Mademoiselle Chanel (24 page)

I sent word to Bendor, who had moored his yacht outside Venice, but he did not appear at the appointed hour. The hotel’s manager had expressed concern; Diag’s demise had left him with an outstanding bill and worries that a death on the premises would affect business adversely. I paid the bill and arranged for the removal of the corpse at dawn, before the hotel guests woke.

Misia resembled a specter as we watched the coffin lowered into its grave. “He’ll be so alone here,” she moaned. “So far from Paris, from everything and everyone he loved.”

“He loved Venice, too,” I said. “Besides, he’s not here anymore.”

We had an unexpected moment of drama when Lifar, overcome by the enormity of his loss, gave a howl and made as if to throw himself upon the coffin. We held him back as he cried and cast despairing looks about him, as though he couldn’t believe it was not some horrible joke and Diaghilev would come strolling out from behind the tombstones at any moment. I almost expected it myself. As we ferried back to the city, I kept looking over my shoulder for a glimpse of his portly figure in his astrakhan and pearled cravat, waving good-bye.

“Someone has to send word to Igor,” I said, and Misia blew into her handkerchief. “He’ll be devastated. He loved Diag like a brother.”

Stravinsky would indeed be that, I thought, as would Cocteau, Picasso, his dancers, and everyone else who had the great fortune to participate in his whimsical, extravagant, tradition-shattering sensations. None of us would ever see the likes of him again.

In this life, there could be only one Sergei Diaghilev.

His death affected me more than I realized, but I had to bury my own sorrow to care for Misia, who indeed appeared to fall apart at the seams, bereft in a world without her Jojo or beloved Diag, without a place where she reigned supreme as a muse.

Cutting short the trip with Bendor, in late August I returned with Misia to my home on Faubourg Saint-Honoré in Paris. I installed her in one of the guest suites so she and Cocteau, also residing in my house, could commiserate. They no doubt shared their opiates, too, but I gave them leeway under the circumstances, returning to my atelier and never-ending work.

Vera Bate, recently engaged to the Italian officer and champion equestrian Alberto Lombardi, came to visit. I had put her in charge of overseeing the upcoming opening of my London boutique; she told me that once she did, she would see to her replacement, as Lombardi wished to return to Italy upon their marriage. In turn, I shared news of Dmitri, who had proposed to his American heiress, and of my aunt Adrienne. Her baron’s cantankerous father, who had most opposed her liaison with his son, was dying; upon his death, the family had finally granted Nexon permission to take Adrienne for his wife.

“So, we’re all settling down,” Vera said as we sat at my bar and my friends lolled on the sofas, drinking and talking. “Except you, Coco dearest. You seem determined to remain like the sphinx—enigmatic, gorgeous, and eternally by yourself.”

I smiled. “We need someone to pay for these parties. If I married and stopped working, what on earth would everyone do?”

“Ah,” she said, and I glanced at her, more piercingly than I should have,
for she added, “I was wondering what happened with Bendor. I saw him in London; he was with Lord Sisonby’s daughter but he did not look happy. He asked me if you were coming to London for the boutique’s inauguration. I said I had no idea.” She paused. “I trust I did the right thing?”

“Yes, of course,” I replied, even as the glitter of my party faded around me. “My schedule is as insane as ever. In any event, Bendor and I are in perfect accord. There was never any question of marriage, if that is what you think. Men do not understand me. They say, ‘You needn’t worry anymore; you don’t have to do anything because I will take care of you.’ But what they really mean is, ‘You don’t have to do anything except be there for me.’ ” I forced out a brittle laugh, seeing her startled look. “It is not my plan. I never want to weigh more heavily on a man than a bird.”

Before she could respond, I went forth in my pearls and black crêpe de chine to swipe a champagne flute off the table before Cocteau, once again in the throes of opium, knocked it onto the carpet. I exchanged a few words with Picasso’s wife, Olga, who wore one of my latest beige jersey dresses and two-toned shoes, but seemed careworn from her roving painter’s infidelities.

On the stroke of two, I went upstairs. I never said good night these days; by now, everyone was accustomed to my departure. They would stay until they were either too drunk to leave and my butler Joseph escorted them to rooms prepared for them, or would drift off to one of the many late-night cabarets for more divertissements.

While I went to bed with my loyal dogs at my side, the weight of my solitude hung like an anchor upon me nevertheless.

O
n October 29, 1929, the American stock market crashed. The fallout was epic, demolishing entire fortunes in seconds, with reports of tycoons and their wives throwing themselves out of windows rather than face sudden destitution. Within the year, the ripples of America’s Depression reached us; I experienced an alarming reduction in orders from abroad as clients scurried for what would be a long hibernation from spending.

Bendor had warned me. We remained friends; he had proposed to Lady Ponsonby, and naturally, she accepted. In between the wedding plans, he brought his fiancée to Paris for tea with me (she was as pretty, bland, and blue blooded as I’d imagined) and told me that his battalion of fiscal analysts foresaw disaster overseas. I took initial precautions to safeguard my business, cutting back on new hires and paring back the number of dresses I presented. But nothing could prepare me for what ensued. The horn of plenty that had brought the Americans and the British in droves to my boutiques dried up. Even the much-vaunted opening of my store in London was subdued. Once again, I found myself adjusting to austerity.

Lavish beading and ornamentation were no longer appropriate (or cost effective) for such lean times. My little black dress alone had a resurgence—perhaps, I commented dryly, because it suited the new decade’s funereal
tone. For my London debut, I designed cotton-blend ensembles at reduced prices, paring down my evening wear to a few selections in piqué, organdy, and lace, with flared hems and tailored silk-velvet jackets, while expanding my line of separates in printed fabric for women on a budget. I also introduced supple suits in an exclusive new silk-and-wool shantung cloth woven for me, and shoulder-strap handbags in quilted leather.

Despite the agonized end of
les années folles,
I welcomed this enforced return to simplicity. I had always adhered to the adage that less is more, and never wavered before a challenge. Moreover, unlike other designers who saw their customer base shrivel in the wake of the crash, I still had my talisman, my
parfum
No. 5, which remained astonishingly popular, as women everywhere forwent other indulgences for the comforting allure of my scent.

Nevertheless, the steady decline in my business began to trouble me. My boutiques in Deauville, Cannes, and Biarritz suffered as the gush of rich vacationers slowed to a trickle. Moreover, after years of unrivaled supremacy, new designers were appearing on the scene, including the Italian Elsa Schiaparelli, whose bathing suits and skiwear earned her acclaim. I found her style derivative, even as her prominence alarmed me. I knew I required a new venture to bolster my success. During a summer reprieve at La Pausa, Dmitri arrived with an offer that seemed the perfect opportunity.

His American heiress had survived the crisis that decimated so many of her privileged friends. Her family had invested in the motion picture industry, Dmitri explained, and now one of the lions of that business, Samuel Goldwyn, was making another play for my magic touch.

“He’s eager to bring you to Los Angeles. He’s willing to offer you carte blanche and a considerable salary to dress his most bankable stars,” said Dmitri as we lounged by the pool, Misia nearby in her straw hat and enormous sunglasses, nursing a martini. “He’ll be here in the Côte d’Azur next week on vacation. Why don’t you let me introduce you?”

At any other time, I would have declined. I had no interest in traveling to that brash nation where so many were suffering, nor, in truth, had I ever.
Unlike most of my friends, including Misia, the faux glamour of Hollywood held no appeal for me. Still, I wondered at my hesitation. My clothing had always sold extremely well in the United States, as had my perfume. I might never have visited, but my name must be legendary if one of the richest moguls there was so determined to hire me. Even as I began to frown, thinking it really was not the time, Misia bleated, “Coco, what could be the harm? He is obviously very interested. It’s the second time he has asked.”

Dmitri gave me a laconic smile. He was looking as polished as only a Romanov with a secure bank account and a rich wife could, so much so that I contemplated enticing him to my bed just to see if I still could.

“Second time?” he said. “So, Goldwyn has offered before?”

“Yes. He sent me an offer . . . oh, maybe two or three years ago. The salary was indeed considerable,” I added. “You might even say extraordinary.”

His eyes narrowed. “Well. Then you must accept his invitation.”

“Not accept.” I stood, stretching my arms over my head as I stepped past Dmitri with deliberate seductiveness. “But I will see him,” I said before I plunged into my pool.

GOLDWYN WAS SHORT,
sweaty, and stank of cigar. I arranged a luncheon at La Pausa, nothing too elaborate, easy fare with good wine and my friends. For some inexplicable reason, I felt as though I needed their protection. That feeling only increased as the mogul in his awful Hawaiian print shirt and shapeless slacks appraised my house as if he was tallying up its worth. Then he ordered the manicured blond wife at his side to the buffet and rattled on in staccato English that I barely understood, for while I spoke the language somewhat, I was hardly fluent.

“See here, Miss Chanel. What I propose is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity for you to dress my most lucrative stars: Swanson, Garbo, Colbert, Norma Talmadge, Ina Claire—they’ll wear only your clothes, made by you for their films and in their private lives, as well. You will make a fortune!
No other designer has ever had such a chance. Every picture screen in the United States and abroad will be your—uh, what do you call it again?”

“Atelier,” I said, with a slight smile.

“Ate-what?”

“Salon, if you prefer. A glass of wine, Mr. Goldwyn?”

“No. Never touch the stuff. Gives me gas.” He guffawed; I winced, expecting the obligatory belch to follow. I recalled how Sert had refused to go to America because they only ate white bread. Apparently, they also rarely drank wine. Of course, Sert had reconsidered. Misia had told me, sniffling, that he’d finally accepted Rockefeller’s commission to paint a mural in one of his New York skyscrapers. There might not be much money these days, but evidently America still had plenty to squander, judging by Goldwyn’s enthusiastic harangue.

“So, what do you say? That Russian, Erté, came to Hollywood to design my sets and loved it. He took a contract for a year. I gave him a house. I can do the same for you.”

“I have a house,” I demurred. God save me, he reminded me of those hucksters from the marketplaces of my childhood, setting out soiled playing cards on upended crates to lure the gullible. “And I couldn’t possibly go for a year. My business is here.”

He peered at me, openmouthed.

“In France,” I explained, reaching for my cigarettes. “My atelier is in Paris. I couldn’t leave it for an entire year.”

“Don’t you have people who work for you?” he asked in genuine bafflement.

“Yes, but I still design and oversee the production of every article of clothing. That is why you want to hire me, yes?” I flicked my lighter. “Because of my talent?”

“Yes, yes, of course,” he said, but I saw at once that it wasn’t. “Your talent, yes,” he went on, quickening his pace, like a train gathering speed over a bumpy track. “Fine, so you can’t be away a year. You can come by invitation to dress my stars and then we’ll see.”

“Your stars,” I said, giving him another smile. “You say they will wear
my designs in your films and in their private lives? Forgive me, Mr. Goldwyn, but I have been around the theater; actresses are an opinionated breed. Surely you cannot oblige them to wear Chanel all the time?”

“They’ll do whatever I say,” he blared, making Dmitri and the others at the table jump. “I pay them. I
made
them. If they don’t do as I say when I say it, they’re out. Finished.”

“I see.” I widened my smile, for I did see. All too well. And he apparently saw it, too, for he dug into his roast chicken, muttering between mouthfuls, “My offer stands at a million dollars. Upon contract. You can come and see what my pictures have to offer, and if you like it, well, then we both sign on the dotted line. Agreed?”

The silence that fell was so absolute that I clearly heard Misia’s sudden gasp. Dmitri arched a brow at me. It was indeed, as I had said, extraordinary. I would be a fool to refuse. Still, I could not bring myself to say yes, despite Goldwyn’s puffed chest and Misia’s imploring eyes, until Goldwyn added, “I’ll pay your expenses—the trip, accommodations, everything. You can even bring a companion, if you like, a secretary or an assistant designer. I suppose you have people like that on your staff?”

Misia was about to leap from her chair. Shooting a warning glare at her, I stubbed out my cigarette and took up my glass of wine. “By invitation only? And if I agree, you grant me full control over my designs? If I don’t like it, I am free to go?”

“Yes, yes, but you’re going to love it,” he beamed. “Everyone loves Hollywood.”

I was not convinced, but as I nodded and Misia laughed aloud for the first time in months, I thought it would certainly be an adventure, if nothing else.

BEFORE I LEFT FOR AMERICA,
I helped organize, after nearly thirty years of waiting, Adrienne’s wedding to Nexon. My youngest aunt was radiant in the white organza and silk bias-cut gown I designed for her, her baron now paunchy but otherwise distinguished as they exchanged their vows. I
had to marvel at their commitment; Nexon might have done what Boy and Bendor had, marrying for convenience and maintaining Adrienne on the side, but he had remained faithful through it all, a man more in love than any other I had known.

Afterward, Adrienne came to me and said, “I want to stop working. I’ll give you plenty of time, delay, even, until you return from America, but Nexon would like us to live at his family château, and . . .” She did not elaborate further, but I understood. Though she and I were the same age, she still wanted to try to have a child.

“Of course,” I said. “Don’t trouble yourself another moment about it. Go. Be his baroness. You’ve earned it.”

“But what will you do?”

“Hire someone else. Countess Hélène de Leusse has been inquiring about a position. She knows all our clients. You might train her before you go, if you don’t mind?”

Adrienne nodded, though she looked crestfallen until I leaned to her and kissed her cheek. “You can always return. You must know that by now. When I said I would replace you, I did not mean anyone can fill your shoes.”

She brightened. “Thank you, Gabrielle.” She was so relieved that I didn’t have the heart to tell her I thought she would indeed be back. Though she had lived for the day when she would be Nexon’s wife, she had found independence in my success. She wouldn’t be able to stay away for long, not unless she miraculously became pregnant, which was highly unlikely at her age.

Still, I felt an unusual sentimentality as I watched her and Nexon dance at their wedding reception. Though far past the initial glow of infatuation, there was no mistaking the love in their eyes. To my surprise, Balsan, who’d traveled to Paris from Royallieu for the wedding along with his own new fiancée, asked me to dance. I found myself again in his arms after so many years, his expression as sardonic as ever, though he was weathered now, with an unseemly gut that pressed against my stomach.

“You need to do something about that,” I said as he swept me around
in the waltz. “You’ll give your horses a hernia if you keep eating so much.”

“Ah, yes. The sedate comforts of age: good food, old friends, boring sex—” He smiled. He had that same devil-may-care air, and it made me laugh despite myself. “But you, Coco, you remain untouched by time. No compromise for you, is there?”

“I have no idea what you mean. I, too, am growing old.”

“Not like the rest of us.” His smile faded. Gentleness came over his face and almost made me falter in our steps. “Do you still miss Boy?”

Only he would have dared. No one else. And I would only have ever allowed it from him. “Every day,” I whispered.

He held me closer. “That is good. You loved and were loved. It is all we can ask from this life. Some people never have it.”

I departed the reception early, citing the need to get home to start packing. In truth, I couldn’t get away fast enough, dashing to my Rolls as if the hotel was on fire.

Only as my chauffeur pulled into the driveway of my home on Faubourg Saint-Honoré did I realize that what I felt was more than sorrow. It was the intangible melancholy of the end of an era. Adrienne had shared my first longings to become more than I was; she had encouraged me, even after I became Balsan’s mistress. Balsan had provided refuge, setting me unwittingly on the path to my future by introducing me to Boy. Now, Boy was dead; both Adrienne and Balsan had found spouses with whom to share the rest of their lives, while I remained alone.

The house door opened. Misia came trudging out, with Cocteau, fresh from another month in rehabilitation, scampering after her. “Coco!” he cried out, exasperated. “Tell her she cannot take that hideous straw hat of hers to California. They’ll think she’s your governess!”

I laughed, stepping from the car.

How could I ever think I’d be alone when I had so many orphans in my life?