Chapter Six
Annie
New York City, 1978
The Met Museum loomed in the night sky, its expanse so wide that it would be almost impossible to capture the entire building in a single photograph. A sprawling staircase in the shape of a stunted pyramid crawled up the limestone exterior, guarded by four imposing pairs of Corinthian columns. To either side of the main entrance, a trio of more restrained additions stretched out like the wings of some magnificent creature.
A few taxis glided past, but the sidewalks were empty of pedestrians, a fact that made Annie nervous. In the past couple of years, as the city fell apart financially and resources became scarce, the general mood of its citizens had turned feral. Stabbing, muggings, and murders were climbing. She figured if she was attacked, she could run to the nearest Fifth Avenue doorman for help.
The entrance was on the north side of the building, and beyond it, Central Park yawned into blackness. The security guard at the door didn’t seem surprised by her request, just told another guard to escort her and went back to reading his New York Post . Annie had spent countless hours on the other floors of the museum, but she’d never been to the basement level. She followed the security guard down a wide white hallway with signs reading “Yield to Art in Transit” posted at regular intervals. Overhead, exposed pipes and conduit ran along the ceiling.
Finally, they reached a set of double doors. “In there,” the guard said.
Annie pushed the doors open. Inside was an anteroom with a couple of desks that led to a vast room with large tables where a dozen or so women were at work, sewing colorful appliqués on layers of tulle, ironing black and white tunics, and sewing flounces onto dark velvet drapery. Other than the vibrant fabrics, everything else—the walls, the cabinets, and even the floor—was white, so that it resembled some kind of fashion laboratory. The workers even wore white gloves on their hands.
No one had noticed her entrance. Annie approached the woman working closest to the door. “Excuse me, Mrs. Hollingsworth asked that I give this to Diana,” she said.
The woman’s eyes widened in horror.
“Dee-AH-nah,” Annie quickly corrected. She pulled the boa out of the shopping bag and held it out.
“Right.” The woman exchanged a worried glance with the worker sitting next to her. “Do you want to take it in, Mona?”
“Um. No, thank you.”
Just then, a wisp of a girl rushed by. The woman named Mona grabbed the girl’s arm. “Wanda, this just came in.” She took the boa from Annie and handed it to Wanda, who accepted it with a trembling lip. What on earth was going on down here in the bowels of the museum late at night that made everyone so worried? Annie couldn’t help but think of the sweatshops from the 1910s she’d read about in history class, where young girls slaved for hours making shirtsleeves.
Wanda disappeared through a closed door.
“What is this?” she asked the woman named Mona.
“It’s the Costume Institute workroom.”
“You work here?”
Mona let out a loud scoff. “God, no, we’re docent trainees.”
“Docents? Like you give tours?”
“One day we will,” said the other woman, who didn’t seem as offended as her fellow worker by Annie’s gaffes. “I’m Priscilla, by the way. And this is Mona. We volunteer our time to the museum.”
Priscilla’s vowels were those of New York City’s upper class, ladies who lunched at expensive bistros and summered on the East End of Long Island. On second glance, the occupants of the room were all over forty, with styled hair and diamond studs in their ears. This was no sweatshop.
“What are you working on?”
“The exhibition for the Met Gala,” answered Mona in a vague European accent.
Of course Annie had heard of the Met Gala, a big party for high society that was held once a year. With a start, she realized that this Diana everyone was talking about was, in fact, Diana Vreeland, the former editor of Vogue and Harper’s Bazaar , who now worked at the Met as some kind of consultant. She’d read her editorial letters with glee month after month.
“When is the gala?” asked Annie.
“November twentieth, which is why we’re here into the late hours of the night.” Mona seemed more proud than upset by the idea of working late. “The theme this year is Diaghilev: Costumes and Designs of the Ballets Russes .”
Annie had no idea what she was talking about. Annie looked around the room and noticed several mannequins dressed in bright outfits that were not at all like the ballet costumes worn today.
“These are for dancing in?”
“Diaghilev was a choreographer from the early 1900s who formed a dance company called the Ballets Russes,” explained Priscilla. Her delivery was rote, as if she was recalling a series of memorized facts. “His sets, costumes, and choreography revolutionized art, fashion, and dance. On the fiftieth anniversary of his death, we’re celebrating the vital design and vibrant colors he brought into the world.”
“Well done, Priscilla,” Mona said dryly. Priscilla gave her a wide grin in response, missing Mona’s patronizing tone entirely. The two women were a study in contrasts: Mona with her dark hair and aquiline nose versus Priscilla’s blonde curls and blue eyes. Priscilla’s lids were brushed with eye shadow that matched the exact shade of her irises, which had the unfortunate effect of making her look permanently stunned.
“How does one become a docent?” asked Annie.
“First, you have to apply, and then you have to go through the training, which is quite extensive,” said Mona. “We come every Monday when the museum is closed and spend hours with the curators and other staff members, learning everything about the Met, from the layout to the provenance of the artwork. ‘Museum fluency,’ it’s called.”
“We have to know our way around,” offered Priscilla.
“That sounds fun,” said Annie.
“It’s hard work,” said Mona.
“It’s more difficult than getting into an Ivy League school,” added Priscilla. “For example, today I had to talk about a randomly chosen piece of art for three minutes straight. I did fairly well, considering, right, Mona?”
“Sure you did.”
Priscilla’s enthusiasm dipped ever so slightly. “The critiques can be quite withering. But eventually you’re allowed to do research and present to the staff. If you pass, you’re considered ‘floor ready.’ If not, you’re out.”
Being a docent sounded like a dream job to Annie. But then again, it wasn’t a job. “You’re volunteering your time?”
“Of course,” said Priscilla. “It’s an honor to be here—and most of us are already involved in the museum in some way, anyway. As donors and whatnot. The past few weeks, on top of our regular studies and classes, we’ve been lucky enough to assist Mrs. Vreeland with the gala.”
As if summoned by the very mention of her name, a door opened and the woman herself appeared. She held the boa high in one hand, the ends draping down, her other hand resting on her hip. She appeared to be in her seventies and was exceedingly narrow everywhere: hips, bust; even her face was long and thin. At first, Annie would have described her as horsey, but when she moved, it was with an air of authority that rendered traditional ideas of beauty or ugliness irrelevant. Thick black hair rose high above her forehead, and her cheeks were slashed with red blush that extended all the way to her earlobes.
Diana Vreeland. The most fashionable woman in New York City.
“Listen up, girls,” said Vreeland in a low growl. “I had Wanda reach out to docents old and new for ideas to adorn the neckline of the Zobeida costume from Scheherazade . I explained that the dancer who wore it was known for posing in a photograph with a snake from the Bronx Zoo, which I thought made my intentions quite clear. Not a half hour later, I’m handed a boa the color of pickles. So now, I have one question: Who brought this disastrous object into my lair?”
Priscilla and Mona both turned to look at Annie. She could run from the room, but Mrs. H would ask about the boa. She had no choice.
Trembling, she lifted her arm into the air.
“Um, that was me.”
In the bright lights of the Costume Institute workshop, Diana Vreeland stared at Annie like she was from another planet.
Annie lowered her hand down by her side. She’d never felt so conspicuous, so out of her element as she did in this room of well-coiffed Upper East Side doyennes. Not only was she twice the size of most of them, her hair hung limply down her shoulders from the damp mist outside, and her skin was shiny and pasty. Her very presence in this pristine, select environment was like a pustule, and now all eyes were on her.
“Mrs. Hollingsworth sent me with the boa,” Annie explained weakly. “She wanted to help.”
At the mention of Mrs. H’s name, it was as if the entire room let out its breath. Mrs. Vreeland threw back her head with a throaty laugh. “Ah, that Nora. Always putting me on, a gag gift for a giggle, I suppose. How is the darling’s hip? Or is it her arm?”
“Her knee,” said Annie with relief, although she was fairly certain Mrs. H had sent over the boa in a sincere attempt to help out, not as a joke. “She’s getting around much better now.”
“Wanda!” called out Mrs. Vreeland.
The girl came running. “Yes.”
“Why didn’t you tell me that this was from Mrs. Hollingsworth? I can’t possibly manage without the full information, you see.”
“I’m so sorry, Mrs. Vreeland.” At that, Wanda burst into tears.
Mrs. Vreeland stared at her, unbothered. “I can’t have simpering around me, not now. It’s too close to our deadline for tears. Off you go, thank you, dear, that’s all we’ll need from you.” She handed Wanda the boa. “And give this to that young lady on your way out.”
Wanda scampered away, throwing the boa at Annie as she exited the room, bursting into heaving sobs before the door to the Costume Institute had even closed. Annie felt terrible for her, but at the same time, she didn’t quite see what was so upsetting. Mrs. Vreeland wasn’t yelling, wasn’t throwing things.
“Listen, everyone,” said Mrs. Vreeland, clapping her hands twice. “I’m going to try again.” She trotted over to a mannequin wearing a pearl-encrusted leotard in white and dark blue, with poufy silk leggings that cascaded down to the ankle. “You must keep in mind that Scheherazade ’s Zobeida is the favorite wife of the king. But she’s also a sensuous woman who desperately needs love. She’s still young, and I imagine she has a peacock and loves cinnamon and flowers. It’s important we get this right. Fashion must be the most intoxicating release from the banality of the world.” She paused. “ Now do you understand what I’m looking for?”
Annie looked around in astonishment as the other women nodded their heads knowingly. She’d mentioned snakes earlier, and now peacocks, and something about banality.
But what on earth did that have to do with the neckline of the costume?
Strangely enough, Annie was dying to know the answer.