The Last Collection

by Jeanne Mackin

  “I’ll get the number and tell her you’ll call later.”

  When the office door was locked behind her, Schiap gave it a little pat for luck, for love.

  “Don’t forget to lock all the doors and windows in the rooms,” she said.

  “I have never forgotten, Madame.”

  “I know. But I have a feeling.”

  “Madame often has feelings. All will be locked.”

  Schiap touched the door three more times to make four, her lucky number.

  • THREE •

  When César Ritz built his great hotel, he had two things in mind: luxury and privacy. The Paris Ritz, unlike other hotels, doesn’t really have a lobby. There’s a thickly carpeted entrance, several officious clerks keeping guard, and then passages into the private rooms. Loiterers and photographers and gossip columnists were personae non gratae. Without a large lobby, there was nowhere for them to lurk.

  Charlie and I, pretending not to be impressed, followed the bellhop who led us to the Lady Mendl private affair, passing the famous bar where F. Scott Fitzgerald once ate an entire bouquet, petal by petal, trying to seduce a young woman. I glanced in, and Charlie did, too. There, gleaming through the blue smoke, sat Ania, chatting with the bartender. I raised my hand and started to call to her, but Charlie stopped me.

  “Keep walking,” he said under his breath. “Ania and I can’t walk in together.”

  The private room, up the grand staircase where Charlie led me, was filled with the scent of gardenias, hundreds of them in vases placed on tables, in corners. On the buffet, platters of chilled lobsters and roast beef, cut glass bowls of caviar nestled into larger silver bowls filled with ice, candied tangerines arranged as beautifully as a Dutch still life, reds and pinks, charcoal blacks, blues, the white gleam of light reflecting on polished metals.

  I took a plate and helped myself to the lobster salad.

  “These are Lady Mendl’s two hundred closest friends,” Charlie whispered, grinning, and it was like being a child again, Charlie and me dressed in our best, mixing with the grown-ups. Our aunt’s friends had never dressed like this, though, in couture and with jewels dangling from wrists, necks, and earlobes. “Smile,” Charlie whispered, guiding me through the doorway. “Pretend we do this every night. Act rich.” He gave me a little pinch on the arm.

  “You mean I shouldn’t tuck my napkin under my chin?” I whispered back.

  We passed the orchestra dais, where a jazz band was playing “Georgia on My Mind.” The dark-haired, mustached guitarist was using only two fingers on his left hand to fret the chords; the last two fingers were curled, frozen, into his palm. His hand danced over the neck of the guitar at dizzying speed.

  “Django Reinhardt,” Charlie said. “The gypsy jazz musician. He was in a caravan fire when he was eighteen. He retaught himself to play guitar with his injured hand.” Reinhardt looked up just then and scowled as if he knew we were talking about him.

  Ania came in a minute after we did and sat at a table with a group of women who looked as if, between themselves, they owned most of the rubies mined in India, the diamonds of South Africa. She was wearing her new Schiaparelli dress, the pale green sequined dress with a deeper green turban wrapped around her head, and a heavy necklace of turquoise and golden topaz. When she rose to greet us, all heads turned to stare. Ania, I would learn, always had that effect.

  “Don’t be nervous,” she whispered to me after she had given Charlie la bise, the double kiss on the cheeks that, in France, you would give to just about anyone except the dentist about to pull your tooth. In my mind’s eye I saw their hands entwined under the table in the Schiaparelli salon, that “never let me go” grip.

  “I’m not nervous,” I said. To be nervous, you have to care about the place, the people, their opinion. To care, you have to be awake inside, under the skin. It had been two years since I had cared, since I had been fully awake.

  Ania took my arm and guided me through the candlelit room, Charlie following. She found a little table at the edge of the room and installed me there.

  “Smile for the camera. That’s Cecil Beaton, the photographer.” Ania nodded in the direction of a slender, balding man hungrily eyeing the crowd, looking for shots. “Next to him, Daisy Fellowes, the sewing machine heiress, with Duchess d’Ayen. That man who looks like a homeless bum, that’s Christian Bérard, the artist. The actor Douglas Fairbanks, his wife, Sylvia. Darryl Zanuck, the movie producer. Maurice de Rothschild, the banker. The Duke and Duchess of Windsor . . .

  “And that,” she said in a softer voice, as Charlie came to the table with a plate of foie gras and biscuits, “that is the handsomest, sweetest man in the world. Not a penny to his name.”

  We sat and listened to the music, hot jazz with the saxophone sobbing out blue notes. A troop of waiters moved through the crowded room with buckets of champagne and trays of gem-colored cocktails: amethyst, ruby, quartz, pearl. Ania took one of the amethyst cocktails, an “aviator” made with gin and crème de violette. Purple is a combination of blue and red, cold and hot, the color of royalty and mourning, the color of early evening on a cloudy day.

  Charlie handed me a cocktail and whispered, “Try to enjoy yourself, Lily.”

  The room shimmered with crystal, candlelight, sequined gowns. I silently compared the evening with my nights in England, most of them spent alone in the studio, pretending I was going to begin painting any moment, listening to the ticking clock, the static on the radio, the sense that nothing was ever again going to change.

  Charlie moved from table to table to chat—he had a mission that evening; it was never too soon to begin thinking about rich patrons, and the room was full of rich Americans as well as French and English. I saw how many faces turned his way, female and male, to watch him, that charming, ambitious young man. Ania also fluttered away to various people once she realized I was content to sit and watch.

  I took a pencil from my handbag and began to draw on a cocktail napkin, just lines, no modeling, no hint of light and shadow, only black graphite on white paper.

  “You’re a quiet one,” said a man, leaning close to speak into my ear. “And I wouldn’t let Bérard see that caricature of him you’ve drawn.” It was the black-eyed guitarist. Up close, I could see the beading sweat on his high forehead, the threads of gray beginning in his narrow black mustache. His black jacket and shirt smelled of smoky campfires.

  “Bérard would find it insulting, I suppose.”

  “No. He’d be jealous. It’s good.” Django sat in the chair opposite me and drank the cocktail Ania had left.

  “I like your music,” I said. “Especially that version of ‘Dark Eyes.’ Usually it’s played so slow, so sad.”

  “I play it the jazz way. Life’s already sad. Music should move the passion down into your feet. But oh, sister, you don’t dance. Why?”

  “Not in the mood. Your name, Django. What is it?” I asked.

  “A gypsy word. It means ‘I awake.’ Unlike most of this crowd. It is a circus, isn’t it? That woman over there . . .” He nodded toward the table on our left. “She’s wearing enough gold to buy her own country. Maybe she already has.” He laughed and lit a cigarette.

  “That’s the Duchess of Windsor,” I said, and hoped she hadn’t heard.

  “Duchess!” Django called out, and waved. Wallis Simpson smiled stiffly and looked in the other direction. It occurred to me that the band members weren’t supposed to sit with the guests. Screw that. I pulled my chair closer to Django’s and smiled at him, looking conspiratorially into those dark Roma eyes.

  “Damn the duchess,” I said.

  “That’s the spirit, sister. Her and her Nazi-loving husband. I can’t wait to finish this job. Too many snobs, too much gold here. I miss my people, and believe me, they aren’t in the Ritz eating caviar.”

  He leaned back and squinted through the smoke from his cigar
ette. “You are American? First time in Paris?”

  “Second. I was here when I was younger.”

  “You picked a strange time to return.” He nodded toward a corner of the room, at a table where a group of men in uniform were sitting together, laughing loudly. German uniforms.

  “You know, they hate the Roma,” Django said, lighting a cigarette. “Maybe even more than they hate the Jews.” One of them must have heard Django. He turned and stared at us, his eyes moving from Django’s face to mine, back and forth. Django stared him down, though, and it was the officer’s turn to blush and look away.

  Django muttered something I couldn’t understand, words in a language that seemed as old as time and just as incomprehensible.

  Charlie and Ania were leaning against a column in the shadows. “You know the last line of the opening verse of ‘Dark Eyes’? ‘I met you in an unlucky hour.’ That blonde sister has bad luck, and she’ll pass it on. You came in with him?”

  “He’s my little brother.”

  A loud commotion at the other end of the room interrupted the buzz of conversation, and all attention tilted in that direction, as if we were on a listing ship.

  “Elsie is here,” Django said. “Elsie de Wolfe. Lady Mendl.”

  A slender woman of indeterminate age entered the room and surveyed it in a queenly fashion. She was backlit, and the lights in the hall behind her made her look like an angel for the top of a Christmas tree. Her red gown was cut in Oriental style, with sleeves that draped over the skirt and a high collar on the overcoat.

  Definitely a Schiaparelli gown, I noted.

  Lady Mendl made a stately beeline for the table to our right, and when she spoke to the Duchess of Windsor, we all heard it.

  “Wally! Dearest. Why didn’t ’cha tell me you were gonna be here! I woulda been on time for a change!” Elsie de Wolfe had the broadest, loudest New York accent I had ever heard, and it was so at odds with her stylish appearance, the regal way she had entered, and the reverence with which the others in the room obviously admired her, I couldn’t help but laugh.

  Django took a long drag on his cigarette and blew the smoke over my shoulder. “Don’t let the accent fool you,” he said. “She’s the smartest person here, male or female. Get in her good graces and stay there if you want to be a success.” He stubbed out his cigarette in a bronze ashtray and pushed back his chair. “Back to work,” he said.

  The other musicians had already gathered on their platform and were through the first measures of a song.

  “They started without you,” I said.

  He grinned. “If this crowd doesn’t stop acting like a room of corpses they’ll finish without me, too. Thanks for the drink.”

  Elsa Schiaparelli made her appearance halfway through the second set. She was draped in purple jersey embroidered with silver flowers. Her quick, black eyes scanned the room, and she waved when she saw me.

  From the corner of my eye I could see my brother and his girl in the middle of the dance floor, swaying together, his blond head leaning against her even blonder one. I wondered if her husband was somewhere in this crowd, watching. Schiap saw Charlie and Ania, too, and stopped briefly to talk with them. She said something that reminded them they weren’t alone, I thought, because after that they put some distance between themselves when they danced.

  Schiap came over and sat with me. “I just told Madame Bouchard that some sequins might loosen if she danced quite that closely with your brother,” she said. “And people do talk. I see your dress fits. Good.” Schiap beamed so that her little saint’s face lit up. One of the waiters working the room immediately brought her a glass of champagne, but she did not touch it. This was work, her posture said, and Schiap didn’t drink when she was working.

  “You should get up, move around, let people see you in that dress,” she said.

  “I will. In a few minutes.”

  The music ended and Charlie and Ania came back to the table. Ania was flushed and lovely; Charlie looked worried. Schiap, narrowing her eyes, taking in all the implications of the scene, toasted the couple with her untasted champagne.

  “See that woman over there? The one in the backless black velvet?” Schiap leaned her head close to mine, and her eyes blazed in the direction of the woman. “It’s one of mine, and she’s removed the white satin bow that’s supposed to be just above the derriere. I’ve warned her that if she keeps altering my gowns she’ll be barred from the salon. I’m an artist. You don’t meddle with my creations.”

  “Why would you?” Ania agreed.

  I thought Schiap’s response was a little strong for a tiff with a client till I saw where her gaze had stopped: the woman in the altered gown was sitting at the table of German officers.

  She rose. “Well, time to mingle. And oh, a word. Baron von Dincklage’s automobile was just pulling up a minute ago.” There was acid in her voice when she said “baron.” Schiap, it was apparent, had no great fondness for titles. She smiled at Ania and left.

  “I thought he was still in Sanary-sur-Mer,” Ania whispered. She had turned ashen.

  She dropped Charlie’s hand. They looked like two guilty adolescents who had been caught out. Who is Baron von Dincklage? I wondered. And what is he to Madame Bouchard? Certainly not her husband, unless she used a different name for some reason. I had a sudden urge to flee, to pull Charlie away with me, like we did when we were children being chased by a snarling dog, pulling my brother away from danger.

  What if I had left then and pulled Charlie along with me? Would things have turned out any differently?

  Django and his band started playing a quick fox-trot just as the woman I’d seen standing on the balcony entered. I recognized the long string of pearls, the slim black jersey sheath. Now, in the stronger light, I could see the details of her face, the heavy black brows over black eyes, the long scarlet mouth. She was as thin as an exclamation point and leaned slightly back as she walked.

  She was accompanied by a man in military uniform, a German uniform. He was a head taller than she was, broadly built, stern, good-looking in the same blond way that Charlie was.

  “Coco Chanel. She’s wearing the pearls from the Grand Duke Dmitri,” a woman behind me whispered.

  “And the diamond bracelet from the Duke of Westminster,” said a second woman, her voice full of both awe and disapproval.

  Coco, unsmiling, surveyed the room. It seemed to me that she and the German with her had met by accident rather than appointment because they were both hesitant about what to do next. Von Dincklage made a little bow as if he would go to a different table, but Coco put her hand on his arm and her diamond bracelet glinted its thousands of facets. He nodded yes. They sat together at an empty table, two tables over from us.

  Ania drained the fresh cocktail Charlie had brought and turned slightly away from him so that she was facing me. There was panic in her eyes. I had never hunted, but I imagined this was what the fox looked like when the dogs had found its trail.

  I smiled, laughed a little, said something fatuous, the kind of comment made in the middle of a silly conversation, pretending we had been talking about her hairdresser for hours. Ania caught on. “Too much pomade,” she agreed. Charlie discreetly rose and made his way to the buffet table.

  Von Dincklage helped Coco out of her neat little bolero jacket and handed it to an aide who had followed closely behind them. The other man, young and deferential, made a heel-clicking half bow and went off in search of the hat-check room.

  Ania by now had also left our table. Her initial panic had resolved into confidence of what she knew must happen next: she went to the baron, gave him her hand, and offered her cheek for a kiss to this formidable man who eyed the room as if he expected applause simply for arriving.

  Charlie, who had returned with a plate of strawberries, leaned close and spoke as quietly as possible. “That’s Hans Günther von Dinc
klage. Head of the German press and propaganda department in Paris. Ania is his mistress.”

  “Are he and Coco Chanel also lovers?” I asked. There was intimacy in the way she looked at him, the way she took his hand as he pulled out her chair for her. The air felt thick with danger and secrets.

  “I don’t know. I hope so. Maybe that would keep him away from Ania. Is that Coco Chanel?” Charlie and I watched, our attention as fiercely caught as if we were at a play, complete with costumes and lighting effects: the famous designer, the German officer, Ania standing there, her arms hanging at her sides like a child about to be reprimanded.

  Charlie looked absolutely miserable.

  “Oh, Charlie. What have you gotten yourself into?”

  “Love,” he said.

  Coco looked up from where she had put her evening bag on the table. “Good evening,” she said to Ania, finally acknowledging her. “A new frock, I see. What a sense of humor Schiaparelli has. This is the reason you left my salon so quickly?”

  Say something, I silently ordered Ania, something witty and light, but she could not, and the look in Coco’s black eyes, dilated from the dim light, was frightening.

  “Really?” Von Dincklage tilted his head back for a better look. “I rather like the frock.” He corrected himself hurriedly. “Not as lovely as one of your gowns, of course, Mademoiselle Chanel.”

  Mademoiselle. He hadn’t called her Coco. They weren’t lovers. Not yet. But judging by the look in Coco’s eyes, if she had her way, they soon would be.

  The aide standing stiffly behind von Dincklage saw us watching. He blushed when our eyes met, and then he frowned. Coco and von Dincklage rose to dance, and the aide came over, stood in front of me, and clicked his heels. He looked about my age. There were the beginnings of fine lines at the corners of his eyes, that first sign that announces the midtwenties, but he had that very fair complexion that Charlie and Ania had, the kind of coloring that looks almost childish well into middle age.