Coco Chanel & Igor Stravinsky by Chris Greenhalgh Page A

the room.
    The chords build; the music bubbles up. Lightning flashes thrillingly in glittering ribbons, shocking the trees into relief. Shapeless rumbles of thunder follow. Torn pieces of sky hurry overhead. Igor begins to play louder and more urgently. Coco feels an ache in her neck. And there’s the sensation in her head of something spilling over. The feeling takes seed and widens within her circle by circle until the chairs, tables, lamps, and piano begin to blur together in a vertiginous wheel. The ceiling spins around. The chandelier at its center flakes light. Rising in redoubled fortes, the music and the dance accelerate until Coco collapses in a climax of calculated abandon, and Igor jumps from the piano to catch her in his arms.
    Catherine can scarcely believe her eyes. A flush of anger spreads across her face. Her mouth twitches nervously. This is too much.
    Igor looks bewildered. Coco still plays faint. Coming in with some tea, Marie is shocked by the scene that now confronts her. An impulse of sympathy toward Catherine contends with another that prompts her to check that Coco is all right. These feelings war within her. Before she can decide, she is summoned to bring a washcloth and some water.
    Supporting the back of her head with his hand, Igor administers the water in careful sips to Coco’s mouth. The children, including Suzanne, gather around. The sense of an audience makes him all the more solicitous in performing these healing rites.
    Opening her eyes, Coco looks up groggily. Igor sees a glazed film pass across her pupils. He loosens the kerchief at her throat. A sweet odor steals across his face as he inhales.
    â€œCome on, now. Bed!” Catherine corrals the children prior to marching them upstairs.
    Soulima asks, “Is Mademoiselle Chanel all right?”
    â€œShe’s perfectly all right,” his mother answers curtly. “Believe me!”
    â€œShe doesn’t look so well,” the boy insists.
    Supporting herself against a chair, Catherine feels her own infirmity mocked. “I can assure you, she’s very well.” Each syllable is hurt into being. Her words are spoken clearly enough for Coco to hear.
    â€œThank you, Soulima. I’m all right,” Coco manages, sitting up. Though Catherine might find it hard to credit, this is not something she has planned. The truth is, she did feel faint; the dancing did for an instant make her dizzy. But now something opportunistic in her nature takes over. She exploits the moment for all it is worth.
    Soulima makes to speak again but, recognizing the strength of his mother’s indignation, he says nothing and leaves the room. Reluctantly the other children follow on up to bed.
    Catherine herself turns to go. With barely suppressed rage, she says, “Good night, Igor. I’ll see you upstairs shortly.”
    He looks up at his wife, miming a gesture of helplessness. But Catherine is unimpressed. Her look tells him she thinks he is pathetic. He has been taken in, consciously or unconsciously. Surely he can see that. If he’s acting involuntarily, he’s a fool. If he’s acting willfully, then he’s cruel and dishonorable. Abruptly she feels the need to revise everything she knows about her husband. In leaving the room, she slams the door.
    Joseph and Marie withdraw into the kitchen while Igor dabs at Coco’s brow.
    â€œShe’s got a nerve,” snaps Marie to her husband.
    â€œCareful. She might hear you.”
    â€œHonestly,” continues Marie, without lowering her tone. “What on earth does she think she’s doing? She invites these people to stay and then insults them. Her problem is, she’s got too much money and doesn’t know what to do with it.”
    â€œShhh!”
    â€œShe sees herself as some great patron but hasn’t the grace to carry it off. Actually she’s no better than you or I. And does she pay us any more for all this extra work? Like hell she