But that didn’t mean the design was superfluous. The foreman, unlike Mr. Bianchi, didn’t rush her. She got down on her hands and knees and peered under a finished car, curious what she would find. Another worker pointed out the various locks and hinges of the hefty doors, and she ran her fingers over the cold metal. As a fashion illustrator, she had learned to pay attention to material, color, line, and anatomy. An automobile, which was almost like a coat of armor, was no different from a coat of fur. Protection against the world.
Back in Mr. Bianchi’s office, the other ladies were long gone. He looked up in surprise. “Miss Darden? I’d forgotten about you entirely. What on earth have you been doing?”
Clara pulled off the smock and pointed at the drawing. “Not even the cleverest advertisement will work if the interior of the car isn’t functional for women. Right now it’s not. There are too many knobs that stick out, gears that get in the way. It’s too easy for her to catch a sleeve on a gear shift or a glove on an instrument gauge.”
He regarded her warily. “We thought women might like all the styling. The rosettes, for instance, on the robe rail. Don’t you think they’re pretty?”
“There’s too much frippery entirely. Women don’t want to be riding in a stagecoach from the Georgian age. This is a new, American mode of transport and ought to reflect that. Look at our clothing. No more bustles and corsets.” Mr. Bianchi blushed, but she kept on, picking up a fountain pen and drawing right on the plans. “You want only clean lines inside the vehicle, an art deco approach. Get rid of the boxiness of the dash and curve the edges. Everywhere.” Her pen raced across the paper, her hand sure and even. “The door handles could look like this. Tuck the ashtray away, here.”
He studied them for a long moment, his brow furrowed. “Do you really think this will sell?”
“Let me go back to my studio and come up with some proper sketches for you. Let’s make the 1930 Studebaker something that everyone will talk about.”
“I’m not sure; this is rather overwhelming.”
If she were a man, no doubt he’d give her opinion more consideration. She stopped drawing and gestured for him to sit. He did so, blinking with uncertainty.
“You can use me to sell it.”
“Use you?”
“All this past year, I’ve been telling women what looks good, what’s a quality product, and why they should buy it, through my illustrations. I can do the same for you. Hire me for the interior design of the Dictator, as well as the advertisement campaign. In the ads, we’ll use my name. ‘Styled by Clara Darden.’ They’ll trust my taste and insist their husbands buy your car.”
He looked at the plans, avoiding her stare. He was balking. “Well, I’ll have to see.”
As a girl, she’d listened while her father bamboozled potential clients and had picked up some of his techniques. Time to close the deal. “Here’s what you do. Go home and ask your wife. Tell her about our conversation. Then call me tomorrow and we’ll talk numbers.”
A strong handshake, and she was out the door.
That evening, Clara shared the day’s events with Oliver as they lay in bed.
His face stayed still, inscrutable. “Is this why you came to New York City, to design car door handles?”
“It’s not just the handle. It’s the entire interior, possibly the exterior as well. I’m shaping the car, you see. Like a sculpture.”
“If you want to do sculpture, then do that. Don’t pretend that prettying up an automobile is art, though.”
His words hurt. But he didn’t understand. She tried again. “I’m not ‘prettying it up.’ Machines can be beautiful. Just like furniture, which can be pleasing to the eye and functional at the same time. A Marianne Brandt teapot is gorgeous, right? And useful. It’s called industrial design, and you oughtn’t pooh-pooh it. What I’d be doing is hard work, but my guess is that it’ll pay off grandly. With a company, with a product, I have an infinite number of possibilities. They change car designs every year. Which means a new opportunity to make my mark.”
“And another reason to avoid spending time together.”
“Don’t be silly. We’re together right now.”
“You’re working all the time, either in class or in your studio. Now this car project.”
“You could work as well, on your poetry.”
She expected him to rage out of the room, but instead, he sighed. “I’m sorry. You’re absolutely right. I have no right to stop you from exploring whatever you want. I’m taking out my own writer’s block on you. It’s just that you’re so prolific. Whatever you do turns to gold. As for me, I’m a champion at dinner parties. No different from my father.”
She’d never admit it out loud, but his words contained a kernel of truth. Clara wasn’t a struggling teacher anymore, was finally making her own way, but every so often, she got the impression that Oliver didn’t approve of her independence. His happiness at her early successes had soured with the more recent ones. He’d seen his mother’s independence stifled by his father, and sometimes Clara worried he was falling into a familiar pattern. If only his work would sell. “How about you try a different form? A short story, perhaps?”
“Don’t you worry about me. I’ve got all kinds of things up my sleeve. We’ll hear good news soon; I’m sure of it.”
She certainly hoped so.
They kissed, and she wrapped herself tightly around Oliver, her head on his shoulder, before falling fast asleep.
Clara could hardly wait to get home after her illustration class the next day, to see if Mr. Bianchi had left a message for her. If he accepted her offer, she’d get paid not only for the advertisements but also for the interior design of the car. She’d be able to add “industrial designer” to her title, charge a princely sum. Maybe even convince Mr. Lorette to let her teach the subject. Her head swam with the possibilities.
As she burst through the doors of Grand Central onto Forty-Second Street, she spied a familiar figure leaning against one of the lampposts, inhaling a cigarette.
She marched over. “How’s Grand Central’s most famous Armenian painter doing these days?”
He lifted her off the ground in an enormous hug. “My dear Clara, there you are!”
He set her down on the pavement with a thud, and she stumbled briefly before finding her footing. “Enough, Levon. Shake hands like a normal person, will you?”
“You’re a vision. We must walk together.”
She’d planned on taking a taxi, one of the perks of having a constant stream of income. Last year, she would have taken the subway to spare the expense, but now it was no longer a second thought. She considered asking Levon to join her in the cab, but it was a brilliant May day. A walk would do her good, and whatever Mr. Bianchi had to say could wait. Better to make him wait, probably. They turned onto Fifth Avenue.
Usually, maneuvering along Fifth Avenue this time of day was a matter of dodging tourists and pedestrians coming the other way, not to mention human cannonballs careening out of doorways with no regard for the regular flow of foot traffic. But walking with Levon was much like being one of Moses’s followers, she suspected. His mass, his posture, caused the river of humanity to flow around him. He moved in a straight line, which meant she did as well.
“How is your illustration class going this term?” he asked.
“Some are brilliant, others less so. But I had a very productive meeting with the head of Studebaker cars yesterday.”
She recapped the meeting, keeping her excitement in check, in case Mr. Bianchi didn’t follow through.
He grinned down at her. “Fantastic, my girl. I hope you don’t forget me when you’re the toast of the town.”
But something in him was off. Levon’s strides were hurried, as if he wanted to get away from her. She regretted reveling in her enthusiasm, her success. A year ago, he’d been the hero of the school and had used his influence to help her. She shouldn’t crow. “Tell me, what are you working on these days?”