The Tailor

The following story appears in Corrine Hoex’s Gentlemen Callers, translated from the French by Caitlin O’Neil. The thirty-three stories in this collection explore one woman’s erotic fantasies in spare prose that is as sensuous as it is startling. Gentlemen Callers is out this month from Dalkey Archive Press.

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Let us rend, shred all these vain ornaments [. . .]

—Jean Racine, Esther

Tonight, I find myself in a tailor’s fitting room, facing the triptych mirror whose self-reflections multiply my image and send it infinitely back to me.
I’m clothed in a full-skirted gown of amaranth taffeta with a sumptuous décolletage, a nervous taffeta, whispering, that shivers excitedly against my throat with each palpitation of my breath. My hands are gloved in black leather, a buttery leather, soft, that intimately hugs my slender fingers. My levantine silk heels sink into the thick fur of the rug.
I stand tall, immobile, my head held high. I’m waiting for the tailor. My heart pounds.
Then he’s there. Out of nowhere, he appears. Around his neck, his measuring tape. On his arm, his pincushion. In his hand, his steel shears.
“You’ll see, Madame,” he announces to me, impatient, impassioned—his scissors sparkle under the chandelier—“You’ll see, my dear Madame, you’ll be amazed. The ensemble is a marvel.”
I contemplate myself, perplexed. Am I not already dressed, luxuriously so? Could anything in the world exist as becoming, as desirable as the gown I’m already wearing? What could the most adept tailor do for me when I’m enrobed in this red taffeta?
Then the tailor unravels.
“Let’s begin!” he decides, launching himself at me. And, with a decisive slice of his icy shears, with a voracious rasp, he violently rips my bodice, slits the taffeta of my dress from top to bottom, lacerates the scarlet silk like a bloodied pelt.
My reflections in the mirrors brace themselves against this rapacious onslaught. But the tailor is already attacking my slip, ripping off my undergarments, slicing my corset, peeling, stripping away my lingerie to the very last ribbon.
I’m naked in the glass. Dressed only in my black gloves. The tailor smiles over my shoulder.
“There we are, Madame. Your new finery. I daresay I’ve created a masterpiece.”
I’m speechless, my feet lost among the shreds of my gown.
“Don’t move!” the tailor orders. “I still have to ensure everything’s perfect.”
Pressing close to me, armed with his pins, diligent, meticulous, the tailor pricks here, pricks there, my hip, my neck, the tip of my breast. Blood beads. My skin crackles. I jump.
“Don’t move, Madame! Don’t interrupt me!” the tailor barks.
Continuing his work, absorbed in his creation, the tailor, with studied concentration, reviews his measurements, verifies the alignment of my throat, the soft curve of my thighs. With the tip of his chalk pencil, he marks the base of my neck and my collar bones, accentuates my bust, traces the slope of my lower back. With each stroke, I feel the cold, slippery pressure of the chalk. My stomach flutters. My skin trembles. I stave off even the smallest shiver.
Finally the tailor steps away, considers my reflection.
“It’s perfect, don’t you think, my dear Madame? The cut is remarkable. There’s nothing to take in. Maybe a final touch if you’ll allow me . . .”
And, with a nimble, searching hand, the tailor quickly tousles my pubic hair.
“How do you feel about this little dishevelment, Madame? I suggest just a light touch, very gamine. Would you prefer it thicker? Teased, perhaps? More exuberant? Just say the word, Madame. It’s my job.”
While the tailor musses and smooths, snarls and unsnarls, tangles and untangles, pushing his enviable skill to achieve the carefully slapdash look so admired in today’s fashion, the mirrors, a hundred times, a thousand times, the mirrors caress me.

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