Mademoiselle Chanel (30 page)

I nodded. “But no petrol. We barely made it here.”

“I know a government official who can sell us a ration of petrol!” she declared, clapping her hands in delight. Then she winced, looking about. “Everyone wants gasoline these days,” she said in a hushed voice. “It’s the new contraband. That, and meat.”

“A ration won’t get us there,” I mused, “but it’s certainly a start . . .”

It was decided. Marie-Louise would travel with me. We’d leave tomorrow at dawn, to try and avoid any crowding on the road. Although, I mused, as I looked about the restaurant, none of these Vichy fools appeared in any hurry to go anywhere.

The next morning, while Larcher loaded up the car—Marie-Louise’s claim of having left with nothing resulted in two suitcases packed to their seams with wrinkled couture—I took a short walk to smoke my last cigarette (another scarcity I was starting to resent). Pausing near a crumbling Roman-era wall, I saw a boy in ragged shorts perched at its end. Something about his hungry gaze and pinched cheeks, his birdlike ankles and wrists, clutched at my heart. Time paused and rolled back: I saw myself and my sisters, in hand-me-down dresses with the hems turned out, scampering through graveyards. I started to approach; all of a sudden, he glanced up at me, gasping as if in startled surprise, and toppled from the wall.

He hit the stony ground before I reached him, emitting a loud cry of pain. As I knelt beside him, footsteps ran up behind me and an anxious voice said, “He’s my son!” I looked up to see a pregnant woman in a soiled housecoat, her belly jutting out before her. The boy was moaning, cradling his arm. Turning back to him, I said, “We should not move him. Fetch a doctor. His arm; I think he may have broken it.”

“A doctor!” she exclaimed, as the boy lifted plaintive eyes. “How can we afford it?”

Unclasping my handbag, slung on my arm, I removed a crinkled hundred-franc note from my wallet. I was down to my last surplus of cash, too, but couldn’t let the boy suffer. I knew hunger and pain; I had felt its fangs in this very city in my youth. As I started to smile at the boy, extending the note, his expression shifted. With astonishing alacrity, he seized the note from my hand, leaped to his feet, and raced off as fast as his skinny little legs could carry him.

Still on my haunches, I sighed, returning my gaze to his mother. She snorted. “Thank you, madame whoever you are. Now, my son and I can eat tonight.”

She waddled off, yelling for her truant collaborator. Rising and shaking the dust from my trousers, I started to laugh. In my sorrow over the disaster that had befallen France, I had let a pair of common thieves trick me.

It would not be the last time.

S
andbag barricades barred our entry at the Porte d’Orléans, along with German soldiers holding rifles. Larcher remarked, “This is where our journey ends, mesdemoiselles.”

Marie-Louise was already scrambling out to lug her suitcases from the trunk; taking a fistful of francs from my purse, I pressed them into Larcher’s palm. “Thank you. I’ll be at the Ritz if you need anything.” I meant it; I would never have gotten as far as I had without him.

“Good luck.” Pocketing the francs, he assisted me to unload my suitcase. He stood at the side of the car in his soiled shirt and trousers, reeking of sweat, as Marie-Louise, a suitcase in each hand and an eager smile on her face despite her dishevelment, piped up, “Ready, Coco?”

“Make sure you have your passport ready,” advised Larcher as I passed a hand through my tangled hair and looked uncertainly to the Nazi sentries, who were checking documents one by one before admitting a steady queue of returning refugees. “And don’t answer anything more than they ask you.” He hawked up a gob of spit. “Fucking Germans. This is the last thing I expected to see, Krauts lording it over us in our own city.”

As I joined Marie-Louise in the line, I heard the sputtering wreck of a car we’d taken across France drive off. It occurred to me as I stood under
the blazing August sun that I had no idea where Larcher had come from or where he now headed. We had been strangers, tossed together out of panicked necessity, who would probably never cross paths again.

It took over two hours to reach the entry point; the sullen, pimple-faced German youth who reviewed our documentation gave Marie-Louise a frankly lascivious appraisal, which she encouraged with a coy simper, and me a cursory look. Our passports were in order; he waved us through even as I heard a ruckus of protest behind us and half-looked around to see two black-clad thugs with short-muzzled guns detaining an elderly couple saddled with bags, roughly herding them into a cordoned-off area.

“Don’t look,” hissed Marie-Louise. “They’re probably Jewish. Those men are Gestapo.”

I quickly averted my eyes and kept walking, my stomach in knots. It was one thing to hear of the Nazis’ policy, quite another to see it in action. That couple looked as if they were about to faint. They were far too old to pose any threat.

“Where are they taking them?” I asked once we had proceeded far enough from the checkpoint to avoid being overheard. Around us, pedestrians milled—the habitual assortment of Parisians going about their daily business, though there was a definite edge in the air, a tremor of fear riding everyone. No one made eye contact, did not even glance in our direction, as though two rumpled women carrying suitcases down the street was a daily occurrence.

Marie-Louise shrugged. “Who knows? It’s not our problem, is it?”

I supposed she was right. Certainly, I had more pressing issues, principal among them how to reach the Ritz and my suite.

“I can’t walk all the way,” I said, stopping to catch my breath and letting my suitcase fall as I set a hand to the painful cramp in my side. “I need a taxi.”

Marie-Louise paused, looking to the boulevard. There were some vehicles, but far fewer than usual. “We could try the metro. It must be running again by now.”

I gave her an exasperated look. Did I honestly appear as if I could survive
the metro in my state? Stepping to the curb before she could protest, I lifted my hand with another wad of francs visible; within moments, a car stopped. A young man in a beret with a cigarette hanging from his mouth reached across to roll down the passenger window. “Ride, ladies?”

“Yes, please.” Even as Marie-Louise gaped in amazement, I pulled open the rear door, flung my suitcase into the backseat and left the door open for her, while I took the passenger side. She squeezed between our luggage; she had scarcely adjusted herself before the car took off, the man saying as he entered the stream of traffic, “Are you French?”

“We are.” I eyed the blue pack of Gauloises peeping from his shirt pocket. He noticed, retrieved the pack and a box of matches, and handed them to me. “The Germans are giving them out free, like candy,” he told me as I lit one and sighed, sitting back as the smoke filled my lungs. He then treated us to a summary of the events we had missed as he drove toward the 1st arrondissement, where the Ritz was located. Nothing he told us helped ease my apprehension.

“The Germans are everywhere. They’ve taken over
Parlement,
the Chamber of Deputies, and the Senate in the Luxembourg Gardens. All the major hotels are requisitioned for their use—the Ritz, the Majestic, the George V, and the Raphael, as well as most of the better mansions. We have gas and electricity, for the most part, and our police force remains on duty, but they took down all our flags and replaced them with theirs. Make no mistake: Paris is German now.” He puffed on his cigarette, his eyes darkening. “They’re like locusts. They must have planned it in advance. They took us over so fast, before we knew it we were watching thousands of them marching in, followed by more tanks and armored cars than you can imagine.”

I closed my eyes, inhaled an acrid breath. I could imagine it, but I did not want to, though as we reached the place Vendôme and the stately Ritz rose into view, I could not avoid the sight of their horrid flag over the sandbagged entry or the sentries with swastika armbands guarding the stairway inside.

Marie-Louise tapped my shoulder. “Coco, are you sure you want to stay here? If they’ve taken over the hotel . . . maybe you should come with me to stay with my friends?”

“No. I’ll be fine.” I forced a smile. As the young man jumped out to help me with my suitcase, I turned to Marie-Louise. “Ring me later, yes? I’ll be in my suite.”

She arched a skeptical brow; she seemed quite sure I would not be in my suite, and it only hardened my resolve. Getting out of the car, I took my suitcase. As I started to turn away to walk to the hotel, the young man said, “Are you
the
Coco Chanel?”

I paused, looking askance at him. “I am.”

He doffed his beret. “An honor, mademoiselle. My mother always talked about you, about how fashionable you were, how forward thinking. She loved your clothes, though she could never afford them. And your
parfum
. I bought her a bottle on sale in Galeries Lafayette. She wore a little every day until her death. She said nothing lasts like Number Five, not even love.”

Impulsively, I leaned to him, kissing his cheek. He smelled of sweat and tobacco, of youth’s unquenchable optimism. As he flushed, I whispered, “Your mother was right.”

“YOU NEED AN
AUSWEIS,
”
repeated the German sentry, barring my passage into the hotel. “A permit,” he added, in mangled French. Behind him in the lobby, I could see officers in uniforms and a few civilians; straining to catch sight of someone I knew, the sentry started to wave me back when all of a sudden, the maître d’hôtel who had come to advise me of the Germans’ arrival glanced in my direction. He went still, his impervious brow creasing.

For a terrifying moment, I thought he would ignore me, until he stepped to the entrance to say, “This is an esteemed guest of ours, Mademoiselle Coco Chanel. Please, let her pass.”

The German, who could not have been more than twenty, if he was a day, squared his shoulders belligerently. “She doesn’t have a permit. She must see the
Kommandant
first.”

“Dirty as I am?” I retorted, even as the maître d’ inclined his head and said, “Yes, I shall see to it, I promise.” He reached for my suitcase. I was drenched in perspiration, filthy, and exhausted from my days of travel. My knees almost buckled as I stepped past the sentry, unable to avoid dropping my gaze to the pistol lodged in a holster at his belt. I feared he would detain me, remembering the elderly couple at the Porte d’Orléans; but he appeared uncertain and the maître d’ took advantage of his hesitation to cup my elbow and propel me into the hotel.

“Dear God,” I muttered as he led me toward the reception area. “Are they all like that?”

He nodded. “Everything we do requires an
Ausweis
. I will see to it, mademoiselle, have no concerns on that account. You are, as always, welcome here. Your trunks are as you left them; I put them in storage. Shall I send them to your room?” He was busying himself at the desk, selecting a key. When he handed it to me, it was not for my suite. He met my perplexed stare. “Mademoiselle’s suite has been taken, I’m afraid, though they did not make reservations. I had your furnishings removed to your apartment above your shop. I can offer you a smaller room on the third floor on our rue Cambon side, near your atelier, if that is agreeable?”

“Yes, of course. Thank you.” I did not care. A room, an attic: as long as it had a bathroom and running water, it would do. He rang the bell. A bellhop appeared to escort me. “Your trunks will be sent up momentarily,” the maître d’ said. “Have a lovely stay at the Hôtel Ritz, mademoiselle.”

He spoke as he always did, with a smooth inflection that marked him as an expert in catered efficiency, but I saw his gaze flicker past me toward the German officers, and I read his unspoken cue. Better to make myself scarce while I still could.

It was a tiny room compared with my spacious suite, but it had a firm bed, the famous built-in closet that the Ritz’s founder had insisted on for all his guests, and a tiled connecting bathroom. Pulling off my soiled attire, I luxuriated in a steamy bath before taking a long nap. After I woke, I rang for tea from room service, and enveloped in a plush white robe,
telephoned Misia to tell her I was back. It rang several times before she answered. When she did, she sounded out of breath and the static on the line was so terrible, I could barely hear her.

“I’m in Paris,” I shouted into the receiver. “At the Ritz.”

“The Ritz?” Static fractured her next words, but not her outraged intent. “Why . . . it’s full of Nazis . . . you must . . . Jojo and me . . . Insist!”

I retorted, “What difference does it make where I stay? Every hotel is occupied.”

The last thing I wanted was to live with her and Jojo in that overcrowded house on rue de Rivoli, enduring their constant bickering and gargantuan hunger. Jojo had returned to Misia after his mistress’s death, but I doubted their reunion would last and would rather not contend with the consequences. Besides, I needed to be at the heart of things if I hoped to find out about André; judging by the insignia-bedecked German officials I had glimpsed in the lobby, the Ritz was that heart.

“It’s unpatriotic,” Misia fumed. “They are invaders! You must come here with us.”

Fearing the telephone line might be tapped I said curtly, “I’m settled here. I paid in advance and need to attend to my shop. I’ll see you in a few days,” and I hung up.

Irate as always at Misia’s unwillingness to heed reason even in the worst of times, I tackled my trunks. Nothing had been touched; my syringes and sedative vials were still stored in the hidden compartment under my folded lingerie, just as I had left them. I selected one of my discreet black evening gowns and a rope of pearls, as happy as a child to have my things with me. I must make an impression, and how better than to appear as I always did, impeccably elegant.

Tonight, I would dine in full view so that Paris would know I was home.

THE HOTEL RESTAURANT
was as full as ever, though this time not with its usual coterie of wealthy guests, impecunious writers sleeping with bored aristocratic wives, or querulous longtime residents. Oh, there were
still a few I recognized and smiled at graciously as I was led to my table: the rich American heiress and divorcée Laura Mae Corrigan, who’d occupied a suite here for several years; the French film actress and sometime client of mine, Arletty; and several other well-groomed women with companions. But I saw far more Germans in tailored suits or white tie, hair slicked with brilliantine and wingtip shoes polished to such a luster they could have doubled as mirrors, their rubicund faces matching the satisfied triumph in their eyes.

“Will mademoiselle be dining alone?” inquired the waiter as he filled my glass with water and set before me the gilt-edged menu with the night’s offerings.

I nodded, unfolding the crisp napkin with its monogrammed
R
and setting it into my lap as I covertly surveyed the room. How so much could have changed in so little time astounded me, and yet it all
appeared
the same: the soft strains of a violin lilting in the background, the clink of fine glassware and silver on porcelain plates, the weaving between the white-draped tables of black-clad waiters bearing trays of delicacies. I saw oysters served on bassinets of ice; bloody shanks of steak smothered in spiced
pommes frites
and legumes; lobsters, crab, and other
fruits de mer—
all the many renowned gourmet dishes that had made the Ritz’s restaurant one of Paris’s most exclusive places to dine.

I ordered a shrimp cocktail and onion soup. I had eaten very sparingly during my journey, subsisting on candy bars and rotten oranges we managed to find along the way, so that my gown hung on me as though I had shrunk. But now my appetite had deserted me. I kept hearing Misia’s denunciations in my head—
“It’s unpatriotic! They are invaders!”
—and began to doubt my decision to remain here. Perhaps it would be better, or at least wiser, to pack up and move to rue de Rivoli. I would be miserable, no doubt, but at least no one could accuse me of ignoring our nation’s plight by hobnobbing with the Nazi horde.

It was then I realized someone was watching me.

At first, it was a curious sensation, a subtle prickling along the nape of my neck. I ignored it, focusing on my meal and even engaging in brief
pleasantries with Arletty, who wore too much makeup, as usual, as if the cameras were always rolling, and was half drunk on champagne. She introduced me to her “escort,” as she called him, though he was clearly a German officer—a stark-boned young man who practically clicked his heels as he bowed over my hand with absurd gallantry, kissing my fingers and declaring it was a privilege to meet the incomparable Chanel.