The Silence of the Lambs - Thomas Harris [102]
The mannequins wore commercial work in progress, dramatic Armani knockoffs mostly, in fine black cabretta leather, all rollpleats and pointed shoulders and breastplates.
The third wall was taken up by a large worktable, two commercial sewing machines, two dressmaker's forms, and a tailor's form cast from the very torso of Jame Gumb.
Against the fourth wall, dominating this bright room, was a great black armoire in Chinese lacquer that rose almost to the eightfoot ceiling. It was old and the designs on it had faded; a few gold scales remained where a dragon was, his white eye still clear and star?ing, and here was the red tongue of another dragon whose body has faded away. The lacquer beneath them remained intact, though it was crackled.
The armoire, immense and deep, had nothing to do with commercial work. It contained on forms and hangers the Special Things, and its doors were closed.
The little dog lapped from her water bowl in the corner and lay down between the feet of a mannequin, her eyes on Mr. Gumb.
He had been working on a leather jacket. He needed to finish it--- he'd meant to get everything out of the way, but he was in a creative fever now and his own muslin fitting garment didn't satisfy him yet.
Mr. Gumb had progressed in tailoring far beyond what the California Department of Corrections had taught him in his youth, but this was a true challenge. Even working delicate cabretta leather does not prepare you for really fine work.
Here he had two muslin fitting garments, like white waistcoats, one his exact size and one he had made from measurements he took while Catherine Baker Martin was still unconscious. When he put the smaller one on his tailor's form, the problems were apparent. She was a big girl, and wonderfully proportioned, but she wasn't as big as Mr. Gumb, and not nearly so broad across the back.
His ideal was a seamless garment. This was not pos?sible. He was determined, though, that the bodice front be absolutely seamless and without blemish. This meant all figure corrections had to be made on the back. Very difficult. He'd already discarded one fitting muslin and started over. With judicious stretching, he could get by with two underarm darts--- not French darts, but vertical inset darts, apexes down. Two waist darts also in the back, just inside his kidneys. He was used to working with only a tiny seam allowance.
His considerations went beyond the visual aspects to the tactile; it was not inconceivable that an attractive person might be hugged.
Mr. Gumb sprinkled talc lightly on his hands and embraced the tailor's form of his body in a natural, comfortable hug.
“Give me a kiss,” he said playfully to the empty air where the head should be. “Not you, silly,” he told the little dog, when she raised her ears.
Gumb caressed the back of the form at the natural reach of his arms. Then he walked behind it to consider the powder marks. Nobody wanted to feel a seam. In an embrace, though, the hands lap over the center of the back. Also, he reasoned, we are accustomed to the centerline of a spine. It is not as jarring as an asymme?try in our bodies. Shoulder seams were definitely out, then. A center dart at the top was the answer, apex a little above the center of the shoulder blades. He could use the same seam to anchor the stout yoke built into the lining to provide support. Lycra panels beneath plackets on both sides--- he must remember to get the Lycra--- and a Velcro closure beneath the placket on the right. He thought about those marvelous Charles James gowns where the seams were staggered to lie perfectly flat.
The dart in back would be covered by his hair, or rather the hair he would have soon.
Mr. Gumb slipped the muslin off the dressmaker's form and started to work.
The sewing machine was old and finely made, an ornate foottreadle machine that had been converted to electricity perhaps forty years ago. On the arm of the machine was painted in goldleaf scroll “I Never Tire, I Serve.”