Coco Chanel & Igor Stravinsky

by Chris Greenhalgh

  Coco notices Igor grow suddenly despondent. Discussion of The Rite provides an overture to his woes. He’s thinking back with a shudder to that riotous first night. Some critics have since declared his music emptily avant-garde. As a victim of Bolshevism, he has a horror of being called revolutionary, even in the arts. The epithet leaves a bitter taste in his mouth. Others, meanwhile, already consider his music reactionary and bourgeois. He can’t win. No one seems willing to back a revival. Worse, his wife is ill, his children growing up in exile, and his mother languishing in Russia having been refused a visa. Moreover, the Communists have confiscated his property, and all his savings have been seized.

  Watching him and knowing something of his predicament from Misia, Coco realizes his dandyism is an act. It masks a deep sense of insecurity and a profound sense of loss. Loss of state and selfhood. The man is clinging on, she thinks.

  It is Coco who proposes the toast. Extending her glass with casual vehemence to Igor, she says, “To The Rite!”

  Solemnly they all raise their glasses: “The Rite.”

  For a second, Coco dominates the space around her. The glasses, chinked, vibrate like the drawn-out note of a tuning fork, slow in dying and returning infinitely to the same true ringing note.

  There’s a moment’s silence after they drink. Then Igor becomes conscious of voices recombining around him, conversations rushing in to fill the void. He puts a few stripped fish bones onto a separate plate.

  “I was there, you know,” Coco says.

  “Where?”

  Almost whispering, “In the audience, the first night of The Rite.” Suddenly the candle between them seems the only light there is.

  She recalls that explosive night in the theater seven years before, and the savage rhythms that made her feel as if her insides were being pulled out. It’s hard to believe she’s sitting here now with the man responsible for all that.

  “Really? That’s extraordinary.” Igor winces. A wave of self-loathing sweeps over him. Another witness to his shame.

  “I remember it vividly.”

  Bitterly, “Me, too.”

  Overhearing, Diaghilev adds, “Come on, it was the best thing that could have happened.”

  “It didn’t seem so at the time.”

  Coco says, “We both survived, at least.”

  “Yes.”

  There’s more than a touch of the gamine about this woman, Igor decides. The insolence with which she shoots oysters into her mouth. He’s reminded of the heroines in Charlie Chaplin’s films. She has that southern temperament, loquacious and fiery. And there’s a residual coarseness about her, too, that a late effort of breeding has softened into something fine and vital. Her mouth is wide and expressive. Her skin sparkles, vibrantly alive.

  He can’t keep his eyes off her, and she knows it. Yet he barely registers what she says. It’s partly that he’s drunk too much. But there’s something else besides. They are both aware that something subtle and wonderful is going on. There’s a warping of the air between them, a distortion of the usual boundaries that outline figures and make them distinct. They share a rare attentiveness, a depth of connection, a complementary reaching out. It lasts only a few seconds, but both are sensitive to a strange pull within them. At its simplest, it’s a longing to be happy, and in the sympathetic tilt of their heads they each seek an answering happiness.

  “To The Rite,” Coco says again, this time only to Igor. She feels the champagne ripple deliciously like a melted icicle down her throat.

  She does not address him again directly throughout the rest of the meal. Or even afterward as they relax at the table with cigarettes. She does not need to. For every incidental remark, every gesture she makes, each gleam of her eyes is meant for him alone. Her whole being dances silently in front of him in a language beyond words.

  Looking at her shining hair, her dark eyes and vivid lips, Igor feels something rise from within as if to swallow him. The pearls around her neck glimmer milkily. And there’s a wickedness in her that twists her whole face sideways when she smiles.

  He feels a heat in being near her. A taste of something burned enters his mouth.

  “The clay was warm the day God made her,” Igor says.

  Alone with Diaghilev after dinner, he experiences that familiar sense of light-headedness he gets whenever he is drunk or inspired. The image of Coco smolders in his memory. Its heat generates the softness of a mold, merging with the warmth of alcohol in his stomach.

  Diaghilev pours two brandies and draws two fat cigars from a tin. He hands one of each to Igor. “She may not be from the best stock, but she’s rich, Igor. Rich,” he confides with a smile. “Can’t you just smell the money?” He runs his nose luxuriously along one side of his cigar.

  “What do you mean, not from the best stock?” Choosing to stand, Igor twists his brandy in slow circles below his waist.

  “Well, she was born illegitimate—though she’ll never admit it. Her father was an itinerant peddler . . .”

  “I’m sure I heard her say he owned horses. I presumed he ran a stable.”

  “And she went to an orphanage run by nuns after her mother’s death—though the word ‘orphanage’ never passes her lips . . .”

  “Goodness.”

  “Rumor has it”—Diaghilev’s voice lowers as he goes on—“she even pays off her brothers to pretend they don’t exist.”

  “No.” Igor feels the brandy burn a hole in his solar plexus.

  With a shrug: “She’s a seamstress. She likes to embroider.”

  “That’s incredible.”

  Cigar in hand, Diaghilev strokes with a bent forefinger the furrow below his nose. “I suppose she’s needed to be ruthless to succeed.”

  “I still don’t understand how she became so wealthy, though.”

  “She had men who kept her for a while, I think—most of them, I believe, in the Tenth Light Cavalry! Then she started making her own hats and clothes, gathering a few clients. Eventually she opened a small shop. And when the war came along, all the male designers were drafted into the army and most of them were killed.”

  “So she was able to mop up?”

  “Exactly.”

  Cigar smoke issues in a cloud from Igor’s mouth. “She was lucky, then.”

  “She’s talented. She works hard, too. And now she has clients like the Duchess of York and the Princesse de Polignac and employs upwards of three hundred staff in Paris, Biarritz, Deauville . . .” Rubbing the thumb and index finger of his right hand together, Diaghilev continues, “She’s loaded, with no one to spend it on. And she’s desperate to be accepted.” He looks for Igor to complete the logic of his thoughts.

  “You think she’d finance the revival?”

  Satisfied, Diaghilev relaxes. He sits back and draws deeply on his cigar. “She might. She just might.” He removes a bit of tobacco from his lip. “She can certainly afford it. The whole of society is clamoring for her clothes.”

  “So I gather.”

  “Half of her staff these days are émigrés. You might know some of them.”

  Suddenly wary, Igor says, “I’m not willing to humiliate myself.”

  “My dear boy, nobody’s asking you to.” Diaghilev gives him a trusting look.

  Reassured: “She’s a remarkable woman.”

  “Indeed she is.”

  “And she’s not married, you say?”

  “She’s a modern woman in every respect.”

  “I’m not sure I approve.”

  “Oh?”

  “I’m not even sure I know what it means.”

  “It means she’s rich and single, for a start.”

  “What are you suggesting?”

  Diaghilev holds his hands up. “Nothing, old boy. I swear it.”

  With a decisive movement they both finish their drinks and stab the last of their cigars into an ashtray.

  “Another brandy?”

  Igor shakes his head. “I must go,” he says, straightening. “Thanks for a marvel
ous evening.”

  “Well, let’s hope it’s not been wasted.”

  As he pulls on his coat and scarf, Igor adds, serious for a moment, “As always, I appreciate your help.”

  Diaghilev nods and says, “Give my love to Catherine and the children.”

  “I will.”

  “And I’ll let you know if there’s any news.”

  “Yes, do.” Embracing, they pat each other warmly on the back.

  After closing the door, Diaghilev sighs and shakes his head, then pours himself another drink.

  Outside it has stopped raining. The streets are damp from the departed shower. Igor pulls his collar up close around his neck. The fresh air seems to revive him. He feels as if he could walk for miles. Tapping his umbrella on the pavement, he walks back smartly toward his hotel. The sound echoes on the cobbled streets, beating time.

  Half an hour later, Igor slips into bed next to his wife. In the humidity of sleep, Catherine’s body smells faintly rank. Her face has taken on wrinkles from the pillow. Squiggles of hair are plastered to her brow. She’s in the throes of another night sweat. And he knows, if touched, she would feel hot. But he does not touch her; nor does he wish to particularly. His body is still vibrating with the charge from Coco’s hand.

  Lying there, he feels as if he could stay awake forever. His eyes remain open, staring upward. The heat of the brandy still lingers on his tongue. Around him the temperature seems to have risen.

  Something deep within him sways.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  For a few days following the meal, Coco is unable to banish the thought of Igor from her mind. She makes inquiries and discovers the parlous state of his finances. Then, on an impulse, she rings and asks to meet him. There is something important she wants to discuss, she says, but not over the telephone. They arrange to meet at the city’s zoo.

  Struck in an obscure way by their encounter the other evening, Igor is keen to see her again. He remembers the odd response of his molecules to her touch. Arriving punctually at ten o’clock, he clutches behind his back a bunch of yellow jonquils. In order to meet her, he has sacrificed a morning’s work—something, ordinarily, he is extremely reluctant to do. But here he is at the entrance to the zoo. Coco is late and his frustration is mounting.

  Restless, he displaces bits of gravel with his foot, then tamps them down again. He’s not sure what to expect from this meeting. If she wants to offer the ballet financial support, why doesn’t she just approach Diaghilev directly? It would be proper to go through him. What is it she has to speak to him so urgently about anyway? He’s flattered, of course, but hopes he doesn’t have to humble himself. Yes, he’d welcome patronage, though not at any price. He’ll make it clear to her that he can’t be bought. Sober, he’ll show her he’s not so easily won.

  She arrives more than half an hour after the time arranged and offers no apology. He has prepared an admonitory speech, and is ready to deliver it, but his anger evaporates the moment he spies her gliding toward him. They smile to see each other from a distance. The chief emotion he feels now is relief. She greets him, holding out a white-gloved hand. He kisses her solicitously on both cheeks.

  The other night, he gained the impression that she was much younger than him. But he knows from Diaghilev that they are roughly the same age. She’s maybe a year or two younger. Thirty-six? Thirty-seven? He recognizes, though, why he was tricked into thinking this. Her figure retains the tautness of a woman still in her midtwenties. Her arms are slender, her bosom high, and she steps with a girlish l ightness.

  Igor conjures the jonquils from behind his back. “For you.” He sees how tight her skin is around the temples, how tense and muscular are the little dents that appear at the corners of her mouth when she smiles.

  As she looks down, her chin borrows a yellowish tint from the petals. She holds them in front of her with one hand like a torch. “Thank you, they’re lovely.” Then, chastened, she says, “I am sorry I’m late.” A few grains of pollen adhere to her white gloves.

  As if to make amends, she insists on paying the entrance fee. They visit first the aquarium. Inside, a bluish gloom plays about the walls and their faces. The flowers turn green in the light.

  Bending low in front of the tanks, they see the fishes’ hearts beating visibly through their bodies. A silence ensues as they watch them and their own reflections in the glass.

  Then straightening, and with the air of someone coming to the point, she says, “You know what I thought the other night, at dinner?”

  “No, what?” Igor straightens, too.

  “I thought, why isn’t he talking to me?”

  “Really? I thought I did.”

  “You didn’t speak to me after the first half hour.”

  Defensive. “You could have spoken to me.”

  “True, but I chose to wait and hear what you said first.”

  “And?”

  “I’m still waiting.”

  Igor is rarely scared of women, other than his mother, but he is beginning to be afraid of Coco. His mouth goes dry; he feels tongue-tied and clumsy. A tightness enters the base of his throat.

  As they move outdoors, Coco sees that he’s perplexed. Her joke has misfired. She knows she’s spoken out of turn, and now she’s worried that he’ll think her disrespectful. She watches as he walks on, hands behind his back. But she needn’t worry—he doesn’t feel slighted: outmaneuvered, rather.

  Before them, two lions describe tight circles as they pace around their cage. The bars are reproduced in shadow on the floor. Igor seizes his opportunity. Perhaps inspired by a sympathetic impulse, he begins bitterly to complain about his straitened circumstances and the cramped conditions in which he works.

  He grumbles about the lack of privacy he has to endure, with him, his wife, and their four children all squeezed into a small apartment in Brittany—miles away from Paris. They are in the capital now only for a short time to rehearse his new ballet, Pulcinella. He feels frustrated and finds it difficult to concentrate. His creativity is being stifled. All he wants is more space to compose, and to be at the center of things. And yet the rents are so expensive.

  “Everything costs so much more here,” he complains.

  “Do you have to be in Paris?”

  “Everyone is here. Satie, Ravel, Poulenc.” He seeks to flatter her by association. “It’s where the twentieth century is.”

  “Well, you might just be in luck.”

  “What do you mean?” He wonders guiltily if he’s exaggerated his plight.

  “Would it bother you if I were to help financially?”

  “It would have years ago.”

  “And now?”

  “It bothers me even more.”

  The remark hits her at the right angle, making her smile.

  They walk on and begin circling an ornamental lake where two besotted swans float in state across the water.

  “Business has been going well recently, and my accountant has advised me to invest in some property. I’ve just completed the purchase of a villa in Garches. It’s quiet, in the suburbs, with a large garden. Not a palace exactly, but it’s not bad. I intend to spend a couple of months there in the summer—but otherwise it’ll be empty most of the year. I was thinking . . .” She comes to a halt and turns to look at him. “You might like to take advantage and move in.”

  Fingering his necktie irresolutely: “I couldn’t possibly . . .”

  “If you move in by the beginning of June we could spend a few weeks there together. You’d get to know the place, enjoy a bit of a holiday, and have the space you need to work. Then for the rest of the year it would be yours.” One of the swans elongates its neck luxuriously. Beads of water drip from its beak.

  He looks at her to see if she means it. “That’s a fabulous offer, and very tempting. I don’t know that I could leave my family, though . . .”

  Startled: “My dear, of course not. The villa is very big. They could move in, too. I don’t suggest for a moment that you l
eave them behind.”

  Embarrassed that he has misunderstood the nature of the offer, Igor is quick to laugh it off. “It’s very kind of you, but you don’t realize what you’re letting yourself in for. You haven’t met the children yet. They’re terribly noisy.”

  “At their age, they should be noisy. Besides, I won’t be there much for them to disturb me. Apart from July and August, I usually stay in rue Cambon above the shop. It’s up to you, but you’re—all of you—welcome.”

  Igor is stunned. He doesn’t know what to say. Of course it is a stupendous offer, and he’d be a fool to refuse. But he feels humiliated at having to rely on charity such as this. He sees the swans poised between the promise of the bank and the security of the island. Then he remembers what Diaghilev said. She’s fabulously rich. Financially this is nothing to her. If she’s doing it for the kudos, well, so what? It doesn’t alter his integrity as an artist. She won’t own him. It’ll merely provide him with the wherewithal he needs to pursue his work. Besides, he’s intrigued by her. He feels a sense of challenge rise within his chest. She needn’t insist. He thanks her.

  “It’s decided, then. You’ll come and stay.” And again: “All of you.” Her eyes are birdily alert. “Provided, of course, your wife agrees.”

  Rightly or wrongly, he sees this as a jibe. “She’ll be delighted, I’m sure.” In fact, it will be marvelous for her, he thinks, to live in comfort and feel secure. And there’s a garden, too. That will be fantastic for the children.

  She goes on, “How long have you been married, to . . .” After a false hesitation: “. . . Catherine, isn’t it?”

  A strand of hair, briefly iridescent, blows across her cheek and makes her blink. Coolly she lifts it off with her fingers.