Chanel Short Stories: 2.55

At the beginning of 2017, the house of Chanel declared it to be the year of its fearless, groundbreaking founder Gabrielle Chanel, the fashion designer who blazed a trail in the annals of history with her maverick spirit and refusal to conform to rigid societal norms.

Similarly inspired by Chanel, Harper’s BAZAAR Singapore has collaborated exclusively with award-winning writer Amanda Lee Koe on a six-part short story series exploring key themes in the fashion icon’s life: her style, her daring, her loves, her friendships, her beauty and her obsession with the mystical.

In this debut vignette, the author delves deep into Gabrielle Chanel’s ragamuffin childhood in the convent of Aubazine in rural France, before skipping ahead to her heyday in chic Paris, to look for origins and clues unlocking her design thinking behind the iconic 2.55 bag. Catch up with all our short stories here.

O MON JÉSUS

PARDONNE-NOUS NOS PÉCHÉS

PRÉSERVE-NOUS DU FEU DE L’ENFER

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it is five minutes to three.

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you are unwashed, on your knees. you have been repeating

the rosary prayers as punishment for the hour almost past,

kneeling on broken pinecones brought in from the winter.

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BUT GABRIELLE

the nun wants to know

WHERE WOULD YOU HAVE GONE ANYWAY?

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the keys jangle as she removes the chain from her waist.

twice you have received an additional roll of bread for having the

best needlework in the orphanage of the sacred heart of mary in

aubazine. with your clever hands you took the keys from the

burnished gold chain on the nun's waist.

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you have heard rumors of a city of lights from the lips of the

older girls. they say the city was named for the man who tried to

steal helen of troy from her king. a city that launched a thousand

ships and hearts and faces has no rolling fields or dry wells, only

pavements lit by gasoline lamps and glass-fronted store windows

with fire at the bottom to keep them from fogging up, a gigantic

underground train station, buildings taller than beeches. the

women scent themselves before they step out into the street, if not

with perfume then vanilla essence behind the ears, on the wrists,

necklines built to speak for décolletages, powdered hair. when you

lay yourself down to bed to say your nightly prayers it is not a

hymn it is a toke of breath lighter than soufflé

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—PARIS?—

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the nun's laughter is sharper than a fork. her chain hits your

skin right under the edge of your skirt where it meets your thighs,

you are impressed that a nun has such good aim.

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MY CHILD

YOU WOULD REACH BETHLEHEM BEFORE YOU REACHED PARIS.

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the church bells chime three times, on the hour.

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you are late for a tea party in the sixth arrondisement. there

are pearls in your ears, a servant takes your coat. everyone wants a

peek at your summer collection, they kiss you on the cheeks once,

twice, thrice.

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COCO

the hostess coos past your shoulder

HOW IS IT EVERYTHING YOU TOUCH BECOMES NEW?

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she purses her lips like a bird when she says NOUVEAU.

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you have a soft calfskin clutch in one hand and a glass of

bordeaux red in the other. you would like some canapés, the goose

liver pátê has been spread on crouton wafers in the shape of a cross

with a sprinkling of dill, but your hands are full. a man in a tricorn

hat stands in the corner, he is very handsome, he is making a joke

about how smoothly the wine slides down the flesh at the back of

the throat

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LE PETIT JÉSUS EN CULOTTE DE VELOURS

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the women are trilling, holding their fans up to their faces,

it’s the way he says it. he is coming in your direction, someone is

about to make an introduction. very soon he will want to kiss your

knuckles, you will want to keep a hand free. you tip back the wine,

all of it, you move towards the light. you put the clutch between

your knees.