Coco Chanel & Igor Stravinsky (17 page)

They betray themselves involuntarily. Their closeness broadcasts itself despite their best efforts. Their voices grow softer in one another's company, braiding into one. A kind of languor steals over them. They eat little. She shoots him dewy glances across the table. He responds with involved stares. Her knee rests heedlessly against his.

Sickened, Catherine is scarcely able to touch her food. She has no friends close by to consult or share concerns with. Lonely, she exists in a kind of bubble. When she's with them, she feels herself go completely numb—the way a body in shock closes down all but its essential functions. The only time she escapes is when she goes to church each Sunday.

With little independent means, she is totally reliant for the moment upon Coco for financial support. And here is Coco with her shops, her Rolls-Royce, her villa, and her servants. Catherine feels trapped, isolated, violated, and betrayed. The servants tiptoe around her as though around an unexploded bomb. The children sense instinctively that she's upset, that something is wrong, and yet she finds herself in the ludicrous position of having to reassure them that everything is fine.

Igor is slow to recognize the children's misgivings about their being there, even though Theodore in particular has been sulky of late. And as regards Catherine, he so convinces himself of his discretion that he feels she must be unaware. It's as if, blinded by desire, he really doesn't feel he's doing anything wrong. So that when she does confront him with her doubts, he laughs it off as her paranoia, telling her she's being silly and demanding that she stop being so possessive. Of course she
wants
to believe in his innocence. And so each time, despite her better judgment, she allows herself to be duped. But she never quite manages to banish her fears.

Questioned further, Igor becomes sullen and grudging of the time he spends with his wife. And Coco, though she remains civil, increasingly keeps her distance. Catherine is in agony. How can she accuse the woman, whose benevolence is seeing them live rent-free, of conducting an adulterous affair with her husband? Where would that leave her? What if, after all, it wasn't true? What if Igor was right: that in her feverish state, she was erecting an elaborate apparatus of deceit that in reality didn't exist?

Still, a kind of poison of suspicion insinuates its way around her veins. Watching the two of them enact their secret pantomime at dinner is an almost unendurable torture. Under the table she pinches the skin of her arms hard. The pain distracts her and in her mind assumes the glamorous shape of martyrdom.

Over the next few days, as the piano stops playing and silence swells around the house, Joseph gets on with his duties, Marie continues cleaning the house, and the children carry on with their games. The dogs, the cat, and the birds cease tilting their heads beyond the merest fraction.

For the rest of the household, the blank space becomes part of the fabric of the afternoon. But for Catherine, alone in her room, wrapped tightly inside the sheet of her bed, the silence burns into her consciousness. Listening tensely, she draws her knees up to her wheezing chest.

The medicine prescribed by the doctor sedates Catherine effectively. But it also induces in someone who rarely remembers her dreams a series of vivid and disturbing night-mares, of which this is the first.

She imagines Coco's apartment, which she has visited once, above the shop in the rue Cambon. In the dream, Coco sits at a table surrounded by the day's takings in cash that have just been carried up. There are heavy sackfuls of coins and broad wads of notes. It is dark outside. The shop is quiet and Coco is alone. She begins counting the money, stacking all the coins and pressing the notes into neat piles.

Unannounced, Igor walks up the stairs. It is unquestionably him, Catherine sees. Coco ceases counting. They both undress. Then Coco gathers up the bank notes. Together with Igor, she throws them jubilantly into the air, allowing them to fall and form a dense weave like autumn leaves. The apartment is soon carpeted with crisp bits of cash. Throughout, the dream is silent, but from the motion of their mouths, the two of them seem to be laughing.

After that, she pictures them lying naked and making love. They roll on the notes. The money sticks to their royally sweating bodies, flaking off like bits of grass. Their lovemaking continues until the print rubs off on the couple, until their glistening skins are stained with the color of Coco's money.

Catherine wakes up feeling dirty. She feels a deep need to wash herself clean of her dreams. As she rolls up her sleeves and scrubs her hands, the mingling of her fingers under the water seems to her, for an instant, obscene.

She and Igor have made love only once since arriving at Bel Respiro. And that was in the first couple of weeks of their stay. She didn't enjoy it. In fact, he hurt her. And now she feels grubby. Polluted.

Catherine can't fathom why he'd be interested in Coco. Yes, she's attractive. But she's also coarse, opinionated, and ill-bred. An upstart. An arriviste. She understands nothing of his music, and music is his life. Can he really be in love with her? Is it just lust? Or are his feelings woven of a need for patronage? No doubt, she considers, Coco sees him as a kind of trophy. She collects things. Perhaps he's just a symptom for her of a larger acquisitiveness. He's an object, something she must have. She'll soon grow bored of him in that case. He's this season's fashion. And hopefully he'll soon begin to see through her. But what if the relationship develops? Where will this leave Catherine? And the children, what about them? The questions generate sparks of anxiety in her mind.

She longs to return to Russia, to enjoy the simple dignity of being a wife in her own home. And associated with that distant country is her health, which, too, seems banished. The life she leads now seems utterly unreal. Her existence here, surely, is not a permanent condition? She has faith to sustain her. She prays. Everything will be all right. Normality will be restored. She will once more enjoy a firm grip on her life. Like a smashed glass leaping up from the floor, its fragments miraculously reassembled, the world will be made whole again. Things will knit together. They will heal. They must.

 

 

 

The doctor shakes down a glass thermometer and places it at an angle under Catherine's tongue. Her breathing has worsened recently.

Catherine complains that the medicine he prescribed has left her feeling very tired.

“That's deliberate. It's supposed to make you rest,” the doctor responds. The corners of his mouth curl up into a smile. Though meant to be ironic, his grin invites Catherine to laugh at herself.

“It's just that I feel so listless,” Catherine breaks out, slapping her hands on the covers in pathetic emphasis.

“But you need to slow your body down if you want to recover fully. You have to rest. It's the only way.” He writes out a new prescription and hands it to her.

“What's this?” she asks, trying to decipher the writing. Her voice has thickened with the thermometer under her tongue.

“It should improve your breathing . . .” He's uncertain whether or not to go on. “. . . though the drug does have a sedative effect.”

Exasperatedly. “You mean I'll feel even
more
drowsy?”

“I'm afraid that's true. Yes.”

Catherine is shocked into silence. The doctor consults his watch and removes the thermometer. Holding it up to the light, he looks intently through his pince-nez. The light makes his lenses opaque.

Igor asks, “Has she a temperature?”

“What do you care?” Catherine snaps. A wedge of bitterness informs her voice. Her lips seem suddenly bloodless.

Warily the doctor looks across at one and then the other. He consults the thermometer once more before lowering his arm. He wavers between talking to Catherine and talking to Igor about her. By way of a compromise, he addresses his remarks to the absent air between.

“Not dangerously high. But I'd still recommend bed rest.”

“
More
bed rest!” she hisses dismissively.

The doctor feels piqued by this exposure of his impotence. “It is Nature's way, and it is the best cure.” As he chides her, she looks down, smoothing a wrinkle from the coverlet. He goes on, “Of course, I could prescribe you more modern medicines.” And then, with odd emphasis: “Expensive medicines. But they'd achieve little more than the bed rest. Not to mention the side effects . . .”

“The expense would not bother my husband. Mademoiselle Chanel sees to the bills.”

“Catherine!” scolds Igor. His arms stiffen on the arms of his chair. He colors with indignation.

“Well, doesn't she?” She enjoys this rare moment of superiority. It is not often she sees her husband embarrassed. She's thrilled to discover she still has the power to wound him in this way.

“I'm sorry,” Igor offers the doctor. He is angry with Catherine and annoyed with himself for becoming so flustered.

The doctor is discomfited by this reference to his fees. Seeing this, Catherine feels a recklessness enter her temper. She becomes passionate in her anger. “Is she
paying
you to sedate me and keep me quiet? Is
that
what's happening?”

“You're becoming hysterical,” Igor says.

“I knew it. You're all in it together!” In her mind, the conspiracy widens frighteningly to include not only Coco and the doctor but also the servants—even the walls of this godless house.

“The doctor doesn't have to stand here and listen to your crazy accusations . . .”

“It's no use denying it. Something's going on. I'm not being told, but I can sense it. I'm not stupid, you know. Just because I'm sick, it doesn't mean I'm totally oblivious of everything that happens around here . . .”

Igor is shocked into utterance. “Catherine!”

“Don't shout at me!” They begin squabbling in Russian.

It is the doctor who tries to calm things down. “It's all right. All right.” He rests both hands on the handle of his bag. Then, looking straight at Catherine, he says, “The fact is, you're consumptive. And I'm doing my best to give you good advice—which I hope you'll take.” Relaxing slightly: “There's no reason on earth why you shouldn't recover in time. But it's a slow process. These things can't be hurried.”

She feels depleted. “All I lack at the moment is a reason to recover.” Contained within her voice is a secret appeal. She throws her husband a steely look.

“Now, then . . .” The doctor pauses. A look of benignity spreads across his features. Lifting his case, he smiles at Catherine. He's trying to convince her that he's on her side.

Igor steers him out, impressed by his calmness and his tact. He apologizes noiselessly and attempts to share the exasperation he feels at his wife's behavior.

The doctor seems unmoved. He halts in the hallway and adopts a solemn tone. “Mental health can be crucial in determining how soon a patient recovers in such cases.” He moves toward the stairs. “It's important she gets some attention, that she's pampered, made a fuss of. You understand?”

Igor regards him blankly. What does he know? Has there been talk? Have the servants been gossiping? It is his turn to entertain thoughts of a conspiracy. The branches of possible betrayal ramify in his imagination like the side streets in a town.

“I think you have to be extra patient and generous at this time. Show her you care, and I'm sure her condition will improve.”

“Yes.” The utterance sounds so equivocal and squeezed out, even to his own ears, that he feels compelled to repeat the word. “Yes. Yes. You're right,” he says.

Joseph, who must have heard all this, is waiting at the foot of the stairs. He returns the doctor's hat and opens the door.

Igor winces inwardly. He can hardly meet his eye.

Coco is in the garden, pruning shears in hand. She has cut two white carnations and advances toward them, awarding one each. “A man should have a buttonhole on such a beautiful day,” she says.

The doctor looks uncertain.

She removes her fawn gloves and pins the flowers on the lapels of both men.

The doctor adjusts his buttonhole minutely. “You're very kind, Mademoiselle.”

“There's no reason why men shouldn't smell sweetly, too.” She picks up a long-nosed watering can.

The doctor makes as if to leave. Then, affecting to remember something, he asks, “Would you prefer to settle now, Mademoiselle?”

Coco does not make it easy for him. Her manner is patronizing. After an awkward silence, she says with sudden overweening concern, “Ah, yes! Of course. And how
is
poor Catherine?”

Igor feels a sudden pang of loyalty to his wife. It's not her fault she's sick. She wasn't always like this, he wants to explain. He sees the doctor looking quizzically at Coco, attempting to read the evident complexity of the relationships going on inside the house. Igor watches as the man's eyes sharpen, his intelligence at work, weighing, calculating, inferring. He's terrified that the circle of knowledge and gossip will widen. The situation must be contained.

The doctor replies levelly, “With rest, she should be fine.”

Coco's breezy manner gives nothing away. “Good, good. Let's settle, then.”

Brisk to the point of impatience, she leads the doctor back inside the house. Joseph stands impassive. Seeing him still there, Igor lurks purposelessly by the door. He represses an instinct to explain, to say something. But what? For a second he remains there feeling intensely foolish. Then he slopes off down the corridor to the refuge of his study.