do. I smiled throughout each step: planning, shifting pattern pieces to maximize use of the fabric, tracing shapes onto the muslin with dressmakers’ chalk. At one point, I laughed aloud, delighted by the weight and fit of my favorite old shears in my hand.
Madame, who was grumbling through a box of paper on the floor, looked up in surprise at the sound. Her hand stopped clawing through the stack of papers. I thought her mind paused its churning, too. She sat back on her haunches to watch me work, and her face slowly released its tightness. For a moment—it could have been the light; it could have been the odd angle (for I had rarely had occasion to look down on her)—Madame looked vulnerable, open. She looked human.
A few minutes later, she wandered over to critique my work, but her inspection lacked focus and her criticism was without basis or bite. By midafternoon, she took a ring of keys from a nail near the door, removed one, and handed it to me. “Lock up when you leave. I will meet you here at ten o’clock tomorrow; we depart at ten fifteen for Mrs. Brossard’s. Ensure that the muslins are what they should be.”
I worked alone, relishing the wide-open workspace, content in the relative silence. I completed the pattern and the simple muslins, and then—as the sunlight pulled away from the studio walls—I treated my surroundings to a much-needed general cleaning.
Before drawing the door closed behind me and locking it,I stood gazing at the space. It was generous and, even in the early evening’s slanting light, blessed with a brightness that I had come to crave since moving into my brother’s apartment. I could survive living in that dungeon, shoulder to shoulder with Leo, if I could escape every day to this. The immense space that was Atelier Fiche would be, in every hour I could manage to be here in solitude, mine and mine alone.
5
I stopped at a liquor store after leaving the studio, slipping through the iron-hatched door just as the proprietor was ambling over to lock up for the night, and picked out a bottle of wine. I checked the contents of my pocketbook, then bought a bottle of whisky, too, selecting one with a familiar name.
Leo greeted me at the apartment in his work uniform, the shirt open and belt undone. “Hello, Mig!” There were dark crescents under his eyes. The skin of his face was dull and shadowed. He bared his teeth in a slightly frightening grin.
I handed him the paper bag.
“And hello, Jack Daniels!” he said. “Looks like you got your first paycheck already.”
“That could be a while coming. But pour us a couple of glasses and we’ll talk. Have you eaten?”
“We’ll have dinner at the Alliance Française tonight to celebrate. But first,” Leo readied our drinks as I settled onto the couch, “here’s to my little Miggy. To the success of your new job. Clink, clink.” He touched his whisky glass to my wine goblet.
“Thank you.” I sipped.
He tossed back his glass and rubbed his hands together. “Okay, out with it. Story time! Going to be a good one, I can feel it.”
I swirled my wine and took a drink, and Leo topped up my glass before I could even set it down. “I went back to Madame Fiche’s studio yesterday.”
“You did? Excellent. Now you’re learning to turn the screw. How much did you get out of her?”
“Nothing yet.”
“What did you ask for?”
“She hired me.”
“Wait a minute. That’s your new job? Working for her?”
“It’s a good opportunity. She has a big space and all the tools, and fabric stacked up like you wouldn’t believe. And she says I can use whatever I need. I can design there. And she’s a rising star.”
“Christ, Miggy! You’re supposed to be the bloody star in this picture, not the
salope
who stole your stuff. Work for some other designer.”
“No one will even consider me. Madame knows me; she knows what I can do.”
“She better be paying you good.”
“She’s going to make me a
Madame, who was grumbling through a box of paper on the floor, looked up in surprise at the sound. Her hand stopped clawing through the stack of papers. I thought her mind paused its churning, too. She sat back on her haunches to watch me work, and her face slowly released its tightness. For a moment—it could have been the light; it could have been the odd angle (for I had rarely had occasion to look down on her)—Madame looked vulnerable, open. She looked human.
A few minutes later, she wandered over to critique my work, but her inspection lacked focus and her criticism was without basis or bite. By midafternoon, she took a ring of keys from a nail near the door, removed one, and handed it to me. “Lock up when you leave. I will meet you here at ten o’clock tomorrow; we depart at ten fifteen for Mrs. Brossard’s. Ensure that the muslins are what they should be.”
I worked alone, relishing the wide-open workspace, content in the relative silence. I completed the pattern and the simple muslins, and then—as the sunlight pulled away from the studio walls—I treated my surroundings to a much-needed general cleaning.
Before drawing the door closed behind me and locking it,I stood gazing at the space. It was generous and, even in the early evening’s slanting light, blessed with a brightness that I had come to crave since moving into my brother’s apartment. I could survive living in that dungeon, shoulder to shoulder with Leo, if I could escape every day to this. The immense space that was Atelier Fiche would be, in every hour I could manage to be here in solitude, mine and mine alone.
5
I stopped at a liquor store after leaving the studio, slipping through the iron-hatched door just as the proprietor was ambling over to lock up for the night, and picked out a bottle of wine. I checked the contents of my pocketbook, then bought a bottle of whisky, too, selecting one with a familiar name.
Leo greeted me at the apartment in his work uniform, the shirt open and belt undone. “Hello, Mig!” There were dark crescents under his eyes. The skin of his face was dull and shadowed. He bared his teeth in a slightly frightening grin.
I handed him the paper bag.
“And hello, Jack Daniels!” he said. “Looks like you got your first paycheck already.”
“That could be a while coming. But pour us a couple of glasses and we’ll talk. Have you eaten?”
“We’ll have dinner at the Alliance Française tonight to celebrate. But first,” Leo readied our drinks as I settled onto the couch, “here’s to my little Miggy. To the success of your new job. Clink, clink.” He touched his whisky glass to my wine goblet.
“Thank you.” I sipped.
He tossed back his glass and rubbed his hands together. “Okay, out with it. Story time! Going to be a good one, I can feel it.”
I swirled my wine and took a drink, and Leo topped up my glass before I could even set it down. “I went back to Madame Fiche’s studio yesterday.”
“You did? Excellent. Now you’re learning to turn the screw. How much did you get out of her?”
“Nothing yet.”
“What did you ask for?”
“She hired me.”
“Wait a minute. That’s your new job? Working for her?”
“It’s a good opportunity. She has a big space and all the tools, and fabric stacked up like you wouldn’t believe. And she says I can use whatever I need. I can design there. And she’s a rising star.”
“Christ, Miggy! You’re supposed to be the bloody star in this picture, not the
salope
who stole your stuff. Work for some other designer.”
“No one will even consider me. Madame knows me; she knows what I can do.”
“She better be paying you good.”
“She’s going to make me a