CHAPTER FIFTEEN

        Nicola and Catherine went back to their dorm room giddy from the Champagne and from all that had just occurred.  Throwing herself on the bed, Nicola said, “I cannot believe this is happening,” then,  “Oh, shit, I’m going to have to cut class tomorrow.”
    “For Chrissakes,” shouted Catherine. “You barely cut any classes all semester and you already told me you’re caught up on everything.  Damnit, Nicky, don’t worry about it. You drive me crazy.”
    Nicola said, “I guess it’ll be okay,” then snapped her fingers. “Catherine, what if Signora Palma hired you to model too?”
    “Nicky, I look about as Italian as Meryl Streep,” somehow managing to turn a moment of candor into a pat on her own back.
    “I bet Meryl Streep could play an Italian better than most Italians,” said Nicola, laughing.
    “Yeah, well . . .”
    “Hey, maybe they can put you in a wig and maybe you’ll look more like, I don’t know, Daniela Bianchi,” referring to the stunning blonde actress who played a Russian spy in the James Bond movie From Russia with Love.
    “I don’t think so, but nice try. Plus, Palma’s got all her other models already.”
    That evening Nicola took a taxi to Signora Palma’s studio, in the Navigli neighborhood, for a fitting that lasted about two hours.  Nicola tried on three ensembles: two dresses, one with a low v-neck, the other scoop necked, both with flared sleeves, and one Capri pants outfit with a richly colored print blouse that buttoned low, with hoop earrings and gold mules.  She put on a bob wig and they also did her own hair so as to have it tall atop her head and dropping down behind her ears to her shoulders. With each hairdo and outfit Nicola donned a different headband, and each time Signora Palma would just sigh and say, “Mia nuova Claudia! Molte bella, tante bella!”
    Nicola missed dinner, which she considered a blessing, and went back to her dorm very tired.  Catherine was in bed reading for a class.
    “So how’d it go?” she asked, slapping the textbook shut. “Tell me every detail.”
    “I don’t know,” replied Nicola. “She said it went very well. With the short wig and the headband, I guess I can look a little like Claudia Cardinale.  It was fun.  I think I could get used to being pampered.”
    Catherine lay back in bed and said, “Wait till they hear about this in the Bronx.”
    Nicola went into the bathroom and began cleaning off the make-up they’d applied at the studio.  But she left the dark eyeliner and mascara on, winking in the mirror and smiling, liking the way she looked.
    Tomorrow she would write home with the news. If she had time.
    But tomorrow was to begin at four a.m. and would likely go till midnight.  Nicola got little sleep, thinking about the day ahead. She had put her alarm clock under her pillow, hoping it would not wake Catherine.  When it did go off, sounding more like muffled clicking, Nicola had already been awake for a while, after dreaming that she was back home at Bella Napoli eating pizza with Signora Palma.
    Catherine didn’t stir and Nicola pulled herself out of bed, wondering about what the hell she was about to do.  In the bathroom she looked at herself in the mirror, her hair bedraggled, eyeliner and mascara smudged down her cheeks, and decided she didn't look anything at all like Claudia Cardinale.  “What was Signora Palma thinking?  This is going to be a disaster and I’ll be laughed off the catwalk!” she thought, trembling in the cold room whose heat had not yet come up.
    Signora Palma told her not to put on any make-up, so Nicola just washed her face—getting rid of yesterday’s eyeliner and mascara-- brushed her teeth,  and pulled her hair back in a ponytail.  Then she slipped into jeans, t-shirt and her overcoat, pulled on her boots and put her hand on the doorknob. Catherine stirred and without lifting herself from her pillow, said, “Knock ‘em dead, Nick,” then slumped back to sleep.
    As usual, there was a dense cold fog that morning, a dark chilling mist that made the street lights glow and the cars in the street glisten.  Nicola could not see beyond the end of the block, and there was almost no sound at all, save a truck way off in the distance, maybe one delivering clothes for one of the shows.  Signora Palma had arranged for a car to pick her up and, in a few seconds,  a softly purring BMW appeared as two columns of foggy light. The driver pulled up to the curb, rolled down the window and asked, “Signorina Santini?”
    Nicola said yes and the driver got out and opened the door.  They drove quickly through the empty streets to the Navigli, where the lights in Signora Palma’s studio were on. The driver opened the car door then escorted her to the entrance of the building, pressing a bell labeled PATRIZIA PALMA.
    “Pronto?” came a woman’s voice.
    “Si, c’e Nicola Santini.”
    “Prego, piano due.”
    Without further acknowledgment the door clicked open, the driver returned to his car, and Nicola walked up the steps to the second floor, where the door was already open.  It was a large, brightly lighted room with bolts of cloth, cutting tables, accessories in boxes, cotton-covered mannequins stuck with pins, a whiteboard with scribblings all over it in various colored Dri-Mark, the usual office paraphernalia and, stuck to a cork wall, many photos of Italian actresses of the 1960s in many different outfits.
    Signora Palma was dressed in a white smock, with a cigarette in one side of her mouth and pins in the other.
    “Ah, Ciao, Nicola. Avanti, avanti. You need una caffé?” 
    Nicola accepted the offer and a male assistant she’d met the day before went over to an espresso machine and made her a strong double, offering her sugar, which she refused.
    “Allora,” said Signora Palma, laughing. “You look like Cardinale when she get out of bed! We fix everything.”
With that, she began to issue orders to the staff, which included those Nicola had met at Bagutta, all looking like they’d already consumed a great deal of espresso. There were also two seamstresses, and two or three others whose jobs there were not yet clear, though Signora Palma asked them to do this or that.  There were as yet no other models there.
    “Where are the other girls?” Nicola asked the woman she’d met the day before at Bagutta—named Maria—again in black turtleneck and black jeans.
    “They’ll be here soon. Signora she want to work first with you.”
    “That’s certainly understandable.”
    Then Maria drew Nicola close to her and said, in very good English, “Listen, Nicola, I’m sure you see that La Signora can get a little crazy, eh? Don’t let it bother you. It’s always like this at all the ateliers and fitting rooms this week.  Everybody is just out of their minds with work and worry.  But you”—Maria winked—“saved La Signora’s—what do you say?—ass, and she’s going to try—I said try—to be very nice today.”
    “I appreciate that,” said Nicola. “So, what should I do?”
    “Okay, first we do make-up. Then we try on the clothes, then we do final make-up again, then we get ready for the show.”  Maria turned to a young man dozing in a canvas chair, “Ricardo, andiamo, Signorina Cardinale e ecco!”
    Ricardo, who was apparently the make-up fellow, blinked, stretched his arms and looked at Nicola. With his spiked hair, he wore an unbuttoned, wildly flowered shirt with a sleeveless t-shirt underneath.
    “Hm,” he said, “you do look like Claudia ...  a little. We going to have fun.  Io sono uno maestro!”
    Signora Palma shot him a look, pointed to her watch and said, “Okay, Maestro, andiamo sta giorno, per favore?”
    The other models began arriving—four of them, each chosen for their resemblance to an Italian movie star, which Nicola did not see at first.  All were about Nicola’s height and weight, none of them wraith-like in the manner of other models she’d seen in Milan.  Two were Italian, another—a blonde who did resemble Stefania Sandrelli (left) a little—was French, and another blonde—Virna Lisi? (below)—was German.  All spoke a little English, the German fluently, and although all of them were tired from runway jobs the day before, they seemed friendly enough and did not to appear overly competitive to Nicola, whose background they did not know.
    Nicola felt completely out of place but enjoyed the make-up part of the morning, which gave her a basic foundation and some eyeliner.  False eyelashes would come later, then the hair and clothes.  By eight o’clock everything seemed to be going well, though Signora Palma was becoming more frantic, frequently asking what time it was, lighting cigarettes then just as quickly putting them out.  She kept asking questions that had already been answered.
        The show would begin at eleven, just three hours to go.  By eight-thirty, with the first application of make-up, Signora Palma’s movie stars were emerging from the faces of the girls she’d chosen:  Sophia Loren, with her proud cleft chin, lynx-like eyes and huge, irresistible smile; Gina Lollabrigida, with her angled eyebrows, high cheekbones and gypsy-like southern fire; Virna Lisi, with silky blond hair like Marilyn Monroe’s, the slightly parted lips, and her bedroom eyes; Stefania Sandrelli, seemingly so innocent but erotically charged, with a face that could bring a priest in confession to sin; and Claudia Cardinale, with that childlike pout, eyes of a sea siren, faint dimples, and an impenetrable  mane of hair that could smother a man.
    What seemed to Nicola to be total chaos was actually a form of frantic, desperate control.  Everyone had his or her job, or several jobs, and a stylist would flit from one model to another while a technical assistant might be downstairs fixing the sound system one minute and upstairs fixing a sewing machine the next.  Plastic bags that held the outfits were everywhere, wigs were mounted on Styrofoam heads, shoes were arrayed along one wall and numbered to coordinate with the outfits, and the espresso machine never stopped working.
    At first Nicola was very nervous about standing in her underwear amidst all the activity, but none of the males rushing through and about the studio gave her or the other models so much as a glance.  Nicola decided they were either all gay or too terrified by Signora Palma to ogle her girls.
    The other models took everything in stride—even if they were only veterans of perhaps a single season—effecting a look of total boredom, smiling only when they were finished with make-up or allowed a five-minute cigarette break.  They yawned constantly. For the new girls in town Fashion Week could make or break their fledgling careers, and although there were plenty of opportunities for them to work and be seen—with more than a hundred shows posted by the fashion trade group Camera Nazionale della Moda Italiana—the  competition was fearsome and getting noticed by the top designers, editors and photographers by trying to appear something like what the designers had in their heads made the idea of standing out nearly impossible.
    Still, the possibilities were far better for the neophyte models in Milan than in Paris, where most sought-after models had established themselves and appeared year after year with the top  designers.  Rushing around Milan to a dozen or more casting sessions could be a blur for both model and talent agent, and a casting call might rip through a list of 200 models to find just ten that fit their agenda and look.  Usually the girls would arrive, hand their bulky portfolios to a designer’s staff member, wait and then be told thank-you and be sent on their way, not even knowing if the designer had even laid eyes on the portfolio, much less getting in to be seen by him.
     Nicola had gone through none of that and so had no idea just how lucky she’d been to be chosen out of thin air for Patrizia Palma’s show.  Whether it was pure dumb luck or kismet, she did not know, but it was something completely new and thrilling in her life and she faced the whirlwind without complaint.
    Finally, at 10:45, with people crowding into the building’s courtyard, Signora Palma clapped her hands loudly and an assistant shouted, “Silenzio!”  Everyone stopped what they were doing, turned towards La Signora and listened like nuns to their Mother Superior.
    Signora Palma cleared her throat, paused for a good ten seconds, then speaking English to the array of models from all over Europe, said: “Ladies and gentlemen. We going to do the most important show we ever done.  What happens today affects our getting into the international market. If this show is not a big success, this company maybe cannot survive.  We have all worked very hard, very very hard, for this moment.  Now, let’s have a good time! I want everybody happy! I want the models to smile, smile big smiles! Okay, say a prayer and go!”
    At that all the models broke into exaggerated, big toothy smiles, but Signora Palma’s command was actually something of a revolutionary exhortation, asking the models to do the exact opposite of what was the norm: for the standard expression of runway models was never to smile, never to detract from the clothes they were wearing.  Nicola always regarded this entrenched tradition as a way of appearing so world weary that to show any pleasure in the exercise would come across as being un-sophisticated and déclassé.  (Catherine said it was because all the European models—even Paulina Poriszkova—had bad teeth.)
    So Signora Palma’s command to smile was something very much out of the ordinary, an extension of her Italian actress theme based on how those women brought such joy to people’s lives simply by smiling.  She insisted that French actresses—Deneuve, Capucine, Signoret, Adjani— never smiled, always glum, always killing themselves for love.  Only Bardot smiled onscreen and when she did, it lit up the movie theater.

    Quite often the typical food served in a season dictates the wine required as a mate. For example, in the fall game birds, often served with wild rice and Thanksgiving turkey, with its cranberry sauce and stuffing usually call for full-bodied wines like heady Zinfandels and concentrated California Pinot Noirs to match the flavors of the fare.  And stews, braised brisket and legs of lamb often served in winter generally benefit from the black-currant taste and touch of tannin in many Cabernet Sauvignon-based wines. Similarly, simple summertime, typical American fare like hamburgers, hot dogs, chicken wings, grilled skirt steak and skewered shrimp, beckon for easy-drinking, fruit-forward vibrant wines - especially those lacking astringent tannin.  In fact, young Cabernet Sauvignon-based wines often taste bitter when consumed with the likes of hot dogs and wings. And many Pinot Grigios and inexpensive Sauvignon Blancs seem bland even with barbecued shrimp. So, based on a number of recent tastings and past experience, the following choices are offered as guidance on choosing modestly-priced, widely-available wines to mate with classic American warm weather fare.  

WHITES

Gai’a Monograph Assyttiko 2019 ($16)‒This bone-dry wine was made from grapes grown on over 10-year old vines grown in mountainous calciferous soils in Koutsi, Nemea (in the northern portion of Greece’s Peloponnese), with fermentation and aging in stainless steel. It shows a bouquet of honeysuckle and sweet melons and a citrusy taste with a lively finish. Its great with grilled  mild fish like branzino and snapper as well as chicken breasts.

Jean-Marc Brocard Chablis  2019 ($20)‒This perfect wine to accompany shellfish was made from grapes grown in a south facing vineyard noted for classic Chablis soil containing limestone and fossilized marine life. Following harvest, fermentation with native yeast and  9 months of aging took place in stainless steel tanks. It has a very lemony bouquet and taste with hints of honey in its crisp finish.

Estate Lorenzi Chardonnay (Dijon Clone 76) 2017 ($48)‒After fermentation this wine was aged in a combination of new (65%). 2-year old (25%) and 3-year old French oak barrels. It has a bouquet and taste of ripe apples and peaches with notes of vanilla in its finish and makes a worthy mate for grilled shellfish, particularly soft-shelled crabs.

REDS

Chȃteau Thivin Côte de Brouilly 2018 ($26)‒Made from Gamay grapes grown in volcanic soil laced with blue diorite (affording the vines excellent drainage), this wine from Mount Brouilly at the southern end of the Beaujolais, is a far cry from oft-maligned lighter, banana-scented Beaujolais. It shows a bouquet and taste of ripe raspberries, cherries and plums with a long lingering finish. It drinks well with hamburgers and hot dogs as well as grilled pork and beef.

Albert Bichot Santenay Les Charmes  2017 ($36)‒This versatile, well-priced Burgundy mates equally well with fish, fowl, beef and even grilled lamb chops. It hails from the extreme south-eastern portion of France’s Côte de Beaune and has a ripe cherry and raspberry bouquet and taste with a bit of earthy spice in its finish.

Karah Estate Vineyard Sonoma Coast Pinot Noir 2018  ($18)‒This wine was fashioned from 100% Pinot Noir grapes grown in Sonoma’s Petaluma Gap Appellation. It was fermented in stainless steel and aged in a combination of American and French neutral oak for a year prior to bottling. It has jammy flavors of plums and strawberries, with hints of cherry and a fresh finish. It makes great accompaniment for spicy wings as well as barbecued skirt steak.

SPARKLERS

Mumm Napa Brut Prestige Sparkling Wine n.v ($24)‒Made from a blend of hand-harvested grapes (45% Chardonnay, 45% Pinot Noir and 20% Pinot Meunier), this wine was fermented mainly in stainless steel (with a small percentage fermented in French oak barrels), and a secondary fermentation (to produce bubbles) over 18 months in its bottle. It shows a bouquet and balanced taste of apples and lemon with a toasty finish. It mates well with simple hors d’oeuvres like bruschetta and smoked salmon on toast as well as sushi.

Moët & Chandon Imperial Brut Rosé n.v. ($52)‒This bubbly was made from a blend of primarily Pinot Noir and Pinot Meunier with approximately 20% of Chardonnay. It has a pretty pink hue and a bouquet and taste redolent of fresh raspberries, strawberries with hints of peach and mint and a lively finish. It marries well with most fare, particularly chicken and pork.