Coco at the Ritz, page 10
She was overjoyed when she became pregnant by Boy in 1918, and eagerly awaited his baby, imagining what the child would be like. Coco was sure it was a girl, a little sister for André. She imagined her as beautiful, slim, and dark-haired, with Boy’s black eyes and long lashes. She would go to university, Oxford or Cambridge, in England and study all the subjects her mother had missed in her shoddy convent education: philosophy, English, Greek. She would play the piano and sing and make a superb marriage to a man as accomplished and aristocratic as Boy, a man who adored her and would always be faithful. She would not have a career. She would never have to become a horrible bitch to assert her authority over a staff of seamstresses. She would be happy.
Boy was in London, and Coco was alone in their apartment one night three months later, when she started to bleed. By morning, she’d lost the baby.
Coco had been only thirty-five. There was still reason to hope. A baby perhaps would convince Boy to marry her, though Coco knew that was unlikely. A scrappy French dressmaker was hardly a suitable wife for a rising British captain of industry with social and political ambitions. By the end of the year, Boy had married someone else—Diana Wyndham, the daughter of an English lord. The only way Coco could cope with Boy’s marriage was to pretend it hadn’t happened, and her friends knew never to utter Madame Capel’s name. “If you do, Coco will cut you out of her life,” Misia warned Cocteau and Max. In fact, little had changed for Coco—Capel still loved her and lived part-time with her in France at La Milanese, a stuccoed villa fifteen miles outside Paris that was quiet and remote from prying eyes.
On Christmas Eve 1919, returning to his wife after a visit with Coco, Capel crashed his Rolls-Royce in Cannes and died instantly. Coco drove all night to the scene of the accident—desperate to feel close to Boy by standing at the spot where he took his last breath. Boy’s body had been removed from the crash site, but his charred Rolls lay in the ditch. Coco walked around the wreck slowly, running her hand along every inch of the blackened metal carcass. Then she sat on a large stone by the side of the road and sobbed for three hours.
When she returned to Paris, she called Max Jacob. In many ways, he was the opposite of Boy—destitute, playful, homosexual. He’d come from a middle-class family in Quimper and fled to Paris as a young man to become a poet. Coco met him when Picasso, who’d befriended Max when they were both struggling newcomers, brought him to a dinner party at Misia’s. Max told her once how he converted to Catholicism: he’d come home one day from the Bibliothèque Nationale, where he’d been conducting research on mysticism, and saw a vision of Christ on the wall of his humble room. Of course, to Coco, Max was ever a Jew, as she was ever a Catholic peasant girl with mistrust of the Jewish faith bred in her bones, a prejudice as fierce and primal as the mistral wind that raged through the Auvergne in winter.
That didn’t stop them from becoming close. Coco came to rely on Max for amusement, comfort, and consolation. When she was unhappy, he would spend hours sitting with her, trying to understand her. He was available to her in a way that Misia, with her jealous nature, and Cocteau, with his ambition and nonstop working, were not.
When she called Max after Boy Capel’s death, he came immediately.
He found Coco lying on the sofa in her salon, an ashtray overflowing with cigarette butts on the table in front of her. Her face was drawn, her skin the color of ash. Max sat at her feet and promised to show her something that would pull her from her despair. He took a notebook from his jacket and drew a quick sketch of Jesus Christ—sturdy beard, flowing robe, halo behind His head. And Max gave Him a new hairdo—short on the sides showing the tips of His beautiful ears, a side part, and one long section in front extending to His chin. “The Jesus Christ bob,” he said, handing the notebook to Coco.
She sat up and smiled weakly.
“I got the inspiration at church last Sunday morning,” Max told her. “I was falling asleep; I’d been out late the night before. Then I saw Him standing behind the altar. That’s when I noticed His new hairdo. Christ had been to the salon de beauté! No more flowing, shoulder-length tresses for our Lord, Jesus Christ.” He ripped the sketch from his notebook and handed it to Coco.
“I’ll show it to my hairdresser,” she said, stroking Max’s shoulder.
“Tell him it was divinely inspired.”
“Do you think he’ll believe me?”
“Yes! That’s what I told Paul Poiret when he asked for advice about the colors for his next collection. I told him I had a vision. He must use only black, blue, and purple. He looked at me with that fat dumb look he gets and said, ‘Really? The colors of a bruise?’ Yes, I told him, the colors the flesh becomes when it’s been beaten senseless. He believed me! And paid me handsomely—five hundred francs.”
“That’s good, Max.” Coco squeezed the poet’s hand. “You always manage to cheer me up.”
“I’m so sorry about Boy.”
“I don’t want to live without him.”
“He was married.”
“Still.” Coco looked out the window toward the Champs-Élysées, as if solace lay in the darkening sky above the trees.
“What would become of dreams if people were happy in their real lives?” Max asked.
“I know that line,” she said, on the edge of tears again. “It’s from one of Reverdy’s notebooks. You’re lucky, Max. You have someone who will never leave you.”
Max looked puzzled.
“God!”
“Thank the Lord.” Max closed his eyes and made the sign of the cross elaborately.
“Do you do that when you’re with your family?” she asked.
“Only when they’re not looking.”
* * *
Now it was Coco’s turn to bolster Max. Just a few days after her anti-Semitic outburst at Misia’s apartment, another letter came to the Ritz from him:
My dear Coco,
If only I could have hidden my family in a painting at the Louvre.
If only I could erase Hitler like I erase a drawing from one of my sketchbooks.
First my brother-in-law and now my sister Mirté-Léa. She was taken from her home yesterday in one of the Nazis’ round-ups. I suppose it is only a matter of time before the Gestapo comes for my sister Julie and my brother Gaston. I’m not worried about myself. The priests will protect me. They know I’m devoted to Jesus Christ.
I had not meant to bother you with more of my troubles, but I wanted to thank you for your most recent check, and I can’t avoid mentioning my heavy sadness.
Je t’embrasse,
Max
Coco read the sentences slowly, then folded the letter back into its envelope and put it in the bureau drawer where she kept all the letters she wanted to save—from Max, Boy Capel, Serge Diaghilev, Igor Stravinsky, the Duke of Westminster, Winston Churchill. They marked a record of her rise in the world, her important friendships, her triumphs. She liked to think she was someone who didn’t dwell in the past, but sometimes when she was alone, she enjoyed sifting through the letters, pulling one out to again scan the news, the compliments, the declarations of love. She’d done that more frequently in the past two years, since closing her house and having more time on her hands. Usually she came away cheered. But later that afternoon, Coco took Max’s letter out and read it again. Was he overstating the bleakness of the situation? With his eccentric sensibility, he easily lost grasp of reality and sometimes fell into dark moods. But the Nazis had already taken one of his sisters and a brother-in-law. That was real. Coco wondered for a moment if she should speak to Spatz—could he do anything for Max? No, Spatz couldn’t deliver André, let alone come to the aid of a homosexual, Jewish, avant-garde poet. She thought of Boy Capel again and remembered how Max, alone of her friends, even more than Misia, had recognized the depth of her grief—honored it, in a way—and then guided her through the harrowing days afterward.
Perhaps Max’s relatives would be released soon, Coco thought. Then she did the only thing she could think to do for poor Max. She took out her bankbook and wrote another check to him for two thousand francs.
SEVEN
Coco insisted that Cocteau write to her every week from the clinic to detail his progress. His treatment plan called for enemas, massages, and electric baths, which did little to ease the torture of his withdrawal from opium. He suffered horrible shaking, vomiting, crushing headaches, and hallucinations. Still, he stuck with it.
Two months passed, and one morning Coco got a call from Cocteau’s doctor. “I thought you should know, Monsieur Cocteau’s treatment was a success. His withdrawal ended more than a month ago.”
“Why are you holding him?” asked Coco.
“We’re not. He’s free to go, but he wants to stay. He says the clinic’s a great place to work. I thought you should know. You’re paying the bill.”
Coco left that afternoon for Vichy in a Mercedes and driver provided by Spatz. The clinic hid behind a copse of trees, a stone mansion on an emerald lawn surrounded by gardens. It was a cool Wednesday in June, the visitors’ parking lot empty. A fleet of workers were scattered across the grounds, mowing, watering, and clipping.
Coco checked in at the front desk, and a squat, middle-aged nurse escorted her to Cocteau’s room on the second floor. Cocteau half reclined on the iron bed, propped up on one elbow, a notebook open on the starched sheet. He wore a pair of navy flannel pants and a white shirt with the cuffs rolled back, displaying his frail wrists, as narrow as a girl’s. “Coco!” he cried. “What are you doing here?”
“I should have let you die, Cocteau!” she screamed. “Do you know how much this place costs me? You’ve been here two months, but the doctor says you were cured weeks ago.”
“After the cure, the deluge, the most dangerous time,” said Cocteau. His right hand held a pencil posed in midair for dramatic effect—he was ridiculously proud of his slender hands with their long, graceful fingers.
A cloud of confusion crossed Coco’s face. She kicked a pile of scrunched papers on the floor and looked up, astonished to see Max Jacob standing in the doorway holding a ceramic pitcher. “The flood of health. When you feel too good to paint and write,” said Max.
“What the hell are you doing here?” asked Coco.
Cocteau explained that he’d sent for Max. Marais was back in Paris filming another movie, and Cocteau had been lonely. Max had needed comforting, too. His brother-in-law, the antique dealer, had died while imprisoned by the Nazis at Drancy, probably from a beating, though Max never found out for sure. After her arrest, his sister Mirté-Léa had also disappeared into the hands of the Nazis.
The night nurse moved in a cot for Max, and he and Cocteau wrote ten hours a day.
“Here’s more water,” said Max, setting the pitcher on Cocteau’s bedside table.
Max was short, portly, and bald, with large brown eyes that gazed intensely beneath thick black brows. He wore a brown cassock and a crude wooden cross on a chain around his neck—the uniform he’d adopted for his life in the monastery at Saint-Benoît. No one at the clinic suspected that Max wasn’t really a Catholic monk.
“You look like a rabbi at a costume party,” Coco told him sharply.
“I feel comfortable this way, closer to God,” said Max.
Coco took in the room—the iron bed, Max’s cot, the tall, disheveled stack of papers on the small wood desk. More papers, pens, paintbrushes, ink bottles, and books littered the floor. Several of Max’s gouaches were scattered around the chair where he now took a seat.
“I don’t mind paying for doctors and treatments, but not if you don’t need them,” Coco said to Cocteau.
He sat up, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. “Who says I don’t need them?”
“You’ve been using this place like a hotel!”
“Jean finished a book,” Max announced.
Coco picked up a few papers off the floor and glanced through them. “This looks like your handwriting, Max.”
“I got a lot done, too.”
Coco opened her hands, and the papers drifted back to the floor. “You’ve been here the whole time?”
“On and off.”
“They allow it?”
“The staff doesn’t care. I’m invisible when I want to be.”
Coco walked around the room. She picked up bottles and read their labels, leafed through books, searched inside the wardrobe, and glanced under the rug. She didn’t trust Cocteau and suspected he was hiding drugs. Finally, she sat on the bed next to him.
“We miss you in Paris,” she said. Turning to Max, she added, “We miss you, too.” Then, to Cocteau, “Why don’t you come back with me? My car’s outside.”
Max shook his head and fingered the cross around his neck. “It’s too easy for Jean to get opium in Paris.”
Coco stood, her fists digging into her bony hips. “I’ll get you a room at the Ritz, on my floor, so I can keep an eye on you.”
Cocteau held up a long index finger. “One more week?”
“No!” Coco hauled Cocteau’s suitcase out of the wardrobe and flung it onto the bed.
“I’m writing seven pages a day.”
“I don’t care if you’re writing a hundred pages an hour. This place costs twice as much as the Ritz.” Coco pointed her chin in Max’s direction. “I’m paying for his meals, too?”
“He does party tricks for his supper. Tells fortunes for the staff,” said Cocteau.
Max grabbed Coco’s hand to read her palm, and she pulled it away. “You never let me,” he said.
She looked hard at Max, then softened her expression and held out her hand.
Max’s fingers felt rough and fleshy as they cupped hers. “The lines from the base of the fate line are strong,” he began. “I’ve seen them this strong only in Picasso. A fierce temperament. Strength, everywhere strength—good and bad strength. The life line is glorious. You will live to a very old age. Wealth will grow. Fame, too. Fame will play too large a role in your life. Only the line of the heart becomes weak. This troubles me—it grows fainter and fainter as time goes on. Love slips from your grasp.”
Coco snatched her hand away. Cocteau grinned. “That settles it.”
“It settles nothing,” Coco snapped.
“You always pick the wrong man,” Cocteau taunted.
“Yes, I heard about your German,” said Max. His brows knitted together severely.
“He’s not what you think,” said Coco defensively. Then, turning to Cocteau, “At least Spatz is a man.”
“My boys keep me young,” said Cocteau.
Coco turned to Max. “What about you? I hear you’ve been prowling the bars around Saint-Benoît.”
“Once in a while, I need a boy,” Max confessed.
“You’re a bad influence, Cocteau.”
He’d started tossing shirts in his suitcase in a haphazard manner. Coco removed them, folded them neatly, and returned them to the suitcase. “My boys are the guardian angels of my work,” Cocteau said.
“I thought I was!” Max cried, as he gathered his pens and inkwells and placed them in a bag with his notebooks.
“No, I am!” Coco laughed. She put her arms around Cocteau and drew him to her. “Poor, poor Jean. I’m glad you’re coming back.” She reached for Max’s hand. “And what about you, Max? Why don’t you come with us, too?”
Cocteau’s face darkened. “He can’t come. His papers mark him as a Jew. If he tried to cross into Occupied France, the Nazis would arrest him.”
“The Nazis.” Coco snorted. “They’re too busy getting fat on French pastries to care. Besides, I’d watch out for you.”
Cocteau raised his eyebrows, giving Coco a knowing stare. “No one is safe with the Nazis.”
“You seem to be getting along pretty well,” Coco said in a mocking tone.
Max threw his bag over his shoulder, preparing to leave. “Please. I’m happier in Saint-Benoît, where I’m just a lowly monk.”
“You take care, Max. I’m sorry you can’t come with us,” said Coco. She looked at Cocteau, and for a moment their eyes locked. It was as if a blast of dread had blown into the room.
* * *
The German driver dropped off Cocteau at his apartment and then Coco at her boutique. “I found this slipped under the door,” said the vendeuse Angeline, handing Coco a small, square envelope. Inside was a short message from Pierre Reverdy: Meet me at 143 rue de la Santé as soon as possible. Take the Métro, and make sure no one follows you.
Coco hadn’t been on the Métro in years, but she followed Reverdy’s instructions. She bought a ticket at the Madeleine station and caught a train just as it rumbled in. There were no young people in sight. They avoided the Métro for fear of being nabbed by the Nazis who patrolled it and sent to compulsory work service in Germany. Coco crammed into a middle car with a couple dozen old men and women, many of them bedraggled looking and coughing loudly. She got off at Glacière and walked the four blocks to rue de la Santé. Number 143 was a modest brick apartment building with a scarred black door and cracked concrete steps. She found Reverdy in the small apartment on the top floor sitting at a table with a typewriter and a mimeograph machine. “Ah, Coco, sit down. I’ll just be a minute,” he said, nodding toward an armchair in the corner.
Reverdy removed the black ribbon from the typewriter and inserted two sheets of paper—one white and one blue—under the roller and began to type. Vive La Résistance! Help Us Throttle the Krauts!
As the keys struck, they cut through the blue paper, creating a stencil. Carefully, Reverdy removed the stencil, then wrapped it over the drum of the mimeograph machine. As he cranked the lever, the ink seeped through the stencil onto the white paper being fed through it. “It takes an hour to run off a hundred pages. We can talk while I work,” he said.
The smelly purple ink burned Coco’s eyes. She felt tears welling up and blinked them back. There had been moments in the past few weeks when she couldn’t stop crying, when she worried that she’d made a terrible mistake in taking Spatz into her bed. First Misia, then Hélène Dessoffy had planted in her head the idea that Spatz was using her. He said he loved her, but she couldn’t be sure. What exactly did he want from her?
