In her forties, working as a freelance editor for TV commercials, Caterina spent most of her time inside a darkroom off Via Cavour, cutting three-minute ads for luxury cars or perfumes. She had made peace with what she had become: she wasn’t an artist but an artisan of sorts. There was no dormant Jane Campion inside her, there had been no misunderstood talent and there was nobody to blame. The twins had turned into bright, witty little boys with remarkable imaginations, well behaved and fun to be with; she and Riccardo were still good together and their marriage still felt like a safe place to be. In that, at least, she had been successful. The statuette she had won for her short now served as a doorstop and as a joke in the family.
One day, across from her office, right next door to the Pasticceria Paradisi, she saw that a stylish young woman had opened a vintage clothing store. Caterina browsed through the racks during her lunch break. The labels were all quite exclusive and prices were high.
“I have a vintage Chanel,” she found herself saying. “Would you be interested?”
The woman raised her head from the book she was reading.
“Of course. As long as it’s in good condition.”
“It’s perfect. It’s never been worn.”
The woman seemed skeptical.
“Bring it and I’ll give you an evaluation,” she said, lowering her eyes to her book again.
Caterina rang Pascal in Paris—he was about to direct his first play—and told him that she was finally getting rid of the Chanel. He replied without hesitation, saying it was blasphemy to sell it to a secondhand store.
“I need the money. It’s not a hand-me-down, it’s a very exclusive vintage store right across from the studio in Via del Boschetto. I’m tired of keeping this corpse in my closet.”
“Whatever,” Pascal said. He was busy, or perhaps tired of the game, which by now was more than ten years old.
“It’s gorgeous,” the stylish young woman from the vintage store said as Caterina freed the dress from its body bag. “Is it yours?”
“Yes. I bought it almost a dozen years ago. It’s from the cruise collection.”
The woman brushed the fabric with her fingertips and delicately fluffed up the feathers.
“May I ask you why it’s never been worn?”
“Oh … it’s a long story. Actually that’s not true, it’s quite a simple story. Every time I tried it on it never looked right.”
The woman smiled. She had beautiful black hair piled up high on top of her head and wore a dark red lipstick that contrasted with her very white skin.
“I can hardly believe it didn’t look right on you. You have such a nice figure.”
“Thank you.”
“And the dress is a masterpiece.”
“You think you can sell it?”
“Of course. It’ll sell like that.” She snapped her fingers.
“And how much do you think we could …”
“I can get more than a thousand for sure, but I’ll have to check online. Probably it’ll be the most expensive item in the store. If I had the money I would buy it from you for myself,” she said with a hint of regret, gazing at the gown with longing.
“I have clients who will fight to have it. Costume designers, maybe a couple of actresses …”
She caressed it again and under her delicate touch the fabric rustled as though it were coming back to life.
“Are you really sure you want to part with this?” the young woman asked. “I feel a bit bad selling it. You might regret it afterward.”
“No. Thank you. But I don’t think so. Really. I kind of want to get rid of it. Actually I’ve been wanting to for years.”
The woman was silent for a few seconds.
“Do me a favor. Just try it on one last time. Please.”
When Caterina came out of the dressing room sheathed in the alpine lake cloud, the woman just stared at her and said nothing. She then brought her thin hands to her face, like a stunned child.
“What?” said Caterina.
“I beg you. Don’t make the mistake. Keep it. You can always sell it later on.”
“When? On my deathbed?”
The woman laughed.
“No, seriously. I won’t take it unless you wear it at least once. It would be—it would really be unethical of me. It looks too good on you, trust me.”
Caterina looked at herself in the mirror. She knew what the dress looked like on her—she had lost count of how many times she had tried it on—but now she saw something different.
“Please,” whispered the woman, behind her now. “I know clothes. You keep this one.”
“I can’t believe it. This thing just won’t let go of me,” Caterina said out loud, and sank onto a chair in front of the mirror. The dress had never looked so good. As if it didn’t want to leave her.
She took it back under the livid light of the metropolitana, holding it in her arms like a child. She felt a special tenderness now, similar to the joy someone experiences having just rescued something that seemed forever lost. She had been on the verge of making a terrible mistake by disowning the dress as something she didn’t need, or worse—something she didn’t deserve and never would. How could she not have seen it? The dress was a talisman—her own talisman—the gift that she must always treasure, like the gold dust that she feared would fly out the window and follow Pascal all the way to Paris.
She resurfaced into the sunshine at the Garbatella stop and straightened her back, walking briskly toward her street. She clutched the dress bag closer to her body, feeling the glorious softness of the fabric inside, the faint crackling of feathers under her fingertips. Perhaps she just needed to remind herself more often how that gold was still floating above her head, its minuscule particles visible only when pierced by a certain light.