Page 20 of Under the Shade of the Sycamore

That was easy to do. If I was any more excited I’d burst like a confetti ball.

We had little time to drink in the exterior of the world famous art museum as we were hustled along by Camilo plus two security guards cameras filming our every step while chatted exuberantly. Once inside I found it hard to walk and not fall down the main stairs what with my sight levering upward to gawk at the stunning gold-tone arched ceiling filled with so many glass panels a person could never count them. We passed statues from famed sculptors, our whispers filling the grand hall where we found Soline, Claude, and a slim woman in a dour brown dress that matched her shoes awaiting us. Between Soline and Claude sat a cloaked painting on a small plinth.

“Bonjour,” our advisor said. We replied in kind. “Welcome to the Musée d’Orsay.” Claude beamed with joy as he spoke. He was known to be a great supporter of the arts. Cameras and sound were set up and rolling. Xavier was off to the side glowering at something on a small screen. “We are so very excited and honored to be able to film here. Our thanks to the city of Paris and the Ministry of Culture for granting us permission to enjoy this beautiful museum. This lovely lady is Monique Levarré, the president and director of the Musée d’Orsay and the Musée de l’Orangerie. She’s going to tell you a bit about the mysterious painting we have here then Soline and I will fill you in about your assignment. If you please, Madame la Présidente.”

“Merci and thank you, Claude and Soline.” She had a refined, soft voice. “As you know we are famous for our collections of impressionist artwork, among the many other fine art pieces on display. Impressionism is a style of painting that details modern life in the late 19th century. The movement originated in and around Paris. And while Impressionists had may varying styles they all shared an interest in portraying people enjoying life outdoors, painting landscapes and scenes that captured the effects of sunlight in the open air rather than a studio. Claude Monet was one of the most famous developers of this form of painting but there are many others such as Renoir, Degas, and Cezanne. This oil is a rather striking work that will lead you to your second assignment parameters.” She turned to whisk the silken cloth off the oil. On the plinth, resting on a small easel, sat an old, old oil of a man clasping his hands over his mouth as he sat on a park bench with two young women on either side of him. He seemed to be trying to keep some sort of news to himself as the women in frilly bonnets were leaning in close, as if to divulge some juicy gossip. His eyes were round, dark, and riddled with misery. “This is by a relatively unknown artist of the time named Lucien Bonnard. He had great talent but sadly died before his twenty-fourth birthday of cholera. This is one of his most well-known works. It is called “Garder Le Silence” and that is a large hint for you all!”

Speculation ran wild as the cameras closed in on us. “Thank you, Madame la Présidente.” Soline set her spectacular eyes on us. “As you may or may not have guessed this assignment is all about silence.” Uhm. Oh-kay. What the hell did that mean? “Your second task is La Mode Muette. The silent fashion show. You are not allowed to speak during the creative process.” We all gaped at her, then Claude, and then at each other. “The theme is the unspoken language of fashion. Your final pieces must speak for themselves with a clear emotional or political narrative. You will have an hour to sketch. You’ll be supervised and anyone speaking to anyone else will automatically be eliminated from this assignment. There is to be no talking while you are in the workroom. We want your creativity to shine through silence.”

Claude glanced from one shocked face to the next. “Now that you know the assignment you will be given an hour to bring your designs to life on the page outside along the banks of the Seine. Remember creative isolation plus symbolism equals drama.”

“Off you go little ducks. Go sit by the water and let your imaginations quietly guide you!” Soline called out as we raced back to the van to get our sketchbooks. None of us spoke to each other as we spread out along the left bank of the Seine, asses on cool gray steps, heads bowed over our drawing pads. The air was chilly as it blew in off the water. With my colored pencils at my side a women in a dark blue cashmere trench coat appeared on the paper. High collar shirt with a tie under a linen coat which was worn under the trench coat. Sleek trousers perhaps merino wool with a sharp crease. Her shoes and bag hadn’t come to me yet but her outfit was definitely inspired by something in that man in the painting’s eyes. Maybe it was just me but I saw pain in his gaze while he fought to keep something huge from breaking forth as the world around him – the two young women – chattered away as if the world were not shattering around him. Much like I’d felt when my father died.

I blinked at the realization. Sitting up straight my back cracked after being humped over the sketchpad for so long. I found Mickey on the bottom step, his brow resting on one hand while he drew with his other, his red hair tumbled into his face. The others were also concentrating on their sketches. Among us roamed several members of the crew as well Claude, who was walking Pamplemousse on a tiny little leash. Where Soline had gone I didn’t know. Claude looked over at me as he climbed the stairs. He inclined his head as his dog trotted along at his side, looking very dapper in his doggie vest. Something about the man held me captivated as he started to make his way in my direction then stopped when his ex-husband arrived to capture his attention. With a sigh I watched as the mix of gentle curiosity and warmth faded to what I could only call disgust.

They walked off deep in a tense conversation. I sat back down to watch a pair of cormorants paddling along the water without a care in the world. I looked back to see Claude and Carlton were no longer talking they were arguing. Claude picked up his dog and stormed off leaving Carlton standing by a streetlamp with his hands fisted at his sides. Whatever they’d been fighting about had turned ugly real fast.

Pity the no talking rule didn’t apply to ex-husbands.

Chapter Nine

“Fuck! Damn it! Mother humping hunk of junk!” Several sets of eyes fell on me as I gave my sewing machine a solid thunk. “Come on, don’t do this. I am so fucking behind!”

I gave the handwheel another crank. It moved freely so there wasn’t a mechanical jam.

“Have you checked for a thread jam?” I threw a dark glare at Enzo Moretti, our Italian designer. Enzo rubbed me the wrong way. He walked around as if he were better than the rest of us starving designers because he had a job at a small textile plant in Milan. Not in a fashion house mind you, just a plant that with automated looms so fuck his superior attitude. Amazing how it took so few days for opinions to form.

“Of course. I unplugged it as well. I checked the bobbin case and cleaned it. I plugged it back into a different socket. Nothing. It’s dead. And I have one hour left to finish this trench coat so I can work on the other garments tomorrow so unless you’re going to offer some advice that’s not condescending then mind your own machine.”

His dark eyes narrowed. The cameras were hovering nearby, eager to catch my imminent breakdown and /or a fight brewing. Nothing drew viewers like tears or fisticuffs. Just ask any professional wrestling manager.

“Easy mate. Just get in touch with the school’s maintenance department,” Mickey called from his machine in the back of the cramped sewing room. Somehow the producers had managed to stuff sixteen machines and four sergers into this glorified close. It was an engineering marvel. “I can go do a bit of hand-sewing if you want to sneak onto mine.”

“No, that’s too much to ask.” I rose with a huff, my back cracking, my nerves shot. We’d been at it for ten hours straight. My design was far from done and now my machine had shit the fucking bed. Mickey’s offer was incredibly generous. I’d not accept it through. Each of us had been assigned a machine. Mine was number three. If I moved to his machine it would set him back as well. I’d have to change the thread, alter the stitch settings, tinker with the foot pressure. Nothing made a sewer madder than to come back to find their machine had been dicked with so I declined gracefully then went to find someone to call maintenance. As it was eleven at night the school maintenance department probably had a skeleton crew so who knew how long it would take.

Camilo met me in the hall outside the sewing room to assure me that as soon as a small problem with one of the toilets in the dormitories was fixed they’d get to my sewing machine. I expressed some doubts about an overnight dude having the electrical knowledge to fix a top-of-the-line machine like the Juki I’d been using. Once more I was assured that at the very least my machine would be in working order in the morning. Camilo apologized profusely. I accepted it. It wasn’t his fault my machine was bricked.

“I’m heading to the quad to chill out. Off camera,” I told the talent wrangler before making my way to the small outdoor area. At night the square was even more charming. Soft white lights hung in graceful arcs in the lower boughs of the sycamore, swaying ever so gently in the cool night air. The space was empty amazingly. Just me, the tree, and the sounds of a vibrant city that hummed all day and all night.

I copped a squat on the first bench I found, pulled my hoodie up, and fell forward to rest my elbows on my knees. How I wished I had my phone. Talking to my mother right now would lessen the incredible stress.

The arrival of a small brown dog coming over to sniff my boots brought my head up. Claude ambled over to where I was decompressing, the glow of the ivory lights above made his salt-and-pepper hair burst to life.

“Should you not be working?” he asked as he approached then paused to stand looking down at me. Pamplemousse darted off to check out a small bush.

“My machine isn’t working.” A look of understanding settled on his face, easing some of the tense lines that had been furrowing his brow. “Should you not be in bed?”

“Yes, at my advanced age I should, but production meetings ran late then I had to sit with members of the academies’ board to sift through some matters that, it seemed, could not wait until morning. I was going to have a cigarette. Do you mind?”

He pulled a silver cigarette case from his interior suit pocket.

“I’d rather you didn’t. They’re smelly and will kill you,” I said and got a long, dry look accompanied by a weary sigh before he tucked the case back into his pocket. “Thanks. You can sit down and chill if you want.”

He gave the quad a glance before lowering his thin ass to the bench. He exhaled slowly as he settled, his head tipping back, his gaze moving to the brightest stars in the sky. The light pollution washed out any smaller celestial bodies. Maybe he was just staring at the lights in the leaves.

“What seems to be wrong with your machine?” His question a moment later startled me out of the funk I was feeling. I looked over to find him now focused on me as opposed to the dark Parisian sky.

“I don’t know. It just quit. I checked everything that could be stalling it but found nothing.”