How could I pose a question, any question, without telling him that I felt his heat?
“Is it hot or cold in the sky over the Sahara?”
That first lesson, if it could be called a lesson, had stretched well into the night.
The kitchen had eventually closed, though drinks were still being served at the bar. The waitress had gone home, first bringing to the table, unbidden, another bottle of wine and two plates heaping with fried seafood and potato crisps. English was forgotten. At the center of a sea of empty tables, we ate with our fingers as Antoine told me story after story. He spoke of wartime marvels and misadventures—of falling planes unfurling smoke like the most exuberant of bridal trains; of darting like a fish between streams of fire; of the time he had played a joke on his navigator, lighting a flare port-side to convince the man that the plane was in flames and they had best jump. He spoke of the unwarranted fear of ascending to barely known heights; of failing to connect his oxygen and heat lines at 35,000 feet and minus 51 degrees. He described fingers so chilled they took twenty minutes to close the buckle on a strap, and clocks ticking away hours until it became clear that a pilot would not be coming back. He spoke of descending to a barely lit runway in the night when an obstacle appeared in his path: he pushed the nose down to ram his wheels hard into the ground, bounced over the truck and its terrified driver, and revved his engine to gain the altitude he needed in order to land.
He told me of his experiences in the North Sahara, opening the virgin territory to air postal service for the first time, of his education at the hands of his mentor Guillaumet in the tin barracks that had been the Aéropostale quarters.
“Guillaumet spreads a contour map on the table before my flight from Toulouse to Dakar. There is a lantern on the table. Everything is very quiet beyond our walls and within. Then the flame begins to pop. The map comes alive. First my friend points out a false clearing where the ground is said to lure pilots and hoard their remains. He sneers, but the landing has taken the shape of a Minotaur; I gape in awe.”
Antoine pinched the tablecloth to define a path. “Guillaumet says, ‘The trail gets very wide just here, after a red-roofed barn, but look carefully; often it is crowded with sheep.’ ”
His hands cajoled a napkin into a rising series of peaks. “ ‘Here the mountain plays with your compass, so watch that both you and it do not spin like skirts on the stage. There, if you come down, the nomads will find you, but perhaps not until your lungs are drier than your feet and a tenth the size.’ He says, ‘Best drink well now, Saint-Ex. Salut! Just keep everything in the air until you pass this big black mark.’ ”
The table between us had sprouted salt-shaker towers and cheese-knife runways. An ashtray that had done duty as a relentlessly ticking clock was overwhelmed by cigarette-butt hands. Lakes and rivers were marked by water glasses and wineglasses, though the latter repeatedly moved and ran dry. Pages pulled from a notebook had been creased into tent-like mountains and crumpled into impenetrable clouds. Other landmarks had been drawn by Antoine’s fingertips on the tablecloth: a hut where an old wrinkled man gave him shelter, the place where the trees grew crimson and seemed on fire in the sunset; the pass where a comrade, presumed perished, was finally found.
Antoine had lived his life by such maps, had flown through such drawings for two decades. At my prodding, he spoke of his first flight as a youth; of lessons marked by broken bones, crash landings; how the desert sands and dark seas were no softer, to a plummeting plane, than the bombs that blew craters into his country’s churches, roads, and homes. He spoke of silent flights lit by fire, of missions over enemy lines, his aircraft a heaving camera mount, no gun or gunner aboard. His hand moved again to mine, and it was all I could do to pull away.
“Mignonne, do you know how it feels to fly over one’s own country and see it smoldering?”
“I hope I will never know.”
“I hope that too, for you.”
“But to fly—that’s something I would like to feel.”
“One day you will. Leave the ground, leave your troubles, be alone within the sky. It is something perfect.”
“If you don’t mind my saying so, you don’t strike me as someone who yearns to be alone.”
“The solitude of the cockpit is not like that of cities and towns. It’s as though all of mankind is holding you up in the heavens. Loneliness is only possible on the earth, among men. I began to know it intimately only when they grounded me.” He moved a salt shaker next to its pepper-shaker mate. “To lose one’s duty and calling, to have it taken away, this is a special sort of torture.”
The bartender called across the room. “Bar’s closing, Mig. You folks want anything before I lock it up?”
When I turned again to the table, Antoine was rushing a hand along the corners of his eyes. I could only say, “I’m sorry, we should really end our lesson.”
Antoine folded his napkin. “You must tell me something before we part. Your uncle informs me you are a designer as well as an excellent tutor.”
“I’m in my last year at New York Fashion School.”
He nodded, thought for a minute, then started twisting the napkin into a coil. “You know, Mignonne, just before the Nazis marched into Paris, I sent word to my wife to flee south to the Spanish border.”
His wife.
“I instructed her to pack only her official papers and the bare necessities of survival. I should have been with my men. Instead, I hurried to Consuelo to check that she was properly prepared for the ordeal. There were many people making the exodus, and it would be difficult and dangerous. I arrived just as she was about to drive off. I had brought water and many containers of gasoline for her, for she would have a long trip and there would be no gas available at any price.” He laid down the napkin. It shifted as it loosened, a snake coming to life. “Do you know what she had packed into the Peugeot, from front to back?”
“No.”
“Ball gowns. Minks. Dresses. Hats. The finest creations of the best couturiers of Paris.”
The image was disturbing, thrilling.
Antoine scooped up the napkin and flung it onto the table. “I pulled the clothing from the car and dumped it onto the street. Into the mud, to make room for the gas cans. Neither cars nor people can survive on pretty silks.”
I was gutted for a moment. But when I breathed in, the breath fed a fire that would not be snuffed. “You make it sound as though I’m betraying my country—and yours—by pursuing a career in fashion.”
“I only tell you—”
“You think it’s frivolous. Or worse.”
“I am just trying to—”
“Fashion is an integral part of a people. When you fought for your country, what do you think you were fighting for? The land? The roads? It wasn’t the churches or the buildings—you’d gladly take France back with those gone. You’d take it with the roads blown out. You fought for the people.”
“Of course.”
“And if the spirit of the people is gone? If everything that makes life worth living were thrown away—then what would be the point of saving the life? You don’t fight for the shell of the person.”
He sat back, listening, as I continued.
“You tell me about the car filled with fashions and, yes, a part of me is horrified. But think what your wife was doing. Think what any woman does when she picks a nice dress over a few loaves of bread.”
He put his elbows on the table. “Please, go on.”
“She shows the world, in her own way, that it doesn’t matter if the roads are bombed and the gas has all gone into German tanks: she’ll live beyond the necessities of life. She’ll live in the spirit, in beauty, in silks and minks, because if she’s going to live she wants to feel—and not just be—alive.”
For a minute, then, we sat listening to the sound of glasses being washed, our eyes on the scant inch of tablecloth separating his hand from mine.
He rose and came around to my side of the table. I stood a
s he slid back my chair. Suddenly he was leaning in close to my ear. I smelled his cologne as his cheek grazed my hair.
He said, “The sky everywhere is cold, Mignonne, if you fly high enough.”
8
It finally occurs to me, a quarter century on, that I had started aiding Consuelo—Spare your wife’s silks and minks, Antoine!—before I’d even met her. It’s eerie how she always knew how to get her way.
9
Consuelo maneuvered through the Alliance’s dining room toward her husband. The girl had gotten her into his hideaway. Consuelo had already hatched a plan to make it happen again and again. She glanced back to make sure Mignonne was staying at the bar.
She barely greeted her few acquaintances on her way to Tonio’s table. Not that they were friendly to her either. You’d hardly know she was a famous writer’s wife. These pretend-elite Frenchwomen were probably used to seeing her husband with any of a parade of girls. So much for arriving in America and taking her rightful place at the head of the socialite table. They didn’t even want to let her into the room.
Tonio’s brown eyes flitted to her and narrowed. He bent forward for a quick word with his guest before straightening in his chair.
A decent husband wouldn’t feel the need to warn his companion of the approach of his wife. A decent husband would glow, not press his mouth closed as Tonio was doing now. But at least he had told the truth earlier: he wasn’t with a woman after all, but with a man who was every bit an American general—hard and handsome, and polite enough to welcome Consuelo on his feet and in passable French.
Tonio stood up too, albeit with reluctance. “How did you get in here?”
“I’m delighted to meet you,” Consuelo said to the general, holding out her hand.
“Consuelo, General Albertson. General, my wife.”
“Madame,” said the general.
“Countess, actually.”
Tonio’s guest said, “No kidding, Saint-Ex? You never told me you’re a count.” He smiled at Consuelo with gleaming teeth. “My sincere apologies, Countess. Has your husband told you about the fine work he’s doing, helping us prepare our invasion to liberate France?”
“I’m afraid he doesn’t tell me anything.”
“Consuelo, I beg you. Could you go home now, please?”
“I wish I could obey you, darling, but I can’t. I’ve been invited for a drink with a friend of yours.”
Tonio looked disbelieving. “Who?”
Consuelo swiveled and pointed. “Your old English tutor. You didn’t tell me she was such a pretty little thing.” When she turned back to face her husband, he was still looking toward the bar. “You’d like me to reintroduce you, Tonio?”
“No.”
“Just as well. She has completely forgotten you.”
The general cleared his throat. “English tutor, Saint-Ex? You should keep up those lessons. It could help you get that posting you want, that’s for sure.”
“My English is good enough.”
“He does understand many things,” said Consuelo. “Don’t try to pull something over on him by speaking in English. Believe me, I’ve tried!” She laughed. The men did not.
Tonio said, “I know the commands. ‘Roger.’ ‘Clear for landing.’ ”
“Anyway,” said Consuelo, “Mignonne isn’t teaching anymore. She’s working for Véra Fiche, the fashion designer. Isn’t that wonderful?”
The general—such good breeding—did a fair job of looking interested.
Consuelo said, “I’m thinking of making Atelier Fiche my signature look. Of course I’ll have to get to know Mignonne and her ideas a whole lot more. I’ll be arranging to meet her here regularly to chat.”
“Here?”
“You bring your guests; she is entitled to bring hers.” Consuelo held out her hand. “Enjoy your stay in New York, General. Maybe I’ll see you again at the Alliance. I know I’ll see my husband here, if nowhere else.”
Back at the bar, Consuelo picked up her Bloody Mary. Such a rewarding evening it was turning out to be. Everything seemed laid out expressly, enticingly, for her taking. Even the ring of condensation on the polished bar looked good enough to drink. Now if Mignonne would only relax a little, open up. She jumped when Consuelo put a hand on her back. “I invited Tonio to join us, but he’s completely unenthused. We’ll enjoy ourselves uninterrupted until your brother comes.”
Mignonne said, “He’s been here for a while.”
A long-limbed young man was flirting with a table of young ladies near the entrance. Something tough about him. Interesting. The Lachapelles had a savage in their lineage after all, one whose swagger was disturbingly, deliciously, at odds with the manners of the father’s club.
Consuelo said, “Jot down your telephone number. I need a new look. We must meet here again so you can tell me more about your work.”
In an instant, the girl’s expression transformed from dejected to keen.
So that’s how it is, thought Consuelo. Fine then—a kindred spirit. Consuelo had ambitions, too. It was always the women who ached with hunger. Especially the wives.
10
The next morning, I walked with Madame Fiche to the subway, the reflections in shop windows of her unbending silhouette making me appear gangly and ungainly.
Taking the subway instead of taxis, Madame had proclaimed, was her newest personal wartime sacrifice. “Rubber rationing,” she said, though I suspected it had more to do with cost. “We don’t have dog sleds as you do up north, Mignonne. On the other hand, we have culture—such as it is.”
Weighted down with two bags filled with fabric shears, thread snips, a tobacco tin of straight pins, a measuring tape, and other sundry tools, as well as the two muslins I had made to the client’s measurements as dictated by her former designer, I pointed out the way to the right train.
Our destination turned out to be an old, sturdy apartment with a square black awning that arched over the sidewalk. The haughty concierge had us wait while he checked with Mrs. Brossard, then he sent us to the elevator, where the operator was equally dismissive.
At the client’s door, it was another story altogether. A uniformed girl answered with a shy and respectful smile, taking Madame Fiche’s coat, offering coffee—which Madame declined on my behalf—and seeing to it that we were settled comfortably in the parlor. Before announcing our presence, the maid scuttled closer. “Madame Fiche,” she said, “you are the designer of the Butterfly Collection?”
“Indeed I am.”
“I heard it was magnificent, Madame. Excuse my boldness, but if I may tell you … I made this myself.” She held out the skirt of her simple uniform.
I braced myself for Madame’s cruel response. But she took the skirt in her hands and considered it, her seriousness a gift to the girl.
“Very good,” said Madame. “Carry on.”
The maid beamed and tripped away with a smile broadening her shapely lips.
A moment later, a rotund woman entered, a small white poodle squirming in her arms. “Good morning, Madame Fiche.” She bent to release the dog onto the carpet, wheezing softly at the effort, but upon touching the ground the poodle stood on its rear feet, its front paws stretching toward its mistress’s sturdy calves. “Tsk. He has no respect for stockings, and no idea how precious they are.” She scooped up the dog and nuzzled its nose with her own.
She had inadvertently lifted the front of her dress with the dog; her dimpled knees winked at us.
“It is lovely to meet you in person,” said Madame, no hint of amusement in her voice. “I have brought with me my assistant—”
In that moment, I realized that this was Mrs. Brossard, the woman whom I had to fit into the muslin. Even with the generous seam allowances in the larger of the two sizes, there was no possible way.
“—and we have prepared a preliminary garment for the fitting.”
“Monsieur Vaudoit gave you the sizes?”
“Indeed he did, thank you. The measurements he provi
ded were …” With a glance I saw that she was reaching the same conclusion as my own. “Most generous of him to share. And Atelier Fiche is honored to be chosen as your—”
“Vaudoit is a moron,” said Mrs. Brossard. “You tell me, Madame Fiche, why would a designer show a dress that can’t be made? Why put something on a runway and then refuse to make it for your client?”
“I trust you are not speaking of the coat I am making for you.”
“I’m talking about a dress, a pretty summer dress! Why do you think I fired Vaudoit? He’ll make the dress for Mrs. Mitchell; he told her he would. But I asked first, and he refused to make it for me. See if I ever wear a Vaudoit again!”
Madame Fiche looked shocked. “I have never heard of such a thing.”
I began, “Maybe the style wouldn’t suit,” but the two women glared at me, and Madame’s expression was chilling.
“The style,” Madame Fiche said pointedly, “would be perfectly delightful on Mrs. Brossard. As would any. However, as we have heard, Monsieur Vaudoit is a … moron.”
I asked, “Should I proceed with the fitting, Madame?”
The client was shaking the dog’s face into her own. “Proceed,” she sang out from behind the white fur.
But how to proceed? Both muslins were sized for a woman with a waist. I swallowed my reluctance and pulled them out of the bag. “The size,” I began.
“Is based strictly on Vaudoit’s measurements,” said Madame Fiche.
The client said, “Everything he ever made for me has fit like a glove.”
The coat muslin, however, was bound to fit more like a sausage casing. What could I do? I found the larger of the two cotton garments, shook out its folds, and held it up. It looked miniscule in relation to its target.
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