I didn't wish to confuse anyone, seriously, so I apologize to those who have been spending five seconds or more on thinking about the story
Maggio, Giugno e Dicembre. Anyway, this is another story that might not mean anything to anyone. I just hope you might like it.
N.B. Just a remark. I've changed the original assigned ending for the story. I love
Le Petit Prince very much, so I couldn't really have anything sadder than it.
PART 1
I was in Milan when I was told that there was a new shop opened in Los Angeles.
My agent Patty said, “It’s terrific! Brilliantly incredibly brilliant! You must come to the opening party this Saturday!”
It was Thursday afternoon in Milan, so it was probably still Wednesday night in Los Angeles. “Why?” I asked, “I don’t like L.A.”
“Because,” Patty took a deep breath before she continued. I always found her acting like a kindergarten teacher telling a three-year-old kid you gotta wash your hand before you take a cookie -- then of course the three-year-old kid would be me. And whenever she took a deep breath or coughed before she started a sentence, I would try to ignore her -- just like a three-year-old kid would take a cookie before washing his hand.
Patty continued, “You have to come, because we want to get a contract with this shop.”
Oh god, I thought to myself, now she used the word “we” instead of “you”. It seemed like I must get this whatever-it-was-but-you-must-get-it contract.
I told her, “But I might not finish my job before Saturday. You know Tony’s a perfectionist. He takes almost one hundred shoots for every pose!”
“Tell him not to be sissy. I want you to be in L.A. on Saturday, okay?”
“Joyce! Joyce! What the hell are you doing here? Get back to work! We’ve still got ten more shoots to take!” It was Tony yelling.
“I’ve to go, Patty.”
“Hey! You must be in L.A. on Sat…”
Most people think being a cover girl is fun: you could dress up nicely and be on the cover. And you got paid, too! But you would always wonder to yourself why you have to change twenty sets of clothing and twenty sets of make up and twenty sets of hair styles within ten hours. You have to try hard not to strangle the hair stylist when he tries to pull every single hair out of your skull. And you will always be afraid that you could no longer recognize yourself after washing off the make up.
But still, I have to admit that, being a cover girl is better than being a catwalk model. I have once gone to the backstage of a fashion show, and I was terrified to find out that the models have to change their clothes in front of each other. No way, this is something that I could never have accepted. That was why I never lived in a dormitory throughout my study.
Tony, our photographer, is a quick-tempered Italian. He has long black hair, pulled back into a ponytail. He likes yelling and shouting, which he always does. But he is a good photographer. That’s why they allow him keeps on yelling and shouting, I suppose.
After ten more hours of changing clothes and changing make up and changing hair style (another struggling with the hair stylist -- I always wonder when I would finally stab him with a comb) and posing and photo taking… finally I was in the First Class reading
Richard III.
My kingdom for a horse!
My kingdom for a rest! My neighbor across the aisle was traveling with a baby. The little monster kept shouting and kicking since the minute she was on board. I never knew a girl could be just a bastard. I would have suggested to the flight attendant that we had a bomb from the terrorists and that we had to throw it out of the plane as soon as possible, if the parents had not been looking at me with a pleading look.
Alas, I do not like Los Angeles. If this was a sign, then my visiting to L.A. would be very bad indeed. Might be I could not get the whatever-it-was-but-you-must-get-it contract, and then I was not allowed to have any cookie again in my entire life.
“It’s a great day here in Los Angeles. The temperature’s 87 Fahrenheit and it’s sunny. Thank you once again for choosing our airline and we hope to see you again soon.” After the brief report from the pilot, here I was in Los Angeles, a place I really do not like.
PART 2
The shop is on Beverly Hills. It is not easy for a new designer to open a shop on Beverly Hills, so either he has lots of talents or lots of money.
Patty told me the name of the shop is “Black and White”.
I snorted, “What a name! Who would like to buy clothes in a place called ‘Black and White’? It sounds like 50s.”
She replied, “You would, absolutely. Look at you, you never dress like a cover girl -- but more like a homeless.”
“Ha ha, very funny, but cover girls dress like this.” I argued. I know Patty never likes me wearing oversized shirt and old jeans; but she isn’t a cover girl, so she never knows a butterfly might be tired of color.
However much I do not like about Los Angeles, I must agree that the Pacific sunset is beautiful. Patty was waiting for me in front of the newly opened shop.
She cried as if someone had just slapped her, “What the hell is wrong with you? Why can’t you ever dress properly?”
I did dress properly, as a matter of fact. I was wearing my favorite pale-pink shirt and my Levis jeans with a pair of sneakers. I had actually dressed up for the event, but obviously Patty was not satisfied. She was wearing a dazzlingly beige dress full of crystals. Yet the dress was no longer dazzling when there were fifty or more ladies wearing similar dresses like hers.
The shop is decorated in a classic way. There is a huge chandelier in the middle of the place. Below the chandelier there is a purplish red velour sofa. The clothes, as suggested by the shop name, are all black and white. I still wondered if there would be any customer. Then I saw a few celebrities going through the clothes with much interest -- probably the shop could survive on Beverley Hills, I supposed.
Patty was busy talking with other agents and models. I knew nobody there. After wandering around the shop, I took a glass of champagne and sat on the purplish red velour sofa.
“Hi.”
I looked up. There was a young guy smiling at me. I liked his white shirt and jeans, so I offered him a seat.
“How do you like the party?” he asked. His voice was as soft as his hair.
“The party’s great, but I’m bored.” I giggled after finishing.
“Me too.” He laughed. Then he reminded me of the Little Prince.
“Hey, how about we slipping out of here and having dinner together?” he suggested.
I shook my head, “No thanks, I never go out with strangers.”
“Oh, c’mon! I’m Don Wang. Tell me your name, then we’re no longer strangers.”
Don Wang, this name sounded familiar though. I must have heard it somewhere before. But Mr. Don Wang didn’t let me think for another second, for his keeping on asking for my name. He sounded like the Little Prince asking, “Draw me a sheep, please. Draw me a sheep.”
“I am Lisa Simpsons.” I said.
“NO WAY! You can’t be Lisa Simpsons!”
“Why not? I like
The Simpsons. And now if you excuse me, I’d like to refill my glass. The champagne’s excellent.”
Patty caught me by the table. “So you’ve been talking to Don Wang?”
“Yeah,” I answered, wondering why Patty would know his name.
“And have you mentioned anything about the contract?”
“Contract? What contract? Oh, you don’t mean he is…”
“Yes, he is.” Then Patty opened her mouth in disbelieve, “Oh. My. God. You wouldn’t have offended him in some ways, would you?”
I did not know how to answer her. I supposed I hadn’t offended Don Wang, the new star in the fashion industry and the new owner of “Black and White”, if he didn’t think “your party was great but I was bored” and “Ha ha, I got my name from
The Simpsons” were offences.
PART 3
Patty told me that Don Wang called the next day, and we got the contract. “I still hope you wouldn’t have offended him,” she said. But her voice was relieved, because we got the millions contract after all.
Wang asked me to meet him in his studio, which is pretty common for designers to do so. But his studio is one floor above his home, which is quite uncommon for designers. I wondered if the deal of “slipping out and having dinner” was still valid. Might be we would have dinner in his studio cum home. Or might be I would slap him if he mentioned anything about dinner.
I parked my Jeep in front of a white town house with sunburn-colored roof tiles in Santa Monica. It is as cute as most of the houses by the seaside you see in movie. There is a little courtyard where a vine grows up a stone wall. Ha, so might be they brew the champagne themselves.
Wang is a handsome guy, and he is young, too. You might mistake him for a sheepish student whose part-time job is modeling, which obviously I did when I first saw him in the opening party. He has very smooth hands, suggesting that he hasn’t worked as a trainee for those famous designers before. Interesting, I thought, who would ever notice him and finance him then? I did not believe in the idea that he is handsome and young and extremely rich -- one would never work in the fashion industry if he has lots of money, unless he is insane.
Yet, obviously Wang is not insane. His designs are brilliantly incredibly brilliant. Now I truly understood why Patty had urged me to come to L.A. -- Wang would be a superstar in the industry, and if I could be his model, I would be a superstar too!
Wang pulled open the closet and told me, “Try these on.”
There in the closet were about ten sets of clothes. They were not special: they were just everyday clothes, but they were the most charming everyday clothes I had ever seen.
“All women in the world are going to love you madly!” I said, looking into the mirror and admiring his design, “But I think you only design in black and white, I don’t know you also design in other colors.”
He smiled sweetly, “You like them?”
“Like? You must be kidding! I LOVE THEM!”
“Good. They’re for you.”
“What?” I stopped dancing around the room, “Excuse me?” I froze. I couldn’t understand.
“The clothes are for you.” He spoke with absolute clarity, ignoring my staring at him. Then he added, “You deserve color, don’t you think?”
Before I could even open my mouth and mutter, “Why?”, the door of the studio was opened. There was an elegant lady dressing in complete black at the door. She was about seven or eight years older than me. She was much shocked as she saw us.
“Sorry, I think there’s no one…” she apologized, looking down at the floor.
I turned to look at Wang’s expression. His face was as red as a drunkard. He roared, “Get out! How many times should I tell you not to enter here?”
I thought Wang was being too cruel. How could you roar at someone like this, especially when she had already apologized? I started to wonder what kind of relationship they have: would this lady finance Wang? Is this house actually hers? If so, why was he acting so rudely to her?
Thanks to the black lady, I didn’t continue to try on those clothes, and Wang seemed to forget about the deal of “slipping out and having dinner” (but I supposed he didn’t want to have dinner after all the roaring), as well as the new deal of “you deserve color”. When I left the studio in the early evening, there was a shadow coming out from the side of my Jeep.
I was about to scream just before I recognized that the shadow was the black lady. She said apologetically, “Sorry for frightening you.” I suspected every sentence she said would have a “sorry”. And I truly felt sorry for her.
“It’s okay, I’m not that frightened. I love scary movies, ha ha.”
She smiled a little bit, “Nice to meet you, Miss Chang. I’m Emily Wang, Don’s sister. Sorry for disturbing you this afternoon.”
Oh, what a surprise.
PART 4
When you are with Emily, you would find that you could not be any cruel to her. She is too gentle. Just like the sheep of the Little Prince would eat anything ahead of it (whether it’s grass, or little bushes, or baobab), Emily would accept anything that happens to her (whether it’s cruelty, or unfairness, or misfortune).
Once she told me, “I could understand why Don doesn’t want to see me, I really understand.”
Was it because she used to work in a nightclub in order to provide bread and education and the town house in Santa Monica and the shop in Beverley Hills for him?
Emily, oh, Emily.
I know I was too nosy, but I still would like to make reconciliation between Emily and Don. A sister like Emily deserves a lot of love and respect.
So when Don brought up the deal of “you deserve color” again, I told him that Emily deserves color too.
“You’ve talked to her?” he was a bit surprised.
“Yes, I have and I will. I like her. She’s very nice and she is my friend.” I especially emphasized on the last four words.
There was silence.
“I thought you were as sweet and understanding as the Little Prince.”
“I thought you were really Lisa Simpsons.” He laughed.
“Please, give it a try. She is your sister, and she’s the only family you have in the world. Please…”
Patty said I was being too nosy, “It’s their family.” She always says I could be Superwoman, if I had the super power. I always reply her that if I had the super power, I would first change the costume of Superman.
One day I was in Chile when I received a phone call from Emily.
“Joyce, you must come to the opening party on Saturday!”
“Opening party? What opening party?”
“Oh, sorry I forgot to tell you. I’m too excited. Don’s having his second shop in New York!”
“Wow! That’s incredible!” It was. It had only been three months since his first shop in L.A. opened.
“Joyce! Joyce! What are you doing over there? Come back here and work! We’ve still got many shoots to take!” The shouting guy was the shouting Tony.
“Sorry, Emily, I got to go. But surely I’ll come… When’s the opening party?”
“This Saturday! You must come! See you then!”
Later that day I received a parcel from Don. It was one of the clothes in the studio closet. There was a note attached: “Would you wear it to the party, please?”
I’d love to but I didn’t. It meant too much, and it took too much risk.
I still wore my favorite pale-pink shirt and my Levis to the party on Saturday. Surprisingly, there were only four of us: Don, Emily, Patty and I. Emily pointed at Don and laughed, “He said you wouldn’t like a big party. You would be bored and keep drinking champagne.”
I blushed. So he did remember.
The decoration of this shop is similar to that of the Beverley Hills one. There is also a purplish red velour sofa under the chandelier. I sat down on the sofa with a glass of rosary champagne.
Don sat down beside me.
“It isn’t polite to sit down if no one invites you.” I said, smiling.
“Ho,” he stood up again and bowed, “may I?”
“Yes, you may.” And we both burst out laughing.
“Why don’t you accept the dress?” Oh, no, so Mr. Great Designer finally accused me of not appreciating his design.
“Don’t you like the dress? But you said you love it.” Alas, once he has asked the question, he never let go of it. I began to felt like the Little Prince keeping on asking, “The thorns [of the rose], what use are they?”
Could I just simply tell him, “The thorns are of no use at all. Flowers have thorns just for spite!”
PART 5
“Why me?” I whispered so softly that almost nobody could hear. Sometimes I wonder if I was actually asking him or asking myself at that moment.
He thought that he was rich, with a flower that was unique in all the world, but would he cry like the Little Prince when he knew that all he had was a common rose?
And I shouldn’t have liked him feeling sad.
“Don’t you know why?” he asked softly. Then he quoted the Little Prince, “There is a flower… I think that she has tamed me…”
He carefully added, “You deserve color, don’t you think?”
I didn’t say yes or no, but I didn’t return the dress either. The dress is kept in my closet. I never wear it.
Whenever Don opened a new shop, he would send me one of the clothes in his studio closet. Every time he would attach a note written, “Would you wear it, please?” I never send them back, but neither do I wear them. Don has not asked me again why I do not wear them. He knows that I love the clothes. He has his answer and he is satisfied with it.
Si quelqu'un aime une fleure qui n'existe qu'à un exemplaire dans les millions d'étoiles, ça suffit pour qu'il soit heureux quand il les regarde.
If someone loves a flower, of which just one single blossom grows in all the millions and millions of stars, it is enough to make him happy just to look at the stars.
It was when Don opened his ninth shop in Shanghai then Emily got married with a doctor. The doctor is a plump, happy man. He kissed his bride and toasted, “My gift from Lord.”
I supposed Emily would consider her wedding dress as the gift from Lord. After all, what was better than having her own brother designed the dress for her?
When Emily was back from her honeymoon, we had tea in a hotel.
“You look great, Emily. I’m truly happy for you.”
She was wearing a light yellow suit. I bet she had already forgotten that she had any black clothes.
“Thank you, Joyce, thank you. If it weren’t you, Don would never talk to me, not to mention designing the dress for me.”
“Why, Emily, you’re brother and sister! You’re the greatest sister I’ve ever seen and he’s the greatest brother I’ve ever seen. Of course your relationship should be great.”
“Joyce, you know what? If you ask a man to do something he doesn’t want to do but he still does it, you should know that he loves you.”
I smiled, “Is that the reason you married Dr. Custer?”
“I’m thinking of retirement.” I changed the subject.
“Why? You’re the star. There’re photos of you all over the world!”
“I’m getting old. I’ve been in this industry for twelve years! Twelve years! When I see the newcomers, I could always see myself in them. But I’m no longer sixteen; I’m getting too old…”
Since then I had reduced the amount of my jobs. I only took the jobs where the shooting was in Western Europe. I was too old to be exposed under the sun continuously for six hours in South Africa. Even the sunscreen couldn’t help Superwoman.
When Don sent me the tenth parcel, he also gave me a call.
“The tenth shop is in L.A.”
“Why? Because Jennifer doesn’t want to shop in the same shop with Angelina?” I joked.
He laughed, “Might be. Will you come to the opening party?”
“Well, I don’t like L.A.”
“I know, but will you still come?”
“Well, I have to go. Tony’s yelling again…”
Everything would be so familiar. The Pacific sunset, the Beverley Hills, the chandelier, the purplish red velour sofa, the champagne… And I would wander around the shop before sitting on the sofa with a drink, and then a guy would come to me and say, “Hi.” I would offer him a seat. He would ask me how I like the party, and I would say the party is great but I am bored. Then he would suggest slipping out and having dinner together. I would read him a paragraph from
The Little Prince:
Mais oui, je t'aime, lui dit la fleur. Tu n'en a rien su, par ma faute. Cela n'a aucune importance. Mais tu as été aussi sot que moi. Tâche d'être heureux... Laisse ce globe tranquille. Je n'en veux plus.
“Of course I love you,” the flower said to him. “It is my fault that you have not known it all the while. That is of no importance. But you, you have been just as foolish as I. Try to be happy... let the glass globe be. I don't want it any more.”
If and only if I knew when the opening party was.
[此贴子已经被作者于2006-3-4 18:04:40编辑过]
