She had a sudden inspiration, picked up her pen, and wrote a note in the margin: 'For lipstick features, focus close up on lips and mouths. Tongues with caviar on them, lips with straws sipping Coca-Cola, etc.' Satisfied, she laid down her pen and continued reading:
Arts:
Architecture: Art:
Theater: Fashion:
La Moda Boutique: Around the World: Haute Couture: Ready-to-Wear: Accessories:
Jewelry:
Special Features:
Film—Fellini Palladio
Sculptures by Marino Marini and
Eduardo Paolozzi London This Season Focus on—Valentino Our Choices for Winter Finnish Leather to Alaskan Parkas Paris, Milan, and New York This Season's Top Designers—Milan Skis and Skates—New Designs for the Sixties
Colombian Emeralds, Peruvian Gold, Celtic Jewelry from Ireland, Navajo Turquoise, New Pop-Art Plastics Visit with Picasso at La Californie What's New for Winter—Paris, New York, Milan
Furs for All Seasons {Note: Max Reby bought 6 pages of ads!)
Dressing Up by Dressing Down Revlon's Cosmetics—a Retrospective (1932 through present)
Hélène was startled when Luba knocked on her door. She looked up. 'Come in!'
Luba approached the desk with her usual purposeful pace. Hélène noticed she held a typed sheet of paper in her hand.
Hélène closed the report, put it aside, and folded her hands. 'Luba,' she said with a smile.
The Czarina stood confidently gaunt in a black knit shift belted at the waist with the thickest black leather strap and the biggest silver buckle Hélène had ever laid eyes on. Her black pumps had identical but slightly smaller buckles. As usual her pitch-black hair was gathered on the right side of her head and plaited into a single long, thick braid that hung aggressively down to nearly her waist.
Luba's tangerine nails slashed through the air. 'I've found the patsy!' she announced in a dramatic stage whisper.
Hélène looked at her in embarrassment. 'Please, Luba. You know I don't like to use that word.'
Luba's black eyes flashed from within her thick sable eyelashes. 'A patsy is what best describes what you're looking for.'
Hélène sighed. 'Patsy it is, then.' She waved to a chair.
Luba made a production of consulting the paper in her hand. 'His name is Marcello d'Itre. Born in Sicily, current resident of Milan. Studied fashion here while apprenticed to Missoni as a weaver. Left for New York and spent two years studying at the Fashion Institute of Technology. Came back, spent a year as a laborer in a ready-to-wear garment factory. Was one of the assistants to a fabric designer at T. and J. Vestor. That lasted six months. Tried to open his own boutique two years ago, failed miserably, and has been knocking on the doors of every designer in this city since then. He's a bachelor and a heterosexual, and that's it in a nutshell.' Luba dropped the paper on Hélène's desk.
Hélène looked thoughtful. 'And you think he's the one we're looking for?'
'I've kept my eyes wide open,' the Czarina said. 'He's the perfect patsy.'
Hélène winced. She wished Luba would stop using that word. But the Czarina was right; what she wanted was a patsy. A handsome ladies' man, preferably Italian, who had a fashion background but was a miserable failure. She wanted someone with enough intelligence to face that fact, yet someone who wasn't so independent that he wouldn't do as he was told. He had to be someone who could never become successful on his own. Someone who was. . .weak.
Hélène glanced down at the paper that summed up one man's life in such terse, unfeeling terms. Could that really be all there was to a life? she asked herself. Was the rest just padding? Could her own life be outlined just as concisely, with only one difference—success substituting for failure?
In a way, she felt sorry for Marcello d'Itri without even having met him. Getting a start in the fashion business was like swimming in an ocean full of sharks. It didn't matter whether you were good or bad. You were a potential competitor, and as such, the others ganged up on you and cut you swiftly down to size before you even had a chance to start swimming. It was Darwinism, pure and simple. The survival of the fittest. You had to be a shark to survive.
Yet as much as she felt sorry for him, the fact that he had had such miserable luck was a plus. For her. She had been searching for someone like him for months, but until now none of the candidates met all the qualifications. And for what she wanted (as usual, she knew exactly what she wanted), each qualification was important. For she, Hélène Junot, was going into the fashion business. Not just reporting on fashion as she had been doing all along, but having an atelier of her own. She knew that she and Luba had an abundance of taste and foresight—and that Les Modes and La Moda were powerful enough—to assure the atelier's success. Only for once, her magazines stood in her way: she couldn't open an atelier in her own name. That would be a blatant conflict of interests. What she had to do was to own an atelier but remain a silent partner. She had to set up someone else as a figurehead. Someone who would listen to her and Luba and pretend that he was in charge. Someone who would take orders from them. Someone who had little or no talent.
Of course, an atelier needed talent, but that would remain as silently in the background as she herself would. She would simply get a design team together. Just as she had begun Les Modes by robbing Vogue, Harper's Bazaar, and L'Officiel of their talent, so she would snare the best design talent for her atelier. Of talent there was always a plentiful crop. It was the figurehead who was more difficult to find. And Hélène knew one thing better than even the established couturiers who gambled on the Look of the season. She knew the exact direction in which the winds of fashion were blowing, because she helped them blow that way. Her atelier wouldn't be a gamble. Nor would it cajole customers into buying beautiful, expensive things by relying on their own good taste. No, she would cleverly cater to them from the beginning, playing on their ingrained tastes and snobbishness. Her atelier would sell exactly what people wanted. Nothing else.
Hélène did not realize it, but she had stumbled across what was to become a trend that would continue for years. Creating a figurehead and making his name a household word, or using a figurehead to carry on a name, would become an intrinsic part of the fashion world on both sides of the Atlantic. It was coincidental whether the figurehead could design or not, although some of them could. What was important was that people would pay for the name.
Marcello d'Itri.
Hélène rolled the name on her tongue. It sounded good. Now, if only he was what she was looking for. She winced as Luba's words came back to her.
The perfect patsy.
Hélène forced herself to push the word out of her mind. She rose to her feet and smiled. 'Thank you, Luba,' she said.
The Czarina rose also. 'Do you want me to schedule a meeting with d'Itri?'
'Please. I've got to return to Paris on Friday, so make it as soon as possible.'
'Is tomorrow soon enough?'
Hélène nodded. 'Tomorrow will be fine.'
'Good. I'll send for him.'
'No,' Hélène said slowly. 'I tell you what. I'll go to him instead. I want you to accompany me, of course.'
The Czarina looked baffled, but she knew better than to ask why the mountains were going to visit Muhammad. She nodded.
After she was gone, Hélène thought about her decision to go and visit d'Itri. She knew instinctively that it was a good idea. You could always tell more about a person from his surroundings than if you summoned him to your office. Of course, in the office he was more vulnerable, more ill-at-ease and nervous. But she didn't want d'Itri to be any of these things. She wanted to find out the little things about him that only a shelf of books or the throw on a chair could reveal.
That was far better than seeing him disguised in his best suit.
The next day Hélène and Luba sat in the back of the company's tiny chauffeur-driven Fiat, negotiating the narrow, ancient streets of Milan.
Marcello d'Itri was sweating
. He was not usually prone to sweat, but he couldn't help it now. Not with the two elegant women he faced. The tall, gaunt, aggressive one and the expensively dressed younger one. They looked so different—like an elegant old lizard and a poised gazelle. Yet undeniably they both had chic—an instinctive, intimidating chic such as he had never been exposed to before. And they wore it so naturally, so comfortably! Most people he knew felt that way only in worn sweaters and old bathrobes. Yet here they were, dressed to kill, and totally at ease. The old lizard in a turtle-neck sweater and a skirt—both of black silk interwoven with cashmere—a long gold-mesh chain knotted around her neck, and an Hermes belt around her waist; the young gazelle in a pale apricot Chanel suit with dark piping, an off-white silk blouse, and a straw hat. Her ear clips were unmistakably Bulgari—an emerald-cut diamond surrounded by baguettes and set in white gold.
But chic was not all they were. He felt something menacing under their beautiful veneers. They were powerful. He could see that in their eyes, in their self-assured poise. He knew they weren't the type to be taken in by overt displays of masculinity or suave, effusive compliments. There was something hard and businesslike about both of them. Especially the younger one.
Marcello d'Itri was slender and good-looking. His skin was olive and his eyes and hair were dark and glossy. He looked a little unkempt, Hélène thought, but it was clear that that was a matter of finances. He'd obviously done all he could to make himself presentable, even getting a haircut. Not a very good one, but probably all he could afford. His suit, though of a good fabric and cut, was worn and more than a little frayed. It had had a last-minute pressing. It was either the best suit he owned, or the only one. It was made of wool and he was wearing it in May. His white shirt was of good-quality cotton, but there, too, wear and tear showed. But she knew better than to judge him by his immediate appearance. What mattered was how he could look. And she instinctively realized that with a little flair and some money, he could look highly presentable. His skin tone was just slightly exotic, his full lips could be construed as sensual. He was good-looking enough for any woman, and yet not perfect enough to instill an instant dislike in men. His tiny dark apartment was shabby. In one corner stood a large loom with an unfinished design woven on the hundreds of vertical strings. Hélène glanced at it disapprovingly and then caught Luba's eye. They both recognized the design instantly. Missoni.
Marcello d'Itri clearly copied from whoever was in vogue.
D'Itri fidgeted nervously with his hands, waiting for one of the women to speak. He wondered what they could possibly want from him.
'I've taken the liberty of ordering a rundown on your personal history,' Hélène was saying. She smiled apologetically, looking directly into his eyes. 'I hope you don't mind. However, I like to make certain I know whom I'm dealing with whenever I anticipate throwing money in any direction.'
D'Itri nodded in bewilderment. He squirmed nervously in his chair. He looked as if he were facing a firing squad.
'You have an interesting background.' Hélène smiled, trying to put him at ease. 'Not a spectacular background, but one I'll accept. Signor d'Itri, time is my most precious asset and I don't like to waste it, so I'll come right to the point. How would you like to become a fashion designer?'
'I've already tried that route.' He smiled sadly, relaxing a little.
'Unsuccessfully.'
'Yes.' His voice was small.
'How would you like to become famous, Signor d'Itri?' Hélène asked softly.
He gave a short, nervous laugh. Now he knew she was crazy. There was a time when he had thought he was talented. It had taken him years to find out he wasn't. Surely a woman as important and powerful as she was, a woman who was constantly tuned in to fashion, knew it even better than he.
Hélène continued. 'Within a short period of time I could make you as well known as Valentino, as successful as Dior. Would you like that?'
'I'd be a liar if I said I wouldn't.'
'Fine. At least you're honest. I appreciate honesty. I also appreciate the fact that on your own, you'll never make it in this business.'
D'Itri sat frozen now, flushing under the sudden onslaught. It had come so suddenly that he broke out in a fresh sweat. Quickly he began dabbing his forehead with the balled-up handkerchief clutched in his fist. 'Then why are you here?' he found himself saying. He seemed startled to hear his own voice.
Hélène stared levelly into his liquid eyes. They were dark and confused, as if he'd awakened to find himself in a place he'd never seen before. Quickly she told him about her plans to open an atelier. He heard her out in silence.
'You don't want a designer, then. You want a. . .' He struggled to find the right word.
'A figurehead, Signor d'Itri,' Hélène said smoothly, avoiding Luba's narrowed eyes. She knew what the Czarina was thinking. Patsy. Quickly she continued. 'The design team will do everything. But that's not to say you won't have work to do also. You'll have to work very hard. Acquiring polish, meeting people, wooing clients. Believe me, that is a job in itself.'
D'Itri couldn't believe his ears. Out of the blue, just as he was at the lowest ebb of his life, came this! He couldn't understand it, but he was smart enough not to try to. Obviously the two women were either crazy or they knew exactly what they wanted. If they were telling the truth, all he had to do was go along with them and he'd be living like a king.
He listened as Hélène went on, his mind rapidly seizing upon the possibilities. With the power of Les Modes and La Moda behind him, he could live in a villa, travel around the world, get his picture in the papers. Sure, he'd know he wasn't doing anything. But no one else would.
'It would be like selling my soul to the devil,' he told Hélène bleakly. But his mind raced. Airplanes, expensive cars, yachts . . . Suddenly all the things he had dreamed of, and some he hadn't, were possible. And a social position! The poor boy from Sicily could make good. Very good.
He forced himself to remain subdued. 'What would I get out of this arrangement?' he asked, trying to appear businesslike.
'As I said, you'd become one of the foremost designers in the world. You'd get fame. Respect.' Hélène paused, and when she spoke again, it was a whisper. 'Fortune.'
His dark eyes flashed greedily. 'How much fortune?'
Hélène shrugged. 'That depends on how the business fares. You'd own a small percentage of the company.'
'How small?'
'Fifteen percent.'
He looked disappointed. 'That means I wouldn't have any say in it.'
'That's right. The company would be run by projections of the market. We'd sell only what's guaranteed to sell. My policy is not to go out on a creative limb. However, you can rest assured of three things.' Slowly Hélène ticked them off on her tapered fingers. 'First, your name would be the name of the atelier. Second, it would be based here in Milan and have a branch in Rome before we'd branch out further. And third, it would be the most expensive store in the world!'
He stared at her in silence for a moment. 'And fifteen percent. .. that would make me rich?'
'Very rich, Signor d'Itri. For the time being, until we begin production, I also plan to pay you a salary, which will eventually be deducted from your earnings. A salary of . . .' She paused, pretending to think it over. 'Say, one and a half million lire a month?' She raised her eyebrows.
He held his breath, suddenly feeling giddy. One and a half million lire! Mamma mia! Three thousand dollars. And every month! Was it possible? Oh, sweet Blessed Mother, let it be true, he prayed.
He grinned now, suddenly feeling more sure of himself. 'It sounds interesting,' he said reflectively. He looked down at his lap, his mind spinning. When he looked back up at her, he said shrewdly, 'I'd want twenty-five percent, though.'
Hélène had expected this; she had purposely offered him fifteen percent, planning all along to let him have as much as thirty. Twenty-five suited her even better. But she didn't want to seem too eager.
'Twenty,' she said firml
y.
He hesitated, once again finding himself wading around in foreign territory. He felt he should demand more, but how much more? If he got too greedy, there was the danger that he would frighten her off. Then he'd lose out completely. He looked at her. She was sitting there quietly. 'Twenty-two?' he asked.
'Twenty.'
He looked offended. 'Twenty,' he agreed meekly.
Hélène smiled. 'It's a deal,' she said, not believing her good luck. She would own eighty percent of the atelier outright.
She and Luba rose to their feet.
'Come to the offices next Tuesday,' Hélène told d'Itri. 'My lawyers will have all the papers prepared.'
'I'll be there,' he promised. Already he was planning to stop by the Alfa Romeo showroom on the way.
When Hélène reached the door, she turned around and shook his hand. 'Good-bye, Signor d'Itri.'
He unexpectedly bent down over her hand and kissed it. 'Good-bye, signorina.' He looked up at her over her hand, his dark eyes shining. 'Together, we shall be rich.'
3
On an overcast day in June, Hélène attended a party held by Odile Joly. The invitation had come as a total surprise, since she knew that Odile Joly wasn't one to throw parties. The old designer had spent a good part of her life guarding her privacy as jealously as the secret to her success. But then Hélène understood. It was her eightieth birthday—which happened to coincide with the sixty-third anniversary of the Maison d'Odile Joly, which she had begun in September 1898 as a millinery shop. It was for that occasion that she threw the doors to her apartment in the Plaza Athenee open to everyone she had ever known. Or, as sharp Parisian tongues had it, to everyone she was still on speaking terms with. It was a party which lasted for half a day and far into the night. The wealthy and the famous came to crowd the apartment and pay homage to the greatest couturiere of all time. Photographers were everywhere, including a team from Les Modes.
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