Mademoiselle Chanel

by C. W. Gortner

  Scent. Here it was again. Why did I suddenly find myself pursuing something so elusive?

  “A perfume?” piped up Cocteau. “L’eau de Coco!” Then, when he saw my disgusted moue, he smirked. “No, you’re right. Too tropical. What would you call it?”

  He was always interested in what I had to say. He had a magpie mind. He’d begun to explore the radical analytical theories of Freud alongside the melancholic poetry of Rimbaud. Though he sharpened his social teeth at Misia’s knee, I’d grown fond of him, for of all those who attended the Serts’, Cocteau was one of the few who had more than a passing interest in fashion.

  “I don’t know yet,” I said. “It’s only an idea.”

  “Poiret sold perfumes, didn’t he?” said Cocteau. “Nuit de Chine, Lucreze Borgia, and several others. I remember hearing about a grand party he gave to launch the first one. I don’t think he ever made money on his perfumes, but it became de rigueur for his clients to wear them.”

  “Yes, they smelled . . .” I shuddered. His perfumes had been ghastly but I didn’t care to say it aloud, not when Poiret faced his final decay, most of his clientele having abandoned his atelier. A few powdered matrons of the gilded past still adhered to his adage that the more luxuriously one dressed, the wealthier one appeared, but the younger generation, the daughters and granddaughters of his matrons, had absconded to me.

  “Perfume does have a low margin of profitability,” I said, “and so much competition, too. Maybe it’s not a good idea.”

  Whether it was or not was of no concern to Misia, judging by her yawn. “Well, don’t get too involved in a new project, darling, because you must design my dress for my wedding. And you’re coming with us on our honeymoon to Italy, isn’t she, Jojo?”

  I started, turned to look at Sert where he reclined on the sofa beside me, puffing on his cigarillo. He was a fat little gnome, furry everywhere, coarse black matting even on the tops of his paint-spattered hands yet as bald as an egg on top. I had come to adore him. He embodied his native soil—earthy and unpretentious, surprisingly erudite but without the compulsion to prove it. And very patient. He had to be, living with Misia.

  “So, you finally asked her,” I said. Misia had been after him for months to make their union official—not, I suspected, because she cared about the formality. Rather, Boy’s death had so shaken her that it compelled her to review her own situation and realize that unlike me, who earned my own income, she could be left without an insurance policy, such as a will or an amicable divorce settlement. Sert made money on his commissions and the American millionaire Rockefeller had extended an open invitation for him to come work in New York.

  “She wore me down,” Sert replied affably. “My Tosh won’t take no for an answer, never could.” He gave me a sly smile. “You must know that by now. Best start packing for Venice.”

  “But when is the wedding? I’ve not heard anything about it until now,” exclaimed Cocteau. No one else in the room was paying the news notice; Picasso was deep in talk with another of the Ballets Russes dancers, his wife, Olga, to my amusement, perched as close to him as she could get without crawling into his lap. Her virile Pablo had a wandering eye.

  “I was going to invite you, too,” said Misia. “To the wedding, that is. Not to Italy.”

  Cocteau pouted. “I’m small. I can fit in a suitcase,” but Misia had already fixed her stare on me. “We’ll wed in June and leave for Italy soon thereafter. Does that suit, darling?”

  The thought of having to fit her for a gown was enough to make me want to plead incompetence. Sert knew it, too. He grinned from ear to ear, revealing tobacco-stained teeth. “June would be impossible,” I said, trying to sound apologetic instead of relieved. “I’m scheduled to go to Biarritz. I must attend to my maison; it has been too long since I visited and Marthe Davelli wants to meet me there. I’m staying through July.”

  Misia scowled. She soured at any mention of my other friends. “You didn’t tell me.”

  “It hadn’t come up. I am sorry, Misia. But I can still design your dress.”

  “No, no.” She flicked her wrist, jangling her numerous bracelets. “We’ll wait.”

  “Wait?” I glanced again at Sert.

  “Until you’re ready,” he explained. He leaned over to whisper, “She should marry you instead. I’m not important if you’re not there.” He didn’t say it with rancor. As I laughed and reached for my cigarettes, he arched his brow and sat back in smug contentment.

  The next day, I rang up Marthe to confirm that I would be in Biarritz by the end of the month.

  III

  My establishment in Biarritz was my own personal gold mine, so that my première, Madame Deray, greeted me with a rare smile and escorted me through the immaculate salon into the workrooms where my sports-and-leisure wear were produced in expensive fabrics for the resort’s discerning clientele.

  I fussed over this or that; ordered minimal changes to confirm my authority, but the rest of the time I spent with Marthe Davelli, who had first spurred me to open the Biarritz maison. She expressed dramatic sorrow over Boy and proceeded to plunge me into a whirlwind of beach mornings and late lunches, evening dinners with gambling, followed by champagne-and-jazz-soaked parties in the nightclubs and her casino suite that lasted until dawn.

  She had left Constant Say, whose sugar fortune crumbled in the wake of the war. Her career as an acclaimed soprano was at its height, and in Say’s absence, she consoled herself with various lovers. The latest, she told me, was an exiled Romanov.

  It was hardly remarkable. The Russian revolution that murdered the last tsar had prompted the exodus of anyone with the slightest trace of aristocratic lineage. Stateless princes, princesses, archduchesses, and archdukes, along with their assorted servants, fled the vengeful motherland with whatever they could carry, which, in most cases, was nothing at all.

  Marthe introduced me to her lover at one of her parties. “Darling, I present Grand Duke Dmitri Pavlovich, son of Grand Duke Paul Alexandrovich and cousin of Tsar Nicholas II.”

  Though it was unnecessary to cite his credentials, he was worth the effort. One could say many critical things about the Romanov dynasty, but they had always bred magnificent men. This particular specimen bowing to kiss my hand—“Enchanté, mademoiselle”—personified every romantic notion of what a prince should be. Tall and stork thin, he had light chestnut hair slicked with brilliantine on his shapely head, a sculpted aquiline nose, and a full mouth. His deep-set eyes of a mercurial amber hue lingered on me until I wondered if he expected a curtsy.

  Marthe said, “Dmitri, be a love and bring Coco a fresh drink. Her glass is empty,” and he took my champagne flute from my hand, grazing my fingers with his. He had beautiful hands, tapered and white, hands whose most onerous duty until the fall of his world had been to adjust a decorative saber at his waist before a ceremonial procession.

  “Isn’t he divine?” whispered Marthe as I watched his broad-shouldered stride across the room to the bar. With a jolt, I realized I felt . . . something. Nothing overpowering, certainly, nothing like what I felt when I first met Boy, but something nevertheless—a faint stirring that compelled me to smile and say, “He certainly is. Fatally attractive.”

  “He’s been dying to meet you. Since I mentioned your name, you are all he has asked about. Did you know he helped murder Rasputin? If you find the attraction is mutual, you must take him. He’s far too expensive for me.”

  I INVITED HIM TO MY BED. There is no other way to put it. He didn’t leave my side the rest of the night, reciting a mournful litany of his sufferings, from the hour he killed the tsarina’s mystic to his exile to Siberia and escape after the war to Italy, Spain, and eventually France, where he met Marthe through his aunt, Grand Duchess Marie Pavlovna, a fellow exile residing in Paris. While I found his story tedious—I had little pity for aristocrats—his apparent interest went beyond the social, as he made clear toward the end of the night when the debauchery of the party reached its height and I
prepared to make my exit.

  “May I call upon you tomorrow, Mademoiselle Chanel?” he breathed, with an antiquated reserve that almost made me chuckle. Around us, drunken and opium-sotted couples were gyrating; Marthe herself was shrieking with laughter as two muscular black men from the band hoisted her on their shoulders while playing their trombones.

  “Why wait?” Reaching into my evening bag, I gave him the extra key to my suite. “Number twenty-five. Bring champagne.” I strode out before he could respond, never expecting to see him again. It was an impetuous act. I reasoned a man like him, born to the rigidity of a slaughtered past, would find me too crass, too modern, for his refined taste.

  An hour later, a knock came at the door. He did not use the key. Nevertheless, when I opened it, dressed in my robe, my dogs barking until I shushed them, he entered carrying a bottle of Bollinger. He set it upon my dressing table and turned with a flush in his cheeks.

  “Expensive,” I remarked, glancing at the bottle. “I trust you charged it to my room?” Again, I did not wait for a reply. I stood, staring at him, as he lifted his long hands and, with a slight tremble, began to unbutton his dark gray suit that had seen better days.

  He could not do it; his trembling became so pronounced it drove me to him. “Allow me,” I said, and I divested him of his jacket and shirt so that he stood bare chested before me, not as darkly muscular as Boy but rather ethereal in his narrow, marble purity.

  “You are beautiful,” I said, and I paused. Now that he was here, I was starting to regret my impulsiveness. It had been little more than a year since Boy’s death. My skin suddenly recoiled at the thought of another man’s touch.

  He didn’t allow me to voice my doubts. Coming at me suddenly, he seized me in arms that were, despite their thinness, astonishingly strong, his mouth on mine with an ardor that rivaled the most lurid kiss in my favorite novels. I might have laughed at the absurdity of it—me, the bereaved mistress of a dead man, acting the slut with an impoverished Russian duke who would no doubt fleece me of everything he could—but again, I felt that stir inside me and it was more powerful now, more insistent, my deprived senses responding with animal need.

  He was murmuring against my throat in Russian, unintelligible words I found surprisingly erotic. I closed my eyes and let him take me to the bed.

  For once, I refused to think.

  This time, I wanted only to feel something that meant nothing.

  DMITRI BECAME MY LOVER. Back in Paris, I installed him in my house in Garches. Joseph and Marie did not blink twice when I announced that my guest would be living in one of the spare bedrooms for an undetermined time. Appearances must be kept, though he came to my bed every night and met me after work to dine, attend the theater, and visit the Serts.

  Misia was flabbergasted at first, the only time before, or since, I actually saw her struggle for an appropriate response. When she finally did after dinner, as Jojo regaled Dmitri with tales about his art commissions, she dragged me into the parlor to hiss, “Do you love him?”

  I laughed. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

  “Then why? He’s rather young. How old is he, exactly?”

  “Thirty.” I held up a hand, anticipating her next outburst. “I’m perfectly aware that’s eight years younger than me and that he is penniless. I don’t care. He’s what I need right now.”

  “What you need? Have you considered the scandal? He’s royalty—many believe that if the monarchy is ever restored in Russia, he is the rightful heir.” She suddenly paused, her eyes narrowing. “Or is that your plan? Society will have to receive you if you are with him. Although he has nothing but the clothes on his back, which you no doubt paid for, every blue-blooded matron in Paris will kill to receive him. It’s all the rage, inviting exiled Russians to tea.”

  “When did I ever care about that?” Behind me, I heard Dmitri’s slow, careful laugh as Sert let out one of his bawdy quips. “I’m with him because he amuses me. What the blue-blooded matrons do or say is inconsequential.”

  Misia harrumphed. “I’m sure that’s what you want everyone to believe. But it’s me you’re talking to, darling; I know how you hunger for acceptance, and how better to achieve it than to be seen with a dashing Romanov on your arm?”

  “Think whatever you like. He is a lover, nothing more. And,” I added, “he’s coming with me to your wedding and to Italy, too. His sister the Grand Duchess Marie is in Venice, vacationing with our friend Diaghilev. He wants me to meet her.”

  I walked away, preempting her protest. Misia was perceptive, but she had sniffed out the wrong clue. During our time in Biarritz, I had found myself telling Dmitri about how I’d established my clothing business (without mentioning Boy or Balsan) and of my idea about developing my own signature perfume. I knew the Romanovs had been mad for scents, as they were for everything that reeked of luxury, and he mentioned that the French perfumery house Rallet, which established itself in Moscow under Romanov patronage, had created the Tsarina Alexandra’s favorite parfum.

  “Such an exquisite scent,” Dmitri had said wistfully, his eyes growing distant as they always did when he recalled the past. “I can still smell it now: a mixture of rose, jasmine, and something indefinable that made everyone stop. Alexandra wouldn’t let anyone else wear it. Ernest Beaux originally designed the formula for Rallet to release during the jubilee celebrations, but it proved too costly for anyone but her.”

  “Do you have a sample or know where this Beaux is?” I asked eagerly.

  Dmitri sighed. “The perfume must be lost, like everything else. Beaux enlisted during the war; I don’t know where he is now. Perhaps in Grasse? Rallet owns fields there. My sister Marie might know.”

  Grasse was famous, a swath in southern France where such distinguished houses as Coty and Guerlain grew special hybrids for their scents. I wanted to go there at once, to track down this mysterious Beaux, but Misia’s upcoming wedding derailed my plan. No sooner had I decided to extend my time away than she telephoned to inform me that she and Sert would wed in August and she expected me back in Paris by then.

  Fitting her gown in less than a month was a torment; combative and resistant to anything less than the traditional, in the end we settled for the usual lace-and-silk affair. The wedding was a simple celebration, however, and as August thickened over Paris, we embarked on a monthlong yacht tour of Italy.

  IV

  Italy enchanted me. I had never been abroad and was swept up in the crumbling mosaic grandeur and serpentine waterways of Venice, where we stayed on the Lido, its stony beach washed by the turquoise lagoon.

  Sert proved an ideal travel companion. Bursting with exuberant knowledge, he took us to see the plundered Byzantine horses in San Marco, the wealth of Titians and other paintings in the museums, and yanked us down twisted byways to find hidden restaurants that served roasted sparrows wrapped in prosciutto. He was indefatigable, to the point that he exhausted us and Misia declared, “Enough with dead masters!” and hauled me off to antiques shops that yielded gilded masks, painted icons, and incense-suffused relics.

  I was happier than I had been since losing Boy. I thought of him often, not with the suffocating sadness that had accompanied his memory until now, but with a yearning that he could have been there with me, to share my fascination with this sinking city known as La Serenissima. I ceased to rely as much on Misia’s elixir, the lapping of water instead rocking me to sleep without the need to numb my senses. My penchant for gondolier-inspired loose trousers that reached above the ankles, nautical pullovers, and cork-soled sandals spawned an international trend.

  But Dmitri became a stone about my neck. He walked around with a mournful air, as if the beauty around him only reminded him of the beauty he had lost. I soon grew tired of his moods and nightly cough, exacerbated by the damp, as well as his increasing penchant for heavy drinking and unimaginative lovemaking.

  Sensing my impatience, Misia dug in the knife. “I heard he was madly in love with his own cousin, Felix Yusupov
, who connived with him to kill Rasputin. He even made his way to London after the revolution to reunite with Felix, but they had a falling-out because Felix was bragging to everyone that he helped bring down the tsar. Dmitri accused him of threatening his own hopes of being restored to the throne.” She paused at my deliberate lack of reaction. “I trust you’re taking precautions. These men who go with other men, well . . . they can give one the most horrendous ailments. Having to take mercury cures for the clap would put a significant damper on your schedule.”

  I rolled my eyes. I didn’t tell her that by now Dmitri’s sole enthusiasm was for vodka. The only time he perked up was when we went to meet his sister and Diaghilev for lunch in a palazzo on the Grand Canal. Grand Duchess Marie was staying as the guest of an illustrious Italian aristocrat’s wife, for much like their counterparts in Paris, the Italian nobility found entertaining a displaced Russian princess irresistible, regardless of the expense.

  Diaghilev was delighted to see us. I had not spent time with him outside of the parties held for the Ballets Russes, when he’d been invariably intoxicated and preoccupied with his latest dancer du jour. I saw his genuine but wary affection for Misia, who did not try, as she usually did, to dominate the conversation when he griped about his financial setbacks in attempting to mount a revival of Stravinsky’s Rite of Spring. The composer had moved to Switzerland to recover from a bout of typhoid but remained dogged by ill fortune: “He has his family with him now, but his wife, Katya, has consumption and he’s barely eking out a living,” Diaghilev said. “I want to bring him back to Paris and reintroduce his genius to the world. The times have changed. I’m certain we’d have great success together.”