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heat far more than a woman who is not pregnant. And you don’t want to wear anything that cuts into your circulation or binds and draws.”
    Mr. Blumgarten nodded after every sentence Señor Bovio spoke, as if he were providing the periods.
    “I have fabrics that contain Lycra,” Mr. Blumgarten said, smiling as proudly as a parent bragging about his children. “So they stretch and move with your body.”
    “Exactly,” Señor Bovio added. “And he has very bright and attractive colors. I want you to look like a flower about to bloom and not like some faded rose. There must always be an air of health and vigor about you. It’s something our baby will sense.”
    He paused to smile at Mr. Blumgarten, who instantly smiled himself, although I could see he had no idea why he should.
    “I remember vividly how my wife felt when she was pregnant with Adan,” Señor Bovio continued, as if to justify his comments. “She went through a terrible period of depression, worrying that she looked ugly, deformed. There were weeks, months, even in the very beginning, when she wouldn’t step out of the house, terrified some paparazzi might snap photos of her and sell them to a magazine. If I didn’t start every day telling her how beautiful she still was, she would go into a sulk.
    “And, as I said, don’t think these emotional and mental downturns have no effect on the baby you’re carrying. It’s another form of stress, and stress is unhealthy for you and for our baby. Just as people are healthier in a house full of happiness, a baby is surely healthier in the womb of a happy woman.”
    I thought Mr. Blumgarten’s head would never stop bobbing.
    “I understand, and I am grateful for your concern, señor, ” I said.
    “ Sí. Good. Mr. Blumgarten,” he said, turning to the tailor, “we need clothing immediately.”
    “I’ll get right on it today, Mr. Bovio. By the end of the day tomorrow, she will have her first outfit.”
    “Outfits,” Señor Bovio corrected.
    “Absolutely. Without delay,” Mr. Blumgarten said.
    Señor Bovio stepped back, and Mr. Blumgarten opened his briefcase and spread the fabric samples out, smiling at me to invite me to come choose what I liked. I glanced at Señor Bovio, who nodded and smiled as well.
    “Just feel this material,” Mr. Blumgarten said. I did, and I had to admit it was all so soft.
    “Don’t make her skirts too short,” Señor Bovio ordered, and left us.
    Mr. Blumgarten showed me some styles and then took measurements. When he grazed my breasts with his knuckles, he immediately blushed and apologized.
    “Well, now, I…that is,” he said, stammering, “I don’t think you’re going to show too much until your sixth or seventh month, but we’ll allow for it, especially…” He nodded at my bosom. “Of course, Mr. Bovio wants me back to redo or add to your wardrobe every three weeks.”
    “Every three weeks!”
    “Changes come quickly,” he said, although I sensed that even he thought that was extravagant.
    I shook my head, imagining the expense.
    Afterward, every style and garment he suggested looked fine to me. I really wasn’t all that worried about being in style. I was no movie star. He was happy I made his work so easy for him, so he could hurry out to go to his shop. He said he would return before dinner the next day. When I told him there was no reason for such a rush, that the clothing I had available would be fine for a while, he looked at me as if I had gone absolutely mad.
    “It’s what Mr. Bovio wants. It’s his first grandchild,” he said, as if nothing could be more obvious.
    I smiled to myself as he fidgeted with his briefcase and reconfirmed all of his measurements, taking special care not to touch my breasts. He checked and double-checked what he had written. The way he fluttered about reminded me of the rabbit in Alice in Wonderland chanting, “I’m late. I’m late for a very important date…”
    For now, this was amusing, and I was grateful