Coco Chanel Saved My Life (4 page)

“I would really like to help you. This has become an obsession,” Emma seemed worried.

“Before my heart was broken, I got along really well. I used to know exactly where I was heading and the quickest, easiest way to get there. I never got lost. Now I am zig-zagging all over the place with no self-confidence and uneasy steps. I walk along hugging the walls, ready to duck into a doorway, or hide behind a pole.”

“I hate seeing you like this!”

“The only thing that consoles me is the hope that he will lose all his hair, get a big gut and not be able to have children.”

“Well, hope is always a beginning,” Emma smiled.

“I want to find the strength to escape this nightmare.”

“Coco, you've got to take control of your life again.”

Emma was right. I was consumed with pain, thinking of what I had lost. I felt unable to get over this. I was still suffering a lot.

Beyond that, I didn't know that many people in Milan and when you change cities to try to start over, you really need affection and human warmth around you. You are desperate to find real friends, nice colleagues, a loyal bar tender, an honest plumber… You feel happy just because the tobacconist around the corner says ‘hello', or because the lady at the bakery has kept a warm baguette for you. You look for human beings among estheticians and hair dressers. There was a world out there that I needed and hadn't met yet.

“Do you know what I miss most?” I told Emma.

“What?”

“Hugs. I want to embrace someone and be embraced. I need human contact. I need someone who gives me a sense of protection, telling me that everything will be all right.”

“I know, hugs can be more important than sex and money, more beautiful than a sunny day, even better than chocolate cream puffs! Come here. Let me give you a big hug.”

I leaned my head on Emma's breast whispering: “Nothing is better than chocolate cream puffs.”

“Finally! That's the right spirit, sweetie,” she said laughing and hugging me.

At the end of my first week in Milan, which felt like an eternity, I was standing on my tiny balcony watching people in the street, when suddenly I felt a large mass of hair brush against my legs. Terrified, I jumped. Then I looked down at my white terry slippers (stolen from a luxury hotel where I stayed on a business trip) and looked into the big yellow friendly eyes of a huge black cat! After recovering from the shock, I looked around trying to understand how it had got into my apartment.

I consider myself a rational person, but I have to admit that part of me can't help being superstitious. I avoid anything new on a Tuesday or Friday. If I spill some salt on the table, I always throw a pinch of it over my shoulder. I never leave hats on the bed and, most of all, I don't cross a street if I see a black cat. I am perfectly aware of the futility of all these little gestures, like reading your horoscope without believing in it. But I've always thought there is nothing to lose when you show some respect for bad luck.

Seeing a black cat on my balcony had agitated me. Before even trying to understand where it came from, I wanted to know if its appearance was a sign of luck or misfortune. They say black cats are bad luck on the street, but in the house they protect you from misfortune. I was deep in these thoughts, when that fat ball of fur jumped nimbly on the edge of my balcony, then after two soft steps, jumped on the balcony next to mine and disappeared behind the French door. It wasn't a ghost that had arrived to destroy or to save me. It was simply my neighbour's cat that had come to visit my apartment. I felt relieved. I decided that the feline's visit gave me a good opportunity to finally introduce myself to the neighbour with whom I shared the hallway. I put on a pair of flats, (if Niccolò could see me! He used to say that a woman wearing flats is sexy like a horse with lipstick…) and I rang my neighbour's door bell. I immediately heard a loud noise coming from inside, then a curse and a voice saying, “I'm coming, I'm coming!” A few moments later a guy, kind of short and chubby with a big dark beard and slightly bald, opened the door smiling.

“Hi! I am your new neighbour.”

“Hi, sorry for the mess. I was frying some peppers and I had to run to turn off the stove. I didn't want the building to catch fire.”

“Well… so sorry, I didn't want to disturb you. It's just that your cat came to visit me.”

“Yes, I know. He is terribly curious. Hope he cause any disasters… Did you hear that, Caaaat!” he yelled, addressing the animal that I'd seen, now curled up on a sofa.

“Is that the name of your cat, Cat?”

“Well, sure, he's a cat. I couldn't call him Koala or Dog. Don't you agree? Actually, all the fault is in
Breakfast at Tiffany's
. You know it, right?”

“Of course! Who could forget Audrey's little black dress! But sorry, I didn't introduce myself. My name is Rebecca. Rebecca Bruni.”

“Nice to meet you. Claudio. Claudio Mastroianni.”

“Ah, Mastroianni, like the actor.”

“Yes! But unfortunately we are not relatives… and, as you can see, we don't look alike.” He had a contagious laugh that immediately put me in a good mood.

“Please, come in. Can I at least offer you a coffee?”

“Sure. Thank you!”

“Please, don't look at the mess. I didn't expect visitors this afternoon.”

He invited me to sit in a pleasant little parlour, where everything seemed to be in perfect order, with many photographs on the walls and light curtains at the window.

“On the contrary it looks all perfect to me.” I said.

“My wise grandmother used to say, when you are messy inside, the outside world always seems too perfect!”

I liked this guy. Then I followed him to the kitchen, where we sat at the table talking about several things – my move to Milan from Venice, the job I hated, his passion for cooking and about his life as a free-lance journalist.

By this time I had repeated the story of the end of my relationship with Niccolò so many times and to so many friends that I was able to tell him it in only seventeen minutes.

Claudio listened to me with interest, while preparing the moka and placing little cups on the table.

“I adore people who prepare espresso with a stove-top coffee maker.” I said, watching him fill the filter with coffee. “There is something that moves me in the ritual of rinsing, filling it with water, pressing the coffee powder… and then that unmistakable sound of the liquid bubbling out.

“Oh, I love it too,” he said putting the moka on the burner. “I like waiting for the coffee to bubble. The sudden strong scent surprises me every time.”

Claudio poured the coffee, opened a window, and lit up a cigarette.

“I rarely smoke, but I want to dedicate this special cigarette to you Rebecca, to your broken heart and to your arrival in Milan.”

I smiled and felt relaxed in a way I hadn't felt for long time. I asked him for a cigarette.

I am an avid non-smoker. I've never smoked. I have always considered it to be a really bad expensive habit. I hate the smell of cigarettes on hands, clothes and hair. But that moment seemed right to try something new. I lit up my cigarette and inhaled. Then I started to cough frantically. It was disgusting! All the solemnity and elegance that I tried to put into that cathartic gesture of my first cigarette was nullified by my convulsive coughing and my disgust.

Chaudio began laughing out loud. “You are really sexy,” he said, tears coming out of his eyes.

His laugh was infectious, so I put out my cigarette and started laughing too. I kept laughing, at myself, my desperation, my flight from Venice, the Cat, at the strange new situation I found myself in Milan and at everything I was experiencing.

As soon as we were able to stop laughing, Claudio told me: “Rebecca, don't despair. You'll see, Milan will give you beautiful surprises. This is the city filled with opportunities, new encounters and fun! You are a beautiful woman, intelligent, with a great sense of humour. I'm sure it won't take long for you to forget the past and head into the future.”

Although these words were a little bit of a cliché, they made me feel better. That spontaneous compliment made me regain some of my lost self-confidence. After coffee, I kept talking about my story – all my stories – without stopping until dinner time. I felt as though a weight had been lifted from me.

I thanked him for the beautiful afternoon and returned to my nest. Claudio had an appointment that evening – a lucky visitor – she would be tasting his famous fried peppers.

In the following days I met Claudio several times. He had become my personal guide. He recommended the best supermarkets, interesting stores, nice little restaurants for dinner and the best bars for an aperitif.

A few days were left before I had to go back to work. My new friend had decided that I should learn everything about Milan as soon as possible. He had time for me, since he worked at home and could manage his time any way he wanted. I liked spending time with him. He made me feel cheerful and carefree. One evening I almost felt tempted to hug him, but then thought he might misinterpret my gesture.

Claudio had been dating one of his colleagues for a few months, but he felt that she wasn't his soulmate. He was a hopeless romantic and wasn't seduced by the promise of easy sex. In spite of his many disappointments in love, he kept hoping for a stroke of luck. “Mom always said that miracles happen every day!” he quoted
Forrest Gump
. In courtship we were similar; we both wanted to be admired and desired. We didn't totally dislike occasional sex (honestly, one never dislikes it, if it happens with someone decent) yet we wanted sex with some spark of love and good chemistry.

“Perhaps our expectations are too high for two single thirty-somethings,” he said one evening at dinner.

Claudio was a year younger than me. He had lived in Milan for seven years and had experienced a number of brief relationships that ended badly.

“Maybe we just have bad luck.” I replied.

“I think there are a great number of
ideal women
in the world. I wonder why none of them want to be with me.”

I still often thought of Niccolò. Especially at night, before going to sleep, I couldn't breathe and would burst into tears. I usually called Emma. Sometimes she was too busy with work to stop by and see me. We talked over the phone.

“How are you, Coco?”

“Still in pieces. I can't stop thinking of Niccolò: our weekends together, his empty promises…”

“Please stop torturing yourself!”

“I can't help it. I repeat by heart all our conversations, the texts he sent me. I wonder what would have happened if I had told him I was in love. Would it have changed anything?”

“I don't think so, although this isn't what you want to hear. People choose who they want to be with, Rebecca – they overcome fears, doubts and difficulties. If Niccolò had really wanted you, he would have chosen you. You were there for him. All he had to do was let you know.”

“True. He was looking for a different kind of woman than me – a sweet, naïve, pretty young thing who would make him feel stronger and more manly than I made him feel. And I hope that one day soon Anna's butt will grow huge with cellulite!”

“You should hate him for his behaviour. Instead you seem to justify his actions, as if it were your fault, as if you weren't good enough.”

“Yes, it's horrible. Instead of being angry at him – which would make me feel much better – I'm angry with myself, because I couldn't be the ideal woman for him, because I wasn't able to give him what he was searching for, because I wasn't good enough for him.”

“Stop it! You're perfect the way you are. When we suffer for love, anger is a good sign of recovery – a first step towards being healed. Anger is healthy and human, like the wish for revenge. As soon as we can start to feel anger and resentment toward that person who's broken our hearts, the sooner we can start to feel better and less desperate. We can stop beating ourselves up, and stop feeling guilty.”

“I can't hate Niccolò. Not yet. I keep thinking that I could have changed things, that I should have tried to be different…”

“This is simply masochism Coco.”

“I know; I am in a self-deprecation phase. But I can't wait for the day when I'll feel good enough to cut up all his fine tailored shirts!”

Emma laughed. How would I survive without her?

In the meantime, I began to like Milan. I was used to the beauty and poetry of Venice. At first in Milan, it felt strange to not see the same architectural wonders, the many little corners that seemed created to be part of a painting, and the beautiful, breath taking sunsets on the Grand Canal. Yet Milan made me feel at home.

“You seldom feel out of place here, foreign and lost.” Claudio was saying, while we drank coffee in a little downtown bar. “Milan is a city that welcomes everybody, that gives everybody a chance. It has a democratic attitude. It's not beautiful like Paris, doesn't have the charm of Rome, it's not even close to the energy of New York, but it's a city that takes care of you. It doesn't reject you and you always can find a little corner where you feel protected.”

“It's true,” I admitted, stirring brown sugar in my coffee, “I noticed that Milan is a city of details. Perhaps you don't see its beauty as a whole, but it has corners, streets, gardens, sometime just a wall, that has a special charm. At times it's messy and chaotic, but always practical and inviting.”

“It's a city to discover,” my new friend said, drinking his coffee in just one swallow, “like a secretive woman, you need time to understand and learn how to love her.”

I explored my neighbourhood of Porta Romana for a few days and began to feel at home. I found my favourite supermarket, the café that made the best cappuccino and delicious pastries, the newspaper stand where I bought my fashion magazines, and a flower shop where I bought cheerful yellow daisies.