Rules of Civility (18 page)

—Eeny, meany, miney, moe . . .

Inside, I took up a position in the shade of a potted palm. The lobby was a beehive of the well dressed, some arriving with luggage, some heading for the bar, others coming up the stairs from the shoeshine or salon. Under a chandelier that could have shamed an opera house an ambassador with a grand mustache made way for an eight-year-old girl and a pair of poodles.

—Excuse me.

A page in a little red hat was peeking around my tree.

—Are you Miss Kontent?

He handed me a small cream-colored envelope—the sort that announces your table at a dance or wedding reception. Inside was a calling card. It read simply: ANNE GRANDYN. On the back in a wide, easy script she had written:
Come and say hello. Suite 1801.

Whoops.

As I walked onto the elevator I wondered whether she had noticed me in the lobby or back in Central Park. The elevator boy looked at me with a take-all-the-time-you-need attentiveness.

—Eighteenth floor? I asked.

—Sure thing.

Before the doors closed a pair of honeymooners joined us. Bright, rosy and young, they looked like they were ready to spend every last penny they had on room service. When they skipped down the hallway on twelve, I offered the elevator boy a friendly smirk.

—
Newlyweds
, I said.

—Not exactly, ma'am.

—Not exactly?

—Not exactly newly. Not exactly wed. Watch your step.

Suite 1801 was immediately opposite the elevator bank. After I pressed the brass button on the door frame, a step heavier than Anne's sounded within. The door opened, revealing a slim young man in a Prince of Wales suit. A little awkwardly, I held out the calling card. He took it in well-manicured fingers.

—Miss Kontent?

His pronunciation was as tailored as his suit. But it was also wrong. He pronounced it
Kon
-tent, as in the content of a book.

—It's Kon-
tent
, I said, like the state of being.

—My apologies, Miss Kon-
tent
. Do come in.

He gestured precisely to a spot a few steps inside of the door.

I found myself in the foyer of a bright sunlit suite. On one side of the central living room was a closed paneled door, which presumably led to a bedroom. In the foreground a blue and yellow couch and two club chairs were gathered around a cocktail table striking an effective balance between masculine and feminine styles. Beyond the sitting area stood a banker's desk with a vase of lilies on one corner and a black-shaded lamp on the other. I began to suspect that the perfect taste on display at Tinker's apartment was Anne's. She had just that combination of style and self-confidence that one needed in order to bring modern design into high society.

Anne was standing behind the desk, looking out the window over Central Park as she talked on the phone.

—Yes, yes. I understand exactly what you mean, David. I have no doubt that you had no expectation of my making use of the board seat. But as you can see, it is very much my intention
to
make use of it.

As Anne talked, her secretary handed back her calling card. She spun around and waved me toward the couch. When I sat down my purse tipped over beside me and Pip peeked out in wonder.

—Right. Right. That's fine David. We'll hash it out in Newport on the fifth.

Ringing off, she came over to the couch and sat beside me. She acted as if I had just dropped in unannounced.

—Katey! How nice to see you!

She gestured back toward the phone.

—I'm sorry about that. I inherited a bit of stock from my husband and it gives me authority that I haven't quite earned—a fact which seems to displease everyone but me.

She explained she was expecting an acquaintance at any moment, but if the stars were aligned we might have time for a drink. She instructed her secretary, Bryce, to prepare some martinis and excused herself to the bedroom. Bryce went to a fine maple cabinet, which held a bachelor's bar. He plucked ice cubes from the bucket with a pair of silver tongs and mixed martinis, stirring the liquor with a long spoon, showing care not to clank the sides of the pitcher. He set two glasses on the table along with a dish of pickled onions. As he was about to pour, Anne came out of the bedroom.

—I'll get that, Bryce. Thank you. That will be all.

—Shall I complete the letter to Colonel Rutherford? he prodded.

—We'll talk about it tomorrow.

—Yes, Mrs. Grandyn.

The unusualness of a woman telling a man what to do with such blunt authority was only slightly diminished by the relative primness of Bryce's demeanor. He gave a formal nod to her and a perfunctory nod to me. She sat back on the couch.

—Let's to it! she said.

She leaned forward in one of her quick synchronized movements—resting an elbow on a knee, reaching for the pitcher. She poured.

—Onion? she asked.

—I'm more of an olive girl.

—I'll remember that.

She handed me my glass and plopped two onions in her own. She put her left arm over the back of the couch. I raised my glass to her, trying to look as at ease.

—Congratulations on Pasteurized.

—None are in order. I bet on the long shot, just as I promised.

She smiled at me and took a drink.

—So tell me: What brings you to this part of town on a Wednesday afternoon? I seem to remember that you were at Quiggin & Hale. Did you take a new job?

—No. I'm still with Quiggin.

—Oh, she said with a hint of disappointment.

—I was with one of the attorneys at a deposition a few blocks from here.

—That's where you get to ask pointed questions before the trial and your opponent has to answer them?

—That's right.

—Well, at least
that
sounds like fun.

—It really depends on the sorts of questions that are being asked.

—And who's asking them, I suspect.

She leaned forward to put her glass on the table. As she did so her blouse separated a little where the top button had come undone. I could see that she wasn't wearing a bra.

—Do you live here? I asked.

—No, no. It's just an office. But it's so much more convenient than having space in a professional building. I can have dinner sent up. I can shower and change before going out. It's easy for people from out of town to come and see me.

—The only person from out of town who's ever come to see me is the Fuller Brush man.

She laughed and picked up her drink again.

—Was it worth his trip?

—Not really.

As she held the glass to her lips, she studied me out of the corner of her eye. When she put the glass back on the table she offered rather casually:

—I gather Tinker and Eve have gone abroad.

—That's right. I think they're spending a few days in London and then heading to the Riviera.

—The Riviera! Well that should prove quite romantic. All that warm water and lavender. But then romance isn't everything, is it?

—I gather you're still unconvinced by their relationship.

—It's none of my business, of course. And they certainly seem to light up a room. In fact, they could probably light up Buckingham Palace. But if
deposed
, I'd have to admit, I've always imagined Tinker with someone who would challenge him a little more. Intellectually, I mean.

—Maybe Eve will surprise you.

—A surprise is what it would take.

The doorbell rang.

—Ah, she said. This must be my guest.

I asked if there was somewhere I could freshen up and she sent me to the bathroom adjoining her bedroom. Wallpapered in a William Morris style, it was petite but glorious. I put cold water on my face. On the marble counter her bra was folded neatly in a square. An emerald ring sat on top of it the way a crown sits on a coronation day pillow. When I came back out, Anne was standing near the couch with a tall ashen-haired gentleman. It was John Singleton, former senator of Delaware.

 

Outside the hotel, the top-hatted doorman was helping a dashing pair into a cab. When they pulled away, he turned and caught my eye. He doffed his cap politely and stood back at attention—not bothering to signal the next cab in line. He had been doing his job too long to make an amateurish mistake like that.

When I got back to my apartment building, you could tell it was Wednesday because the blushing bride in 3B was running roughshod over her mother's Bolognese. When she had transcribed the recipe, she must have written two heads of garlic instead of two cloves, because we'd all be wearing her home cooking for the rest of the week.

Letting myself in, I stood for a second at the kitchen table and sorted through my mail. At first glance, the selection looked as measly as usual, but tucked between two bills I found an airmail envelope, robin's egg blue.

The handwriting was Tinker's.

After rummaging, I found some unfinished wine and sampled it straight from the bottle. It tingled on the tongue like Sunday communion. I poured a glass, sat at my table and lit a cigarette.

The stamps on the envelope were English. One was the head of a statesman engraved in purple and the others were motorcars engraved in blue. It seemed like every country in the world had stamps of statesmen and motorcars. Where were the stamps of the elevator boys and hapless housewives? Of the six-story walk-ups and soured wine? I tamped out my cigarette and opened the letter. It was written on the tissue favored by Europeans.

In a nutshell, the letter described how Tinker and Eve, having decided to drive along the coast from Southampton to London, had ended up in a little fishing village. While Eve was resting in the hotel, Tinker went for a walk and at every turn saw the steeple of the old parish church, the tallest building in town. Eventually, he circled his way toward it.

Really. Is there anything nice to be said about other people's vacations? I balled up the letter and threw it in the trash. Then I picked up
Great Expectations
and turned back to Chapter XX.

 

My father was never much one for whining. In the nineteen years I knew him, he hardly spoke of his turn in the Russian army, or of making ends meet with my mother, or of the day that she walked out on us. He certainly didn't complain about his health as it failed.

But one night near the end, as I was sitting at his bedside trying to entertain him with an anecdote about some nincompoop with whom I worked, out of the blue he shared a reflection which seemed such a non sequitur that I attributed it to delirium. Whatever setbacks he had faced in his life, he said, however daunting or dispiriting the unfolding of events, he always knew that he would make it through, as long as when he woke in the morning he was looking forward to his first cup of coffee. Only decades later would I realize that he had been giving me a piece of advice.

Uncompromising purpose and the search for eternal truth have an unquestionable sex appeal for the young and high-minded; but when a person loses the ability to take pleasure in the mundane—in the cigarette on the stoop or the gingersnap in the bath—she has probably put herself in unnecessary danger. What my father was trying to tell me, as he neared the conclusion of his own course, was that this risk should not be treated lightly: One must be prepared to fight for one's simple pleasures and to defend them against elegance and erudition and all manner of glamorous enticements.

In retrospect, my cup of coffee has been the works of Charles Dickens. Admittedly, there's something a little annoying about all those plucky underprivileged kids and the aptly named agents of villainy. But I've come to realize that however blue my circumstances, if after finishing a chapter of a Dickens novel I feel a miss-my-stop-on-the-train sort of compulsion to read on, then everything is probably going to be just fine.

 

Well, maybe I had read this particular fable one too many times. Or maybe I was just annoyed by the fact that even Pip was on his way to London. Whatever the cause, after reading two pages I closed the book and climbed into bed.