Coco Chanel & Igor Stravinsky (14 page)

Catherine retreats inside. Igor remains on the balcony. He looks up at the starlit sky, listens to the hiss of insects, inhales the odor of the night flowers. The word still haunts him: romantic, he thinks.

 

 

 

Sunday. With the Stravinskys at church, Coco noses around Igor's study.

She enters the room with reverence as well as a remote sense of dread. Looking about sharply, she half expects him to storm in and reproach her for violating his space. She leaves the door ajar, wanting if necessary a means of escape. Each step she experiences as a transgression. There is an intimacy in the act. Something worshipful, yet something predatory, too.

She heads straight for Igor's desk, and touches the ink bottles, india rubbers, pens, and rulers—things rendered precious by the fact of their being his. She opens his glasses' case, which snaps shut abruptly, causing her to start. Lifting his magnifying glass over the table, she sees objects oddly warped and swollen under the lens. The knit of things seems for an instant to be revealed—the weave of manuscript paper, a watermark. A tuning fork thickens under its Cyclopean eye.

With a final thrill of trespass, she moves to the piano. She removes the tiny trefoil key from its place within the stool, turning it once in the lock until it clicks. With both hands, she lifts the lid. It is heavier than she thought, as if a resistant force is telling her she shouldn't be doing this.

She pulls the back of one hand softly across the keys. Too soft to make a sound, but hard enough to feel the tiny hairs on her fingers bristle with a delicate rippling pressure. They feel strange to the touch and not what she'd expected. The white keys seem bony and brittle, while the black keys are harder and more compact. Then she allows her index finger independently to press one of the higher notes. The sound makes a star in the surrounding silence.

Her heart jumps as she hears a rustle. Recoiling a little, she turns around to see Vassily padding in. The cat stares at her through the narrow slots of his green eyes. Igor's familiar. Stealthily he lengthens his body. She feels guilty again before rationalizing the moment: Igor won't be back for another couple of hours.

Once more she presses the key, bolder this time. She presses the note again and again until the room rings with its prolonged vibration. Then, touching it more softly, she listens to the dissolving tone. The sensation she gains is not just auditory, it is tactile. In decaying, the echo sends a spasm the whole length of her spine.

She is struck once more by the thought that she misses him. Each day without him now seems a day damned. And anyway, she considers, why should she compromise? What if this is a chance to experience genuine love? Not the wanton romping of her youth, but something more substantial, more profound. Can she really afford to pass up such opportunities in her late thirties? She's free to do as she pleases. She has the money to finance her desires, and the power to enact them. Catherine has had her chance. Why should she feel sorry for her? She's led such a privileged existence until now. It's up to Igor to choose who he wants to be with. He's not interested in being a martyr, she's convinced. She just hopes she hasn't frightened him off.

Looking out of the window, she feels the world around her widen. Leaves, their heart-shaped shadows, flicker flatly against the wall.

She sets down the lid of the piano and locks it. Then, running an eye over the table, she checks that everything is as she found it and that nothing has been disturbed. She leaves as silently as she came. Behind her, the sunlight shoots through half-open shutters, touching all the objects and making them warm.

 

 

 

Upon their return from church, Igor and Catherine relax in the garden in two reclining chairs. The children play football on the lawn. Their shouts carry a long way. At the far end of the garden, thinking they can't be heard, the two boys begin swearing following a hard tackle. Igor shouts for them to watch their tongues.

His chair is turned away slightly from that of his wife. Since returning from church, they have not exchanged a word. He is busy scribbling some notes.

She says, “You only ever tell them off. You never play with them.” The whiteness of her skin looks incongruous next to her husband's swarthier body.

“I don't see you playing with them either,” he retorts, after a pause. Although he has the genuine intention of patching things up with his wife, he nevertheless finds himself tetchy in her presence.

“I would if I were feeling better.”

“Well, I'm determined not to waste my time.” He continues writing, more urgently this time.

“Theo has been miserable recently.”

“Really?”

“You don't care.”

Slowly and deliberately, with a pencil in his mouth: “Yes. I care.”

“I think he might have heard us arguing.”

“No. He heard
you
shouting.”

She ignores him. “It's hard for them. They've moved a lot.”

“It'd be a lot harder back in Russia.”

“I'm not so sure.”

Derisively: “You don't think?”

“
You're
the only one who seems happy in the villa.”

“That's not true. Ludmilla loves it here, and Soulima's having a nice time. In fact, there's no reason for any of them to be unhappy.”

“Well, I can think of a few.”

Exasperated: “Catherine—can't you see I'm busy?”

It's no good, it isn't working with Catherine, he decides. He wants Coco and feels miserable without her. And yet it is torture living so close the whole time and not being able to touch. It places an intolerable strain of temptation upon him. He must do something. It isn't right. He admits to himself that he's in love with her but doesn't know what to do. He burns with the need for a different life.

Flight.

It's as if Catherine senses this. “Why bother to spend time with us? Why don't you just go to her? That's what you want, isn't it?”

Igor says nothing, just bites his lip and carries on scribbling.

“You never talk to me anymore. Even Joseph pays me more attention than you do.”

It is true; at this moment he resents being with her and has nothing to say. He feels ashamed but is unable to deny it. Part of the problem, he realizes, is that he feels powerless, living here on another woman's charity and subject to her whims. He needs to impose control over someone—and who is more convenient than his wife? Of course on one level he knows this is pathetic. Yet, try as he might, he finds he cannot help himself.

The boys hurry back toward them. “Come on, Papa, come on, Mama!”

Having come to an impasse in his composition anyway, and hurt into activity by Catherine's slight, Igor responds immediately. In a vindictive show of energy, he slides his papers into his wallet, lays down his pencil, and sprints after the ball.

Rising from her chair, Catherine feels her lungs labor with the effort. She senses the air in her chest begin sluggishly to churn. While the fresh air is good for her, she knows the emotional upset she's experiencing is potentially calamitous for her health.

The sermon today, she recalls, was all about tolerance and forgiveness; how we shouldn't allow our grievances to get in the way of giving our love. Ordinarily she'd be quick to forgive him. But she feels hurt and angry still. He's made no effort, really, to reconcile with her, apart from his grand gesture on the balcony last night. It was clear all he wanted was sex—to force himself upon her—while what she craves with increasing desperation is tenderness, affection, and, above all, respect. She's not willing to surrender just like that. That would be too easy.

She watches him now as he runs around the garden. It is as if he is possessed, she thinks. Finally he kicks the ball so hard against the outhouse that all the parrots squawk.

Coco arranges a game of tennis with the Serts. A club in a neighboring village boasts several well-maintained grass courts. Igor enjoys playing, and Coco is keen to see Misia again. So, in the heat of the afternoon, the two couples—for so they seem—are driven out by Coco's chauffeur.

Coming to a narrow bridge over a stream, the driver brakes sharply. A car has drawn up simultaneously on the other side. As both approach roads are on an incline, neither is aware of the other's presence until both are practically on the bridge itself. The two vehicles come to a stop. The driver of the other car makes it plain he has no intention of reversing; so Coco's chauffeur starts to back up. But she screams at him not to budge. Both cars are thus stuck on the creaking wooden slats of the bridge for about ten minutes. Igor remonstrates, but she refuses to back down. She grows adamant, instructing the driver to switch off the engine and sit back until the other man yields—which, eventually, in high dudgeon, he does. Driving on, Coco offers a magisterial wave to the driver of the other car as they pass. He is red-faced with indignation, she white with self-righteousness.

“Stupid man!” she blurts.

Looking out, Igor sees the telegraph poles stretch into the distance like bars and bars of rest.

 

 

 

“She's a woman who likes to get her own way,” José says, as he and Igor emerge from the changing room half an hour later.

Tanned and glowingly healthy, both men look dapper in their whites. Igor bends to measure the height of the net as José practices a few overhead serves. Coco and Misia still linger inside.

“Catherine, of course, is still sick,” Coco says. “She's had Marie up and down the stairs all day.”

“Oh, dear.”

“And the kids just create havoc around the place.”

“Does Igor say anything?”

She laughs. “I'm not sure he even notices. He spends all his time at the piano.”

“Ah, yes.”

“He says he has a new symphony on the go.”

“Exciting.”

Sincere for the moment: “Yes. It is.”

“I liked his
Scherzo Fantastique.”

“What was that about?”

“Bees, I think,” Misia says, tying her laces. Dressed, she picks up her racquet and bangs the strings against the heel of her hand. The air around the racquet rings. Small white squares are printed on her palm. “If I remember the scenario correctly, the queen kills off the male once he's outlived his sexual usefulness.”

Coco laughs. “If only . . .” She copies the gesture of rapping the racquet smartly against her hand.

Outdoors, Igor, a little skinny next to the plumper José, swings his arms gawkily in preparation for the game. Mixed doubles. He is to partner with Misia, while José is paired with Coco across the net.

The women come out wearing white cotton dresses and broad cream hats. They both look swanky in contrast to the men.

After knocking up for a couple of minutes, the match begins in earnest. José is sluggish around the court and rarely comes to the net. But when he connects, his shots are strong. He has an impressive forehand, which fizzes if he hits it right. Igor is quicker and nimbler around the court; his anticipation is good, and while he may lack José's power, he enjoys a surer touch.

Coco, he notices, holds the racquet oddly, and sometimes it is all she can do to volley his serves back over the net. Yet she manages a few deft dabs and perky volleys, and her timing is generally sweet. He's more lenient in his returns to her than he is with José. And twice when, with fat backhands, she hits the ball long, he knowingly calls them in. Seeing this, Misia—to his consternation—winks at him. He pretends not to notice. But she's wrong if she thinks him a pushover. Ever competitive, he's out to win. And as the match proceeds, he scampers after every point until something swells within him and seems ready to burst. He begins to hit the ball harder and harder as if he wants to punish it.

The weather is hot and he sweats profusely. The handle on his racquet grows humid. His grip begins to slip. Released into a life of higher energy, he chases everything, exerting himself beyond measure. The others seem ponderous by contrast. As the match goes on, he ruthlessly exploits José's slowness. A series of exquisite dink shots played into space are perfectly calculated to leave him for dead.

“What's the matter with him?” asks José. “Does he always play like this?”

Then with the score at one set all, and in the middle of a tense final set, he reaches for one of José's whippy, unanswerable, chalk-flirting serves. The ball hits Igor's racquet with a melancholy twang. In the following overheated exchange of shots, Igor feels the “give” of the racquet along with its tautness soften. His shots lose their crispness. The song goes out of them. An inspection of the racquet head reveals a broken string, which crimps miserably as he pulls it out. He raises the frame to show his opponents.

The match is abandoned and declared a draw.

 

 

 

“Well, what do you think?” Coco asks. Exhausted, she slumps down in the changing room next to Misia.

Misia idly straightens the strings on her racquet. “He makes a good tennis partner, that's for sure.”

“Come on,” Coco urges.

“He certainly puts his all into it.”

“He never gives up on a point, does he?”

“He likes to chase the things he wants.”

Coco looks across at her. “And what's that supposed to mean?”

Misia's waist may have thickened over the years but she still possesses the aura and frank energy of the sexually voracious. “Nothing,” she responds in a singsong voice. “But none of us is getting any younger, dear. You've got to chase what you want, too.”