Free Anio Szado by Studio Saint-Ex Page B

measurements,” said Madame Fiche.
    The client said, “Everything he ever made for me has fit like a glove.”
    The coat muslin, however, was bound to fit more like a sausage casing. What could I do? I found the larger of the two cotton garments, shook out its folds, and held it up. It looked miniscule in relation to its target.
    Now even Madame Fiche blanched. All was silent at first, then a mechanical whirling sound came from the mantelpiece, and a click. A clock struck once with a deep, reverberating gong. The dog in the client’s arms squirmed and yipped.
    Mrs. Brossard laughed. Madame Fiche forced out a laugh and gestured for me to do the same.
    “Ha-ha,” I said thinly.
    “Ha-ha!” Madame Fiche answered brightly. “Such a lively household! It pains me to have to leave so soon to attend to some dreadful business. However, my assistant will stay on to complete the fitting. I will check on her progress at the studio later this afternoon.”
    Madame was leaving? The garment would not fit, and it would be all my fault.
    The client brushed her hand through the air as if to say, “Yes, yes, off with you,” and called her girl—“Celeste!”—to fetch Madame’s coat.
    As Celeste scurried past to catch up to Madame, I pulled out the measuring tape.
    “Put that away!” Mrs. Brossard cried. “My God, how many times must a figure be measured? You designers are all the same! Give me that muslin.”
    I held it out.
    “Oh, forget it,” the client said as the dog once again refused to be released. “You put it on. Go ahead: let me see it on you. It’ll give me the general idea.”
    I slipped into the smaller of the two muslins, adjusted the collar, pinned the waist closed, and smoothed the front panels with my palms. Though large, the piece hung elegantly enough from my shoulders, which were overly strong and wide thanks to my father’s genes and my year of waitressing in Montreal.
    “Good,” said Mrs. Brossard. “That’s it, exactly!” She squeezed the dog to her ample bosom. “That’s what I want. Take it back and make it. Madame Fiche has the fabric already; you have the measurements. You understand I need it right away. Oh, it will be excellent. I have a good eye, I tell you.”
    Again she called her maid. Then, ruffling the dog’s curly ears, she wandered away.
    Celeste appeared, a bundle in her arms. “Don’t forget your coat, miss.”
    I was bending over my bag, shoving in the useless muslins. “Thank you, Celeste, but I didn’t bring a coat.”
    The girl glanced back at the doorway through which Mrs. Brossard had passed. “It’s yours,” she said quickly. “Keep it.” She pushed the bundle into my bag and hurried me out of the apartment.
    I walked stunned to the subway. Once aboard, I peered into the bag: Celeste had given me a garment of blue artificial silk. A present for Madame Fiche? A simple mix-up? I couldn’t comprehend it.
    Clutching the bag, I rode to the studio and climbed the endless stairs.
    The day had been an exhausting disaster. At this rate, I would never prove my worth. I was unlikely to keep my job at all, never mind collect any pay. I would never make partner.
    All I’d managed, so far, was to clean the studio, waste cotton, and lose Madame’s newest client. I could cry. Instead, I let myself into the studio and curled up at one end of the sofa, pulling onto my lap a length of herringbone wool that had been draped across the arm. Leo was right: I ought to look for a real job, a way to be useful. I would wait for Madame’s return to the studio, and tell her what had happened. Let Madame fire me as Mrs. Brossard had fired Vaudoit. I’d work in a factory: hard but mindless, logical work. It would be a relief.
    The afternoon grew old as I waited. The sunlight that had streamed in so clear and bright this morning had dissipated to a haze. In its midst, a blade of white light, reflecting off the panes of some nearby building, quivered on the floor. I watched it tremble, my