Page 24 of A Matter of Pedigree
Mom raised her eyebrows.
“Seb is an artist,” explained Carole.
“Seb?”
“Short for Sebastian.”
“Oh.” Mom was bent over, rummaging in a cardboard carton full of costumes she used for auditions. When she pulled out a polyester housedress, Carole recoiled in horror.
“I can’t wear that,” she protested. “It’s orange.”
“It’s perfect,” declared Mom. “We’ll add a wig to cover your hair and maybe a little kerchief, give you an Eastern European look.”
In for a penny, in for a pound, thought Carole. “Okay.”
“Aieee!” shrieked Mom, reprising her performance as Golde. “Your nails!”
“I know.” Carole splayed out her hands, displaying her gorgeous one-inch Vampire red nails. “I just couldn’t cut them.”
“All right,” said Mom, diving under the kitchen sink. “Rubber gloves. If she asks, we’ll say you have very sensitive skin.”
“Okay,” agreed Carole, taking the bright pink latex gloves. “Anything to save my manicure.”
It was amazing, the way clothes changed your outlook, thought Carole. She was trudging along Prospect Street with Mom, her pink-rubber-gloved hands shoved deep in the pockets of an old work jacket that belonged to Big Frank. Her head itched under the wig, which was tied on tight by the babushka scarf, and everything was slightly out of focus due to the reading glasses Mom had stuck on her nose. It was only a disguise, but it made Carole want to run and hide herself.
Oddly enough, even though Carole was acutely self-conscious, the people they passed didn’t seem to see them at all. This was weird, thought Carole, who always got noticed and often got smiles from other people. It was as if the ugly clothes and dull brown wig had made her invisible. By the time they reached Prospect Place and she’d followed Mom up those ugly gray stone steps to ring the bell, she felt unworthy even to enter the imposing mansion. What was she doing here?
When the door opened and she saw Angelique, perfectly coiffed and dressed in a chic little black dress with a flower-printed scarf at the neck, she wished the earth would open and swallow her up. “You must be Mrs. Nowak and Mrs. Pijar,” she said, stepping back so they could enter the hall. “Come right in.”
“Goot morgning,” said Mom, assuming what she thought was an Eastern European accent.
“My apartment is one flight up,” said Angelique. “Follow me,” she continued, climbing up one or two stairs and then pausing. “While we’re here, you can look around you; this is the area you will be responsible for. The hall, the stairs, windows, and there is also a basement area.”
“Ver’ goot,” said Mom, nodding. Carole nodded, too, for effect.
Angelique paused outside the door to her apartment, indicating the hall, which was spacious and contained several large pieces of furniture: a table, a pair of wooden armchairs, and several large paintings. Heavy drapes hung at the two enormous windows, which were deeply set and had cushioned window seats. “As you see, this is more than the usual condo cleaning job. You need to know how to care for antique furniture, paintings, and rugs, as well as the silk curtains.”
“Beeshwax,” declared Mom. “Besht for wood.”
“Exactly,” said Angelique, opening the door and ushering them inside her apartment.
Behind her, Mom met Carole’s eyes and gave her a thumbs-up. In response, Carole stuck up one of her pink latex thumbs. Surreal, real surreal, she thought, keeping her eyes down and scuttling along behind Mom.
“You, I take it, are Mrs. Nowak?” Angelique was addressing Mom, who nodded. “And you are …” she began, looking Carole over from head to toe.
“Mrs. Pijar,” supplied Mom. “Her English not yet goot. Sheesh from Dubrovnik. Jusht come lasht mo’.”
Carole picked up her head at the wordDubrovnik, hopefully indicating it was a familiar word she recognized, then returned her gaze to the floor. Dusty, very dusty, she saw, and covered with a turquoise rug with pink flowers. And French women were supposed to be so chic. Glancing around, she noticed the walls were lined with bookcases containing strange objects, like broken bits of statuary and crockery, as well as books. Lots of books. Well, she thought to herself, both Angelique and her husband were professors, so they probably would have books.
“I think we’ll go in the kitchen,” suggested Angelique. “Follow me.”
Once again, they made a little procession through a smaller room, which was obviously a study, and down a dark hallway. Angelique pushed open the swinging door, and they were suddenly zapped by a flood of bright light that poured from countless ceiling fixtures and bounced off polished stainless-steel appliances and caromed off snowy white marble counters and glossy white subway tile walls, ricocheting from one surface to another until finally crashing into their dazzled eyes.
“Wow!” exclaimed Carole, blinking furiously and slipping out of character.
“Exaktly,” chimed in Mom, giving her a warning look.
“This is where I am most at home,” explained Angelique, in her light French accent. “I’ve cooked all my life. I teach confectionary at Johnson and Wales.” She waved a hand toward a table set by the window. “Sit down, please, and I’ll give you some tea, and we can talk.”
