Twining her life around Amory’s had given her support. If that support were taken away – if she allowed Amory to leave Paris without her – would she not simply collapse, like an ivy plant stripped off a wall?
Her bold plans to continue alone, to launch her career as a journalist, seemed absurd as her teeth chattered and her legs twitched in this dark, alien room. What did she really know about journalism or photography? Let alone about life? Who was she trying to kid? She should jump up now, seek out Amory, beg him to forgive her and take her back. The alternative was to risk falling into an abyss: a black void, out of which she would never be able to crawl.
Disconnected impressions of the past few days flashed through her mind. The mother clutching her baby as the pastry cook hacked off her hair. George’s milky, half-open eyes, his face caked in congealed blood. Amory’s expression when she’d told him she wasn’t going to Dijon with him. The erotic touch of Suzy Solidor’s mouth on her throat. Bérard’s staring blue eyes, impersonating a desire he did not feel. The images now all seemed so sinister to her that her shuddering intensified and her skin crawled with horror. What was she doing here? Had she destroyed her life? Had she been too harsh with Amory? She missed him dreadfully. Why had she sent him away? It had been madness.
She peered at her watch. It was three in the morning. Despite that, she couldn’t stay in bed a moment longer. She emerged from the mountain of bedclothes into the icy darkness, wrapping her dressing gown around her shivering body, and tiptoed out of her room. There was a light burning in the little salon. Dior was awake, huddled by the stove with a drawing pad on his knees. He looked up in surprise.
‘Are you unwell?’
‘I – I can’t stop trembling,’ Copper said through chattering teeth. ‘I think it’s nerves.’ She suddenly saw the figure of Christian Bérard slumped on the sofa behind Dior. ‘Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to intrude.’
‘Don’t worry about Bébé. He has smoked two pipes of opium and he won’t wake up.’
‘Opium?’
‘He’s an addict. It will kill him one day. I think I am doomed to lose all those whom I love. Come and sit with me.’ He put another precious log into the stove and a dim glow flickered behind the murky glass of the door. ‘It’s natural to have nerves. You have been through a great deal.’ He was bundled into a red paisley robe with a woollen scarf wound around his throat. He took off the scarf and transferred it to her in a fatherly way. She’d somehow imagined his body to be pink and smooth, but she glimpsed a triangle of surprisingly hairy chest. ‘I always dream of dresses, you see.’
‘Do you really?’
‘Yes, but then I have to get up in the night. I must make sketches before I forget them.’ He showed her the fluid lines in his sketchbook. ‘These are cocktail gowns in satin. I saw the cut of the neckline in my dreams.’
‘Then you must really have fashion in your blood.’
He glanced at her from under his heavy lids. ‘Oh, I know what they say about me. Dior is a dilettante; Dior is an amateur, wasting what little talent he has on silly frocks for silly women. But there is more to it than that. Fashion is art, my dear. High art. Dior, in his way, strives to be a high artist, just like his friends.’
‘I can see that.’
‘It has taken me ten years to learn what little I know, first with Piguet, then with Lelong. It fascinates me more and more. Finding the right material to express my ideas. Knowing the easy fabrics, the difficult fabrics. Foreseeing the way each material falls, the way it drapes, the way it changes shape, like liquid, on a woman’s body.’ His hands caressed imaginary curves in the air. ‘Learning what one can achieve with a shantung, with a handsome tweed, with a heavy wool or a fine linen. How to cut on the bias so that every fold moves with the woman inside. How to disguise what is ugly and enhance what is beautiful. How to pleat, fold, gather, trim. Enfin, the mysteries of the trade.’
She gave a little laugh that was half a sigh. His light, gentle voice was soothing and Copper felt her shivering begin to subside. ‘You’re a very sweet man, Monsieur Dior. No wonder your friends all dote on you.’
He glanced at Bérard who had started to snore loudly. ‘They’re distinctly bohemian for the most part, aren’t they? And I, by contrast, am distinctly bourgeois. That has become something of an insult lately. In the mouth of Monsieur Giroux, for example, “bourgeois” is the vilest of epithets. But I know what I am and I am proud of it. I come from solid, Norman stock. What else can I be, but solid and Norman?’
‘Your friends say you’re a genius,’ she replied.
He hesitated. ‘Clothing comes between our own nakedness and the world. It can be a disguise, a fancy-dress costume, a fantasy. Or it can express one’s true self more accurately than any words. For men like me . . .’ He didn’t finish the sentence. ‘Are you really going to divorce your husband?’
‘Yes. But I’m not sure where to begin. Perhaps we’ll have to go the American embassy.’
‘Since you are both resident in France, and are divorcing par consentement mutuel, all you need to do is draw up an agreement and present it to a French judge. You could be free in as little as a month.’
‘A month!’
‘Thanks to the Emperor Napoleon, French divorce laws are very sensible.’
Copper felt a little breathless. ‘I didn’t know it could be so quick.’
‘Are you having second thoughts?’
‘No. My marriage is over. It was over a long time ago.’
‘If you like, I will help you with the agreement.’
‘Thank you.’
She found herself dozing, half-hearing the scribble of his pencil and the occasional rustle of logs slumping inside the stove. When she awoke again, she found that Dior must have led her, or perhaps even carried her, back to bed. The shivering had subsided, leaving her weak and limp. She rolled over and went back to sleep.
Four
George’s funeral was an unusual occasion for various reasons. For one thing, an unexpected number and variety of mourners arrived at Père Lachaise Cemetery to see him off. Several foreign correspondents and photographers turned up, many of whom were the Frightful Bounder’s drinking companions and were already, by noon, in various states of drunkenness.
In addition, all those of Dior’s circle who had promised to come arrived, and they brought with them a number of friends. Christian Bérard came wrapped in a billowing black coat, underneath which he was clearly still in his pyjamas, which were covered in cigarette ash and burn holes. His little white bichon frise, Jacinthe, was tucked under his arm.
Suzy Solidor was dressed as a man in a frock coat and top hat, carrying an ebony cane, her embroidered waistcoat hung with a gold chain. The two ballet dancers had come as Harlequin and Columbine and looked quite eerie flitting among the graves. There was also a person of indeterminate sex who had come in a crimson cloak. Though others were not actually in fancy dress, their hats and clothes were extravagant enough to draw attention. Some had brought flowers, or less conventional objects such as a hobby horse and a blue bicycle. The whole effect struck Copper as dreamlike, as if the occasion were not surreal enough.
The day was grey and windy. A pale sickle moon was suspended behind the trees, which were showering leaves on to the rows of monumental masonry. A marble angel nearby, streaked with green, stared at the odd gathering with blank eyes.
Amory met her at the vault where George’s coffin was to be interred. He was wearing his overcoat, his fair hair blowing in the wind. He was accompanied by Ernest Hemingway, the writer, who, it seemed, had become his friend. They were both drunk. ‘You’re not really serious about this damned divorce business, are you?’ he greeted her.
‘Yes.’ Copper spoke bravely, as though her terrors of the night hadn’t happened. ‘I’m serious. You’ll get the papers. All you have to do is sign them.’
He belched. ‘And you’re determined on staying here?’ He gazed around at the fantastical collection of mourners. ‘With
this crazy bunch?’
She felt that she was bleeding from somewhere inside. ‘Yes. I’m running away with the circus.’
‘Who the hell are all these people, anyway?’ Hemingway demanded. He was wearing a khaki shirt, sleeves rolled up in defiance of the cold, a cigarette clamped in his teeth.
‘Friends of Monsieur Dior’s. They all insisted on coming.’
Hemingway swigged from a hip flask and passed it to Amory. ‘In Paris, nobody wants to be a spectator. Everybody’s an actor.’
‘It hasn’t taken you long to get yourself mixed up with the lunatic fringe,’ Amory said. ‘Every freak in Paris is here. Is this your idea of a decent funeral?’
‘Considering that George drank himself to death,’ she replied tartly, ‘I’d say it was rather appropriate.’
Amory turned to look at the vault that was being prepared for George by two elderly bricklayers with trowels and hammers. A damp-looking tunnel had been opened in the wall. The bricklayers were scraping out moss and other debris. ‘This belongs to a Protestant family who’ve agreed to let George be buried with their nearest and dearest. There’s going to be a problem, though,’ Amory slurred.
‘What sort of problem?’
‘You’ll see,’ he replied gloomily. Her determination to separate from him had made him sulky, if not shattered by grief. Perhaps he still thought she was only pretending and would change her mind at the last minute. Dior joined them, immaculate in a dark suit and bowler hat, proffering conventional condolences. She was again struck by the contrast between his middle-class conservatism and the weirdness of his friends. She was glad to have him there, standing beside her in his diffident and fatherly way.
A brisk US Army chaplain, arranged by Amory, now arrived and announced that he was prepared to begin the ceremony. The three dozen or so mourners gathered around expectantly. From behind a mausoleum, the pall-bearers emerged, rather unsteadily carrying George’s coffin. Copper immediately saw what the problem was going to be. The Frightful Bounder had been a large man and the coffin had been made to fit him; but the recess was narrow, intended for a smaller recipient.
‘I don’t think it’s going to fit,’ Dior murmured in her ear.
‘I can see that.’
The chaplain had started the service. The coffin was lifted, with a great deal of grunting and gasping, to the recess, which was rather high up; but it soon got stuck and would not slide in any further.
‘Perhaps if the handles were removed?’ Dior suggested.
The coffin was lowered again. One of the bricklayers produced a screwdriver and the handles were unscrewed, disappearing into a coat pocket. The chaplain waited rather impatiently, glancing at his watch.
Without handles, the coffin was even more difficult to manoeuvre. And once again, it got stuck. Amory cursed under his breath. The coffin was lowered to the ground. The masons began to pry off the wooden rails using their trowels. These produced a loud groaning sound as they came away, as though amplified by the box they were attached to. Everyone winced, except Bérard, who burst out laughing.
‘My God,’ Hemingway snorted. ‘The old bastard really doesn’t want to go.’
Shorn of handles and cornices, the coffin was once again heaved up to the niche. By now the pall-bearers and the masons were all red-faced and sweating, despite the cold. This time, the coffin scraped all the way into the hole. But a new difficulty arose: the box was too long and protruded by several inches. There were sniggers and groans of dismay.
Tight-lipped, one of the masons stepped forward, unasked, and simply knocked off the end of the coffin with his hammer. It fell to the ground, revealing the worn soles of Fritchley-Bound’s shoes. The masons swiftly cemented a concrete slab over the awful hole. The pall-bearers, exhausted, passed around a bottle, swigging deeply.
The army chaplain finished the service, closed his prayer book and departed swiftly, looking glad to be finished. But the bizarre mourning party was in no mood to break up. As she had promised, Suzy began to sing ‘Chant des adieux’, which turned out to be ‘Auld Lang Syne’ with French words. Her voice was strong and resonant. Amory stepped forward and chalked George’s name and dates on the slab. ‘The marble won’t be ready for a few weeks,’ he said. There was appreciative applause when Suzy finished, and the pop of a bottle being opened.
‘I’m leaving for Dijon now,’ Amory told Copper, turning his back on the motley crowd. He led her out of the cold wind into the shelter at the back of the mausoleum. ‘You can have your divorce. Just send me the papers, okay?’
‘Okay.’
‘What are you going to do about money?’
‘I’ve got some put by.’
‘It’s not going to last.’ He drew an envelope from the recesses of his greatcoat. ‘Here. Take this.’
‘I don’t want it.’
‘Take it,’ he growled. ‘If you insist on being a little fool, you’re going to need it.’
‘Don’t call me a fool.’ She was so angry that she almost threw the money back in his face. But sense prevailed, and her annoyance at least helped her to dry her tears. She put the envelope in her bag. He looked wretched.
‘This is cockeyed.’
‘I guess so.’
‘I don’t want anyone to blame me if things go wrong for you,’ he said. ‘I promised your family that I’d take care of you. I don’t like leaving you.’
‘Don’t worry. I won’t blame you for anything that happens, Amory.’
He rubbed his face roughly, almost as though he were about to cry. ‘I love you. I don’t know what I’m going to do without you.’
‘I would have thought you’d be glad to get rid of me. Now you won’t need to feel guilty about all your affairs.’
‘I never did feel guilty. Perhaps that was the problem.’
‘I guess so. You’ve never once said that you were sorry.’
‘Would it have made any difference if I had?’
‘No.’
‘Very well, then. I suppose this is goodbye.’
He kissed her on the cheek. His lips felt cold. ‘Good luck, Copper.’
‘You, too. Don’t take any wooden nickels.’
And that was that. She watched him walk down the avenue between the vaults, his duffel bag hoisted on one shoulder, Hemingway at his side. There was no longer even any anger against him left. Only the loss of him – and with him, a large part of herself. How was she going to manage without him? Her bravado had long since evaporated. She felt desolate.
A comforting hand touched her shoulder. ‘You should come home and rest now,’ Dior said gently. She nodded her assent. He took her arm and they left the strange funeral party in full swing, almost unnoticed by the others.
Dior’s apartment was permeated by an ancient, very Parisian cold and damp. The little enamelled stove had to be cleaned out and relit every morning. Facing this task, Copper found herself short of paper to light the kindling. All she had was the sheaf of women’s magazines that she had been carrying around in her case, with their advice on ‘How to keep a husband’.
She opened one now and read a few lines: ‘Flattery is the food of men. The women who can show appreciation of their company, judgment and tastes, and be serenely oblivious of their peccadilloes, will succeed in managing their husbands.’
Yes, that had worked well. She ripped out the page in disgust, crumpled it and thrust it into the stove.
She tried another: ‘Don’t sit up till he comes home; better to be in bed and pretend to be asleep. If you must be awake, seem to be glad he came home early. He’ll probably think you an idiot; but that’s inevitable anyway.’
An idiot? She had certainly been that. This page, too, went into the stove.
A third presented itself to her eye: ‘Don’t mope and cry because you are ill – women should never be ill. It will only disgust your husband.’
Was this really the wisdom she had tried to follow? No wonder Amory had walked all over her. She crumpled the pages furiously and stuff
ed them under the wood. The rest of the magazines went into the log basket to be usefully burned. She wouldn’t read them again. From now on she would write her own damned stories.
The bright flames licked up and heat began to radiate from the stove. Dior was awake now. He had the rare knack of being comforting without being obvious about it. He said nothing about Amory’s departure, or her obvious misery. Instead, he made a pot of tea and sat with her, looking at her thoughtfully with his head to one side.
She cupped her hands around the warm teacup. ‘Why are you looking at me like that, Monsieur Dior?’
‘I am thinking that your dressing gown will never do.’
Copper had bundled herself into her woollen dressing gown. ‘I know it’s rather old,’ she admitted.
‘A dressing gown is one of the most important garments in your wardrobe.’
‘Really?’
‘It’s the first thing you put on every day, and how your husband sees you every morning.’
‘I don’t have a husband, in case you haven’t noticed,’ she pointed out.
‘You certainly won’t encourage any new applicants,’ he said tartly, ‘if you start every day looking dowdy.’
‘I don’t want another husband,’ she said. ‘And I’ve just decided that I don’t care about pleasing any more men, thank you.’
‘Being independent doesn’t mean being a frump, Copper. In my experience, the unmarried women are the smartest. Now, if you will permit me, I’m going to take your dressing gown to my seamstresses tomorrow and ask them to put on a little frilling. And perhaps some pretty velvet trim.’
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