A very short story.

“Ach!” the usher snapped, “This seat is for Monsieur Chapon.”

Three-quarters of the way down the runway, stage right, the seat is eventually occupied by a man of average height in a light weight, single-breasted grey flannel suit. His identity is common knowledge.

A taller man in black, believed to be Chapon’s opposite number in the Italian trade, sits in precisely the same seat stage left. The insouciant drape of his suit briefly floats an image of Marcello Mastrioanni through the mind of a woman two rows over who suddenly felt profoundly relieved. Of what she wasn’t sure.

Everyone claims to know about them. Chapon is from a great family of tailors and has all of the major designers under his influence or Ottuso is from the family of tailors and Chapon is the one who worked his way up from the streets to become a magician turning fabric into fairy tale with a charcoal sketch.  Ottuso has a bold imagination and Chapon appreciates the unexpected, or perhaps it is the other way around.

The two men never speak unless between themselves and that but rarely. A barely perceptible nod from one or a shake of the head from the other has made or broken many a promising new designer. 

The house lights dim. A spotlight reveals a young woman standing at the top of the runway in a simple, exceptionally well-cut black dress which, though understated, flatters her in a modest way. Both men twist their heads ever so slightly. The room is immediately skeptical of the design.

Three tasteful pieces follow, each inventive in color, drape or line. They delight the audience but there is no response from either man.

Then a young woman parts the curtain and steps out. Her head is swathed in a mottled gossamer moss fabric, yards of it.  The tubular white canvas shift which encircles her body is attached at random intervals to the headdress by 1-inch knotted cords of twined jute.

Monsieur Chapon nods firmly once. Signore Ottuso smiles slightly in agreement. They stand to leave, though the show has only begun. 

For an instant the space is galvanized. Everywhere, eyes across the room lock in a weave more electric than any ever seen on the runway. The meaning is clear.

Once they were outside, Chapon said to his old friend, “They’ve done it again.”

“Indeed, they have and you owe me un espresso,” Ottuso replied.

“Oh, and you deserve it. I truly did not think to see a sailing ship, and under a massive storm cloud at that!”

 “They are,” his friend said, laughing, “addicted to humiliation.” 

Chapon opens the door of a small Italian grocery for his friend. He orders two cups of espresso. They stand together at the deli counter to wait.

“A single nod is the gift that keeps on giving.”

 “Each year is more absurd than the last!”

“Yet so amusing,” Chapon said.

“I predict a polar bear on an ice floe next season,” Ottuso laughed.

“And I,” Chapon tugged at his tiny beard and said, “an ice cream on a stick!”

Ottuso raised his cup, “He who hits closest to the mark . . .”

Chapon clinked his own cup with that of his friend and they both declared, “buys next!”