Anio Szado Read Online Free Page B

through the door of the Ladies’ Garment Workers building. I had the looks then; I know that now. I had a name, for what it was worth. Beyond that? A stack of drawings no one wanted to see, a stolen collection I couldn’t sell, a heart yearning for a man whose own heart was pledged to the stormiest of skies.
    Only Madame Fiche had spoken of a real future. Of designing, of talent.
    Of success.

4

    Madame opened her studio door without a hint of surprise. She had me sit with my back to the butterfly dress again, as if not seeing it would lessen my resentment. Instead, I felt its presence spur me to boldness. “All right, Madame. Tell me: why should I work for you?”
    She said, “You went north after final exams last year, yes? Were you in New York in March, when the L-85 regulations were announced?”
    “I came back just two weeks ago.”
    She ticked garment regulations, like grievances, on her fingertips: “Tucks, pleats, sleeve widths, dress lengths. Everything not slender and stingy: gone.” She fluttered her fingers as though to say goodbye. “You fancy yourself a designer; I require assistance. I am willing to let you prove your value. To create memorable work within the new regulations requires a master craftswoman as well as a couturier’s flair. But as you are here, you will suffice.”
    Madame Fiche knew exactly what I could do, how hard I could work. At NYFS, I had learned to make patterns, and to cut fabric, and to sew swiftly and carefully, tirelessly. I had learned finishing techniques. I had learned that the harder you work, the harder you are asked to work; the greater your desire and pride, the more the fool. Under Madame, I had worked harder than anyone. She had pushed me, loading me with extra assignments in addition to those given to the entire class. It had been clear that she had been testing me, maybe even grooming me.
    I said, “I’ve already shown my worth by creating the butterfly designs.”
    “You think socialites today desire to look like insects? Do you? If that is your vision, tell me now. I would very much like to know.”
    “You tell me, Madame. Did you get any orders?”
    “They were immediately withdrawn when the restrictions came down.”
    “I’m sorry,” I said, though I was not; I was relieved there were no women walking around in the dresses I had designed.
    “You did not come here to console me,
n’est-ce pas
? I have much to do to get this business back on track, and no time to waste. I have heard there are plans for an event that showcases American designers. It will bring newsmen from all over the country. Fashion Week, or Fashion Press Week, I believe it will be called. We must secure an invitation to participate. We must develop our reputation, our own clientele. First we conquer within our niche. For this, I need you.”
    “You said I didn’t understand American women.”
    “I am not hiring you to understand them. The less we see of them, the better—until we are so successful that they come begging to wear our clothes. Do you know what they call our countrymen? ‘Nazi-lovers.’ ‘Cowards.’ They say these things to me, as I stand in their drawing rooms with a measuring tape around my neck. What do you think they will say when their own sons are sent to die along the Seine? Do you think American mothers will wish to wear a label that says ‘atelier’ instead of ‘studio,’ or a dress that emulates the Parisians? No, Mignonne, we will not focus our efforts on Americans. We will focus on the French.”
    The French? How was even a single Frenchwoman to order an Atelier Fiche design?
    Unless she had fled to New York. Of course. Madame had decided to focus on the
émigrés
. This would be her niche: thelargest, wealthiest group of French cultural elite outside of Paris. No designer had yet made this clientele his own.
    Madame was not a member of the community’s exclusive club, the Alliance Française. From the looks of things, she could not afford the