The shop was empty. Thick carpet, soft lighting. Sweetly scented. Pascal had sunk onto a white armchair and leaned back like a director before an audition he doesn’t believe in. Someone had brought him an espresso in a tiny porcelain cup with pebbles of brown sugar in a silver bowl. Two salesgirls in shiny ballet pumps and little black dresses with golden chains, hair tied back in chignons, presented themselves. How could they help?
“We are looking for evening wear. Something soft, chiffony. It has to be luscious and light,” Pascal said in his husky voice.
“Of course, sir. Black?”
“Yes, but not just. Surprise me!” He winked at them.
The salesgirls beamed, enraptured. They loved a whiff of petulance, it was so Chanel. They scuttled off.
The dressing room was like a private boudoir, with enough space for lounging and even taking a nap on the velvety couch if one felt like it. Soon it filled up with organza, feathers, sequins. Clouds of silk and tulle, in black, peach, cream, azure and jade green, hung on the walls. Caterina slipped out of her skinny jeans and T-shirt. She stood in front of the mirror in her bra and panties, slackened from too many harsh detergents, and looked at her pale, unmade face, her red tousled hair pinched on the tip of her head with a plastic hairclip. She regretted not having done her face up a bit that morning, and wished she’d remember to always have at least her Rouge Noir lipstick handy.
One of the girls in black knocked lightly at the door and slid inside, holding two boxes. She pulled out two different pairs of shoes from the crinkly paper. A shiny black patent leather sandal with a five-inch heel and a powdery pink one with a grosgrain bow on the tip.
“This one for the black and the other for the pastel colors.”
Caterina nodded and took the shoes, one pair in each hand. They were truly exquisite objects.
“These are the sandals from our cruise collection,” the girl said with a solemn expression.
“Please, let me help you with the dress. Shall we start with black?” suggested the other one.
Getting inside the first dress was like diving through a shimmering substance, each molecule of the fabric caressing her skin. She felt fresh, exuberant, feminine. Her skin flushed.
The two girls in black zipped her up, fastened hooks and buttons, fluffed the fabric, tucked the silk, slid her unpedicured feet into the shiny shoes and sent her out with moans of approval. Each time she wobbled out in front of Pascal (sprawled on the candid armchair, now munching a tiny buttery croissant), she attempted to do an ironic pirouette and in doing so caught a fleeting reflection of herself in the multiple mirrors.
Each time Pascal would stare at her for a few seconds without moving a muscle. The two girls in black would be waiting for the verdict, holding their breath. Pascal invariably shook his head slowly, smiling at them with a hint of disappointment.
“Shall we see something else, please?”
Once the black dresses came to an end, Pascal asked to see the pastels, letting transpire that despite the fact that his faith in the cruise collection was beginning to fade, he was still willing to give the Chanel girls another chance. He glanced at the time on his watch, to suggest that he and Caterina didn’t have all day.
The girls helped her out of a gorgeous pleated chiffon affair, and into a lacy, vaporous pale yellow, shortly followed by a light blue, then pink, then peach, then white variations of the same ethereal idea. Pascal, sipping a glass of sparkling San Pellegrino, remained inscrutable.
It was getting late; the girls in black had lost some of their initial composure. A film of sweat shone on their upper lips and their immaculate hairdos were beginning to lose structure.
The last dress was simpler than all the others, less constructed, sleeveless and knee-length, but the color was a shade of azure green so perfect it almost didn’t exist in nature. Maybe an alpine lake reflecting the woods on a pale morning would come close. Tiny feathers in the same delicate shade floated at the hem and trimmed the collar, giving it a sense of lightness. Caterina walked out once more on the powdery pink heels, in a more assured stride, and again she looked at the multiple images of herself in the mirrors. The aquamarine shade of the dress enhanced her copper hair and the whiteness of her skin. Pascal stared at her and this time his silence had a different quality. She remained still, a hand bent backward resting on her hip, as she’d seen models on the catwalk do. The girls in black were right behind her, hopeful.
“That’s stunning,” Pascal said.
His words filled the carpeted space. The girls in black sighed.
Yes, the dress was stupendo, meraviglioso, elegantissimo.
Caterina glanced at Pascal, a quizzical look on her face. He stood up and moved toward her.
“No, I really mean it. It looks fantastic on you. You should get it.”
The girls in black were already chirping behind her. Of course, of course, they too agreed this was the best dress of all, the color, the shape, tutto assolutamente perfetto.
“How much is it?” Pascal asked, with the authoritative tone a man uses when he has finally made up his mind.