Oliver hadn’t written anything new in months. Clara had told him he didn’t have to do so much for her, that he ought to take time out for himself, but he’d brushed her off.
“Perhaps after dinner you both could read some of your work,” she suggested. One of the other guests was going to sing; the Andover alum had brought a guitar. If she could persuade Oliver to share his work, get some approbation, he might be newly inspired.
Sally squealed with delight, but Oliver shot Clara a worried look. “I’m still in the early stages, I’m afraid. I’ve been so busy lately.”
She tried again. “Maybe one of your earlier poems?” She looked out over the table. “He’s an extraordinary talent.”
“Don’t, Clara.”
The other conversations at the table, including Levon’s, quieted down as the tension rose.
She hadn’t meant to put him on the spot. Clara turned to the guest to her right, a gentleman who manufactured and sold Studebaker automobiles, to take the attention off Oliver. Mr. Bianchi was his name, and his wife was the singer in the group. “Tell me, Mr. Bianchi, what’s your favorite poem?”
The man chuckled and wiped his mouth with his napkin. He wore round spectacles that echoed his bulbous nose. “I do love the Italian Decadents, D’Annunzio and the like.” Mr. Bianchi winked at her.
Levon’s fork clattered to the table. “The fascist?”
“Sometimes you have to ignore the politics and focus on the poetry.”
“Is it possible to ignore politics?”
“I’m sorry, I’ve upset you.” Mr. Bianchi shrugged. “What can I say? I like beautiful things. Beautiful poetry, beautiful art, beautiful cars.”
The maid began serving dessert, an upside-down cake, as Clara grappled to gain control of the conversation. “What’s your latest automobile model?”
“Ah, that’s quite exciting. It’s a lower-priced one called the Dictator.”
Dear God.
Levon spoke with his mouth full of cake. “Really? You can’t be serious.”
Clara noticed Oliver wince at his bad manners. She should have never invited him.
Levon finally swallowed. “You want to speak of dictators? In the last decade of the last century, Sultan Abdul Hamid II of the Ottoman Empire concentrated power into his own hands and ordered the massacre of the Armenian people.”
A startled Mr. Bianchi turned red. “We don’t mean that kind of dictator. We’re imagining someone like Mussolini, a man of strength, of power. Our lines include the Commander, the President, and now the Dictator. It ‘Dictates the Standard.’”
Oliver stepped in. “Of course, that makes perfect sense.”
“It’s an uphill battle.” Mr. Bianchi shook his head. “The market is saturated. Everyone owns a car these days. Our hope is that a cheaper model will encourage families to buy two.” He waved a chubby hand at Clara. “In fact, next week we’re bringing in a consulting group of lady decorators to help us figure out the best way to appeal to the wives. You should come on board; we could use an artist in the group.”
Clara thought of her current cover. A close-up look at the latest car model might inspire her. Also, as much as she didn’t want to admit it, the banker’s mistress had a point about the threat of photography. Clara could envision a time in the future when magazine illustrators were reduced to scrambling for crumbs. Branching out into consulting work was a wise idea. But she didn’t want to be lumped in with a group of “lady decorators.” She had more to offer Mr. Bianchi than that. “I’d be happy to get involved. In fact, I bet I can solve your problem.”
“How so?”
“It’s all in the ad campaign. I bet I can create one that will make your Dictator the bestselling car of the year.” As she spoke, her excitement grew.
Mr. Bianchi sat back and studied her. “You could, could you?”
“Of course she could. You’re talking to Clara Darden, one of the finest instructors at the Grand Central School of Art!” Levon raised his glass to her, and Clara bowed her head slightly in response, hoping to temper his enthusiasm.
“Do you really have time to do car advertisements?” Oliver again. “Your schedule is quite booked already.” He was trying to save her, thinking she was being bulldozed. But he was wrong. She wanted this. Something new, something that would provide some contrast to her magazine covers.
“Plenty of other illustrators do designs for more than fashion magazines. I don’t see why I can’t as well.”
Sally giggled. “But automobiles? It’s not very feminine work.”
Clara sat back, crossed her arms, and shot Sally a look that made her choke on her laughter. “Maybe it should be.”
A week after the dinner party, Clara was picked up by a gleaming Studebaker, sent by Mr. Bianchi, and driven to the factory where the cars were made, a massive, drab cement structure about an hour away from the city. Mr. Bianchi’s well-appointed office, however, was a pleasant surprise, replete with geometric paneling and Ruhlmann chairs. Finely detailed toy cars dotted the bookshelves.
Four other women, two of whom were renowned designers, sat in chairs in a semicircle around Mr. Bianchi’s desk. Clara made her way to the empty seat as introductions were made.
“I’m so pleased you could join me today. Would anyone like a drink?” Mr. Bianchi’s nose twitched.
All the women, save Clara, declined the offer.
He poured a couple of Scotches from a bar concealed behind one of the panels, then handed a glass to Clara. She drank a sip, careful to not let him see how it burned her throat.
“On my desk you’ll see the latest design for the Dictator. Take a look and let me know your thoughts. We want to know what’s the best way to market it so women will encourage their husbands to snap one up, over all our competitors.”
The ladies huddled around the desk as Mr. Bianchi made his way to the back of the room. Better to study their figures, Clara surmised. This was all a sham so he could announce to the world that he’d designed a car using the input of women. He really didn’t want to hear what they said.
The drink made her bolder than she might have been otherwise, more easily outraged, but she patiently waited her turn to study the drawings. Each page offered a different view: the exterior, the interior dash, details of the hardware. “Who is your ideal buyer for this car?” asked one of the other consultants.
“A family that requires a second so the wife can toodle around town while the husband’s at work. Or a family that’s just starting out, that can’t afford our more expensive lines.”
Clara spoke up. “What’s the price point?”
“I see you’ve studied the terminology. Well done. Around twelve hundred dollars.”
The ladies spoke over one another in an effort to impress. “You must have an advertisement of a man opening the door for the lady, and maybe she’s dressed like Cinderella going to a ball.”
“How about a woman behind the wheel with a little boy on her lap, pretending to drive? That’ll warm the hearts of the mothers.”
While they brainstormed, Clara wandered over to an observation window to the right of the desk, which looked down at the factory floor. Below, hundreds of men attended to the assembly lines, lifting parts from trolleys and affixing them to metal chassis, an intimate dance of muscles and machinery. She touched her fingertips to the glass. “I’d like to go down on the floor.”
Mr. Bianchi blanched. “You don’t want to go down there. You’ll get grubby. I’d hate to see you spoil your lovely dress.”
She insisted, and he called in a foreman, who handed her a smock as they headed down several flights of stairs to the floor, where the noise level almost burst her eardrums and the smell of grease and sweat threatened to overwhelm her. Instead of covering her nose, she inhaled deeply. This is what car-making was all about. They were machines, and the design was secondary to the utility.