Rules of Civility (23 page)

Unanticipated advantage #2?

When I arrived at work on July 7, Mr. Parish was in his office talking to a handsome stranger in a bespoke suit. In his midfifties, he looked like a leading man a few years past his prime. From the way the two conversed, you could tell that they knew each other well but maintained a certain self-imposed distance, like high priests from different orders of the same faith.

When the stranger left, Mr. Parish called me in.

—Katherine, my dear. Have a seat. Do you know the gentleman with whom I was just speaking?

—I don't.

—His name is Mason Tate. He actually worked for me as a younger man before he moved on to greener pastures; or rather, I should say, a
series
of greener pastures. At any rate, he works for Condé Nast now, where he is in the process of launching a new literary journal and he's looking for a few assistant editors. I think you should meet with him.

—I'm happy here, Mr. Parish.

—Yes, I know you are. And were it fifteen years ago, this would have been just the place for you. But it isn't any longer.

He patted the pile of rejection letters awaiting his signature.

—Mason is mercurial, but he is also very capable. Whether his journal succeeds or fails, a young woman with your intelligence will have the chance to learn a great deal at his side. And day to day, it is certain to be more dynamic than the offices of the Pembroke Press.

—I'll meet with him if you think I should.

By way of answer, Mr. Parish held out Mr. Tate's card.

 

Mason Tate's offices were on the twenty-fifth floor of the Condé Nast building, and from the looks of them you would have thought his forthcoming journal had been a success for years. A striking receptionist sat at a custom-made desk accented with freshly cut flowers. As I was led to Mr. Tate's office, we passed fifteen young men talking on telephones or hacking away at brand-new Smith Coronas. It looked like the best-dressed newsroom in America. Along the walls were atmospheric photographs taken in New York: Mrs. Astor in an enormous Easter hat; Douglas Fairbanks in the chauffeur's seat of a limousine; a well-heeled crowd kept waiting in the snow outside the Cotton Club.

Mr. Tate had a corner office with glass walls. The top of his desk was a piece of glass too, floating on a lazy stainless steel X. In front of his desk was a small sitting area with a couch and chair.

—Come in, he called.

His accent was patently aristocratic—part prep school, part Brit, part prude. He pointed a commanding finger at one of the chairs, reserving the couch for himself.

—I've heard good things about you, Miss Kontent.

—Thank you.

—What have you heard about me?

—Not very much.

—Excellent. Where were you raised?

—In New York.

—City? Or state?

—The city.

—Have you ever been to the Algonquin?

—The hotel?

—Yes.

—I haven't.

—Do you know where it is?

—West Forty-fourth Street?

—That's right. And Delmonico's? Have you dined there?

—Isn't it closed?

—In a manner of speaking. What did your father do?

—Mr. Tate, what is this all about?

—Come now. You can't be afraid to tell me how your father earned his living.

—I'll tell you what he did, if you tell me why you want to know.

—Fair enough.

—He worked in a machine shop.

—A proletarian.

—I suppose.

—Let me tell you why you're here. On January first, I will be launching a new magazine called
Gotham
.
Gotham
will be an illustrated weekly and its purpose will be to profile those who hope to shape Manhattan and, by extension, the world. It will be a sort of
Vogue
of the mind. What I am looking for is an assistant who can triage my phone calls, my correspondence, and my laundry, if need be.

—Mr. Tate, I was under the impression that you were looking for an editorial assistant for a literary journal.

—You were under that impression because that is what I told Nathan. If I had told him I was recruiting a lackey for my glamour magazine, he would never have recommended you to me.

—Or vice versa.

Mr. Tate narrowed his eyes. He pointed his commanding finger at my nose.

—Precisely. Come over here.

We walked to a drafting table by the window overlooking Bryant Park. On it were candid photographs of Zelda Fitzgerald, John Barry-more and one of the younger Rockefellers.

—Everyone has their virtues and vices, Miss Kontent. In rough terms,
Gotham
will cover the city's lights, its lovers, its letters, and its losers.

He gestured to the three photographs on the table.

—Can you tell me which of those categories these people would fall under?

—They're all of the above.

He gritted his teeth and smiled.

—Well said. Relative to your life with Nathan, working for me would be quite different: Your pay would double, your hours triple and your purpose quadruple. But there is one hitch—I already have an assistant.

—Do you really need two?

—Hardly. My expectation is to run you both ragged until January first and then let one of you go.

—I'll forward my résumé.

—For what?

—To apply.

—This isn't an interview, Miss Kontent. This is an offer. You may accept it by being here tomorrow at eight.

He went back around his desk.

—Mr. Tate.

—Yes?

—You haven't told me yet why you wanted to know my father's profession.

He looked up surprised.

—Isn't it obvious, Miss Kontent? I cannot abide debutantes.

On the morning of Friday, July first, I had a low-paying job at a waning publisher and a dwindling circle of semi-acquaintances. On Friday, July eighth, I had one foot in the door of Condé Nast and the other in the door of the Knickerbocker Club—the professional and social circles that would define the next thirty years of my life.

That's how quickly New York City comes about—like a weather vane—or the head of a cobra. Time tells which.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

The Hurlyburly

By the third Friday in July, this is what my life was like:

At 8:00 A.M., I am standing at attention in Mason Tate's office. On his desk are a bar of chocolate, a cup of coffee and a plate of smoked salmon.

To my right is Alley McKenna. A petite brunette with a sky-high IQ and cat's-eye glasses, Alley is wearing black pants, a black shirt and black high-heel shoes.

In most offices, the loosely buttoned blouse could take the ambitious girl from reasonably proficient to utterly indispensable in the turn of a calendar year, but not in Mason Tate's. From the first, he made it clear that his affinities lay in another hemisphere. So we could save the fluttering of our eyelashes for the boys at the ballpark. He barely even looks up from his papers as he rattles off Alley's instructions with aristocratic remove.

—Cancel my meeting with the mayor on Tuesday. Tell him I've been called to Alaska. Get me all the front covers of
Vogue
,
Vanity Fair
and
Time
for the last two years. If you can't find them downstairs, take a pair of scissors to the public library. My sister's birthday is August first. Get her something timid from Bendel's. She says she's a five; assume she's a six.

He pushes a pile of blue-lined copy in my direction.

—Kontent: Tell Mr. Morgan that he's on the right track, but he's a hundred sentences short and a thousand words too long. Tell Mr. Cabot yes, yes and no. Tell Mr. Spindler he's missed the point entirely. We still don't have a strong enough cover story for the first issue. Inform the lot of them that Saturday's been canceled. For lunch I'll take ham on seeded rye with Muenster and relish from the Greeks on Fifty-third.

In suitable unison:
Yes Sir.

 

By 9:00 the phone is ringing.

How do you spell that? Where can you be reached? Until what hour? I'll give him the message.

—Ahem.

Jacob Weiser, Condé Nast's corporate comptroller, is standing at my desk. An honest, hardworking sort, he has one of those unfortunate mustaches made popular by the likes of Charlie Chaplin until the likes of Adolph Hitler put them out of fashion forever. You can tell from his expression that he doesn't like
Gotham
, not one little bit. He probably thinks the entire venture seedy and prurient. Which, of course, it is, though no more so than Manhattan, and no less glamorous.

—Good morning, Mr. Weiser. How can I help you?

—I need to see Tate.

—Yes. I spoke with your assistant. You're on his schedule for Tuesday.

—At 5:45. Was that some kind of joke?

—No, sir.

—I'll see him now.

—I'm afraid that's impossible.

Mr. Weiser points through the glass to where Mr. Tate is gingerly dipping a chocolate square in the remnants of his coffee.

—I'll see him now, thank you.

Mr. Weiser advances. It is plain that he would give his life to correct an imbalance in the company's accounts. But when he takes a step around my desk, I have no choice but to block his way. His face grows as red as a radish.

—Look here missy, he says, trying to constrain his temper, unsuccessfully.

—What's this all about?

Mr. Tate is suddenly standing between us, directing his question tome.

—Mr. Weiser would like to see you, I explain.

—I thought I was seeing him on Tuesday.

—You are scheduled to do so.

—What's the problem then?

Mr. Weiser pipes up:

—I've just received the most recent expense report on your staffing. You're thirty percent over budget!

Mr. Tate turns slowly on Mr. Weiser.

—As Miss Kontent has apparently made clear—
Jake
—I am not available right now. Come to think of it, I'm not available on Tuesday either. Miss Kontent, please meet with Mr. Weiser in my stead. Take note of his concerns and let him know that we will get back to him shortly.

Mr. Tate returned to his chocolate and Mr. Weiser to his adding machine somewhere in the recesses of the third floor.

Most executives expect their secretaries to show an appropriate level of deference; they expect them to be courteous and even-tempered to whomever they're talking. But not Mr. Tate. He encouraged Alley and me to be as imperious and impatient as he was. At first I thought this was an irrational extension of Tate's aristocratic belligerence and his Sun King self-importance. But over time, I began to see the genius of it. By making the two of us as rude and demanding as he, Tate was solidifying our positions as his proxy.

—Hey, Alley says, sidling up to my desk. Get a load of this.

At reception there's a teenage messenger lugging a ten-pound edition of
Webster's Dictionary
. It's finished off in a pretty pink bow. The receptionist points to the middle of the bullpen.

Each of the journalists eyes the messenger coolly as he approaches their desk and smiles wryly once he's passed. Some of them stand to watch the show. At long last, he comes to a stop in front of Nicholas Fesindorf. When Fesindorf sees the dictionary, he goes more crimson than his BVDs. To make matters worse, the messenger begins to sing. It's a little ditty set to the tune of a Broadway love song. Though octavely unsure, the kid puts his heart into it: