Anio Szado

by Studio Saint-Ex

  As they stepped from the elevator, she put a calming hand on her husband’s arm. “Just think of it as another medium of expression. Besides, it wouldn’t be fair for you to stop her. It was you who gave her the idea.”

  “Me?”

  “Didn’t you draw the rose for her?”

  Tonio’s face changed: it took on the unreadable veneer she detested. His voice became impassive. “What are you saying?”

  “Mignonne told me that she asked you what you love about me, so she could design something completely unique to me. She said that you drew a rose and explained how it represented me.”

  He nodded slowly. “This is fundamentally true.”

  “If you directed her to design a collection using the rose as her muse and motif, you can’t blame her if she went ahead and did so. And once you have a collection, well, a collection needs to be shown.”

  The facade dropped for the briefest moment: Tonio looked trapped.

  46

  “Lots of factories are looking to hire ladies these days,” said Leo. He took my arm as we stepped off a high curb and crossed the street. “I’m thinking of buying a wig and nabbing one of them jobs myself.”

  It was midday, midweek, the day was bright, and we were taking a stroll. I had nowhere to go and Leo hadn’t been going to work. He wouldn’t tell me why or what had happened, but he admitted that no, he wasn’t sick; no, he hadn’t told Mother; no, he had no savings or prospects or brilliant plans.

  “See that?” Leo pointed at a young man in neat clothes with a crisp haircut and a clean, honest face. “One of the best jobs you can get in all of New York. Fresh air, flexible hours, lots of folks helping you succeed.”

  “Doing what?”

  “He’s a slicker, the smoothest kind of no-good bum. He’s out here stemming for maybe five hours a day. ‘I just lost my job, I hate to ask but I have to eat, boo-hoo.’ Crème-de-la-crème, sister. Ten dollars a day, that’s what a good slicker makes. That guy probably makes enough to keep his girlfriend in a hotel in the 70s, take her to the El Morocco and have a maid.”

  “Why wouldn’t someone like that be in the military?”

  “Probably wrangled a deferment, like me.”

  “You have a deferment? All this time, I thought some sort of official was going to grab you off the street.”

  “Nah, I’m fair and square. I told the draft board I was eager. I knew the railroad was going to get me a six-month deferment, and then another. They could have kept getting me more and more.”

  “What do you mean, the railroad?”

  “Working on a railroad’s an important job. Can’t fight a war without a system on the home front.”

  “But you were building carnival rides.”

  “For Carson Unity, owned by Carson Unity Railroad. I keep telling you, it’s all about what you do with what you got.” He stopped at an open window to order breakfast.

  I wondered if the last of Leo’s inheritance was now crisping his toast. My own nest egg was still stashed away. “We need a plan.”

  “I got a plan. You marry Antoine and buy a place in the Hamptons. I live in your garage.”

  “I’ll look into teaching at the Alliance. And there’s always Le Pavillon.”

  “I’ll be your driver. Does Antoine have a car? Hold on—I can’t live in your garage. Where are you going to put the car? I’ll live in the servants’ wing. Me and a feisty little maid.” He rubbed his palms together.

  “I’ve been meaning to call Yannick. You could probably wash dishes while I’m waitressing.”

  “You really think I’d go begging at Yannick’s feet?”

  “What are you going to do? Seriously, Leo.”

  “I’ll find something in a war plant for a few months. By November or so, the draft board will come sniffing around.”

  At home, Leo slipped his lighter, his Lucky Strikes, and a flask into the pockets of his robe. “Nothing better for you than a cigarette in the bath. The steam opens up your lungs.” He disappeared into the hallway.

  I phoned Yannick. “Remember you said I could wait tables at Le Pavillon?”

  “I heard about what happened.”

  Madame Fiche had been right: everyone did know everyone’s business. All that talk about tight lips was just more talk. “You know I quit Atelier Fiche?”

  “I had lunch with Saint-Ex. He was very worked up. Apparently, you want to destroy his reputation and ruin his name. Also, you’re just like Consuelo.”

  “Oh my God.”

  “He said … Let me get this right. ‘Your niece and Consuelo are birds of a feather. Why is it that when one loves a woman …’ ” He stopped. “I forget the rest.”

  “Yannick!” I slapped the wall beside the phone. “Who did he mean?”

  “ ‘One loves a woman.’ You don’t know who that would be?”

  “I don’t know what to think or do anymore.”

  “Do what is best for you.”

  “And what, in your wisdom, is best for me?”

  “It isn’t waitressing at Le Pavillon; I can tell you that.”

  47

  Montreal, June 26, 1942

  Dear Mignonne,

  Your uncle had the courtesy to telephone tonight to tell me not to worry, that he was sure you would be fine. Not being a family man, he didn’t realize that a mother’s worst phone calls all begin that way. It took some doing to convince me you were not disfigured or barely clinging to life.

  If you had only written, I would have told you about the struggles your father went through in his career. He would say that success rarely comes easily, and when it does, it rarely endures. I would add that there is no failure in turning away from a fruitless path.

  Don’t be upset, Mignonne. It is a sign of maturity to know one’s limits. You completed your education, you tried your hand at fashion. Now your only worry will be to find a fellow who doesn’t mind a girl who has been around a bit. A few months’ rest, and then perhaps a normal job here, will put that all in the past.

  I have enclosed a check for the train fare. Your room awaits, as pretty and calm as when you left it. Soon you too will feel calm. As always, I look forward to your return.

  Yours,

  Mother

  48

  June 29th was Tonio’s birthday. His publishers were throwing a party; he had told Consuelo she was expected to attend. She had feigned indignation—of course she was expected!—but secretly she had been thrilled. So often he went to parties and celebrations without her. She never knew if it was because he alone had been invited or because he preferred to go alone.

  To be sure, many of his friends disliked her. From the beginning, they’d thought her overbearing and unreasonable. One had gone so far as to cast the opinion in stone—or on paper, which was more permanent in these bomb-infested days. He had written that Tonio had introduced him to two new developments, of which the friend far preferred the manuscript to the wife.

  That was what Consuelo had been up against all these years! Well, she always got the last laugh. She would make an unforgettable entrance tonight, dressed in her best—and her best was impressive indeed. She chose a fuchsia gown, added a black lace bracelet sprinkled with slivers of white diamonds, and topped off the effect with a tiny, perfect tiara. Then she waited like a princess for her knight.

  He didn’t come. He didn’t even answer when she rapped on his door.

  Finally the phone rang. “Consuelo, where are you? I told you I’d be waiting for you downstairs.”

  She put on her fur stole in case it grew cool in the night, gathered her abundant hem, and escorted herself to the elevator.

  In the lobby, Tonio regarded her gown, flawless makeup, and upswept hair. “No wonder you are so late.”

  She took his arm, and they walked ceremoniously to the sidewalk. “Stay close to me, darling. Protect me. I feel as nervous as a new bride.”

  “You will stand out like one, too.” Instead of hailing a cab, he led her to the casual bistro at the foot o
f the apartment building, the little hole-in-the-wall from which he ordered lunch or dinner every day.

  “Tonio, no! The party can’t be at Café Pedro!”

  “It was my duty to choose the venue. I like Café Pedro. Did you think I would opt for an embassy or opulent club? Maybe I should have put out a press release so the Times could announce that I’m getting old.”

  His friends had already seen them through the window; the proprietor himself had come out to usher them in; it was too late for Consuelo to go back upstairs to change. Fine then: she would simply make the others feel underdressed.

  She spent the evening drinking heartily, laughing merrily, then raucously, saying who-knows-what about who-knows-whom, dancing between the tables, then on the tables themselves.

  49

  June 29th was Antoine’s birthday. I had made him a simple white scarf from what remained of the ribbon dress. I wrote his name on the package and took it to Central Park South to leave at the concierge desk.

  Elmore said, “They’re just next door in the café, if you want to give it to him yourself.”

  It was a kindness, a warning: your lover’s wife is with him nearby; you might want to watch your step.

  But it didn’t matter. I thought it unlikely I would ever see Antoine or Consuelo again.

  50

  “Thank you for coming,” said Consuelo, as she ushered in a wan and tired-looking Mignonne. “It’s been lonely here.” The hours stretched on endlessly when there was nothing to divert the boredom. The apartment sounded hollow, Tonio had been refusing to answer his door, and Binty had gone out of town.

  Consuelo walked toward the sofa, but the girl remained standing. “Sit down. I don’t bite. At least, I don’t think I do. Have I bit you yet?”

  Mignonne didn’t even crack a smile.

  “All right, then. I’ll get to the point. Tonio told me you’re planning to use his Little Prince story in a fashion show.”

  Mignonne gasped lightly.

  How everything showed on that girl’s face! Consuelo asked, “True?”

  “No. Not really. I didn’t propose a fashion show. I suggested we collaborate on a dramatic production.”

  “With fashions.”

  “Costumes.” The girl squirmed. “A production has to have visual appeal. It’s not a reading. And the fashion aspect would have helped bring in an audience.”

  “Which Tonio could not do without your designs? He must have been thrilled to hear you say so. Do you think he has no ego at all, darling?” Consuelo put her feet up on the sofa. “Man is pride, Mignonne. If he appears humble, it’s because he is proud of his humility.” She chuckled. “Ah, well. He may never forgive you, but I think it’s all terribly cute.”

  Mignonne’s face had flushed. Now the pink had spread to her chest. Such an endearing thing, her familiar betraying blush.

  “Your plan,” said Consuelo. “It’s all about helping Tonio—is that the pitch?”

  “I want to help people understand him.” Mignonne looked down at the floor. “To stop him from being attacked all the time.”

  “And why do you care if he is attacked?”

  Mignonne turned her face toward the wide window and gazed out silently, long enough for the high color to leave her skin, long enough for Consuelo to see the answer. The girl’s jaw held no defiance. There was no fighting spark in her eye. The planes of her face were smooth and still.

  It was nothing new to see a girl in love with him. Every girl was smitten by Tonio. They were swept away by his writing. He wounded their hearts with his smile. Consuelo had come to expect that they would want him. But those girls wore entitlement like cats carry musk. They did not stand with sunlight and sadness rendering their features as lustrous and fragile as that of a marble Virgin. Consuelo had not touched them through their clothing, nor eased away the fabric to cool their skin with hers. She had not lain with them, nor lain awake aching to sculpt them, nor been unnerved by the softness of their mouths.

  She shook off the memory. “Tonio censured you. You must be very disappointed. It would have been so handy to take my husband’s art and money for your debut.”

  In a flash, Mignonne was at the sofa, leaning over Consuelo, her face close. Anger amplified the blue of her eyes and the force of her breath. “I am not taking anything.”

  It was as Tonio used to be, his shadow swallowing her, his body and his passion engulfing her. Let her want me, begged Consuelo silently. She lifted a hand to touch the girl’s lips.

  The aggression seeped out of Mignonne. “I just wanted to help.”

  “Hush. We will do the fashion show. And I will play the role of the rose.”

  The peculiar conjunction of fashion design and the momentous art of Antoine de Saint-Exupéry would not only sell out in Manhattan, it could pique the interest of the whole besieged world. And then the magic would begin. The audience would see for itself that—above all and above anyone—Tonio, the prince, needed Consuelo, the rose. The reviews would broadcast the message in advance of the book’s publication. Reynal & Hitchcock would set in print, for all time, the legend of their love. Everyone would know that she and Tonio were one. He wouldn’t be able to hide her away anymore. They would live together again as man and wife. Consuelo couldn’t let this chance slip through her fingers.

  Mignonne said, “I’ll make you a rose dress if that’s what you want. But we can’t do a show, not without Antoine’s approval.”

  “My husband doesn’t always know what’s good for him. We don’t need his approval to help him—especially since all we’re doing is promoting and honoring his art! You make the clothes and squeeze the old goat for a spot on the Alliance stage; that’s all you have to do. I will put my sculptural talents to use on the sets. We’ll round up some French-speaking lovelies, and block out some action around the story script.”

  “I’m not sure.”

  “Do you have better plans? Every designer in New York is scrambling to be first out of the gate, and you don’t even have a studio. You can let the train leave the station without you, or you can make a huge splash in a few months’ time and let the mayor himself treat you like a star.”

  Mignonne drew the tips of her nails back and forth on the glass tabletop. “I don’t have space, or fabric, or half the tools I need.”

  “I’ve told Binty already that I’ll be starting a new adventure. He’ll open his pocketbook. We’ll work right here in the parlor.” If that meant Consuelo was left with little room, all the more reason to secure a larger home where she and her husband could live together. “I’ll get a copy of the manuscript. I know how important it is for you to make sure every detail is right. You’re a woman of integrity.”

  “I would have to get it exactly right if I was representing Antoine.”

  “Of course. We want to make sure that everything we do serves our goal. Including the name behind the designs. For example, we can’t use ‘Atelier Lachapelle.’ ” Imagine the ridicule the expats would heap on Consuelo if she tried to ride the coattails of their late, great, founding god.

  “I agree: we shouldn’t use the word ‘atelier’ at all. We’ll do the show in French for the expats, but we should keep the door open for an English version down the road. It’s better to go with ‘Studio Lachapelle.’ ”

  “You’re not thinking, darling. We want something that supports our objective. Something people will notice.”

  “Lachapelle is a respected name.”

  “And respectable. It’s too safe. There’s nothing in it to suggest that something revolutionary is in the works. On the other hand: Studio Saint-Ex! ‘A Night of Fashion by Studio Saint-Ex’—now that’s a head-turner.”

  Mignonne tightened her cardigan around her. “It makes it sound like Antoine is putting on the show.”

  “We are putting on the show. But if you intend on letting the spotlight fall on him, you’ll embrace the chance to present it under the Saint-Exupéry name.” Under Consuelo’s own name: it should be no other way.
>
  She went to the bar cabinet and poured them each a drink. The liquid shivered as she handed Mignonne a glass. Either the girl would splash the liquor into Consuelo’s face, or Consuelo would control the show and the girl from here on in.

  Mignonne looked down. She spoke quietly. “To Studio Saint-Ex.” She raised the liqueur to her mouth and drank.

  Stripping her of her name had been almost as satisfying as removing her dress.

  51

  I couldn’t guess at how Consuelo managed to convince or beguile Binty, but he had come through. The parlor—Studio Saint-Ex—was crowded with fabrics, notions and tools, plus two antique, freestanding full-length mirrors of much better quality than Madame’s mirror had been. Consuelo had arranged an easel and a table at the window to catch the natural light. In one corner, on a black lacquered tabletop, I had placed my sewing machine. In the other, a fully adjustable judy stood skewered on a brass base.

  I moved about in stocking feet, pacing a route around boxes, chewing on the end of a pencil, running my fingers through my hair, stopping occasionally to add some notes or lines to my sketchbook.

  Consuelo said, “It’s such a comfort to have another body in here. Besides Binty. He really is getting a little uninteresting. And predictable.” She examined her figure in the mirror alongside the window and walked to the second mirror to study herself in its more artificial light. “Let me know if we’re still missing anything we need.”

  I nodded vaguely, distracted. The preliminary rose designs had come so easily; I hadn’t expected the rest of the outfits to be a battle, based as they were on existing drawings. But that was the rub: how could I dare think I might match Antoine’s creativity with my awkward, unyielding own? I had felt stuck now for days.