Coco Chanel & Igor Stravinsky by Chris Greenhalgh Page B

does!”
    Suzanne has come into the kitchen in the middle of this. She listens to her mother, trying to unpick the complex weave of what is going on. Anxious that she shouldn’t understand too much, Joseph makes a quieting gesture to his wife. He doesn’t want to get involved. Seeing Marie subdued, he backs toward the door, his finger to his lips.
    Reentering the living room, he asks, “What about the piano, sir?” Igor is distracted. He needs to repeat the question.
    â€œWe’ll leave it until the morning, I think.”
    â€œYou can go now, Joseph.” Coco waves him off with a motion evoking helpless fatigue. “Thank you,” she volunteers softly to Igor when they are alone. She blinks rapidly. Her small breasts heave.
    The echo of melodies continues inside the room, making its space seem all the more vacant now. Igor glances at her neckline and its ellipse of pearls. His mouth feels parched and he tries not to swallow. There is a loaded silence between them. Her eyes seem black as lakes.
    Then, seeing her cheeks suddenly flushed and her lips open florally, he shocks himself with the thought of kissing her full on the mouth. The image surprises him in its vividness; and he is surprised, too, to find himself thinking there is nothing improper in this. The impulse comes from somewhere deep within him and seems natural and good.
    Holding his arm, Coco manages to stand. She walks the short distance to a chair and sits down heavily. “I’m all right now,” she says.
    â€œAre you sure?” Remaining close in case she swoons again, he feels overattentive suddenly.
    Sensing his awkwardness, she fails to answer. She shakes off her headband, tucking her hair behind each ear.
    At a loss, Igor says, “We were worried about you there for a minute.” His remark ends with an attempt at a laugh.
    Her self-possession recovered, without lifting her head, Coco raises her eyes to look at him directly. Again, he resists a fierce impulse to kiss her.
    After a long pause that seems to dilate in time, she says, “You’d better go upstairs. Your wife is waiting.”
    Having acted out of an instinctive urge, her expression now closes over. Gone is any sense of recklessness. It’s as if a seal has set across her face. And it is he who feels suddenly vulnerable and exposed. He senses her renewed coolness and is at pains to understand this capriciousness in her. He finds her opacity maddening. It’s hard to know what she thinks sometimes. Hard to know what he thinks himself, come to that.
    Above them the rain continues, picking its way along the tiles of the roof.
    In leaving the room, he feels himself move through an invisible curtain. The air seems cooler in the hallway, the light harsher. Sheepishly he heads upstairs to confront another storm.
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    When Igor gains the top of the stairs, he finds the door to his bedroom closed. Pushing it open, in the corner of his vision he sees his wife sitting up in bed. Daringly he whistles the tune he was playing when Coco fainted.
    She perceives this as a taunt. “Stop that awful noise!”
    He elects not to respond. But something cussed in his nature breaks through. He feels angry. He acted in good faith back there. It was Catherine who in her joylessness turned it into a scene. He moves toward the bathroom. In locking the door, he shuts her out. When he emerges a few minutes later, he knows he has made things worse.
    â€œWhat do you think you were doing down there?”
    â€œWhat do you mean?” he says, removing his shoes and unbuckling the belt of his trousers.
    â€œI mean, what do you think you were doing staring at Coco all night and then taking her in your arms?”
    â€œDon’t talk nonsense! And stop being so possessive and jealous. You’ve spoiled a perfectly good evening.”
    â€œAm I supposed to watch as another woman flirts with my husband right in front of my