The Suit

Jósef Brzezinski is a hard worker. Everyone says so. The other seamsters, the sales staff, the man that cleans in the evening, even Marcel, the owner. But no one ever said he was a master, which he is.

Back when every man of any worth owned a tailored suit, he could build one without a pattern, help a gentleman select a flattering material and style, and fit the garment in such a way as to show the man at his best today, and tomorrow when his waist had grown a few centimeters.

But today, his work is less meticulous, less artistic. Since he emigrated to New York in 1992, he has altered wedding gowns to measurements, never seeing the women. Instead of holding court in the shop’s front as he did in Poland, he’s sentenced to the workroom in the back, not to be seen by the clientèle. Indeed, Marcel asks him to come and go by the alley door, which is the ultimate insult to Jósef.

Each day for the last eight years, he comes to the shop at the 7th Avenue boutique and finds his day’s work hanging on a rack under plastic, marked and pinned for alterations. On the occasion when his alterations don’t fit quite right, he might be called to one of the studios to mark or pin. In these cases, his work is never at fault, he reminds Marcel. He simply delivers the dress as fitted by the sales staff.

And today is one of these days. The summer heat has settled on the city and the air is thick in the workroom. Jósef leans over the cutting table and wipes his forehead with his handkerchief. He adjusts one of the pins in a bodice seam. This one will need to be stitched by hand. The elaborate beadwork could never endure his machine.

“Jósef, come, come.” Carol, the boutique mistress, calls to him and Jósef hesitates as he is wont to do. Even though he enjoys the front of the boutique and interacting with the beautiful young brides-to-be, he resents being summoned like a dog.

In Poland, during the Third Republic, he was more than a seamster; he was tailor to the party. From the Secretary on down, he made and fitted their business and dress attire. And affiliation with the party had benefits, like protection for him and his wife, a fine flat in a fine building, and enough złoty to buy Katya fine things, not things she needed, things she wanted.

His shop on Mokotowska Street teemed with gentlemen wanting a suit from the tailor of the party. He had more clients than he could satisfy. So much so that he began raising prices, and then again and again, until only the wealthy were his clientèle. This sometimes concerned Jósef, but not enough for him to lower prices.

✧ ✧ ✧

Jósef stands and slides on the tweed blazer that hangs from the back of his chair. He hurries through the narrow door, into the hallway and to the left to enter the fitting studio. But the mirrored room is empty. There is no young bride-to-be with her entourage in tow. The platform is bare, as are the racks. Jósef turns back to the hall and sees Carol standing in the doorway.

“No, Jósef. In the front, in the front!”

How would he know to come to the front? The front was the reception area, reserved for waiting clients. He follows Carol down the hall.

“Ah, Jósef! Come here to meet Sandra.” Marcel Giroux was in his third decade as owner of La Plus Élégante.

At one glance, Jósef sees Sandra is not a bride. She is not young, and her clothes betray a lower station in life than would frequent La Plus.

“Sandra’s mistress is looking for an experienced tailor to do some fine custom work.” Turning to the woman, “Mr. Brzezinski has been tailoring for over 50 years. He worked on your mistress’s gown and I know she was over the moon with the outcome.”

And then back to Jósef, “Sandra works for Brigitte Charon.”

Jósef remembers the gown, a Chapdelaine masterpiece. But more, he remembers Marcel’s obsession with meeting each whim of the bride, and thus, he supervised every stitch Jósef made. Only afterward, Jósef came to know from Carol the relationship between the Girouxs and the Charons went back to France before the war. They were among a handful of wealthy families who were able to flee Paris for New York before the Nazi occupation.

“Ms. Charon needs the help of a tailor for some work in her home,” Sandra says.

Marcel says, “This would not be work for La Plus, so you would be contracted apart from the boutique.”

Jósef straightens his worn tweed, embarrassed at its age.

“Can you come tomorrow morning?” Sandra asks.

✧ ✧ ✧

Jósef stands in the foyer of the upper west side apartment. The brick and limestone building is a massive edifice facing the park, likely dating from the 1930s, built at the acme of the deco period. The doorman was expecting him, so he didn’t need to explain his business. This was a relief, for he understood little about the work. Ms. Charon might have some drapery or decorative fabric she wants cut and finished. Jósef would not touch such work in Warsaw, but his life has changed, and for Marcel, he will do it.

From the entry, he can see the apartment spans the entire floor of the building. The decor, while not to Jósef’s liking, is discrete and contemporary. There are no blinds on the windows and no draperies. He feels an incongruity of style, the sashed windows against the clean lines of the living room. They need to be covered.

Sandra is back.

“Ms. Charon is in the sunroom and can see you now.” She leads him through the living room to the doorway beyond. Once in the sunroom, he understands the apartment occupies two floors for the vaulted ceiling reaches twenty feet above the parquet floor. The room is in the building’s corner, affording it windows on two walls. The view of the city stuns even Jósef.

“Ah, Mr. Brzezinski. Thanks so much for coming.” Brigitte Charon sits at the end of one of the long sofas in the room, her legs pulled up underneath her. She sets her newspaper aside.

“Of course. La Plus is here to help. Whatever you need.”

“This work isn’t for La Plus. I think Sandra mentioned that. Please, sit.”

Jósef sits in the armchair opposite the sofa with his back to the windows. Sandra sits in another chair next to the sofa.

“Sandra’s brother. He needs a suit. I understand you were a tailor in Poland before you emigrated?” Charon continues.

“Yes. But that was long ago.”

“But you can make a suit?”

“I don’t make suits anymore. I only work on wedding dresses.”

“But you can make a suit?” she repeats.

“Yes, of course. But there are many fine tailors in New York.”

“M. Giroux told us of your work in Poland making suits for government leaders, and I sense you are a private man who understands the need for discretion.”

Jósef clenches the arms of his upholstered chair. Memories are powerful.

“Ms. Charon, with respect, I like my work at the boutique, and do not miss the politics and intrigue of my life in Poland. So, tell me, why the need for secrecy?”

“Not secrecy. Discretion. Sandra?”

She looks to Sandra, whom Jósef has quite forgotten.

“My brother. He needs a suit,” Sandra says.

Jósef shifts in his chair.

“He’s dying,” she adds.

“So I am to make a death suit?” he asks, the words sounding more insensitive than he intended.

“He’s never had a suit.”

This doesn’t surprise Jósef. Although he’s sure the Charons pay Sandra well, he suspects she comes from little means.

“It is expensive to craft a custom suit.”

Ms. Charon says, “I will pay you well, Mr. Brzezinski. But, we understand this is a favor and appeal to your sense of goodwill.” Her voice is compelling.

“I will make the suit.” Jósef regrets his words. The two women smile.

“I’ll take you to his apartment,” says Sandra. “But this will be unlike any suit you’ve made.”

✧ ✧ ✧

Their afternoon journey takes them to a distressed neighborhood in Central Harlem. The high-rise structure they enter reflects the best thinking in public housing design in the 1960s, but now forty years later, it lacks any element of beauty. While clean and well maintained, Jósef feels a sadness just looking at it. And when he and Sandra enter, the heavy scent of molded wallboard adds to the melancholy of the place.

After a quick elevator ride to the third floor, the two walk down a narrow corridor lit by only one bulb. The linoleum block floor looks original. As they pass one closed door after another, Jósef hears first salsa, then something of a Bollywood flare, then a news program of some sort. The damp smells of the lobby merge with the scents of curry and chili to make a pungent effect. The oppressive heat reminds him the building was constructed before the age of air conditioning.

They stop in front of one door. Silence at this one. Sandra removes a key from her purse and slides it into the deadbolt. She pushes the door wide and sunlight from the southern windows blinds Jósef for a moment. He steps into the small apartment and notices a stark change, the smell of disinfectant, sterile gauze, and urine.

To the left of the room, a hospital bed is pushed against the bright windows, affording the occupant a view of the street below. The sun lights the white sheets and heats the thick air moved by a small window fan.

“This is my brother, Paulo,” Sandra says.

But Jósef cannot tell if he is a man or boy, so malformed is he. Paulo’s hands seem connected directly to his shoulders, the arms being small and underdeveloped. And his legs, covered by the thin bedsheet, are shriveled and twisted; Paulo has never walked. He is about the size of a middle school child, but his face is that of someone older, perhaps 25 or 30.

And it is the face that transfixes Jósef. The face is pulled to one side as though made of wax that has melted. Paulo gazes back at him through bright brown eyes that communicate intense scrutiny but also sadness.

“Hello, Mr. Brzezinski. My sister has told me about you.” Despite a subtle lisp, his voice is precise. He expels a dull but deep cough. Sandra repositions the nasal canula.

“Mr. Brzezinski will measure you for the suit.”

Jósef finds himself without words and quite flummoxed.

“How would you like to begin?” she asks, waiting.

“Uh, today we will look at fabric samples and take measurements.” Jósef looks away from Paulo’s gaze for the first time. He sets his leather bag on a side table and removes some fabric swatches.

“I will leave you two to your men’s business. Paulo’s health aide will arrive in about 30 minutes. So you have until then. I’ll be tidying things about.” She moves into what Jósef sees is the kitchen.

“Don’t be afraid, Mr. Brzezinski. I won’t bite. Come sit on the bed.”

Jósef sits with his swatches.

“I have several here in a variety of pallettes. Do you prefer blues or more earth tones?”

“I trust your judgment.” Paulo coughs again.

Jósef pauses for a moment then moves a swatch next to Paulo’s face, comparing the color with his eyes, a deep chestnut color.

“I’m thinking a light tweed wool plaid with a full-lapelled waistcoat.”

“Yes, I should trust you.”

Jósef smiles. He sets down the fabric and places a measuring tape and notebook in his lap.

“I will bring a larger sample next time. How shall we manage the measurements?”

“I am not shy, Mr. Brzezinski. I have been pushed and prodded and probed my whole life. I fear only you will feel any embarrassment.”

With that, Paulo pulls the cotton sheet down with his feet, revealing his body. Naked for the heat, Jósef is struck by the smooth perfection of Paulo’s skin, at odds with his disfigured limbs and face. It is as though some artisan sought to cover his design errors with a perfect varnish. Rather than being repulsed, Jósef is calm and sure as he takes measurements, the waist first, then the neck.

“I’ll need to make many measurements, more than usual.”

“Of course. We want perfect dignity. You can do that, Mr. Brzezinski?”

“The suit will be wonderful but it will not give you dignity. That is something you have. Nothing more is needed.”

✧ ✧ ✧

He and Sandra leave together once the aide arrives, since Paulo will need to be bathed and receive his respiratory treatments. Outside the building, Jósef pauses on the sidewalk. When Sandra notices he is not following her, she turns.

“Is something wrong?” she asks.

“I feel I have been deceived into a very unusual task.”

“Would you have accepted, knowing my brother’s challenges?”

“No. I am not a man of charity,” Jósef says, his voice rising.

“You’ll be paid.”

“Payment is not enough. This is not about—”

“Then you don’t have to make the suit.”

His heart is conflicted. Indeed, he now relishes the anonymity of his work at La Plus. “I will make the suit.”

And so Sandra tells him how Paulo was born, how their mother fought to keep him out of hospitals and horrid residential facilities. Now at 26, with their mother passed, Paulo’s heart is failing, his lungs filling with a fluid that will soon suffocate him. A caregiver comes several times a day to do what can be done to make him comfortable.

“He should be in a hospital,” Jósef says, his voice softening.

“He won’t. He’s done with all that. And there’s nothing they can do now.”

“Then he wants to die.”

✧ ✧ ✧

“Today I have brought a bolt of the fabric so you may see how majestic it is.”

“Show me.”

Jósef unrolls a few yards of the light wool fabric and drapes it across Paulo’s torso up to his neck.

“There is a mirror there.” Paulo motions with one of his twisted hands.

Jósef sees a small mirror leaning against the wall. He brings it over and holds it for Paulo to see.

“Tilt a little more toward me. Yes, yes.”

Jósef watches his face, which has lost expression. Jósef has second thoughts about the fabric, thinking it perhaps bold for such a delicate role. But then, slowly, Paulo smiles, smiles to where his gums show bright pink, smiles to make his cheeks scrunch into bright red sachets below his eyes.

“Yes?” Jósef asks.

“Yes.”

Jósef sets the mirror down next to the bed and rolls up the fabric. He removes some pre-cut facing panels and lays them on Paulo, marking and pinning them to shape.

“You want to die,” Jósef says.

“I’ve been a burden to many.”

“I am sorry for your sad life.” Jósef marks a seam with a piece of chalk.

“But I’ve not been sad. My life has been filled with beauty. Even today, I see the beauty of the street below, with people and children living their lives. There, there is a bus moving like a great manatee down a river of pavement.”

Jósef looks but only sees the belch of soot from the exhaust pipe.

“Surely, your life has beauty,” Paulo says.

“No… No, I don’t think so. Not anymore.”

✧ ✧ ✧

“What do you have today, Mr. Brzezinski?” Paulo’s voice is weaker, but his eyes are bright.

“Today, I have a rough waistcoat to fit.”

“Exciting.” Paulo smiles his broad smile.

“Yes, finally some pudding.”

“Pudding?” Paulo tips his head.

“As in, where the proof is. Isn’t that how you say it?”

Paulo laughs. “Tell me about when you last saw beauty.”

“With my Katya, my wife. We were picnicking at a park along the Vistula. It was spring, and purple and yellow flowers lined the paths.”

“I’m sure the park is still there, with its flowers. And Katya?”

Jósef has told no one about Katya.

“She was taken a few days after that, by the ZOMO. I never saw her again.”

Jósef told him how, after the war, the Stalinist gained control and ferreted out any opposition to the Third Republic. Jósef found a place for himself in the new system, one that put złoty in his pocket and afforded him a respected position. But Katya struggled. Night after night, she would complain to him about the new republic that stole the heart of their people. Jósef warned her not to talk about these things, but she found others to talk with who believed the same.

The ZOMO took her from their home, from their bed where they slept, in their Stalinist way. He inquired and asked of her, then protested, but he was told to stop asking. The party used such things as a test of loyalty. So, from that time, Jósef harbored his own hatred, and each suit he constructed was a bitter service to those who took his wife. He continued to look for her in his discrete way, but never learned of what happened to her. Only afterward did he hear of the thousands of political prisoners murdered during the Third Republic.

“So, you never made another suit?” Paulo asks.

“Not since the fall of the party in 1990. I could not.”

“But you’re making one for me.”

“It seems I am.”

✧ ✧ ✧

“Today we will fit the trousers!” Jósef’s voice is bright with excitement.

Paulo sighs. “I fear I have a tangle of limbs even I can’t sort out.”

“It’s just measuring, cutting and sewing. Nothing a tailor cannot overcome.”

Jósef pulls the sheet down to slide the garment on Paulo’s twisted legs. Once over the feet, Jósef works the fabric over the knees, but the process is like puting a straw back in its wrapper. Jósef is thankful the pants aren’t made of paper as he works the fabric back and forth up to Paulo’s waist. Paulo squirms and wiggles, trying to help Jósef. The two laugh at the effort.

“There,” Jósef says. He zips the fly.

“Mirror.”

Jósef holds it up.

“Hmm.”

“Yes. I agree,” Jósef says. “We will need a few more adjustments if you are to dance in these.”

Both men laugh again.

“There was a time when I could sit in a wheelchair and work the joystick, but now my body is too weak to sit like that.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Oh, don’t be sorry. I enjoyed moving about, but now I have different joys, like the street below.”

“You mean the busses?”

“No, I mean the manatees.”

Jósef smiles and nods his head.

“And if tomorrow I must be moved, I’ll make new friends and see the world from a new perspective.”

Jósef scratches his head.

“Do you believe in heaven, Mr. Brzezinski?”

Jósef looks at the floor for a moment, then looks again into Paulo’s sad eyes.

“I did.”

“But?”

“But the world is evil and where is God?”

“Of course it is, but it’s also good and beautiful at the same time.”

Jósef looks down at Paulo’s legs. He marks the trousers here and there with his chalk and places a few pins. Yes, it’s just measuring, cutting and sewing.

✧ ✧ ✧

Jósef’s apartment is small, and his cutting table fills the living room. In the corner is a mannequin he’s fashioned out of cardboard and facing in the rough shape of Paulo. On the table is the suit jacket, complete except for the lining. Jósef always saves the lining for last, the final act of artistry that only the wearer may view.

Jósef has chosen a white silk fabric, light and smooth, which will help in the dressing process. He has already lined the trousers and they stand pressed on a clothes valet next to the mannequin.

Now with the suit coat open on the table, he lays the silk into the coat and checks the fit. For all purposes, it is a coat within a coat, as important to the wearer as the exterior is to the viewer. He chooses his finest needle and begins attaching the lining. He knows not to rush or the stitches will be uneven, and though they are unseen, he will know, and that is enough.

Jósef saw Paulo for a final fitting a week ago. They spoke little as Jósef adjusted the fit of the coat. Then he touched Paulo’s face and said goodbye.

There. Now it is a suit. With the lining attached, Jósef takes the coat and slides it on the mannequin. Quite handsome. He has not lost his touch for detail.

He takes a large clothing box from next to the armchair and places it on the table. He lines the box with soft packing tissue they use at the boutique. First, he places a pair of custom underwear and a dress shirt he has made for Paulo in the box, then the coat, then the waistcoat and the trousers. He buttons first the waistcoat, then the coat around the trousers and adjusts the appearance. Nice.

Now, a tie. Jósef shopped for weeks for the perfect tie to match the fabric he selected. Handmade, pure silk. He lays the tie diagonally across the suit and smiles. Jósef has never liked ties to be colorful affairs that outshine the suit. Rather, they should work in harmony for a singular effect. And this one works.

Jósef stands back to look at the box. The total effect is one of beauty and he is pleased. He places the lid on the box and calls Sandra.

✧ ✧ ✧

Jósef chose not to attend the funeral. Sandra said it was beautiful and Paulo never looked so handsome. And that was enough for him.

It was only a few weeks after that Sandra came to the boutique looking for Jósef, and again they were to meet with Ms. Charon. Jósef chafed at being summoned again in this manner. It would be just as easy for her to send a check, but no doubt she wanted to make the presentation more personal.

Of course, they are seated in the sunroom, with Ms. Charon on the sofa and Sandra in the armchair to the right. A stunning cut flower arrangement sits on the coffee table between him and Charon. The yellows and purples catch the sun from the windows that overlook the city. The arrangement must be new, for he would have remembered such a magnificent sight from his first visit.

“Thank you for your work with Paulo. You gave him something beautiful, something he always wanted,” Charon says.

“He was a special man.”

Charon passes an envelope to Jósef, and he slides it into his coat.

“Thank you.”

“Now, let’s get down to business,” she says.

Jósef raises his eyebrows, thinking their business is over.

“I need you to make another suit.”

“But I don’t make suits anymore.” Jósef says, with a coyness that borders on humor.

“Yes, yes. I know. But there is another, like Paulo. And he needs a suit.”

Jósef looks to Sandra.

“I’ll take you to meet him,” she says.

And Jósef nods, thinking he perhaps can make one more suit.

✧ ✧ ✧