“The mayor of what?” Mrs. Von Bizmark said.
“New York!”
“City?”
“Yes!”
“You mean, the communist?”
“Well, I mean, he’s technically more of a socialist . . . ,” Julie started, but she stopped when she saw Mrs. Von Bizmark’s narrowing eyes.
“The city is going to cover the rest of the budget to keep the school open,” Anna said, pausing in the hopes that Mrs. Von Bizmark’s slight affirmative head tilt would grow into a small smile. When this failed to happen, she continued, “So Vogue thought it would make sense to include all the stakeholders. School mom, mayor, private philanthropist, principal . . .”
“One big, happy, family!” Julie said, smiling with both hands in the air.
Mrs. Von Bizmark sighed, slid in her earpiece, and sat in the makeup chair. Who was she calling? Anna inched up behind the Vogue glam team, who commenced their preliminary fussing. She could only make out every other word or so.
“Peter? So I’m at . . . Vogue shoot . . . OK, OK, hold on . . . . the mayor . . . New York. Mayor of New York. . . . Yes. Exactly. I don’t know! Soon!” She hung up, a self-satisfied smile finally finding its way to her face.
Just by a change in the energy of the room, everyone seemed to simultaneously understand that the mayor had arrived. Interns dashed about; the producer waited by the elevator, texting Rosenblatt. A quiet descended. Then the cargo-elevator door opened, and the noisy chatter of many people talking on their phones all at once poured out. The entourage moved en masse, the mayor at its core, already photo ready with just a touch of makeup over a fresh shave.
Mrs. Von Bizmark, almost done with glam, rose to her feet: even if he was a socialist, he was a powerful and famous socialist. Although they had shaken hands only twice in receiving lines over the last five years, the mayor instantly recognized Mrs. Von Bizmark and broke free to greet her. As soon as their eyes met, their differences melted away. He strode toward her, all pinstripes and outstretched hands as if he were greeting his sister. She kissed his cheek with a light chuckle.
“It’s amazing what you’re doing for our public schools,” he said grandly.
If this was an odd thing for Mrs. Von Bizmark to hear, she did not show it, seamlessly introducing him to Josefina. Right on cue, Franny Rosenblatt stepped off the elevator silently, camera already in hand. She walked in snapping pictures, as if this was how she introduced herself. Two lithe, ninja-esque former models in all black, each toting several additional cameras, handed them to her in rotation as the mayor and Mrs. Von Bizmark listened to Josefina talk about Ilana, all for Rosenblatt to capture.
And from there, everything flowed. Mrs. Von Bizmark donned a daytime casual look of tan slacks and a blouse with a wide leather belt. Josefina’s black Brooks Brothers skirt suit fit her perfectly after the crack Vogue seamstress had made some adjustments. A harried Principal Sellers arrived just in time, switched into a cotton shirtdress, got a quick dusting of makeup, and took her place against the white backdrop. Rosenblatt arranged them and rearranged them, trading off cameras with her assistants every minute. The mayor was of course a total pro, turning his best side to the camera and going from serious to midhilarity on cue. Josefina could have exploded with pride; her grin was unwavering. Mrs. Von Bizmark looked to the elevator door each time it opened, hoping to see Mr. Von Bizmark.
But after only thirty minutes, the mayor’s handlers snatched him away. Josefina took a town car home, feeling like Cinderella in her carriage. Sellers raced to the subway. And Mrs. Von Bizmark returned to the makeup chair for them to layer on darker shadow, more mascara. A deep-garnet lip. In the hands of these talented professionals, Mrs. Von Bizmark transcended mere attractiveness. The stylist picked out the slinky Tom Ford number with the cutouts and slits. The makeup artist lined her eyes in kohl. Through some combination of tape and illusion, this midfifties mom was transformed into a thirty-year-old supermodel in fifteen minutes. She changed into an even smaller dress. And then an even smaller one.
By the time Mr. Von Bizmark had stepped off the elevator just over an hour later, Mrs. Von Bizmark was in a tiny sequined slip too revealing to ever actually wear in public. His eyes scanned the edges of the loft looking for someone, not even recognizing his own wife. He drifted over to the light, his eyes on every face.
Rosenblatt, tired, directed Mrs. Von Bizmark. “Less stiff. Look more, like, loose.”
Mr. Von Bizmark watched, still searching. Anna sidled up to him and said, “Good evening, Mr. Von Bizmark.”
“Oh, hello . . . ,” he said, reaching for her name, not knowing her out of context. “Anna!” And with this, recognition passed across Mr. Von Bizmark’s face, followed by surprise to learn that the woman in front of the camera was in fact his own wife. Anna smiled to herself as he crept closer, his presence obscured by all the lights. He squinted, watching her move her hips a little. “Like, looser!” Rosenblatt barked, then gave up and lit a cigarette. “Never mind. Take a break.”
Mrs. Von Bizmark looked a little dejected and walked off the set almost right into Mr. Von Bizmark. She looked up at him, and for a moment they both smiled; Anna couldn’t remember the last time she’d witnessed such a calm, warm moment between them. Cha-ching.
“Peter!” All breathless with excitement.
“Hi there, sexy.”
“Hi!”
He wrapped his arm around her and pulled her body closer. For a minute, Anna thought it would all be a home run and the perfect warm-up for tomorrow’s anniversary finale. Mr. Von Bizmark leaned over and whispered something in her ear. She giggled, pressing her palm to his chest.
“Where’s the mayor?” Mr. Von Bizmark asked.
“Gone almost forty-five minutes ago,” Mrs. Von Bizmark said. Mr. Von Bizmark displayed his annoyance at hearing this by looking at his watch over Mrs. Von Bizmark’s shoulder.
“Too bad,” Mr. Von Bizmark said, taking a step back.
“Well, he’s coming to the ball,” Mrs. Von Bizmark said. Anna perked up, hearing this; she knew it wasn’t confirmed yet. “Maybe . . . he’d be receptive . . .”
Mr. Von Bizmark nodded curtly. “All right. I’ve got a dinner,” he said, but before he could make a clean getaway, Mrs. Von Bizmark pulled her husband in close.
As Anna watched them, cheek to cheek, she all at once knew the third element of her painting. Pencil. A sketch. Something rudimentary on vellum. What popped into Anna’s mind was The Burlington House Cartoon: the da Vinci sketch in London’s National Gallery. She wasn’t one for religious art, and yet this piece was full of self-contained energy, the charcoal curves and shadows creating a movement and warmth unrivaled in most oil paintings. Mrs. Von Bizmark unclasped her husband’s lapel, and he kissed her on the cheek before departing.
Anna let her imagination run, pondering the last necessary element of her final piece for the opera. She knew it had to be simple. Charcoal. She sat on the L train to the studio, her leg shaking, unfocused eyes traversing the length of the empty violet plastic seating. And then she saw it. The top of a woman’s head, peeking out over the lips. She’d have to draw it, then cut it out and lay it over the oil in just the right way so that it was as if she was amid the flowers. A homage to The Mona Lisa’s cryptic eyes hovering over the plastic sheeting.