The shop is down a small street. In Western script, by the door, is a nameplate. Susanna’s. There’s a glass window, where there’s a wooden figure, wearing a beautiful dark green dress…
I enter the shop, and it’s done up in a foreign style, all yellow and white. A blonde-haired woman pops her hair out. She says something I can’t understand.
“I speak English,” I offer. A girl at the first shop, the one who saw fit to insult me, told me about this place. It’s popular with foreign women and not Japanese locals, but she said to give it a try.
The woman looks at me. “I speak some English,” she steps out into the main area of the salon. She has a wide face and blue eyes – Western coloring still takes a minute to get used to, and she’s probably near my age, but it’s hard to tell with them… She wears a lovely navy blue dress, and I notice some straight pens stuck through her sleeve. She nudges me into the center of the room, and walks around me, considering.
“What do you need?”
“A ballgown. It was requested that the ladies wear Western clothing.” I say, a little nervous.
“I see,” she says. Then she smiles, suddenly, and bows slightly, “Susanna Weber, of Vienna. I can do something for you. But first – into the back!”
She directs me into a small room, draped in soft grey cloth. “Off! Off with it all! With these kimonos I cannot see the shape of a woman – and that includes that binder you’re wearing – and yes, I can tell from the way you move.” I just stare at her for a minute, and she makes an impatient noise. “Off! Jetzt!”
I comply, but she turns to leave, but first hands me a robe. “I do not wish to see your -body-, just your -shape-. There is a difference.”
Ready for her, she brings me into a smaller salon, in the back, and I stand on a small platform. “I…. I had a baby just a few weeks ago,” I say, almost in apology for my shape.
She shrugs. “So? It’s a fact of a woman’s life. Clothing in the West is all about structure; and to get structure you need support, and I can support any figure. Japanese clothes you can wrap cloths here and there, and you’re fine. For this, though, you need a corset.” She looks at me. “You heard bad stories of those?”
I shake my head. “I used to have a Western dress, oh… seven years ago. It was a day dress, with sleeves and a high neck, so I’ve worn that before.”
“You will not like ball gown. It’s not modest enough for a Japanese woman,” she said, matter-of-fact. Then she grins a little. “But your husband will?”
“I don’t think he’ll like me.. displayed,” I say, waving my hand across the area between my neck and to where the swell of my bust begins. “But I’m not too short, am I?”
She smiles then, it’s a nice smile, and there’s something youthful in it, like a girl fresh from the countryside. “Women come in all shapes, from all over the world. There are short women and tall women aplenty in Vienna. But when I dress a woman, she will look as she should.” Her smile shifts into a more sympathetic expression. “You must have gone to Jacquetta’s – she thinks that there’s enough demand that she can insult her customers.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Weber,” I say, thankful for her kindness.
She waves her hand. “Frau Susanna. Should be ‘fraulein’, as I’m unmarried, but at my age I’ve become ‘frau’ irregardless.” Her face becomes unreadable.
She goes to a series of drawers. “You will need… ” she hands me a white, lightweight garment. “This is new – it’s called a combination, as it has the top and bottom all in one piece. Corset goes over. Now, go, go and put that on.” I return to the small grey room and come back, and take off the robe. It’s a pretty thing, trimmed in lace…
Frau Susanna looks me over, and starts going through a drawer, talking to herself in her own language. Then she pulls out a rolled-up item, I can see a shiny pink fabric. “Satin. Best for ball gown as it won’t catch the fabric when you move.” She unrolls it. “We fit it once, but then you don’t need to re-lace every time – it’s mean to be fastened up the front – just tighten as needed.” She laces the back, and I’m surprised… it’s not comfortable, but it’s not uncomfortable – just -new-.
She steps back and nods. “Not fat. Just soft. You just had a baby!” I look at myself in the mirror, and see there’s a waist there, set off by the curves of my hips and bust. I smile a little. From a drawer she pulls out some padded pieces. “Here, pin these inside the combination – you’re nursing, yes? This will help.” I turn away and do as she says – it would be terrible to leak onto any of these beautiful clothes…
“So are you looking to buy dress, or rent? And where is this ball?”
“I don’t have enough places to wear a ballgown,” I tell her. “And it’s at the Royal Imperial Theater. This Friday,” I say. Is that enough time?
“The police ball,” she says, knowingly. “That place has gas lighting, not electric, so the light is yellower, so we dress around that – you need to catch the light, but the wrong color will make you look washed out.” She nods to a small chair, off to the side. “Wait, I’ll go look.”
It’s several minutes before she returns, setting up a number of dresses on a rack. “I have some dresses that are unworn – the German consul in Okasa was recalled suddenly, and his wife didn’t take the wardrobe she ordered.” She looks thoughtfully at me. “You can rent and I still will make it fit you well – but you have to buy the undergarments, yes?” I nod. That seems reasonable. I wouldn’t want to wear that sort of thing used… “but not the petticoats beyond the first one, nor the bustle cage.”
The process to try on the dresses takes a while, and Frau Susanna is critical of her work. “Too much, overwhelming to you,” she says, of a dress with a series of large cream-colored roses along the neckline, which trails down the bodice all the way to the hem. She also dismisses one dress as too dark, and another as too bright.
We’re down to the last few…and when it’s on it’s obvious – it’s perfect. Frau Susanna smiles. “I will take in the hem, some, but the neckline isn’t too low and there’s a bit of a sleeve. Do you like it?” She hands me a pair of gloves, which I put on.
I look at myself in the mirror. “Yes,” I smile. I resist the urge to twirl. For the first time in a while… I feel beautiful. Not just through his eyes, but to my own critical, judgmental ones.
Although I’m looking forward to his reaction.