Free Coco Chanel & Igor Stravinsky by Chris Greenhalgh

shifting her weight in the chair. Something about her look unnerves him. Boldly he meets her gaze.
    â€œGood night,” she says.
    Her voice is husky, rough-textured, like velvet brushed the wrong way. The pitch of it sticks with him as he goes on up to bed; as his head hits the pillow; as his mind begins to generate the nonsense of his dreams.

CHAPTER SIX
    Igor sits at the piano, penciling in corrections. Sheets of music are propped high on a board above the keys. With head held intently and glasses pushed up onto his brow, he resembles a cardsharp or racing driver: a man who might take risks.
    Constantly he juggles combinations of notes and plays with their durations. He’s after that arresting coincidence of sounds, that correspondence of tones that’s so thrilling it’s like someone piercing you with a needle between the ribs. He tries out different chord sequences, adjusting the position of his fingers until there’s a density of texture that seems sweet and difficult all at the same time. He finds the answers lie rarely in straightforward harmonies. The solutions are more slanted. They come at an angle and surprise you, so that what can sound at first discordant turns out to be penetratingly complex and superb.
    There is a knock on the door of his study. He presumes it is Marie come to tidy. But no, it is Coco. Hurriedly he stands up. His glasses slip down his face, almost falling off his nose.
    â€œCoco,” he says, resettling his spectacles.
    â€œJust to let you know, I’ve arranged for a doctor to call upon your wife.”
    â€œYou’re very kind.” A respiratory ailment has laid her low in recent days. She wasn’t even well enough to go to church on Sunday.
    â€œAnd don’t worry about the expense. I’ll attend to it.”
    â€œNo. You mustn’t.”
    â€œDon’t be silly. You are my guests here. I can’t stand to see people ill under my roof.”
    â€œIt’s my responsibility. I’d feel insulted if you were to pay.”
    â€œNonsense. Consider the matter closed. He’ll be here this afternoon around three o’clock.” Igor makes to remonstrate, but Coco insists.
    They both laugh uneasily. She’s aware that her tone is a bit schoolmistressy. At the same time, he knows how expensive doctors can be. He knows, too, that he could never afford to pay for any lengthy course of treatment. He feels the weight of Coco’s money tilt the balance of authority between them. Humbled, he looks down. As he does so, he notices a hole in his shirt gape open, exposing the skin of his stomach beneath. A few dark hairs crinkle finely in the light.
    She follows his gaze. “You’ve lost a button.”
    He colors slightly and closes over his shirt.
    â€œThere it is!” Her eyes seem to bend around the piano in seeking it out. Reaching low, she picks up the button. “I’ll sew it back on for you.”
    He can’t bring himself to argue again. “Thank you. I’ll leave it with Marie this afternoon.”
    â€œI’m going out this afternoon. It’ll only take an instant. Come on, I’ll do it now.”
    Slightly thrown by her urge to do things promptly, he blurts, “Well, give me a minute and I’ll go up and change.”
    Startled by his formality, Coco is even more abrupt. “No need.” That toughness in her voice again. “You don’t even have to take off your shirt. Sit still, I’ll be back in a second.” Her dress whispers deliciously to him as she leaves the room.
    Discomposed, Igor feels the need to assert himself more. But each time he speaks to her, his resolution melts. He finds himself constantly disarmed by her frankness. He removes his glasses and wipes them clean with the tail of his shirt. It is then he realizes his hands are trembling.
    Coco returns, bearing a small tan packet of needles and some thread. “Face the light,” she says. She wets