The Painted Kiss (16 page)

“Don’t let Alma bother you,” he said. “She’s harmless.” I said that I doubted it, but he just laughed. “You can handle Alma,” he said. “And I think a fashion salon is a wonderful idea.” He leaned across the table and took both of my hands. “You must do it.”

So, although I was convinced that it was impossible, I began to investigate how one goes about opening a fashion salon. Gustav and I made appointments at several of the best salons in Vienna and had fun pretending to be a rich married couple. He bought me several very expensive dresses so I could be measured and go to the fittings. At the end, when we had the dresses, we took them apart to see how they were constructed.

When I told my father what I was thinking about, he made calls to many of his business associates and made appointments for me to visit the best suppliers. Sometimes he missed whole days at his factory to accompany me to some far-flung corner of the city to look at brocade. Perhaps because he didn’t have a son, he was glad to do these things for me. Perhaps he was secretly proud that I would be in business, like him.

I had never seen anything so wonderful as row after row of fabric bolts, stacked five and six and seven high, arranged by color so that I traipsed from white to cream, through taupe and brown, yellow and gold and orange, pink and red and wine and violet and blue and black. Then there were the textures: sheer muslins, stiff organzas, sturdy cottons, wools nubby and fine, silks slick and thick, heavy jacquards. There were florals large and small, and stripes and plaids and toiles, paisleys and geometrics. There were showrooms entirely of net and tulle. There were bins full of passementerie. There were bead men and button men and lace men and ribbon men, there were workshops where girls ruined their eyes on painstakingly delicate embroidery, there were factories that made thread and factories that dyed it.

Perhaps my father was glad to have something to talk about with me. Living with so many women, he never was able to talk about the things that interested him. Or, rather, he talked at us and we pretended to listen while our minds were far away, thinking of theater schedules or grocery lists or the Van Dyck altarpiece. While he and I toured the wholesalers we talked about cost per unit and profit margins and delivery charges.

I don’t really know what he thought of my plan. He never expressed an opinion one way or the other, never said it was reasonable and practical or outrageous and unfeminine and would ruin my marriage chances, but he got us our first commission, before the salon opened, to make aprons for a cooking school. Someone he knew in the government knew someone whose cooking school it was. He thought perhaps if they liked our work, we might be employed by the government to make nurse’s uniforms or railway porter’s jackets.

To my great sorrow, he never got to see the ladies at the Opera, descending the great staircase in dresses I had made. He never got to see the success the salon became.

I
t took a full year of work before the Secession was able to hold their first exhibition. For one thing, it had been difficult to find a place to hold it. The artists were precluded from using the Kunstlerhaus, of course, and many places were too expensive, or too dark, or too inconvenient, or too ugly. Finally they decided on the Horticultural Society. It had a glass atrium for the plants and was full of light, even in March. They had an indulgent board, chaired by Berta Zuckerkandl’s uncle. Most important of all, they agreed to be paid in artwork.

The paintings arrived in crates on ships, hand-delivered by the artists themselves, or, in one instance, wrapped in paper and lashed to the back of a mule. There were forms to be filled out, and frequent trips to the customs office at the port. There were couriers, often young artists, who needed to be paid and fed and housed until the show ended and they took the paintings home. Everything—the paintings, the programs, the invitations, the bills, the government officials, the artists—all accumulated in Gustav’s studio until it was difficult to find space to walk in, much less paint. Gustav swore that the day the show ended, anyone still lingering on the property would be shot.

Not that he had much time anyway. He had to make sure all of the work arrived and then hang the show. It was his idea to hang the paintings singly at eye level and not stacked floor to ceiling. It seems obvious now, but at the time it was considered radical. There would be so much empty space, the thinking went, people would complain they weren’t getting their money’s worth. Gustav countered that the exhibition would draw crowds precisely because it was unusual and scandalous.

Others besides Gustav had more practical worries. The entrance fees were a major part of the Secession’s budget for the following year. If people stayed away the Secession might not make enough money to continue.

Finally, everything had been done. Every statue was placed, every flower arranged, every ego soothed. There was nothing left except to dress and appear at the opening and see what people thought.

The day of the exhibition Gustav arrived at the Horticultural Society early in the morning and spent the hours before the opening moving paintings around and pacing and counting the bottles of champagne. I stayed away, knowing there was nothing I could do and that I would feel self-conscious just standing around.

I was anxious for him, though. Many newspapermen would be there, like Adolf Loos, who was vitriolic toward everyone but seemed to particularly dislike Gustav. He would write something scathing, and Gustav would be laughed at, because like it or not he personally had come to be the spokesperson and symbol of the group. None of the others would feel it like Gustav. It was also possible that the police would shut the show down, if they found something particularly vulgar at the exhibition, or pretended that they did. And, worst of all, what if no one came?

I wore a slim and sleeveless dress of Aegean blue jersey, with a neckline that draped like a Greek chiton, and a long silver chain set with peridots. Gold really looked better on me, but silver, declared Hoffmann, was the ideal material for a craftsman, so silver it was. With my satin opera coat in a slightly paler blue, I felt that I could defend Gustav against any onslaught, by the sheer force of my gorgeous outfit.

Helene and I arrived early, arm in arm, just as we had done for Gustav’s exhibition years before. This time the heavy brass doors did not intimidate us and we pushed them open with authority. Frigid air blew in behind us, and then we were inside.

Vienna is cold in the winter, and the typical Viennese apartment was drafty and poorly heated. That’s why everyone went to cafés, to get warm enough to think, to talk, to work. Even the cafés were only warm relative to the apartments. In the summer Vienna was conversely terribly hot, but of course everyone went away.

That is to explain why I was unprepared for the tropical air inside the conservatory. Only a few paying visitors had arrived, and were sweating their way around the room, handkerchiefs out. In contrast to the people, the palms and orchids looked ecstatic. I couldn’t imagine how stifling it would be when the place was full. Hadn’t anyone noticed it before?

Helene and I shrugged out of our coats as quickly as we could and left them with a young man who looked despondent to be stuck in the lobby with the minks and sables. Helene, ever sympathetic, gave him a large tip and told him to go buy himself some cadmium red. Then she turned to me with a worried look.

“Leave it to Gustav to forget something as trivial as physical comfort. Why don’t you tell the ticket-taker to prop the doors open for a little while?”

“We have to do something,” I agreed, “but I should ask Gustav first.” I didn’t want to presume an authority I didn’t have. I scanned the room for him.

The reporters had come early, too, to get drunk. They were congregated around the bar, hoping for a riot or a brawl, anything but a common art show. The artists were hard at work at the fruit and cheese, gathering it up like squirrels. The waiters passing canapés of herring and cod tried to steer clear of them but occasionally one would get caught and lose his entire tray.

The middle of the room was clear except for a powerfully built man and a tall, frail woman who were huddled around a square piece of sculpture.

Adele was wearing a dress the color of the flushed faces of the reporters. They were not touching, they were not even looking at one another; Gustav was explaining the sculpture to her, why it was so important, something about the movement, the roughness, as if the sculpture had burst out of the stone. No one had done that since Michelangelo. He could have been teaching a class at the museum. Yet I was afraid to approach. I felt rather than saw what was between them.

Adele saw me coming but did not show any expression. I touched Gustav’s arm and he jumped as if I had shocked him.

We had never been introduced, Adele and I. Since that night at Berta Zuckerkandl’s I had heard her talked about, variously, as “beautiful and charming” and “cruel and insane.” She had floated past me at several parties, but Gustav had never mentioned her. I found this ominous.

I had imagined a personality for her based on these brief glimpses and tidbits. I thought she would be snobbish, looking down her nose at me, the daughter of a factory owner. Not that she would say anything overtly rude. No, she would be exquisitely polite, quiet, and seeming a little shy. Every now and then, though, she would stick the stiletto to me. Unlike Alma, who preferred a club. I assumed she was quite intelligent in a devious, vicious way. I would have to be very careful with her. Compounding my difficulties, it would be a great coup if I could eventually secure her as a client. It would not do to offend her.

Gustav introduced her to me as his patroness. I was just Miss Flöge. I would have grasped her hand but she kept hers securely behind her back, a boyish gesture inappropriate for a formal evening. Was she snubbing me? Her face was blank, her heavy lids fluttering down over her enormous green eyes, obscuring her thoughts. She was my age, but she seemed years older, world-weary. Her shoulders stooped under the weight of some invisible burden.

“I came to ask if it would be all right to prop open the front doors. People are broiling.”

Gustav looked surprised, even though his face was red and wet.

“Are you warm?” he asked Adele.

“I never am,” she said, and it was true she didn’t look it. She was as pale as the marble in front of her. I must have raised an eyebrow, so she went on. “My husband is always complaining about how much it costs to keep our house warm enough for me. Of course I always keep the dining room as hot as I possibly can. He suffers terribly.”

I wondered if I had misheard her. “Where is your husband tonight?” I asked. “I’d like to meet him.”

“No you wouldn’t,” she said flatly. “He despises art. He only cares about money. If there were art made of money, he would like that. Gustav, darling, you must make a painting of money. A still life. Or a sculpture made of it, like papier-mâché. Wouldn’t that be something? And then I could buy it and put it on our mantel.”

I was too embarrassed to say anything else. I turned to Gustav. “What do you think?”

“About what?”

“Opening the doors.”

He shrugged, as if Adele’s answer had settled the question. Adele was not warm, therefore there could be no problem. I gritted my teeth.

She looked at my dress. “Who made this?” she asked. I told her about Jaeger and about his movement to reform women’s dress. It had been made using one of his patterns.

“I’ve never seen a material like that before,” she said. “May I touch it?” I nodded and she reached out to touch my shoulder with her gloved fingers. I saw now why she had kept them hidden behind her back. They were twisted and stiff, as if she’d been struck by an attack of arthritis while playing a difficult passage on the violin.

“What’s it made of?” she asked.

“Cotton,” I said. “It’s knitted, not woven.”

“Interesting. Is it comfortable?”

“Very,” I said. “It stretches when you move.”

“Well, that would be a relief. But don’t you feel a little like you’re wearing a nightgown in public?”

“All the avant-garde women of Berlin are wearing similar designs,” I said. “Not to mention Paris.”

“You’ve sold me now, Miss Flöge,” she said. “Both my husband and my mother hate the avant-garde. It’s one of two things they agree on, the other one being that I am stark raving mad. Can you blame them, though? That blue is all wrong for me. Does it come in other colors?”

“I saw a blood red fabric in a catalog that would be stunning on you.”

“Oh, I hate red,” she said. “It’s so obvious. My mother made me wear a red hat every winter for years. Every year in October I got a new one. When I was small it was a little felt tam-o’-shanter. I used to lose it on purpose in the park, but it was always replaced. Just last year she gave me a scarlet cloche for my birthday. I was going to give it to my dressing maid, but I didn’t ever want to run into her out on the street in it, it would have made me sick. So I burned it.”

Despite myself, I was beginning to like her, her wildness, her sense of humor. If she was joking.

“Not red then,” I said.

“Not red,” she said. “I like pale colors.”

“Miss Flöge is going to open a fashion salon, you know,” said Gustav. “Then she can make all of your clothes.” I blushed.

“Someday,” I said.

“Well, sign me up,” said Adele enthusiastically. She liked her dressmaker well enough, she had plenty of things, but on the other hand, a cotton jersey dress would be novel, and she wanted to please Gustav and displease her husband. And it was not as though she had to worry about money.

That settled, I returned to the problem of the heat. I went to talk to Moll. Yes, he agreed, it was too warm. Yes, we should open the doors, that was what they had been doing in the weeks of preparation, but someone feared it would be too drafty for the opening. He would do it himself, but he had just spied some very important patrons and needed to talk to them right away. Could I do it?

Yes, I could. The doors were heavy; the brass umbrella stands wouldn’t hold them, but several bags of potting soil I located in a back room did the trick. It was a horticultural society, after all. I received a few strange looks as I made my several trips through the party lugging heavy burlap sacks, but it worked.

I went to the powder room to wash the dirt off of my hands. As I opened the door I saw Alma, in voluminous red, seated on a chaise.

“Did you fall into a potted fern?” she asked, “or is this the new fashion you’re debuting tonight?”

I didn’t answer. I went to the basin and cleaned myself off as best I could. When I sat down on the chaise next to her the comparison was discouraging. Though free of dirt, my face was flushed and shiny with sweat. The hothouse atmosphere had curled my hair into a frizzy halo. I had a smudge on the bodice of my dress that I couldn’t brush off. I tried to comb my hair with my fingers but it only made the problem worse. Next to me, Alma was immaculate and composed. Her hair was tied into an intricate knot at the back of her neck that was perfectly smooth.

“Pomade?” she said, holding it out to me, in such a way that her diamond rings caught the light. “You could really use it.” I took the tin with as much appreciation as I could gather and rubbed some of the sweet-smelling grease between my fingers.

“I’m actually glad you came in,” said Alma, watching me try to make myself presentable, “because there is something I want to say to you.”

I waited.

“He’s asked me to marry him,” she said. “I thought you should know.”

I couldn’t believe it. I tried to keep my face composed, my heart beating at its usual rhythm. Mechanically I smoothed my hair.

“Have you accepted?” I asked.

“Theoretically,” she said. “It’s a little complicated because my mother doesn’t exactly approve. He’s so much older, and has a bit of a reputation. But you know all about that. So for now it’s a secret engagement.”

My mind was remarkably calm. I thought to myself that if he truly was engaged to Alma, he would not be out in the gallery with Adele. Perhaps the engagement was a way of appeasing her, of assuaging her jealousy.

“Well, congratulations,” I said. She seemed disappointed at my muted reaction.