Coco Chanel & Igor Stravinsky (5 page)

Two maids bring in the food. Glistening hams, salads, salvers of caviar, Black Sea oysters, mushrooms, and sword-fish are unveiled. Igor cracks his fingers, stretching them as though about to launch into a demanding piano solo.

Candlelight fills the tables. Conversations are struck up. The talk is of music, opera, ballet, and the day-to-day gossip concerning the arts. Diaghilev reminds the company how Igor was arrested recently for urinating against a wall.

“Well, it
was
Naples!” Igor says, in his defense.

Diaghilev adds, “And what about the time you were arrested on the Italian border during the war?”

Coco asks, “You were arrested again?”

“The man's a common criminal!”

“Really, Serge, your guests will form a very dim opinion of me.”

But he tells the story. While searching his luggage, the guards had found a strange drawing. Igor claimed it was a portrait by Picasso, but the guards refused to believe it. All those squiggly lines—they'd never seen anything like it before. Instead they concluded the sketch must be a secret military blueprint or a coded invasion plan.

“You're obviously very dangerous,” Coco says.

“They let me go eventually, and the portrait was sent on later.” He takes a long swallow of wine.

“It must be worth a lot now,” she says.

Igor purses his lips and makes a so-so gesture with his hand. All this, he knows, is a prelude to the real reason Diaghilev has assembled his guests tonight: his wish to revive
The Rite
again early next year—eight years after its initial
succès de scandale
. The plan is revealed between courses. Diaghilev expresses a hope that the ballet might enjoy a longer run this time. But there is a desperate lack of funding, he says, and the prospects do not look good. They need sponsors badly, he goes on. There seems something urgent now about the evening and his hospitality.

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 marvelous 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.

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.