Page 8 of After Paris

Chapter Eight

Sylvia

Saturday, October 5, 1940

3:00 p.m.

The crowded Métro ride to the Boulogne-Billancourt studios in the western suburbs took over half an hour. The guards waved Emile and me through the gates, and we wound our way to the dressing rooms.

We found Cécile standing on a small box. She looked annoyed and tired as a thin man regarded her too-tight blouse. Well into his fifties, he wore a tape measure around his neck, sharply creased pants, a white shirt rolled up to his elbows, and a fitted vest. His thinning black hair was parted neatly on the side.

He reached for the button between her breasts, released the straining fabric, and exposed her cleavage, contained in a satin brassiere. Standing in a corner was a young man, holding extra fabric and keeping his gaze averted. He was lean and gangly and couldn’t have been more than fifteen.

“They throw off the entire look of the dress,” he said. “They’re more suited for the Moulin Rouge than a virginal movie character.”

Cécile rested her hands on her hips, mindful that the move exposed her breasts more. “Monsieur Richards, that’s why it’s called ‘pretend.’ I’m pretending to be Babette, a virgin who can’t choose between three men who all can’t live without her.”

“You as a virgin,” Monsieur Richards scoffed. “What do you think of that, Rupert?”

The boy kept his gaze down. “I-I’ll ...”

“Don’t put the boy on the spot,” Cécile ordered. “Assertions of my intact virginity are as preposterous as you claiming to be a dresser.”

Rupert’s face flushed as he dropped his head to hide his smile.

The lines on Monsieur Richards’s face deepened as he frowned. “I’ve been dressing women for three decades.”

Cécile rolled her eyes. “That long? Who would have known?”

His frown deepened. “We’ll bind them. Once they are flatter, they’ll fit into the blouse.”

She waved him away with long, manicured fingers. “Why should I have to change because you can’t measure?”

Emile and I stood by the door. Emile grinned at her sister’s boldness, while I was annoyed with the small man who didn’t know his craft.

“Let the fabric out,” I said.

Cécile looked past Monsieur Richards toward Emile and me. When she saw her sister’s familiar face, she smiled. “Finally, help has arrived.”

As if Cécile had not spoken, the dresser said, “Binding them will be more efficient. Besides, all the dresses made for you won’t fit those.” He waved his hands toward her chest as if it were an unwelcome anomaly.

“ They are called breasts,” I said, aware the young boy was blushing. “You shouldn’t hide an asset. Men like large breasts, especially when a woman seems pure.” I approached Cécile and her dresser. “Did you measure her?”

“Of course I did,” Monsieur Richards said. “I stand by my work.”

“I didn’t sprout these overnight,” Cécile said.

“I don’t have time to remake the dresses,” Monsieur Richards ground out. “I’m already behind schedule.”

Cécile stepped off her block and walked toward Emile. When the actress hugged her sister, the shirt fabric strained across her back. “You haven’t been here in ages. I missed you.”

Emile tightened her hold around her sister’s neck. “The boulangerie is always busy.”

The two sisters were quite different. Emile was as tall as her sister, but her hair was dark brown and twisted back in a tight chignon. Emile’s features were more angular, her demeanor sterner. She had the air of a much older woman, whereas Cécile, who’d dyed her hair a light blond, had an electric, youthful energy. I could no sooner picture Cécile escorting refugees over the border than I could Emile flaunting her breasts.

“Can you give us a moment?” Cécile asked Monsieur Richards and Rupert.

“We are on a tight schedule,” Monsieur Richards countered.

“Only because you can’t measure,” Cécile said. “Be off with you. And Rupert, would you be so kind as to get me a coffee?”

The boy bowed as if grateful for the task. “Yes, mademoiselle.”

“Don’t get her coffee,” Monsieur Richards shouted.

Cécile smiled at Rupert in a way few men could resist. “Off with you. I’ll handle Monsieur Richards.”

“The boy works for me!” Monsieur Richards said.

“No, he works for me now.” She waved the boy off with a flick of her fingers.

“You overvalue yourself,” he countered. “Actresses like you come and go. You’re disposable.”

Cécile looked amused. “Someone is disposable, but it’s not me. Go get the director, Monsieur Archambeau, and we’ll have this discussion with him.”

“We don’t need to get him involved.”

“We do,” she insisted.

Monsieur Richards muttered under his breath and stomped off the set.

Cécile glanced in the mirror. “The hairdresser, the makeup artist, and the acting coach are all trying to fix something that’s wrong with me. But I draw the line at my breasts.”

Emile kissed her sister on the cheek. “I want to introduce you to Sylvia Rousseau. She’s a seamstress.”

Cécile regarded me as she extended her hand. “I gathered as much. It’s a pleasure, Mademoiselle Rousseau. So, do you think this blouse is too tight?”

“It’s a miracle you can breathe,” I said.

“You should hire her,” Emile said. “She’s very talented.”

“What kind of experience do you have, Mademoiselle Rousseau?”

I detailed my work in the lingerie factory, my boss’s passing, and my desire to find new work. “I’m very familiar with fitting a woman’s body.”

“What have you made that I could see?”

I had not made my suit, but I’d stitched all my undergarments. I stepped back, removed my jacket, and slipped off my shirt. “I made this.”

With a critical eye, Cécile studied the chemise that glided over my body. She leaned closer, inspecting the stitching. “Very nice. But I’ll need more than undergarments.”

“I can make anything out of fabric.” I buttoned my blouse and tucked it into the waistband of my blue skirt.

“I’m sure you’re wonderful, but sadly, I don’t make production decisions. The director does.”

“He listens to you,” Emile said.

“From time to time.”

“Does Monsieur Richards know how to use a tape measure?” I asked.

My question coaxed a smile. “Monsieur Richards assures me that he can.”

“That tight bodice contradicts his claim.” I motioned her to spin. “Would you turn around for me?”

Cécile turned, and I asked her to stop. I ran a finger along the seam running down the center of her back. I suspected the crooked seam was unfinished inside. “Assuming Monsieur Richards created moderately generous seams, I can let out your shirt and have a fitted version within an hour.”

“He says he doesn’t have time to fix anything,” Cécile said.

“Monsieur Richards is lazy,” I said. “I’ll fix this in an hour. The rest won’t take me more than a few days.”

“You make your statements with such confidence.”

“I’m that good.” I was unsure about much in this world, but I knew needles, thread, and fabrics.

“What do I do with Monsieur Richards?” Cécile didn’t sound concerned.

Emile scoffed. “Talk to Henri. You can convince him of anything.”

Cécile’s shoulder lifted in a slight shrug. “Where are you from, Sylvia?”

“Paris.”

She regarded me. “Your pronunciation is flawless, but I detect a slight accent.”

“No,” I said. “I’m French. I have all the paperwork that’s required.”

“It’s not for me to cast stones, Mademoiselle Rousseau,” Cécile said. “Reinvention is my specialty.”

I waited for her to press me on my background, but she didn’t. Instead, she unbuttoned her blouse and handed it to me. Dressed only in a brassiere and skirt, she looked perfectly comfortable, as if being half-naked didn’t bother her.

“Where is the sewing room?” I asked.

She grabbed a silk robe, slid it on, and beckoned Emile and me to follow. We wound our way down a dimly lit hallway toward a door that led to the costumer’s office. When we entered the sewing room, Monsieur Richards sat beside a sewing machine. He wasn’t ripping seams but drinking a cup of coffee. When he saw us, he didn’t bother to stand.

“Have you spoken to Monsieur Archambeau?” Cécile asked.

“Yes.” Monsieur Richards reached for a cigarette case and lighter. “He’s on his way.”

“Give us the room,” I said.

He lit the tip of his cigarette and puffed. Even the smoke swirled unhurriedly around his head. “This is my room. My domain.”

“We’re simply borrowing it,” Cécile said.

“To what purpose?” he demanded.

“You don’t need to worry, Monsieur Richards,” Cécile said. “Now, move.”

His face reddened with outrage. “I inherited this job from my uncle, and you cannot challenge my position.”

“You may be right,” Cécile said as she coaxed him out of his chair. “We’ll see.”

“The director won’t stand for this,” Monsieur Richards said.

“Go on, tattle to Monsieur Archambeau before he arrives.”

Monsieur Richards stormed toward the door and then paused. “Do not touch anything.”

As soon as he was gone, she closed the door. “Do your magic, Mademoiselle Rousseau. I suspect we’ll have him charging back through that door with Henri in tow any moment.”

I moved toward the silver sewing machine I’d seen Monsieur Richards hunched over. I sat and brushed off cigarette ashes. Then I reached for a seam ripper and skimmed the sharp edge through the threads on each side of the blouse. I’d done this thousands of times before, and my fingers needed little direction. Once I’d freed the fabric, I stood and beckoned Cécile forward.

She slipped off the robe and slid the partly constructed blouse on. I repinned the seams in a matter of minutes and then ordered her to give me back the blouse. I returned to the machine.

“It’s refreshing not to hear comments about my body or to feel hands lingering on my waist or the underside of my breasts,” Cécile said.

As the machine whirled, Emile smiled. “He’s a pig. I’ve told you that.”

“The movie industry is full of them,” Cécile said.

“You accept too much,” Emile said.

Cécile smiled. “And you’ve been fighting since you could walk. How did you meet Sylvia? Please tell me it wasn’t at one of your meetings.”

Emile attended many late-night gatherings focused on ways to resist the Germans. “She’s a customer of the boulangerie.”

It was a small lie, but better than the truth. Cécile didn’t need to know about my work with the refugees and Marc. Even Emile and Marc didn’t know all my secrets, and that was how it would remain.

“Sylvia. May I call you Sylvia?”

“Of course.”

“Are you a gossip, Sylvia?”

The machine stopped, and I stood. “No.”

Cécile studied me a beat. “I suspect you’re good with secrets.”

I didn’t probe deeper but quickly finished the seams. “Try this on now.”

Cécile slid on the shirt again and buttoned the front. The fabric joined easily and held without any gaps. She turned toward the full-length mirror. I stood behind her, smoothing my hands over her shoulders and waistline as I critically studied the fabric and then analyzed the overall shape of the blouse.

The door opened abruptly. Monsieur Richards and a short balding man dressed in a well-made suit loomed at the threshold.

“Cécile, why are you being difficult?” the bald man asked.

“I’m not being difficult, Henri.” Smiling, she moved toward him slowly and then kissed him on the lips.

“Then why is this man pestering me?” he asked.

“He measured all my costumes incorrectly. He wants me to bind my breasts so I can fit into my clothes.” She cupped her bosom, drawing his attention to them. “I thought you said they were my best assets.”

He cleared his throat. “They are.”

“Then why should I hide them?”

He studied the fabric contoured to her chest. “This blouse fits perfectly.”

She continued to grip her breasts. “Mademoiselle Rousseau fixed the blouse in less than ten minutes. Monsieur Richards says redoing my wardrobe would take too much time. But mademoiselle thinks she can do it in less than a week. We’ll remake the outfits in order of the scenes you wish to shoot. You’ll lose no production time.”

Monsieur Archambeau grumbled an oath. “Monsieur Richards has been with my company for years, as has his uncle.”

“He has grown lazy,” she said. “And I like Mademoiselle Rousseau. She hails from one of the haute couture dress shops in Paris. Her clientele is exclusive, but she’s hungry for a challenge.”

He looked past her to me, his frown deepening. He’d been casting and categorizing faces for two decades and had a keen eye for small differences. “She does not look French.”

“She’s from Alsace,” Cécile lied easily. “Which I suppose for you is like another country, but I can assure you it’s very French.”

“What do I do with him?” He jabbed his thumb toward Monsieur Richards.

“Can’t you send him somewhere?” she asked. “I’m sure there is a movie that requires ill-fitting clothes.” She ran her fingers down his chest to his belt buckle. “Please?”

“Stop,” he warned.

She pouted. “Are you sure?”

“Not here.”

I’d seen men like him before. They brought their mistresses to the lingerie shop and lavished them with lovely intimate apparel. And by the following season, the same men would return with a different young woman. Like them, Monsieur Archambeau would most likely grow tired of Cécile, but she still held his attention for now.

“Later?” she coaxed.

“Yes.”

“So, I get Mademoiselle Rousseau as my dresser?”

“If she lives up to your promises, she can stay,” he said. “She has one week to make good on her claims.”

“And I don’t want Rupert fired or reassigned. I like the boy. He lives close to the studio with his mother and sister, and he works hard.”

“You ask so much,” Monsieur Archambeau complained.

“ Merci, mon c?ur ,” Cécile said.

Monsieur Archambeau turned toward Monsieur Richards and pointed toward the door. “Out.”

The man’s face reddened with outrage. “This is my office.”

“No longer. Go! Now!”

As Rupert entered with a tray holding a cup and saucer, Monsieur Richards glared at the actress. I knew then she’d made an enemy.

Unmindful of Monsieur Richards, Cécile accepted the cup from Rupert. “Thank you, my darling. You’ll be working for Mademoiselle Rousseau now.”

Surprise flashed across the boy’s face, but he was quick to hide it. “Of course.”

“Excellent. Now, leave me with the mademoiselle to finish my fitting. She’ll find you when she needs you.”

When the men cleared the room, Cécile faced me. “He’s a good boy and will work hard for you.”

“I’ve never had an assistant before.”

“You do now. So do not disappoint me.”

She’d done me a huge favor but would release me if I didn’t deliver. “I will not.”

She studied my round face and very blond hair twisted into a bun. “Henri is right. You look foreign, and these days, that can draw unnecessary attention. Sylvia, we’ll visit my hair salon. I think you need a more sophisticated cut.”

I touched a blond strand that had escaped its pins. I had my mother’s thick wavy hair, and I hadn’t cut it because it reminded me of her. “Why?”

“We want you looking like the Parisienne I know you are.”

I’d said the same to Albin and Miriam. Something about me suggested I wasn’t French. “If you think it’ll help.”

“It’ll make you a new woman.” She glanced toward Emile and then leaned in close to me. “The better job we do of hiding you, the better for us both.”

Unspoken secrets clawed at my insides. Cécile was right, of course. A storm swirled around Paris, and I feared it would wipe everyone out.