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My ‘Sainthood’ at Harrods

BY JANE KAGON

Last Christmas, my husband Ed and I went to Europe. I lugged my only winter coat, a black Alex Singer whose kimono sleeves and wide shoulders taper down to the waist and fall straight to the ankles. The coat is warm but very heavy — and out of fashion. If I wear my Patricia Underwood fedora and the coat, I look like a dead poet.

We arrived in London from Paris two days before the biannual 50%-off sale at Harrods. Totally maxed out on my Amex card, I wasn’t planning to buy a thing. But the day before the sale, walking by the Harrods holiday window display, I saw a black double-breasted coat by Celine.

“Tomorrow, I wouldn’t mind just trying it on,” I said casually to my husband on our way to the Cathedral of St. Martin-in-the-Fields to attend a noontime Bach organ recital. At the cathedral, I read a brochure that told the story of how, on a snowy winter eve long ago, a young Roman soldier named Martin rode into a fortified French city and began his journey to sainthood: He gave his only cloak to an almost naked beggar.

The next day at Harrods, I tried on the Celine black coat. It was too boxy, too big, too expensive. But the resourceful saleswoman quickly announced, “I have the wool coat for you.” She returned with a three-quarter length Helmut Lang that looked terrific on me. One problem. It wasn’t black. In fact, it was slightly this side of white.

On to the British Museum, where, surrounded by all of history, I found my perspective narrowing. We entered into a quiet hall filled with priceless, beatific, bejeweled Buddhas. As I reflected on the Eastern concept that all suffering results from attachment, I agonized over the white coat.

Leaving the museum at 6 p.m., I sighed with relief, attached to the concept that Harrod’s was already closed. But when we got there, it was open — and the wool coat was still there. I tried it on. Strangely enough, that morning it fit perfectly, but tonight it was one size too large. I told the saleswoman, “If it were black, I would’ve bought it immediately.” She pulled out another Helmut Lang. It was black.

I floated toward Ed, carrying the coat as if it were the Shroud of Turin. “It’s the black coat,” I whispered in breathless wonderment. “And it’s my size.” It fit perfectly — Audrey Hepburn redux, I thought. “But it’s cashmere,” Ed said. “And it’s twice the price of the other coat.” Too late. I bought it.

Back at the hotel, I wondered what to do with my old coat. Then the epiphany struck: St. Martin — I might have a ticket to heaven! So the next day I donated my wool coat to a women’s shelter. As for a shot at sainthood, only the Lord knows. But my husband has already anointed me “Saint Jane, Our Lady of the Bleeding American Express Card.”

Kagon is director of UCLA Extension’s Department of Entertainment Studies and Performing Arts.