthing French words as he examined his manicured nails.

  “Bonjour,” he muttered, as though it were two words. Bone juror.

  She snapped open her compact and dabbed at the tip of her nose, at her delicate nostrils and charming chin, and at the goddamn hollows below her eyes. Consuelo’s supple skin was her South American birthright. It had been the envy of her friends in Paris, and used to make her husband crazy with desire—but already, just four months after her arrival in New York, the city was sucking the life from her skin. She examined the compact’s applicator pad. Even in this light, she could see it was yellowing. Just like her! The natural oils that kept her looking so much younger than her forty years were being sucked from her skin and absorbed into the cake of powder. The makeup had lost its delicacy; its pinkish bronze surface was becoming mottled and slick. Even the mirror turned against her. It didn’t reflect her beauty. It hated her. It glared.

  Her old compact, gold-plated, bought in a tiny perfect Parisian store, had shown her features softened through a shimmering, translucent film. Too bad her husband had deflected it with his arm when Consuelo had flung it at him last week.

  It was he who put the dark hollows below her eyes. They would be gone if she could sleep, if he would only let her lay her head upon his furry chest.

  She raised her voice to speak to the cab driver. “It’s at the corner of East 52nd, with the flags.”

  “I know it, ma’am.”

  “Countess,” she corrected as the car drifted across lanes. She might have let his error pass if he’d called her miss instead of ma’am.

  “Driver,” said Binty, “can’t you push it any faster? The comely countess and moi are dying for a drink.”

  Consuelo giggled. Thank God for her little lover. He was so carefree compared to the men she had been with in France, especially when it came to his pocketbook. She had only to ensure that Binty was never bored. He was up for any excitement. As long as Consuelo was “happy, titled, and entertaining,” as he had said when they met, he would be happy too. She had slapped him once and kissed him twice, and taken him to her bed.

  It was impossible for Consuelo to be boring. She had tried it once and failed.

  “Are you nervous, darling?” she asked.

  “I’m never nervous.”

  “Tonio’s not the violent type. He’s probably not going to hit you. Especially not at the Alliance Française.”

  “Another good punch-up thwarted.”

  “It would be no joke if he did hit you. He’s very strong, you know. He’s awfully tall.”

  “I’ve seen your husband. Several times.”

  “Actually, he might hit you. Especially at the Alliance. He’s desperate to salvage his reputation there.”

  “To hit or not to hit: which would you prefer?”

  “If you take off your glasses, he might hit you.” The truth was, if Tonio loved her he would hit Binty either way; that’s what it came down to. Even his detractors would find that noble. Unless, of course, they thought the two men unfairly matched.

  “It’s too bad you aren’t taller,” she said.

  “I don’t need to be tall.” He held up his wallet as the taxi waited in traffic.

  He was right. Tonio would never win over those who had become hostile to him if he hit Binty. So what if Binty was a nouveau riche American while Tonio was a French national treasure? If the expatriates had shown Consuelo anything, it was that neither literary awards nor an aristocratic name could protect a man from the venom of his countrymen. Wealth, on the other hand, was the great magnetic unifier—and Binty was moneyed in fabulous and intricate ways.

  As for Tonio, the Germans had blocked access to his bank accounts, which were likely empty anyway. His royalty checks never lasted long. Back when he and Consuelo had lived together in France, they had burned through his checks faster than he could write. And his inheritance? Too small, and long gone. Tonio’s father had died young and his maman seemed bent on living to an old age. God bless the mother, though: if it hadn’t been for her horror at the prospect of a son’s divorce, Consuelo’s claim on Tonio would have vanished in a court of law. In fact, if it hadn’t been for the matriarch’s saintly closed-mindedness, they might never have gotten around to legalizing the marriage at all. But now Consuelo maintained every right to demand her share of her husband’s heart—as well as his new celebrity.

  He had become a phenomenon here, the man the New York Times called upon to explain the nature and vagaries of France, the only modern Frenchman to have his novel on every shelf. How trying it must be to have the Anglos clamoring for pieces of him, while his own elite compatriots seethed with jealousy. His life would be sweeter—and much easier—if only
he would return to the bosom of her love.

  What communion of souls they had known in their early days! In the stretches when he was not off flying over heathen lands, they had immersed themselves in all-night, wine-soaked dinners with delightful friends. She had insisted they surround themselves with beauty in their every hotel and home. An artist needed beauty: expensive antiques, closets glistening with fine French fashions, exquisite perfumes and cosmetics that were a woman’s duty to acquire. Such marvelous times. Consuelo had hoped against all odds to rekindle them in New York.

  So much for hope. Tonio had sent a friend to fetch her from the gangplank. True, they had both long since given up on faithfulness, but that didn’t excuse a man from the requirement to serve his wife. He had claimed his absence was to avoid the ever-ravenous photographers. And there had indeed been photographers waiting. Before disembarking, she had run back to her cabin twice to check her makeup and hair. Imagine wanting to avoid photographers; it was absurd. It was an outrage that he hadn’t wanted to be seen with her at the port—and worse that in the months since her arrival, he had not yet changed his ways.

  Did he think she would just roll over and slink back to her cave? She squeezed Binty’s knee.

  He asked, “You’re sure your husband is at his club tonight?”

  “He’s there.” Probably with some fawning Fifth Avenue socialite.

  “It would have been a lot easier to invite him to join us at your place. That could be good for some raving and pummeling. I might even pick up a dashing scar or two.”

  “That’s not the point, darling. Why should I stay out of his way if he’s taking his friends out on the town?” The other evening, Consuelo had seen Tonio leaving Le Pavillon with an attractive girl. Even as he scorched his wife’s heart, she had felt the tug of desire. “Let him see how it feels to face his spouse’s darling in public.”

  “As opposed to seeing me in the lobby of the apartment, as usual?”

  “It isn’t the same, and you know it.” She kissed Binty’s cheek as the taxi stopped. “How do I look?”

  “Gorgeous,” he said, without glancing at her. He returned his wallet to his inside jacket pocket and stepped out onto the street.

  “Driver,” said Consuelo as Binty walked around to open her door. “Here’s something special for your wife.”

  She dropped the irritating compact onto the front seat. It never hurt to give to one’s fellow man. One day you might need someone to give generously to you.

  Consuelo entered the Alliance Française ahead of Binty and walked through the foyer to the members’ desk. Behind it, ancient Philippe bent his brittle frame to speak in an undertone to a uniformed teenage boy. His voice rumbled like distant thunder across the foyer. “That’s her. She tries every few days. Remember, Monsieur doesn’t allow—”

  Consuelo interrupted with a clap of her hands.

  “Good evening, madame. You kindly grace our lobby again.” In this place where the default language was French, Philippe always spoke English to Consuelo. It was a comment on the quality of her accent, she was sure, and proof of his disdain for her Central American roots. More than that: it was just another way these émigrés tried to deny that she was the wife of the world’s greatest living Frenchman. She wasn’t fooled by the stock deference in the old lizard’s bow.

  Philippe continued. “And good evening, sir. Welcome to the Alliance Française. Your first visit? You have come for tonight’s show?”

  “What’s on?”

  The boy answered. “The Fabulous Felson Singers. They’re fabulous just like they say. But if you don’t have tickets, we’re sold out.”

  “We will make an exception,” said Philippe. “Complimentary box seats. All I require is that you follow me directly to the theater. Only the theater is open to nonmembers—as Madame well knows.”

  “The Felsons?” said Binty. “You couldn’t pay me.”

  And at any rate, thought Consuelo, we’re not here to see a show, but to make one. “We’ve come for drinks and dinner,” she said. “We’re here to join my husband.”

  “And his guest,” the boy said, but Philippe pressed a hand on his shoulder, shutting him down.

  The old man made a show of studying something on the desk. “Dinner? Then Mr. Binty is perhaps a new member?”

  “I am a member,” said Consuelo. “Binty is with me.”

  Philippe looked apologetic. “That is to say, as I have said before, your husband is a member. You are always more than welcome, provided he chooses to sign you in.” He put his fingertips together and assumed a sympathetic expression. “I was just telling our new desk boy that our policy is very strict. Members may bring up to three guests at a time for dinner; however, guests may not bring guests. As always, I’m afraid I’ll have to ask you to return with a cardholding member.”

  A sculpture of a nasty Gallic rooster was within reach on the countertop. Its tail feathers would look good imbedded in Philippe’s skinny, speckled scalp.

  Consuelo spoke to the boy. “What’s your name?”

  “Carl.”

  “Stand up, Carl. Look at me.”

  Philippe raised an unruly ashen eyebrow as the boy scrambled to his feet.

  “You know what my husband looks like, Carl? Tall, wide-shouldered? The famous writer.”

  “Yes, madame.”

  “Go into the dining room and tell him his wife is here—with her boyfriend—to join him and his lovely friend.”

  “They’re expecting you?”

  “My husband should always expect me.”

  When the boy had gone, Consuelo turned to Binty. “Tit for tat,” she said.

  “Who’s the tit?”

  Consuelo began to sweat a little as she waited for Carl to reappear. Before their marriage, she and Tonio had exchanged a promise: if one of them proved to be unfaithful, no longer would they be beholden to each other. In body and soul, if not on paper, they would be free. They had left each other and returned to each other a dozen times or more—but until now, no promise had proven stronger than their vow of unending love. Freedom had always failed to break the bond that was Consuelo’s destiny.

  When Tonio had almost lost himself—besieged by admirers and flatterers, caught in the quicksand of Paris parties and cafés—Consuelo had been his lifeline, his handhold for his art. When he would emerge for a nap or a clean shirt or a fresh start, she would coddle him, assail him, commission him: demanding five pages of writing for each visit to her boudoir.

  Of course other men had loved Consuelo, too. How could they not? She’d been a young beauty, a patient angel, a girl who tried so hard to be good. And always the threat of losing her had brought her husband home. He had turned planes around to stop her; showered her with presents; followed her across seas. He trained her over the years on how to reel him back. A crisis was always more effective than complacency.

  She had never made an impenetrable secret of her dalliances. But never before had she resorted to such boldness as this. When entertaining a lover almost under the nose of one’s husband no longer amounted to a crisis, there was no choice but to put all at risk.

  As Carl reappeared, Philippe said, his voice heavy with implication, “It seems that Monsieur is not in the dining room after all; isn’t that right?”

  “He’s coming out,” said the boy.

  Consuelo laughed. Philippe disappeared, defeated, probably telling himself he was only leaving to be discreet.

  Tonio strode into the lobby, his footsteps firm. “What is the meaning of this, Consuelo?”

  She straightened to her full height—five feet, two inches—and looked up at her husband towering a foot taller. There was no one and nothing more exciting than Tonio angry. Her heart might explode with the thrill of it. Her voice rose on the crest of it. “I am allowed to go out! I am not a dog to be kept in a cage!”

  Just let him provoke her, and she would drop to her knees, barking and howling. Let him push her to it, and she would grind his last ounce of self-con
trol into the ground. She would feel his large hands on her, yanking her to standing, his hot breath on her face as he shook sense into her and propelled her out the door. The stone steps would scrape her hands and bruise her knees—as Tonio and Binty, made mad by jealousy, exchanged blows over her prone and trembling body. Later, in the weak hours of the morning, Tonio would come to beg her forgiveness and she would collapse like Spanish lace, delicate and beautiful, unraveling in his arms.

  But her husband’s voice grew low, steady, and cold. “I don’t care anymore what you do, Consuelo, or with whom. Only don’t interrupt me when I am in an important meeting.”

  “A meeting! I am not so stupid! Show me who is so important that you can’t even give a minute to your wife.”

  “I am conferring with a general who has come from Washington. He is an extremely busy man. I have only an hour of his time. Good night.”

  “Tonio, wait!” Consuelo took Binty’s arm. “Aren’t you going to say hello to my boyfriend?”

  “I could say hello, or I could continue to pretend that your friend is invisible, as I have these last few weeks: it is all the same to me.”

  “How refreshing,” said Binty.

  The men considered each other.

  Then the taller of the two held out his hand. “I wish to you,” he said in awkward, heavily accented English, “a good evening, monsieur. But … pas ici. Not ’ere.”

  Consuelo said, “Don’t tell us where we can or can’t go! I’m not your pet lapdog!”

  Her lover removed her arm from his. He grasped and shook her husband’s broad hand. “Jack Binty,” he said.

  “Antoine de Saint-Exupéry.”

  7

  I was craning my head to glimpse the Alliance Française as it came into view. It was a square marble building, just two stories high but with solidity and dignity in its design. Its second-floor balconies were bright with flowers. American and French flags hung above the sidewalk and the limestone steps. On the main floor, the soaring windows were positioned to let members look out and to stop passersby from peering in. My father had designed it to elevate its members above petty worries and weariness, into the realm of comfortable intellectual camaraderie and cultural pleasures. He had wanted it to be a place where one could enter and feel removed from the worries of the world.