by Phoebe Stone
But I don’t have time to dwell on it. I have to keep working on the show. It’s coming up at the end of the week and I have so much to do to get ready. I just have to work around all this. Even though the song called “Small Surprise” seems to play in my head constantly, running like a sad, sweet undercurrent behind everything, like the river Seine moving through Paris and never stopping no matter what happens.
Two days later I am just ironing the hem of a dress. The hot steam rushes up against my face with the whoosh of the iron as it glides across the skirt. I hear the apartment door open and Ava blusters into the hall. I poke my head out and see she has a pile of mail in her arms. “The strike must be over. Dad! You got some mail!” she says, dumping letters and packages all over the floor.
“Did I get anything?” I ask.
“Yeah,” says Ava. “You got so many letters from Ginger that she’s probably the reason the post office people went on strike.”
“Hah! Good old Ginger,” I say, laughing and gathering up all her letters. It will probably take me forever to read them all. But I start with the last one, the most recent. I take it with me on a walk downstairs and outside. It’s a warm rainy morning as I step out along the rue Michel-Ange. I open the letter and drops of water fall across Ginger’s crazy handwriting.
Hey Pet,
You never write me!!! I don’t know what’s going on in Paris. Veronica Brown wants me to help her with her crush on Peter Bartin. So I have been busy!!! And Melanie Tanly wants help too with Stevie M. so things are pretty crazy here. I am flooded with phone calls. I now have a sign over my office door that says “Ginger’s Crush Management Service.” Do you like the name?
And oh! I just wanted you to know I found your awesome pink jacket!!!!!!!! You know, the one you lost on Valentine’s Day. Oh my gosh, you must have left it in my laundry room (my office now) after we got home, because I found it behind the dryer yesterday. It was kind of wrinkled and rumpled so I was going to wash it for you. I checked the pockets and guess what I found? A sealed envelope addressed to you in the pocket. I opened it, Pet. Hope you don’t mind. It was a valentine!!!!!!!!!!!!! You got a valentine from somebody!!!! It was unsigned. Still, I thought you would be pleased. I mean, who gets a valentine these days? I mean, Veronica Brown told me she didn’t get one. Neither did Melanie Tanly. Hope to hear from you soon, Pet.
More later,
Ginger
A little bit of rain splashes across my face as I walk along the street. A sprinkle of wonderment, a dash of sparkle. I got a valentine from somebody. Even if it was six months ago, somebody gave me a valentine.
The valentine seems to follow me around in a nice kind of way. As if wherever I go there is a little bird flying behind me just out of sight. But there’s still so much to do to get ready for the fashion show!
As the week wears on, Friday night looms closer and closer, like the moon getting bigger and fuller and more yellow. Friday night soon. Soon. Somebody gave me a valentine.
Ava and I are so nervous that we have done nothing but rehearse. We haven’t left the apartment for any reason. Ava has popped in and out of that dressing screen so many times it’s uncountable, and she is now so fast she has become an almost invisible blur in between dresses. And I have memorized and gone over my short talk so many times that when I am an old lady and dying I will surely spout the whole thing as my last words.
Dad keeps coming into the salon and saying, “Girls, I have planned a trip to the Victor Hugo Museum this afternoon. Did you know he was a painter as well as a writer? Come on. Let’s get geared up. I think the place will surprise you.”
“Um, no thanks, Dad,” we say in unison. “We’re busy.”
I have also finished my lavender dress. It has a waist and delicate tucks all across the front, inspired, as the others, by Ernestine Jumeau’s doll dresses. It has twelve small mother-of-pearl buttons down the back and tiny buttonholes that I sewed while trying to watch French TV with Ava. I thought of Delphine Rouette and her lost sister while I stitched the buttonholes. I was glad Ava was sitting next to me, going through the antique button box Collette had loaned me. Collette told me the word jumeau means “twin” in French. In a way, Delphine Rouette was almost my twin. Almost.
When I was at the embassy they told me I could show five dresses, that I could add one more to the collection. And I have been working on that one. It will be the finale, the last dress on the runway since I will be the last presenter.
Now we are very close to Friday night and the fashion show and the full moon. The moon now reminds me of a big yellow crystal ball in the dark sky getting bigger and closer every evening. And when it’s Friday night and time to go, it almost feels like we are stepping right into that crystal ball. The yellow glowing lights of Paris bloom around us as we drive in a car rented for the night.
“I didn’t want to get stuck in the metro with all your dresses and hangers or trust some French cabdriver who might go shooting off into the Fifteenth and circle around on the Périphérique for hours. Better this way,” says Dad, driving past churches and parks and fountains and people sitting in outdoor cafés under strings of lanterns.
Ava has gone long and cold and pale curled against her backseat window. I feel the same way. Bubbles of stage fright gurgle through me. They call it le trac in French. I have le trac. J’ai le trac. Ava a le trac. Nous avons le trac.
When we get to the Place de la Concorde, all the domes of the buildings seem to be dipped in gold. All the statues too. Dad lets Mom and me and Ava off right at the marble steps to the entrance. This isn’t the embassy. This is some other building made of carvings and cut stone. I see a French flag and an American flag billowing from poles as we go in.
We pass two large columns that mark the entrance to the ballroom where the fashion show is being hosted. Ava and I get name tags and then we look out at the large crowd sitting in many, many rows of chairs. Ribbons frame the long yellow velvet runway. Logan gets up and waves to us. He stands out in a crowd with his red hair. He holds up a folding chair almost over his head, letting Mom know he has a place for her and Dad. Somebody gave me a valentine.
Ava looks greenish-gray now and as if she might throw up. My hands too are shaking slightly. “Ava,” I whisper. “We practiced this so much. We know what we’re doing.”
And I kind of lead my older sister (a first) to the backstage area. As I draw her along, I feel a kind of inside strength, something sure and unflappable and new.
There are four other designers here and all of them have made beautiful clothes. We can hear the announcer now beginning the program.
“Welcome to Sew! You’re in Paris,” he says and he thanks a list of people and goes on to talk about the show. Then he announces the first student designer, Dana Trumbell. Dana comes up and tells the audience the clothes she has designed were meant to capture the essence of a garden party in South Carolina, where she is from. The dresses are all in chiffon pastels. Next, a student from New York City goes to the microphone. He tells the audience that his designs are in black and white exclusively.
I miss seeing the other two presentations because I am helping Ava hang up and organize our dresses. And when I hear my name announced, I sort of freeze. Then I fumble and bumble out onto the stage area and stand before the microphone. I feel dizzy and as if I might faint, and then I look out at the audience and I see Collette sitting there smiling at me. She nods gently. She is sitting with Jean-Claude and Monsieur Le Bon Bon and Marguerite. My friends. My true friends. Ava is right. Nobody in my family made friends with France like I did. Not Mom. Not Dad. Not Ava. Me. I made friends with France. And somehow even before I begin speaking, I feel another rush of sureness.
I lean toward the microphone and say, “Bonsoir, Collette and everyone. Bonsoir. Good evening. When I first came to Paris, I found a doll dress in my armoire. And I wanted to know more about it. This dress sent me on a journey to discover and appreciate the doll clothing created by Madame Ernestine Jumeau of the Jumeau
doll company here in Paris. In her day, Ernestine Jumeau was as important and famous as a designer as Coco Chanel. Everyone waited to see her new designs for doll dresses every season in the 1880s and 90s. After all, these dolls and doll dresses were shipped all over the globe, sometimes to remote places. In this way, everyone in the world could see the latest Paris fashions. My collection of dresses has been inspired by Madame Ernestine Jumeau and one of her best couturier seamstresses, Delphine Rouette.
“First we will see these four dresses and then I will speak to you about the last one. Please welcome my sister, Ava Beanly, who will be modeling the line.”
Then the music comes on. “Oh, you beautiful doll, you great big beautiful doll.” Out comes Ava in the orange-and-maroon silk-and-velvet dress. She walks to the end of the runway and then back again. She turns, poses, and turns again. Then she dips into the back room and reappears rapidly in the next dress. “Oh, you beautiful doll. You great big beautiful doll.” She does all four dresses without a flaw.
When the song ends and Ava is changing, I go back to the microphone and say, “This next dress will be the last. I designed it especially for Delphine Rouette and for her bravery and courage and sacrifice during World War II.”
No music yet. Just silence. Ava walks out and stands on the runway with her eyes closed. She is wearing a black sailor dress with a long yellow silk tie at the collar that trails almost to the ground. The black collar has two yellow stars appliquéd on each corner at the back. She stands still and the music begins:
Oh, ma patrie, ne pleurez pas,
ne pleurez pas, vous et moi.
Nous allons guérir, comme la lumiére,
comme le ciel, comme le vent,
comme la terre.
Oh, ma patrie, ne pleurez pas,
Ne pleurez pas, vous et moi.
Oh, my country, do not cry.
We will heal, you and I.
Like the light, like the earth,
like the wind, like the sky.
Oh, my country, do not cry.
We will heal, you and I.
Ava in the black drop-waisted sailor dress stands tall and straight as the music ends. But then something amazing happens. The entire room full of people begins to sing aloud together.
Oh, my country, do not cry.
We will heal, you and I.
Like the light, like the earth,
like the wind, like the sky.
Oh, my country, do not cry.
We will heal, you and I.
The whole room is ringing with the song as Ava stands alone on the runway. Until the song is finished, the stage lights dim, the houselights go up, and the show is over.
The audience cheers and thunders and stamps their feet and cries out. They shout, “Vive la France! Bravo! Chapeau!” Some of them shout, “Hats off! Hats off to you!”
Then people are swarming around Ava and me. I talk with a man from the École de l’Art. And Logan comes up and hugs Ava and kisses her right in front of everyone. People start telling me how much they loved my dresses and the program.
And finally Mom makes her way through the crowd. She throws her arms around me and holds me tight. “Oh, Pet, it was wonderful! Beautiful. And I love you so much.”
“Thank you, Mom,” I say. “I love you too.”
“Pet,” says Mom, “about your dresses—I just didn’t understand until now. I’m so sorry, honey.”
“Mom,” I say. “Mom, it’s okay.”
“And you and Ava were a true sister team. I loved seeing you two together like that. That’s the way it should be,” says Mom, hugging me again.
“Mom,” I say, “some guy told me they want me to go to their art and design school on the Avenue Mozart. He offered me some kind of scholarship. They only speak French there.”
“Oh, well, you’ll learn quickly,” says Mom. “You’re young.”
“I hope so, because I want to go there,” I say. “I think.”
“Of course you do, honey. I am so proud of you,” says Mom.
Then Dad comes rushing up and grabs me and Ava and says, “Girls, you were great! You wowed us! You blew us away!” Then we kind of form a four-way hug, Mom and me and Dad and Ava, all in a big circle, embracing. And I am thinking, we came to this crazy country and we felt like lonely outsiders and somehow we just don’t feel that way anymore.
Now the crowd is moving quickly. Everyone is milling here and there. People keep stopping me and telling me they loved the show and why. And I keep saying thank you. But all I want to do is find Collette. Where is she? And then I see her squeezing through the crowds coming toward me.
“Oh, my angel. Thank you so much for that tribute to my grandmother,” she says, hugging me. “Oh, nothing could have meant more to me than to have everyone singing that song. It was as if they were singing for her and for me.” Collette has tears in her eyes as she holds both my hands together in her hands.
“Collette, I’ve missed you,” I say. “Where have you been?”
“Oh, dear. I guess you saw the truck from the doll museum,” she says.
“Yes, I did see it. I wondered about it,” I say.
“Well, I finally called them because I wanted to give the doll collection to them,” Collette says. “After all, everyone should be able to see those dolls and enjoy them, not just you and me.”
“What did they say?” I ask.
“Well, they told me because it is a complete set they are very valuable so it seems, and they insisted that they give me at least a portion of the money. I finally had to accept. I got tired of saying no. And it will be a help. I can live in my little maisonette in Provence now, the little cottage that belonged to my papa. I have always wanted to grow lavender.”
“You’re going there to live?” I say. “But who will be the concierge for us?”
“Did you meet Elise?” she says.
“You mean the lady who was sitting in the hall that day?” I say.
“Yes, she will take the job. You will like her. And I am now free to go, and you helped me with that. Oh, my little angel, you have released me. After all, I am eighty years old. I have lived in that apartment all my life. I do not need to live and dwell on the past anymore.”
“But you can’t leave. You’re my best friend,” I say.
“We will always be friends, Petunia. No matter where I am,” she says.
“But you’re like my fairy godmother. I mean, I know it sounds stupid,” I say.
“Oh, but I am only a concierge,” says Collette. “And it’s sad because concierges are going out of style in Paris. They have a reputation for being nosy. But that is not right at all. Perhaps a concierge is kind of like a fairy godmother in a way, each one looking after all the people who live in her building.”
“But if you go away, I’ll miss you,” I say, starting to cry.
“I will miss you too. When I see my field of lavender flowers stretching far and wide, I will think of you and your lavender dress, my little angel. But I must go now, sooner than you would believe. Did you see the other van parked in front of the building last week?”
“Yes I did. I wondered about that too,” I say in a very somber voice.
“Ah. It was a moving van, ma chérie, and it is all packed now. I didn’t want to tell you until after your show. And you were so busy upstairs preparing your program that I was able to pack quietly without any fuss. I wanted you and Ava to do your very best this evening, and you did! But the movers are planning to drive the van tonight. You must understand, they like to drive when it is quiet, no other cars on the road. I will sleep in the backseat. We will leave at midnight. The air will be cooler and better for travel.”
“Oh, Collette, I wondered what you meant about a going-away present. You knew you were going away! Oh, and thank you for your help, Collette. I mean, with the French seams and your sewing machine and Ava and everything.”
“Well, we helped each other, n’est-ce pas? Isn’t that what friendship is all about? Now, for you th
e night is young, my little angel, and there’s more to come. Try to enjoy it. After all, you earned it.” Collette hugs me and I hug her and I don’t want to let her go. But she turns and waves and then walks into the crowd of people. When I see her moving through the packed room toward the door, she seems suddenly frail and I want to rush over and hug her one more time. But I turn my head for a second and when I look back, she is gone.
Now I stand in the midst of the crowd. For a moment I feel a great aloneness. I spin around and I start to unravel, my old unsureness returning. Then someone comes up to me and pats me on the back. It’s Ava. “Here you go, Pet,” she says, handing me a purple bouquet. “To match your dress.”
“Oh, Ava, flowers!” I say. “They are beautiful! This is the third bouquet I have gotten this summer.”
“Thank you. Thank you. Thank you, Pet,” says Ava, giving me a hug.
“You too, Ava,” I say. “You did such a beautiful job. Nobody could have done it better.”
Ava smiles and looks away across the crowd. She points her long arm toward the other side of the room. “There are some very cool pastries and cakes over that way. You might want to get over to them before they are all gone,” she says and then she too slips away.
I look across the ocean of room. The smell of wisteria and lavender and summer lilacs from the bouquet in my arms sweeps over me. My head is light. I feel faint. Way on the other side, almost against the wall, my eyes suddenly flutter and stop still and fall on Windel Watson floating like a boat on the surface of this ocean of room.
My head starts to swim. The cloudy wisteria and lavender in my arms makes me sway a little back and forth. Even from this great distance, Windel seems to find me with his serious dark eyes. If you’re sad, Paris will make you sadder. Is he extremely angry or extremely sad? He’s waving something above his head. It looks like a hammer. Does he know that it was me who ruined his performance and dinner at the Stewarts’? Me again?
