ME, CINDERELLA?(36)
Marta drove a sleek sports car, bright orange and convertible, but when I asked her what kind it was, she just shrugged.
“Lamborghini,” she said. “I don’t know what kind. I think it is too slow on curves. Otto gave it to me last month to try.”
We took off with a roar, and despite her misgivings, I thought the car sped nicely along the roads. I couldn’t imagine having a husband who would buy me flashy, expensive cars just to try out for size, but Marta took it all in stride.
“We shall have to go to the opera sometime when you are here. I adore the opera, don’t you?”
“I’ve never been,” I said.
“Oh, you will love it!” Marta went on, gushing about all of the things in Budapest that I would admire. I believed her, but our mission today was only to find clothes, and I was disappointed that we would have to shop instead of seeing all of the magnificent culture that Marta went on and on about. Marta’s face lit up, though, when we pulled up directly in front of a crowded street of shopgoers. She parked the car on the side of the street in front of a chic boutique and jumped out.
“Are we…uh…should we park here?” I asked. The curb was painted red, and nobody else had parked anywhere near.
“Government plates, darling,” Marta said. “Don’t worry, I’ve never gotten a ticket.”
I felt strange leaving the car parked in an obviously illegal spot, but Marta didn’t care so I tried to ignore it. I hated breaking rules, but I was just a guest here, after all. A cold guest. The chill pierced me as soon as I got out of the car, so I hurried inside the door of the shop behind Marta.
Marta strode into the boutique and immediately began picking out clothes. One of the shopgirls seemed to recognize her and trotted eagerly behind, letting Marta pile her arms up with pretty things. I walked around the edge of the store, looking carefully at the winter coats they had hanging up. The prices seemed outrageous, and I did some mental calculations in my head just to make sure I wasn’t going crazy with the currency conversion. Some of the coats cost four figures in American dollars! I didn’t even want to touch the fabric, for fear of damaging it.
Marta waved me over to the back, where the shopgirl had a mountain of clothes heaped over her arms. At first I thought they were meant for Marta, but she ushered me into a dressing room and hooked all of the hangers on the rod inside.
“I…I just need a coat,” I stammered to Marta. She had picked out dress after dress, blouses and skirts that seemed lovely but not at all meant for cold weather.
“First we need to dress you properly,” Marta said. “Then we can worry about coats to match.”
Her tone was so commanding that I couldn’t disobey. I began trying on clothes, one by one. After I came out to model the first dress that fit, Marta conversed with the shopgirl in Hungarian. The girl listened, nodded, and sped out the door as quick as could be. Marta asked the other girl to find me dresses in different sizes if they didn’t fit, and together they admired me in the mirror, pinching the fabric up one way or the other and chattering in Hungarian rapidly. I felt like a zoo exhibit. A pampered, classy zoo exhibit.
The first shopgirl came back with a bag that turned out to be filled with bras and panties. Marta laughed at my red face when the shopgirl brought out the underwear.
“Don’t worry, I will come with you to try these on privately,” Marta said. I thought her definition of private was a little off, but I tried to refuse and she just clucked at me. “To be beautiful outside, you must be beautiful inside,” she said. “And that includes underwear.”
I had to admit, once we found a bra that fit me comfortably, every dress I put on looked better. Marta gushed over some outfits and pooh-poohed others, without any rhyme or reason that I could tell. All of the clothes seemed beautiful and well-made. We tried on shoes, dresses, skirts, and every time Marta wanted something that the store did not have, the shopgirl ran out to the street and came back with it.
One dress in particular stuck out to me as lovely, a light violet satin that flowed over my curves, accentuating my hips. I thought it was a little low-cut, but when I came out with it on, Marta’s eyes shone in delight.
“You are beautiful,” she said. “Magnificent! Don’t you think so?”
The shopgirls nodded in brisk agreement as I turned in the mirror. I smiled as the delicate fabric swished around my ankles.
The pile of clothes Marta had approved was quickly rung up, folded, and placed into golden paper shopping bags. Marta insisted that I buy six sets of the underwear that had fit me, “in different colors, just in case,” as well as two beautiful wool coats in red and black. I began to protest the cost, but Marta pulled out a card from her small purse and charged it without a second thought. I thanked her profusely, but she waved it away with her hand.