The Paris Novel

She never called her mother Mom or Mommy or even Mother. From the time that Stella was very small, her mother insisted she call her Celia. I was not born to be anyone’s mother, she explained.

Which pretty much said it all.

So now, hearing the lawyer say the words my daughter gave Stella a very odd feeling, as if they had been written by a stranger.

Paris, 1983

Lilacs, rain, a hint of bitter chocolate: Stella sniffed the air as she entered the small shop, enjoying the soft golden light that enfolded her. A bell pealed, an old-fashioned sound that gave her the oddest feeling, as if she had stepped off the Paris sidewalk and straight out of time.

A curious old woman, whose beautifully manicured hands contrasted with her severe haircut and drab dress, was seated at a small oak table, wearing a smile that looked simultaneously reluctant and triumphant. Cat, Stella thought, canary.

At the sight of Stella, the woman’s face lit up and she leapt from her seat. I have been waiting for you. Her voice was deep, gravelly, the words emerging as if rusted from disuse. What took you so long? Her reproachful tone implied that Stella was shamefully late for an important appointment.

Stella was stunned. Perhaps the woman had confused her with someone else. Maybe she was crazy. Stella backed toward the door, reaching for the knob. But when the woman cried Stop! her voice was so imperious that Stella obeyed. The two stood for a moment, eyeing each other.

It was Stella’s first day in Paris. She’d stumbled blearily through the morning streets, jet-lagged and wishing she hadn’t come. The remaining days of her trip stretched before her, a vast uncharted landscape. What would she do with herself, alone in this unfamiliar city? Back in her apartment in New York she’d done her homework, walking her fingers across maps of Paris so she’d know her way around. But now, traversing actual Paris streets, she felt disquieted. Leaving the quaint hotel in the Latin Quarter, she’d tried to shake anxiety off by joining the stream of tourists crossing the Seine.

She had passed Notre-Dame—one day she’d go inside—and recited the name of each bridge as she crossed it. Yet despite her preparation she felt like an alien. She didn’t understand the language. She knew nobody. What was she doing here?

Heading to the Place des Vosges, she’d wondered if it would be as lovely as the guidebooks promised. Le Pavillon de la Reine, she had whispered to herself, as she began circumnavigating the ancient square. The stones seemed to be breathing ancient air, she thought as she surveyed the orderly little park with its tidy fountain. When she ducked into the arcade, she spotted a shop with Robes des Rêves etched in gold across the antique glass and stopped to study the ornate letters. There was a single dress in the window, waves of fabric in the most extraordinary shade of violet. Velvet? It looked so soft that Stella had longed to touch it. She had opened the door.

Now the proprietress was staring at her with that peculiarly Parisian arrogance. Her rudeness made Stella so uncomfortable she looked away, eyes darting around the shop. The walls, thickly layered with vintage garments, turned the crowded space into a time machine, as if the city’s entire history were spelled out in chiffon, linen, silk, and lace. Her eye fell on an austere wartime uniform standing stiffly at attention and moved on to a Pucci pantsuit in colors so exuberant she imagined it leaping from the hanger and boogying out the door. The woman simply watched, saying nothing. The small white dog at her side was equally alert. The silence stretched, uncomfortable.

What did I do? Stella thought, convinced, as usual, that she had done something wrong. She stood hesitating for a moment, then headed toward the violet dress in the window, brushing past an Edwardian lace-trimmed peignoir, a bugle-beaded flapper dress, a silk shawl the color of dawn. She reached to touch the dress.

Stop! the woman cried again.

Stella jumped away, put her hands behind her back, apologized. I’m sorry. She could see, up close, that the antique dress was very frail.

We have been waiting. The words were even more reproachful now, almost angry.

I’m sorry? This time it was a question.

We have been waiting for you. The woman repeated the words, louder and slower, as if volume could compensate for vocabulary. Then, with a contemptuous look—clearly she thought Stella impossibly stupid—and an impatient wave of her hand, she vanished into a back room. The dog sat, body quivering, ears pricked, eyes on Stella, daring her to move. Stella stood very still. An eternity passed before the woman returned, balancing a long flat box on outstretched arms.

Come! She gestured imperiously. When Stella did not move, the woman set the box down, took her hand, and began towing her inexorably toward a curtained area in the corner of the room. The little dog followed, nosing the box forward along the floor.

Bewildered, Stella did not resist; perhaps this was the way all Paris shopkeepers behaved? Your dress—the woman pulled Stella into the makeshift dressing room and turned her roughly around—is from the fifties. In the hazy mirror Stella caught sight of her own reflection. Slim, boyish body in neatly pressed jeans; cool gray eyes; straight brown hair falling to her shoulders. White shirt, tweed jacket. She took off the jacket, slowly unbuttoned the shirt, and slipped it off as the woman tugged at Stella’s jeans. As her bare stomach emerged, Stella crossed her hands to hide it. In her adult life nobody had touched her in such an intimate manner, and she felt her cheeks grow red with embarrassment. The woman gave a small, disapproving shake of the head. Do you think I have never seen a naked woman before? Me, who once dressed the great models as they prepared for the runway?

Muttering to herself, the woman bent down, opened the box, and began peeling off layers of soft tissue. The sound was like Christmas. She lifted a cloud of fabric and began to carefully unfasten tiny buttons on the back of the garment, releasing each one with surgical precision. I was at Dior the year this dress was made. Baffled and intrigued, Stella leaned in to hear the words. "It was the first year Monsieur Saint Laurent was with us—he was only twenty-one—but even then we knew he had the talent. This was his first design for the house of Dior, and as I helped the great vedette Victoire Doutreleau into this dress, Monsieur Saint Laurent fussed about, tugging at the fabric, looking distressed."

She paused, looking off into the distance. Stella waited. But when Victoire walked onto the runway, the entire audience gasped. We all heard it. Monsieur Saint Laurent gave that little smile of his that was so rare. We knew at once that this dress was—she searched for the word—"magique. So imagine to yourself my joy, all these years later, when that very dress waltzes into my shop. Ici, chez moi! She shook her head, unable to believe her luck, and her mouth did something that was meant to be a smile. I had not seen it for almost thirty years, but when I opened the box, it was like meeting an old friend."

Humming softly, she tossed the dress over Stella’s head, blocking the light. In the darkness Stella became conscious that the fabric was infused with the scent of apricots and vanilla. Slightly dizzy, she thought of Dorothy in the field of poppies.

The woman was still talking. But I knew that this dress was not for everyone. And so I packed it away. And I waited. She looked down, addressing the dog. Zaza, am I not patient? The dog regarded her with bright black eyes, ears cocked forward in silent assent. "I knew the right person would appear. And when you walked through the door, Mademoiselle, my heart gave a little leap. I knew, mais tout de suite, that your dress had found its destiny."

What a sales pitch! thought Stella. Does she do this with everyone? Does anybody buy it? She wondered what extraordinary story the woman would manufacture next.

"You know, both Monsieur Dior and Monsieur Saint Laurent occasionally gave their dresses names. Pas toujours, just the special ones. There was an Artemise. A Zemire. A Laurette. But this dress was different. After that gasp from the audience, Monsieur Dior came into the atelier and reached out, fingering the fabric as he walked around and around the model. ‘This dress is Victoire,’ he said at last, and Victoire gave us all a pitying smile. It was a rare honor."

She continued, eyes on Stella. "But Monsieur Dior shook his head and patted Victoire’s arm. ‘It is just for now. Pardon, ma chère, but this dress is changeable as perfume. A chameleon that will look different on each woman. And so it will always bear the name of its wearer.’ "

So the dress is named Victoire?

The old woman shook her head. How do they call you?

Stella.

How perfect! This dress is now Stella. She dropped to her knees, preventing further conversation. Her nimble fingers were light as butterflies as they moved slowly up Stella’s back, closing the buttons. When Stella tried to look into the mirror, the fingers changed, clamping down like iron bars, holding her in place. Not yet!

She didn’t mind. As each tiny button snuggled into its hole, the dress became an embrace, the cloth warm and soft against her skin, comforting as a lullaby. Stella closed her eyes and surrendered to the sensation.

You can look now. Startled, Stella opened her eyes. She had been somewhere else.

The person in the mirror was no one she had ever met. Slim, boyish Stella was gone. In her place stood an exotic creature who looked as if an aria—Casta Diva, perhaps—would come pouring out when she opened her mouth. The dress had turned her into a woman of such voluptuous promise that it transformed every feature. Stella’s pale, serious face now looked touchingly sensual. She had never bothered with makeup, but her lips now begged for a slash of red. Her gray eyes had gone smoky, mysterious rather than drab, and even her mousy hair suddenly seemed sleek and glossy. Stella stared at this woman who was nothing like herself.

Et voilà! The little saleslady was fierce. Did I not tell you this was your dress? Would you not prefer to be this beautiful woman rather than the ordinary creature who walked in my door?

How much? Stella whispered the words. She had always been a caterpillar, but now, suddenly, she longed to be a butterfly.

Fifty thousand francs. The woman’s voice was brusque. She snapped her fingers contemptuously beneath Stella’s nose. A mere nothing for a piece of art, a slice of history. She opened her hands in a benevolent gesture. But I will make you a bargain. If you pay in dollars, I will give you a good rate. The banks offer seven and a half francs, but me, I will make it eight.

Stella stared at the woman in the mirror as she did the calculation. Six thousand dollars? For a dress? She had the money—Celia’s money, every penny her mother had left her—but could she be the kind of person who spent it on a dress? She turned again to the woman in the mirror, yearning to be her. But it was wrong. She was not a frivolous person who wasted money on clothing. She took one last look and turned away, relinquishing the vision. This dress—the words were reluctant—belongs in a museum.

No dress belongs in a museum! The saleslady reached out and patted the dress, as if consoling a wounded creature. "Dresses are created to be worn. And this dress was meant to be worn by you. She looked her up and down. This dress desires to be a Stella."

And now Stella heard another voice. It was passionate, insistent. Fierce. For once in your life, her mother was hissing in her ear, make me proud. She stepped out of the dress, willing the voice to go away. Live up to your name. Be a Stella, Celia’s ghost continued to murmur as Stella left the dress crumpled on the floor and fled.

New York, 1957

The year Stella turned seven, her mother hit the dating jackpot. Tall and regal, Celia had a ripe body and deep-black eyes the shape of almonds. Her strong face was softened by very full lips that were never without bright-red lipstick. Men found her irresistible: She was always bringing some new friend home.

But this one was different. Each time Mortimer arrived at their apartment, he brought a present for Stella, as if he were wooing her as well as her mother. For reasons Stella could not verbalize, this made her extremely uncomfortable. He’s very wealthy, Celia boasted to her friends, but Mortimer is so much more than a rich businessman…. She stopped, in that way she had, allowing the drama to build. The real Mortimer, the man I love, has the soul of an artist. She told them about his fine collection—"He owns a Renoir!"—and the studio he’d created in the penthouse apartment, where he painted on the weekends.

Fabulously wealthy and superbly elegant, Mortimer Morris sat on the board of the city’s major cultural institutions; he squired Celia to the opening of the opera, the ballet, galas at the museums. He bought her jewelry, took her skiing in Gstaad and yachting in St. Bart’s. And, she told Stella in the early days of the affair, he wants to teach you to paint. What a lucky little girl you are; you’re going to spend Sundays in his studio.

Stella was wary, but she could not come up with a good reason to refuse. And that first Sunday when Celia dropped her off at 930 Fifth Avenue, Stella could not help noticing the way the elevator man looked at her. She had the oddest sense that he felt sorry for her. When they reached the eighteenth floor, she thought the man seemed reluctant to open the elevator door, and she stepped out hesitantly, afraid of what she would find.

But it was beautiful! The light was dazzling, and Stella ran to the windows, taking in a view that stretched across Central Park. She looked down on Conservatory Pond, the boathouse, and the statue of Hans Christian Andersen, her particular favorite. Mortimer led her to a long table where he had assembled an impressive array of cookies, cakes, and soda. If there’s something you’d rather have, little girl—he flicked her cheek with a careless finger—you have only to ask.

He took her hand and led her to a large cupboard. These are for you. He pointed at some paintbrushes. She hesitated; they were so lovely she was afraid to touch them. Go on, he urged, putting one in her hand, they’re yours. She stroked the pale wood and touched the furry tip; it was so soft that, without thinking, she ran it across her cheek. The best you can buy, he said magnanimously. It’s kolinsky sable imported from Siberia.

He showed her how to prime the canvas, handed her a palette, and pointed to the pristine tubes of paint. He squinted at the view. Just paint what you see.

It was so green out there! She squeezed viridian onto the virgin palette, liking the way the vibrant color came splashing out. It seemed a shame to dip the clean fur into that greasy glob of paint.

Relax, he cried, pushing his own big brush into a large splotch of carmine and swooshing it across the canvas on the easel in front of him. She thought of blood. He pointed to a woman wearing a red sweater down below. That’s her. He squeezed a blob of blue paint onto his palette, dragged the brush through, tossed it onto his canvas. And that’s the water.

Stella just stared at him. She didn’t want to spew paint on that lovely clean canvas; what Mortimer was making looked primitive, raw. Ugly. She stared down at the nursemaids pushing perambulators, the little boy flying a kite, the tiny boats on the lake…. She ran her fingers across the soft fur of the brushes, unwilling to sully them with the thick, sticky paint.

Mortimer’s lips turned down as he looked down his aristocratic nose. You’re not much like your mother, are you? he asked.

No, she whispered, I’m not like her. They were so different that nobody—least of all Celia—could believe they were related. Outgoing Celia loved meeting new people; Stella was shy. Celia sought adventure; Stella always played it safe. And, of course, Celia was beautiful; when she walked down the street, people turned to stare, and she was often mistaken for Maria Callas. Nobody ever gave Stella a second glance.

Speaking of your mother…What’s she going to think if you arrive home covered in paint? I think you should take your dress off.

Stella didn’t want to.

Shall I help you, little girl? Stella looked down at her new patent-leather shoes and slowly shook her head.

Oh, Stella, he said, show a little spunk. He sat down, drew her forward until she was standing between his knees, and began to unbutton her dress. She counted slowly to herself, wishing there were more buttons, until the dress fell, a puddle at her feet.

I think it had better all come off, don’t you? He tugged her panties down until she was standing in only patent-leather shoes and lace-edged white socks. Her heart pounded.

"Now you look like a painter! He handed her a brush. Go ahead, toss some paint."

Naked, Stella felt humiliated and afraid. She wanted to go home. She had to pee. She didn’t want to look at Mortimer, so she ran the clean tip of the brush through the fat glob of green paint and made a half-hearted swipe at the canvas.

Not like that! A true artist has to be bold, show the canvas who’s in charge. Here, let me show you how it’s done. Mortimer came behind her, smelling of turpentine and expensive cologne. He picked up her hand, the one holding the brush, and moved it through the paint as if she were a puppet. Then he drew her arm back and made the paint fly onto the canvas. It landed with a thwat! Stella jumped, and Mortimer reached down to calm her. His hand was on her back, on her front, all over her.

Then he was pushing her off him, telling her to go into the bathroom, clean herself up, get dressed. Wordlessly, she obeyed. In the bathroom, with its hard marble counters and glittering mirrors, she turned the taps as far as they would go and scrubbed her hands over and over in the achingly hot water. When she was done, she leaned over the toilet and threw up. And threw up. And threw up, until there was nothing left inside except a small hard ball of self-loathing.

Thank you, darling. Celia wrapped herself around Mortimer when he brought Stella home. She looked down at her daughter. Did you have fun, sweetie? Stella could smell the gardenia perfume her mother wore, and it reminded her of turpentine. She was afraid she was going to be sick again.

She’s a regular little artist, aren’t you? Mortimer looked down at Stella; his smooth face was bland, but his eyes were dark and menacing.

Stella swallowed hard.

Celia sighed. What do you say? she prodded.

Thank you, Mortimer, Stella said dutifully.

Come back, little girl, I’ll be ready for you. He turned his big face to Celia. Bring her again next weekend. We’re going to make an artist of her.

That’s settled, then, said Celia. She smiled and smiled. The sitter’s here—we’re late for our dinner reservation. She looked down again at Stella. Tomorrow morning you have to tell me all about the painting lesson.

But in the morning—and all the other mornings—Celia did not ask. Stella was grateful; if she didn’t have to talk about it, she could pretend it hadn’t happened. And by the middle of each week she was even able to convince herself that it was all in her imagination. Because she knew, deep down, that if this awful thing was real, it was all her fault.

Later, when it was over and her attempts to block the memories failed, what Stella remembered was Mortimer’s wolflike leer as he looked down at her, week after week, saying, Come back, little girl, I’ll be ready for you. And the taste of vomit in her mouth.

How long did it last? One year? Two? Until one Sunday morning, as they were on their way to 930 Fifth Avenue, Celia asked, very casually, Does Mortimer ever do anything funny to you?

Stella nodded.

Would you like to stop the painting lessons?

Stella nodded again, praying that her mother would not ask any more questions.

And she did not. Stella never saw Mortimer again, although she suspected that Celia continued to date the man, because she sometimes smelled that nauseating mixture of turpentine and cologne on her mother’s clothing. Celia, she supposed, could not resist the lure of Mortimer’s money and prestige, and if this bothered Stella, she did not allow herself to know it.

As for Celia, she never asked another question.

Not then. Not ever.

Making It Up

At fifteen, Constanza Vincente looked in the mirror, scrutinized the long lashes around those sparkling dark eyes, the large mobile mouth, and the shining black hair, and knew she was beautiful. Picking up her purse, she walked out of her parents’ crowded apartment, leaving behind her Brooklyn accent, her boisterous siblings, and her name. It was 1930, and the newly minted Celia St. Vincent talked her way onto the cosmetics counter at Bergdorf Goodman, where she scrutinized her wealthy customers, copying the way they talked, dressed, and wore their hair so accurately that people assumed she was a down-on-her-luck debutante, another victim of the Depression struggling to make ends meet.

She became such an accomplished personal shopper that the most affluent clients all demanded her attention. No one else, they insisted, would possibly do. They went into the dressing room, slipped off their clothes, and opened their hearts. One rainy afternoon the mayor’s wife, who was weeping on Celia’s shoulder, wiped her eyes and said, "Nobody knows more about what really goes on in this city than you do."

Hmmm, Celia replied noncommittally. It had given her an idea.

She assumed yet another name—Charlotte Knickerbocker—to write a column for the New York Herald Tribune. Have You Heard? quickly became the talk of the town. Although she no longer needed the money, she stayed on at Bergdorf’s because her customers, unaware that their beloved Celia now had a pseudonym, continued to tell her their troubles. Had anyone suggested that she was the author of the scandalous column, it would not have been believed; Celia, a consummate chameleon, showed people exactly what she wanted them to see. Even her closest friends did not know that she repaid their admiration with wry contempt; privately she referred to them as the acolytes.

Men adored her too, and although Celia’s appetites were voracious, none of her lovers ever seemed to touch her heart. Over the years there were many men in her life, but she was so intent upon her independence that when she became pregnant, she acted as if no man had been involved. Later, when Stella asked about her father, Celia would say only that he’d been a handsome man she had met in a bar.

We were drinking Stella Artois, so I guess you could say I named you for him. And, of course, I hoped you would be a star. She gave Stella one of the scornful looks that told her, on an almost daily basis, what a disappointment she was.

Celia undoubtedly had some notion of how