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Ilil Arbel: Madame Koska and the Imperial Brooch

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Ilil Arbel Madame Koska and the Imperial Brooch

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Meet Madame Koska—a fabulous haute couture designer and the owner of a new atelier in 1920s London who has a knack at solving crimes that baffle the police. When a priceless brooch disappears from a museum in Russia, Madame Koska is suddenly drawn into the mystery. But who is Madame Koska? And what does the missing jewel have to do with her?

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“Annushka, dorogaya,” exclaimed Madame Koska, hugging the lady and speaking with a deep, velvety voice. “Vill yu see the lovely vork these good men did? Ve are almost ready to start!”

The younger painter’s mouth opened. He looked at Madame Koska as if she started foaming at the mouth and speaking in tongues. “Vat is this, young man?” she said sternly.

Too bashful to talk to her directly, and perhaps a bit scared, he turned and spoke to the older man. “The lady has two voices,” he said timidly. The one referred to as Annushka burst out laughing. “I keep telling you, Vera, you must remember to stick to the right speech…”

“Vat is he talking about, I do not know,” said Madame Koska complacently. “This class of people, I vill never understand them… not at all like the serfs we had in St. Petersburg… Come, Annushka, ve go and have some tea and talk about the reception.”

Seated comfortably at the little tea room around the corner with a spread of tiny sandwiches and petit fours to accompany their tea, the ladies were drinking, eating, and taking notes at the same time.

“Yes, it is exactly right,” said Madame Koska. “You really are a caterer in a million, Annushka.”

“Thank you, Vera. I am glad you like my suggestions. This is going to be a grand party,” said Annushka, or rather, Countess Anna Petrovna Golitsyn, a scion of one of the noblest families of old Russia. She was, unfortunately, booted out of her elegant mansion and expensive lifestyle after the Revolution into what she liked to call ignominious exile.

“I will never understand how easily you managed to get used to the working life,” said Madame Koska. “You were born with not just a silver spoon, but a platinum one in your mouth, and here you are, working for a living and making a success of it.”

“Every one of us had only two choices after we escaped,” said Madame Golitsyn. “I could have starved in a tiny Paris apartment like so many of the other exiles, maintaining the dignity of my royal blood and waiting for the Tsar’s resurrection. You know my older brother, Vasily, is still driving a taxi? And his daughter Natalya is selling needlework? I keep sending them money, poor things. Yes, I could starve with dignity, dreaming about past glories, or I could acknowledge, albeit with great sorrow, that the royal family is not going to return, learn to adjust to the new life and be comfortable and successful. I chose the latter and never looked back. And cooking was always one of my favourite pastimes, even when we had all the money and servants and the huge pantries and kitchens… I used to cook quite often, for amusement. Once I realized that having a business was an option, I knew I was not locked in a gilded cage. It gave me such a sense of freedom.”

“But you could have stayed in Paris, at least be surrounded by your people.”

“Not really. They accepted the need to work, and forgave those who struggled as waiters, piece-work seamstress, dance masters, or singers… but a successful business woman was another matter. They would have never forgiven me that. Besides, so many great cooks and caterers live and work in Paris, the competition was daunting. So once I completed the culinary course and got my certificate, London seemed ideal. Not enough French cooking for all those who wanted it, so I was assured of success.”

“Indeed. And now, with my new business, if all goes well I’ll be able to send many great ladies your way, and you can send yours to me.”

“Paris brought luck to both of us, Vera.”

“Except for the pig I married,” said Madame Koska without any show of anger. She sipped her tea.

Le cochon,” corrected Madame Golitsyn automatically.

“Yes, sorry,” said Madame Koska. “Le cochon.”

“If you prefer, you can use the Russian word for pig, sveenya.”

“I like that, but I think most people would recognize the French term more easily,” said Madame Koska. “Still, once in a while, sveenya does sound, well, piggish… nice word.”

“Ah, well… le cochon is gone now, and the dressmaking skill you learned in Paris did you much good.”

“This is true. If I had not married le cochon, I would know nothing of haute couture. He was very good at it.”

“Do you have an idea where he is now?”

“No, I have not heard from him since he left, after the terrible scandal at the atelier. He was probably killed in the War, or maybe emigrated somewhere… what does it matter?”

“If you ever decide to marry again it would help to know if you need a death certificate or a divorce…” said Madame Golitsyn.

Madame Koska burst out laughing. “Marry again? Whatever for? Would you?”

Baw zhe moi, no, no, no! I am making a good living. What do I need a husband for? And anyway, just look at me, who would be interested in a short, fat, middle-aged woman? You look like a noble Russian more than I do, Verachka.”

“I think you are lovely, Annushka, just the way you are, and plenty of men would agree. But yes, my good looks helped when I was young… and now it would help in the haute couture business. Yes, it’s the business world for us, Annushka, and I am enjoying every minute of it. We leave the romance to the girls.”

Madame Koska turned and snapped her fingers. “Vaiter!” she said imperiously when the man came to the table, “Ve need some more tea, please.”

“And some more cakes, perhaps?” said the waiter, surveying the table with an expert eye.

“Yes, vy not. Thank you!” She turned to her friend. “I engaged two mannequins already, Annushka,” she said. “Very beautiful, very well trained.”

“How many more do you need?” asked Madame Golitsyn.

“Only one more, three are quite enough for the beginning. After all, they are only needed at the show rooms; we are not ready to create a full line fashion show quite yet.”

“What about seamstresses?”

“I have five. Eventually I imagine we will need two or three more, but for the moment, they will be sufficient. I am toying with the idea of also hiring a vendeuse. I would need one as time goes by, but I might wait a bit. They don’t come cheap if they are any good.”

“You might handle the business side yourself for a while, I suppose,” said Madame Golitsyn. “As for the seamstresses, do you have a good beading and embroidery person?”

“Two are rather good, why?”

“Would they know how to do really fabulous pearl and gem embroidery, Russian style?” asked Madame Golitsyn. “You know, with the couching, and the gold thread.”

“I would say the gems, yes. But pearl embroidery, that is really a Russian expertise,” said Madame Koska. “No, I doubt they could do that. Do you think there will be a demand?”

“Oh yes,” said Madame Golitsyn. “Once the ladies see a short black velvet jacket, done in pearl embroidery with the gold thread, and worn over a softly golden silk dress, you will have them breaking down your doors.”

“It will be a good thing to create such a unique expertise…” said Madame Koska thoughtfully. “They will attribute it to my Russian origins, which will cement the image. But where can I get one? I have never seen it done in London.”

“How about my niece, Natalya, then? She is a true expert. She is selling needlework in Paris, as I told you, but she is no business woman and everyone cheats her. Working for you, for a salary, would be nice for her and Vasily; he is getting older and how long can he drive a taxi? Her work is exquisite, Vera. You could not do any better.”

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