From the Memoirs of a Non-Enemy Combatant: A Novel (8 page)

AQ
,
it would say.

Having merely collected ashes in Tito Roño’s shop as a boy, I didn’t quite know what I was doing when it came to menswear. It had been my own leap with the truth to tell Ahmed I’d designed
men’s clothing in school. I had made a men’s three-quarter trench in Outerwear as a second-year but never a whole suit! So the task at hand was an exercise in imitation. I was borrowing rather than generating ideas of my own. To be perfectly frank, menswear was boring. I am a dress man, through and through, and it was dresses I kept returning to between fits and starts of composing Ahmed’s suits.

The dress is a performance—its only responsibility is to the moment. It is elegant and ephemeral. It can’t sustain a woman’s body for very long. Women’s changes are far too radical. In couture, some dresses can be worn for only a few hours, max. What’s the saying? Elegance is a dress too dazzling to dare wear it twice.
¹

Whenever I finished a garment I needed to see it in action, moving around, before I could put it on the rack. This was all part of the creative process. I needed the opinion of a woman’s body before I made my revisions. Each dress was a work in progress, even after the catwalk. Not until a dress landed in the showroom was it truly finished. Here is where I had already formed the habit of deferring to Olya. My darling Olya, who most recently appeared on the cover of
Maxim
. She was my fit model, coming all the way out to Bushwick to try on my clothes. By the end of September 2002, in addition to my white, fine-layered dress, I had enhanced two or three other looks from my Manila days that I wanted to see on her.

“I have to tell you, Boy, this is not so nice, this neighborhood,” Olya said, on her third visit to my studio. She was getting undressed.

“What do you mean? It’s not so horrible. It’s close to Williamsburg,” I said.

I gathered the layered dress as Olya held out her arms. Together we put it on over her head. I zipped her up in front of the mirror and made some adjustments to the skirt so that it assumed its intended shape. This would become my inside-out dress, a hallmark of the (B)oy Fall Collection ’04, though the resemblance would be apparent only to the most trained of eyes.
²

“I saw a drug peddler outside,” she said. “A hideous man with an eye patch. He was distributing pills from a prescription bottle. People formed a line, holding out their hands like it was holy communion.”

“Oh that’s just Roddy, he’s harmless. It’s methadone he’s selling. It’s prescription.” It made me uneasy, imagining her prancing around Bushwick, but I was trying to make the best of it.

“Addicts make my skin crawl,” said Olya.

“Try walking,” I told her.

She paced the room in heels.

“You have any blow?” she asked.

“I’m out.”

“We should get some if we go out tonight. There’s a party at Spa. Steven Meisel will be there.”

“How does it feel?”

Olya stopped in the mirror and looked at herself. “It’s beautiful. I love it.”

“Seriously?”

“Yes. It’s totally elegant, you know? Not like slut.”

“How does it feel in the waist? Is it too snug?”

“No, it’s perfect.”

I felt so happy at that moment I started to weep, something I did whenever a real friend complimented my work. “I’m so glad you like it. Take it off and let’s try on something else.”

“Look at you, darling,” she said. “You’re such a bitch. Don’t cry.”

“I’m just so happy. I can’t help it.”

Someone knocked. There was only one person it could be. Ahmed had a way of interrupting the purest moments of my ambition.

“Oh shit,” I said under my breath.

“Who is that?”

“Guess. It’s probably Ahmed.”

“Who’s Ahmed?”

“He’s a client. I’ll get rid of him.”

As soon as I opened up, Ahmed said, “You’ve been crying. What’s the matter?”

“Sorry, I have a friend over. We’re doing a fitting.” I stepped back so that Ahmed could see Olya in the white dress.

“My dear,” Ahmed said to Olya, “my most sincere apologies. Allow me to introduce myself, and then I will be on my way. I am Ahmed Qureshi, garment salesman.”

“Olya, international model.”

It was like they were speaking the same language. Olya held out her hand and Ahmed took it and bowed his head. With Olya so elegantly dressed and Ahmed in his same soiled dishdasha, the moment gave me an impression of a child’s fairy tale. Ahmed, the foreign king, bowing down to Olya, the Polack princess.

“Enchanté, my dear,” he said. “Allow me, if you would, to get a look at you in this most appealing gown.”

“It’s a dress,” I said.

“Same difference,” he said.

Olya did a 360, putting on a pouty face. She liked the attention.

“Careful, my dear. At this age my heart can’t take such stimuli from a beautiful gel.”

“Oy, you’re big talker,” she said.

This made him laugh. “Boy, this dress looks familiar.” He snapped his fingers in rapid succession. “This is the one from the other night. I remember the open back. I see you took my advice and gave it a little more
umpff
in the chest. Pardon me, Olya. I don’t mean to speak as if you weren’t in the room.”

“It’s okay. I’m a professional.”

“My dear, you’re too much for me. May I borrow this man for one minute.”

Ahmed and I stepped out into the hallway.

“I’m sorry I haven’t gotten back to you,” I said, “but I really don’t have time right now. I have Olya here—”

“Two seconds,” he said, nonchalantly.

“Okay.”

“She is your gel?”

“My what?”

“Your
gel
. She’s not your gelfriend?”

“Oh, my
girlfriend
. No, no, she’s just a friend.”

“She’s beautiful. You should think about it. For you. Anyway, I’m not here to breathe down your back. The artist must work.” Ahmed was always remarking on how great an artist I was, when
really he didn’t know a thing about me. He’d seen one dress. “I only have a small favor to ask. I have an engagement approaching. It requires my vital presence. Meaning to say, I’m expected to show my mug, and I have to RSVP by tomorrow and decide if I want the chicken or salmon plate. You know how these things go. The fish at these functions, what can you do? Anyway, it’s a business-casual affair, tie optional, but I’d very much like to show up in one of your anticipated designs. It would mean a lot to me, Boy. And it would certainly make an impression on a few others in attendance. Some very important people will be in the room. So, what I mean to say is, I need a suit by Friday. Can you produce?”

It didn’t seem possible with Friday only three days away. Although back at FIM I had squeezed out an entire thesis collection in three days’ time. I pulled all-nighters dyeing fabric and sewing two looks a night. But this was a suit we were talking about. Suits took time. They had more layers, more structure, lining, pockets, padding. Not to mention I hadn’t ever made one.

“No, I can’t do it,” I told him.

“I know what you’re feeling, Boy. This is not what you signed up for. I know. I didn’t intend to put you in such a position. But look, what is Friday? Friday is only a day. Wednesday, Thursday, Friday. Am I right?”

“I’m just not sure you’ll get the quality you’d otherwise get if I had more time. For the money you’re paying me it should be perfect. Two weeks. I can commit to two weeks.”

“Beby, look at you. You’re all flustered. Listen, two weeks from now is what? A Tuesday. I need a suit by Friday. This Friday. Something dressy. Yes? Friday would be essential. So how much?”

“It doesn’t matter. It’s not about money.”

“Name your price, eh? Friday delivery. How much? Two hundred?”

I shook my head. “You’re not hearing me. It’s
time
I need.”

“Three hundred? That’s twenty-eight total, Boy. That’s a fair price. Twenty-eight and I take a bath on the fabric. A twelve percent markup. You just have to deliver
one
by Friday, remember. Take your two weeks on the other. Hell, take more, what do I care?”

“No.”

“Okay. Let’s get creative. Three thousand for the whole caboodle. There. You just made five hundred, and I’m still considering it a favor to me.”

He was a persuasive salesman. An extra five hundred dollars would basically cover another month’s expenses in Bushwick. And the rest could go toward a deposit on a new apartment. I was desperate to move into Williamsburg, where I knew I truly belonged.

So there I was, looking after my own interests. But isn’t that why we do anything? As citizens of modernity we’re always trying to better our social status, right down to the smallest detail. Luxury, comfort, it’s all a part of getting ahead. If that’s a crime, then I’m guilty as charged.

“I’ll need an overlock machine,” I said.

“What’s that?”

“It’s a kind of sewing machine. And I’ll need a button puncher and a new cutting board.”

“Done. Expense it. I’ll reimburse you.”

“Fine. Three thousand plus the new equipment. I’ll keep receipts.”

“Receipts
reeshmeets
. Just tell me. We have trust, no?”

“Yes. We have trust.”

“So just tell me, beby. We won’t let money come between us. This is a special thing we have. It’s casual. Don’t worry about nickels and dimes. Change is for tolls.”

Ahmed was beginning to grow on me. Perhaps this is more evidence of my naïveté, but he made it his goal to banish all the usual formalities that came with a business deal. With him it was your word, and nothing else mattered. No signatures. No contracts. He made you believe that a trust had been established from the very start. And from time to time he would check in on that trust by asking about its general welfare. He never wanted our thing to feel stiff or formal.

“All it takes is the right incentive, Boy. You’ll get the extra five hundred plus damages when you deliver on our arrangement.”

Back inside I found Olya wearing a black organza dress. She was putting on lipstick in the mirror. Tangerine. Whenever she was bored she would always put on more makeup.

“I liked your uncle,” she said.

“He’s not my uncle. Oh God, Olya, what have I done?”

“Whatever it is, I’m sure it’s not as bad as you’re making it out to be. You’re so anxious, Boy. Just like my mother. The bitch. Always worrying.”

“I’m so fucked. Where are my cigarettes?”

“You don’t smoke.”

“I do when I’m stressed.”

“Here, then. Have mine.” She reached into her purse, threw me a soft pack of Kools, and went back to doing her lips.

My first lesson as an American entrepreneur: learning to live with your decisions.

“I can’t go to that party tonight, Olya. I have to work.”

“Then can I wear this?” She turned to me in the dress. “It’ll only be for a few hours.”

“Will you bring it back unscathed?”

“What does that mean? ‘Unscathed.’ ”

“Never mind. Just be careful.”

“Unscathed.” She practiced saying the word in the mirror and puckered her lips.

I opened the top half of my window and took a deep inhale of smoke. The air conditioner was on, making my hair follicles stand erect. I ashed out the window, but the ash just flew back in. Olya put on more makeup. Eye shadow, mascara, blush. A car drove by pounding gangsta rap at a new high, setting off every car alarm within a two-block radius. It caused the cracks in my walls to branch and blossom. This attention to every detail was a signal to me that I was experiencing the onset of a small panic attack. I sat down on the bed. Snap out of it
,
I said to myself, just as the thump of the bass beat faded into East Williamsburg. I worked on my
pranayama.
³
Maybe a suit in three days was terribly inconvenient, but I wouldn’t have agreed to it if it was not possible. Surely, somewhere deep in my subconscious, I knew it could be done. That it
would
be done. And it was this healthy optimism that I took with me to the garment district later that day. In other words, I wove the stress to my advantage, harnessed it like I had done in fashion school once upon a time. Amazing, the
battleground that is the mind. A constant war of self-will with a counterinsurgency of doubt. We are our own worst enemies, ain’t it the truth.

Over the course of the next three days I redrafted my designs, cut fabric, sewed into the morning hours. I tore open seams when they weren’t good enough. I used everything I had learned, and then I threw it away—pants, sleeves, body—and taught myself how to do it right. When I thought I’d finished I would find a misstep, a connection that didn’t make sense, and I’d force myself to reevaluate the entire construction; I would find the solution in the form. Design was a puzzle, but it had a formula of its own, and once I tapped this formula, the garment attained simplicity. Its beauty and perfection became evident. Even if it was a suit.

And I delivered the suit, by God. It took three days and nights, but I delivered! I felt it no small feat either, to complete my end of the bargain. I was out to prove I could make it on my own in America, and that first suit was a test. No matter how much talent you think you have, no matter how hard you studied in the bubble of the university, the open market of the real world sets the bar high. You have every right to doubt your abilities. In truth, doubt produces miracles. I should have called my first collection Doubt. Doubt is what would eventually get me into
W
magazine. Doubt is what would get me into the tent.
⁴
Such a funny thing, doubt. It’s destined to fail. Its natural progression is to be overcome, and all sorts of forces will do it—faith, willpower,
envy, greed, truth, lies, therapy. On October 4, 2002, as I sewed my first label onto the inside breast pocket of that jacket, I felt I had conquered my doubts. Even though the suit wouldn’t be used in a collection, I couldn’t help but feel pride over the finished task. It was proof. My little flimsy satin label stitched with black thread was proof.
(B)OY
. A suit was going out into the world that night to be worn, somewhere, at an undisclosed location, and it was proof of my existence.