Read Online Anio Szado by Studio Saint-Ex - Free Book Online Page B

to check that she was properly prepared for the ordeal. There were many people making the exodus, and it would be difficult and dangerous. I arrived just as she was about to drive off. I had brought water and many containers of gasoline for her, for she would have a long trip and there would be no gas available at any price.” He laid down the napkin. It shifted as it loosened, a snake coming to life. “Do you know what she had packed into the Peugeot, from front to back?”
    “No.”
    “Ball gowns. Minks. Dresses. Hats. The finest creations of the best couturiers of Paris.”
    The image was disturbing, thrilling.
    Antoine scooped up the napkin and flung it onto the table. “I pulled the clothing from the car and dumped it onto the street. Into the mud, to make room for the gas cans. Neither cars nor people can survive on pretty silks.”
    I was gutted for a moment. But when I breathed in, the breath fed a fire that would not be snuffed. “You make it soundas though I’m betraying my country—and yours—by pursuing a career in fashion.”
    “I only tell you—”
    “You think it’s frivolous. Or worse.”
    “I am just trying to—”
    “Fashion is an integral part of a people. When you fought for your country, what do you think you were fighting for? The land? The roads? It wasn’t the churches or the buildings—you’d gladly take France back with those gone. You’d take it with the roads blown out. You fought for the people.”
    “Of course.”
    “And if the spirit of the people is gone? If everything that makes life worth living were thrown away—then what would be the point of saving the life? You don’t fight for the shell of the person.”
    He sat back, listening, as I continued.
    “You tell me about the car filled with fashions and, yes, a part of me is horrified. But think what your wife was doing. Think what any woman does when she picks a nice dress over a few loaves of bread.”
    He put his elbows on the table. “Please, go on.”
    “She shows the world, in her own way, that it doesn’t matter if the roads are bombed and the gas has all gone into German tanks: she’ll live beyond the necessities of life. She’ll live in the spirit, in beauty, in silks and minks, because if she’s going to live she wants to feel—and not just be—alive.”
    For a minute, then, we sat listening to the sound of glasses being washed, our eyes on the scant inch of tablecloth separating his hand from mine.
    He rose and came around to my side of the table. I stood as he slid back my chair. Suddenly he was leaning in close to my ear. I smelled his cologne as his cheek grazed my hair.
    He said, “The sky everywhere is cold, Mignonne, if you fly high enough.”

8

    It finally occurs to me, a quarter century on, that I had started aiding Consuelo—
Spare your wife’s silks and minks, Antoine!—
before I’d even met her. It’s eerie how she always knew how to get her way.

9

    Consuelo maneuvered through the Alliance’s dining room toward her husband. The girl had gotten her into his hideaway. Consuelo had already hatched a plan to make it happen again and again. She glanced back to make sure Mignonne was staying at the bar.
    She barely greeted her few acquaintances on her way to Tonio’s table. Not that they were friendly to her either. You’d hardly know she was a famous writer’s wife. These pretend-elite Frenchwomen were probably used to seeing her husband with any of a parade of girls. So much for arriving in America and taking her rightful place at the head of the socialite table. They didn’t even want to let her into the room.
    Tonio’s brown eyes flitted to her and narrowed. He bent forward for a quick word with his guest before straightening in his chair.
    A decent husband wouldn’t feel the need to warn his companion of the approach of his wife. A decent husband would glow, not press his mouth closed as Tonio was doing now. But at least he had told the truth earlier: he wasn’t with a