Fortunately, Mr. Giles has no modern ideas about retirement. Many, many people have worked hard to make him the craftsman he is. And he is happy to be absorbed in a long and honorable tradition. He will work until he can no longer maintain the standard. And his fervent wish is to die in the harness, on the job, with the feel of the fabric between his fingers. When he lets go his grip on this world, the last thing he wants to feel is a fine worsted wool slipping between his fingers as he goes.
The suit that Edwin lays out on the four-poster bed is suit number seven hundred and twenty-one.
When this particular suit was fitted, Mr. Giles explained to Edwin that cloth that he had selected, or spoken for (and hence the term Bespoke tailoring) was the last of a very old fabric. A fine fabric, and one that he had used to cut a suit for Edwin’s father. At this mention of his dead father, Edwin had stiffened slightly, causing the cuff of his pants to rise 1/32 of an inch by Mr. Giles measurements. For Mr. Giles, this 1/32nd of an inch was a vast gulf filled with meaning. The good tailor quickly changed the subject to silence. Edwin had not thought of his father since.
But now, alone in strange land, and confronted with the fabric again, Edwin’s thoughts turn to his father. He remembers him only in fragments, but always with a wry smile and an air of feckless joy. Happy, that is it, he remembers his father as being happy.
Edwin looks at the fabric carefully. It is a light grey wool with subtle flecks of green throughout. The fabric is remarkable in itself, but nothing when compared with the garment complete. To fully appreciate the suit, one has to note how it slides effortlessly over the canvas of fabric that forms the structure of the jacket. It has not been bonded together with chemical glue as mass-produced, off-the-rack suits are. No, this suit moves and rolls, flows naturally like skin. It is not an exaggeration to describe this garment as being alive.
Mr. Giles has cut several other suits for the younger Mr. Windsor. Although Mr. Giles enjoyed Edwin’s father’s custom for many years, and came to know the man, he never again spoke of him to Edwin. It had been such a tragedy for a young boy. And, if the truth be told, it had hung his frame with a certain melancholy. So that the suits that Mr. Giles cut for Edwin were impossibly elegant. Wrought with a sadness, cast in the light of a great house in decline. And for each suit, when he had taken the measurements, he had heard something sacred and sad in the proportions.
With a deft hand Edwin throws a full Windsor knot into the silk tie. Two tugs and the knot is perfected. He folds the collar, double folds his shirt cuffs and inserts cufflinks. The links are nothing ostentatious or outrageous, just delicate circles, complete in themselves. Socks, pants, shoes, belt. Then he slides into the jacket and tugs his shirt cuffs free. Edwin takes a moment to admire the cut of the suit in the mirror. How diminished the suit had been without the wearer. But now, it is complete. And Edwin is completed by it. The art of the tailor is in the intersection, in the dance of fabric and occupant.
There is something terribly appropriate in dressing for dinner, Edwin reflects. Composing one’s self in order to be with others. For whatever faults Iphagenia Rielly might have (and misplaced lust is surely one of them) she did retain a sense of propriety. Of gracious living, if that were a phrase Edwin could use. And as long as a sense of this, a vestige of style and sensibility remained in the world, all hope could not be lost. Progress could be made.
Edwin leaves the room with a spring in his step.
Chapter Twelve. Empress Josephine?
For years Edwin has guarded himself against the weakness of optimism. He has often seen false confidence punished in others by the relentless and unforgiving world. He has often heard cries of, “I’m invincible!” quickly followed by smaller, less forceful statements like “please, stop, don’t, I have a family.” But if you could ask him, as he descends Iphagenia’s ostentatious antebellum staircase, he might admit a certain — well not hope, you understand, but let’s just say, Edwin is prepared to believe that a glass exists. And further, that this glass holds liquid.
A servant directs Edwin towards the dining room. As Edwin walks he tugs a shirt cuff back into place. He has no real hopes for the cuisine, but he is hungry. At least his lower nature will be gratified.
The doors to the dining room swing open. And once again, Edwin realizes what an absurd emotion hope really is. As a younger man Edwin had often wondered why the progress of the human race was so slow, inconsistent and easily reversed. Why did the great minds not make the obvious leaps sooner? And why, when these leaps were made, did the great mass of men refuse to accept them? How, in any god’s name, was the library at Alexandria allowed to burn?
Before him is the answer to these questions. In the center of the room, on a raised dais, being fed fruit and fanned by well-oiled young men in loincloths is Iphagenia Rielly. She is dressed, as Edwin can only assume, as the Empress Josephine. A different man would be surprised, would break stride, gasp or perhaps even be struck blind from the sheer absurdity of it all. Edwin grinds his molars together and presses on.
“Why Edwin dearest, how nice of you to come throw yourself at my feet. I’ve even saved you a cushion. Isn’t that thoughtful of me?”
Edwin does not throw himself anywhere. Instead, he walks to the table and seats himself with great care. His size makes the low surface and delicate Louis XIII chair awkward and uncomfortable. But it is no matter. This is obviously a room in which dignity does not stand a chance.
“Where,” Edwin asks, “is the boy?”
Iphagenia’s laughter echoes in the high-ceilinged room. “I thought we could find some time to be alone together. To share our thoughts and speak of our feelings. Our feelings as adults.”
“I appreciate that. But I am here in a business capacity.”
“Oh Mr. Windsor, never mind about the boy, I’m the REAL villain in the family.”
Edwin says nothing. He even tries to think nothing. He merely looks at Iphagenia, and uses silence as a weapon of discomfort.
“Mr. Windsor, do you know what it is to be a woman in the South. In Lower Alabama. Raised and reared through the times I have known?”
Edwin doesn’t even move.
“Of course you do not. But mine is the sex which born to suffer. And the very blood that flows in my veins is born to misfortune. Is it so unreasonable that I would resist my fate? Would you not do the same in my shoes?”
In spite of his best efforts, Edwin blinks.
“Mr. Windsor, my husband was a dim, oafish creature. And I poisoned him myself. Does that surprise you? That evil should have such a beautiful and deceptive countenance?”
This does not surprise Edwin. In fact, it rather bores him. This is now a colossal time suck. Edwin is short on money. Which, of course, means that he is short on time. Better to cut his losses now.
Edwin removes the napkin from his lap, folds it and places it on the empty plate in front of him. “I take this monologue to mean that dinner is not forthcoming.” He stands and buttons his jacket. “Madame, I will require your car to take me to the airport.”
Iphagenia laughs so loudly she startles one of the well-oiled men who is fanning her. “Really Mr. Windsor, you surprise me in your naivete. It is one thing to reject my sweet tea, it is entirely another to reject my hospitality.”
“I have neither talents nor time to waste.”
“Really now. And what else would you waste your time and talents on?”
“Something, anything that would show a profit.”
“I do not lack money. Do you think I have any scruples?”
Edwin considers carefully. “No.”
“Then scheme a scheme for me Mr. Windsor. That is what you do isn’t it? Scheming schemes, never taking action.” She looks lasciviously at one of the young men fanning her. “Seems terribly, what’s the word I’m looking for, impotent?”
“Do you have any special gifts or talents I should be made aware of?”
