The Art of Disappearing Ivy Pochoda (electronic book reader .TXT) 📖

as a loud grunt followed the sound of exhaled cigar smoke. “We’ve got a big job on the Strip. Not going to be an easy one,” the director of Fabrication bellowed. He ran his business with no appreciation for the textiles. Quality and pattern were a distant second to volume and cost. “For this job, I need you to demand they go for the expensive stuff, and lots of it. They invented gaudy and glitz out there, and you’re going to sell it back to them.”

That’s how I found myself in the office of the assistant manager of the Winter Palace, a “golden age of Russia” casino scheduled to open the next month. The backers figured that the cold war had faded enough for people to celebrate caviar, vodka, and a Russian version of Riverdance. The casino had taken more than five years to build, and the drawn-out construction and reconstruction of the Winter Palace had ruined its textiles. The plush red, gold, and black fabrics were scuffed by construction boots and stained from the overflowing fountains. In addition, the Winter Palace’s managers had offered a three-day preview to Vegas bigwigs for whom every hotel room is a canvas for destruction.

“We are a classy casino. The new classy,” Sandra, the assistant manager, explained, underlining her point by flicking one of the brass buttons on her white linen blazer. Sandra, who was about forty, had been born and raised under the Las Vegas sun. Her cleavage, tanned to a burnt umber and amply displayed even for a female interviewee, had the worn-in look of old suede. She piled her dark brown hair high on her head with a handful of gold hairpins and probably a substantial investment in mousse. Her makeup—coral lips and turquoise eyeshadow—was old school. “Our restaurants, shops, lounges, and suites provide a sanctuary from the ding-ding of the slots and the hustle-bustle of the tables. Remember, we are Russia. Not the now Russia, but the high-style Russia of Catherine the Great. Designer suits and hairstyles. Vodka and cigars. Russian Vogue. Think boudoir classy.” She tweaked another brass button and sifted through the promotional literature.

The Winter Palace was shaping up as classy in a “new-money Mafia” way—quilted chintz, miles of brocade, plastic moldings, sconces, gold and glass furniture, and dozens of columns in the shape of matryoshka dolls. The exterior of the casino, with its onion domes and garish paint, looked more like Disney World than St. Petersburg. The ceiling had been painted with an artistic approximation of what a Russian sky might look like. The effect was dismal, thanks to the painter’s overly zealous inclusion of clouds.

“I know what you mean,” I assured Sandra. I had tuned out most of her speech, entranced by the way the rich red-and-gold hyacinth motif on the carpet seemed to reduplicate within itself. I wasn’t sure that the hyacinth was native to Russia, but the richness of the flower did convey the old-fashioned luxury that the designers of the Winter Palace were after.

“Mel Snow,” she said, reading from my résumé, “that’s an interesting name. Of course, we don’t get snow around here. Couldn’t imagine being named after something cold. But you all do things differently in the East.”

I nodded.

“Coldest I’ve ever been is when they accidentally turned off the heat in my condo’s pool in December.”

I twisted in my chair, bouncing on the fresh springs and tight upholstery. “I’m still trying to get used to the ins and outs of the desert.”

“The ins and outs,” Sandra repeated with a laugh. “Honey, the only way to get out is to get air-conditioning. Otherwise, it’s just you and the sun, which is, of course, how we like it. But be careful of the sand. I know it looks pretty tame, but sometimes the wind kicks it up so badly, you can’t go out. And then you can forget sitting by the pool.” Sandra cleared her throat and resumed looking through the papers on her desk. “Well, you’ll see about all of that soon enough. But as I was saying, classy. We’re not looking for a make over, a make-under, or anything like that. It took us five years to come up with the appropriate patterns for this place. And we’re not going to change them much, that’s for sure. But what we need right now is a consultant. This place is a fabric maze—”

“Textile.”

“Excuse me?”

“I’ll be working with textiles, not just fabrics. Vinyls and linoleums.”

“I don’t know from linen,” she said, straightening her blazer. “That’s your business. All I know is that I can see construction boot marks leading through the Grande Salle and some sort of black residue that keeps appearing on the petals of the silk flowers. But if you say textiles, then I’ll say textiles. A textile maze. We need someone to manage that side of things until we open and also during our first weeks. Judge how the wear and tear are going to affect our fabr—I mean textiles. Let’s walk,” Sandra said, standing up and clicking her long fingernails together.

I’ve done this sort of work before in restaurants and small hotels. The owners want to you be a fortune-teller, to predict when and where things will be spilled, how many people can sit on a velour couch before it starts to retain their imprint. They want to know when the shine will start to fade from their stain-resistant napkins. You’ve got to keep them happy, show them how to use the napkins in better rotation, soak them before throwing them in the wash, avoid the harsher industrial detergents. Tell them to brush the carpets every night, especially those in the entrance, rotating the fibers so that they won’t get worn and matted. But I’d never tackled an enterprise the size of the Winter Palace. Sandra was right: It was a textile maze, a textile labyrinth. Instead of the fresco style favored by many of the other casinos, the Winter Palace’s designers had covered the walls with a silk-screened mural