Free Coco Chanel & Igor Stravinsky by Chris Greenhalgh Page B

reaction, but he gives little away. In fact, he barely looks at her. He removes the stethoscope from around his neck and winds the tube around his hand. Stout, with an olive complexion and an abundance of dark hair, he is himself radiantly healthy. Who’d trust a doctor that was anything but?
    No deep furrows mark his forehead, Catherine notices. Nothing has worked to disturb the smoothness of his brow. He has never suffered any life-unsettling wrench, she thinks. Indeed, he has shrewdly restricted his constituency to that rim of the city where only the wealthy can afford to live. His practice has fattened happily with clients such as Chanel entrusting their medical welfare and expenses to him. Catherine’s own father was a country doctor. She knows the strains he had to endure in serving the poor of the town.
    â€œWell?” Igor says. He moves toward a corner of the room to confer. Impatience colors his voice.
    The doctor presses the stethoscope into his case. His look promises nothing. “The right lung is very weak,” he says, with an effort at frankness and loud enough for Catherine to hear. Her face falls exhaustedly back against the pillows. She resents these two dark-suited men talking about her health, as though she is not a real person with feelings and a certain purchase on her own life.
    She is more alarmed than she cares to admit at the move to Bel Respiro. True, the fresh air and sunlight are undoubtedly good for her health, as Igor—and Coco—persuasively maintain. But what is she to make of the captivating Mademoiselle Chanel? Does she not have other, darker motives for inviting them here?
    The exile from Russia has affected her more than it has Igor. He, at least, has his work to go on with. She has abandoned everything: her friends, her property, her sense of belonging. And the constant traveling has eroded her health. All that sustains her is a deep religious faith. That, and the love of her husband.
    Turned to one side her eyes hold a reflection of the window and the sill tricked out with lilies. They seem suddenly malignant to her, these flowers: snake-tongued and venomous. And they stink. She doesn’t quite know why, but she feels contaminated in this room, in this godforsaken house. A sympathetic taste of acid coats her tongue. Watching a wedge of shadow darken the bed, she feels she wants to vomit.
    Sensing his wife’s resentment, but fearful of what the doctor might have to say, Igor ushers him from the room. The two men descend the staircase and pause in the corridor at the bottom. Two bluebottles orbit a light fixture, buzzing dementedly in repeated squares.
    The doctor’s tone is solemn. “Has she coughed up any blood?”
    â€œNot recently.”
    â€œAny history of that happening before?”
    â€œShe was mildly tubercular in her youth,” Igor concedes. “It came back after our youngest was born.”
    â€œWhen was that?”
    â€œSix years ago . . .”
    This seems to confirm a suspicion. The doctor nods while biting his lip. “Well, she might be showing signs of that again.”
    The angle of Igor’s shoulders communicates distress. “Is it serious?”
    â€œShe needs to be looked after.”
    â€œIs there anything she should be doing?” He lifts a hand to his cheek, where his fingers begin stroking.
    â€œGetting plenty of bed rest and fresh air. A little walking might be a good idea. Nothing too strenuous, you understand. Gentle but regular exercise. Also, she’s a bit on the thin side. She should eat a little more. She needs to build up her strength.”
    â€œOf course.” Igor continues needlessly to stroke his cheek.
    â€œI’ve prescribed something that should calm her down. It’ll allow her to get the rest she needs and make her breathe more easily. It may make her sleepy, though.”
    After fizzing inside the lamp shade, the two bluebottles alight on the ceiling. Both men