Rules of Civility

by Amor Towles

  Whatever Mr. Hollingsworth’s encouragements, there wasn’t going to be much chance of my feeling at home. But Wallace had made such an effort, I was just going to have to splash some water on my face, trade up to gin, and throw myself into the mix.

  Inquiring for a powder room, I was directed up the main staircase, past a portrait of a horse, down a wainscoted hall to the end of the east wing. The ladies’ dressing room was a pale yellow parlor overlooking a rose garden. It had pale yellow wallpaper, pale yellow chairs, a pale yellow chaise.

  There were two women already there. Sitting in front of a mirror I pretended to tinker with an earring as I watched them in the reflection. The first, a tall brunette with short hair and a cool expression, had just come up from the dock. Her bathing suit was at her feet and she was drying her naked body unself-consciously. The other, in teal tafetta, was sitting at a well-lit vanity trying to repair mascara after a bout of tears. Every thirty seconds or so she let out a whimper. The swimmer wasn’t showing her much sympathy. I tried not to show her any either.

  Uncomforted, the girl gave a sniff and left.

  —Good riddance, the swimmer said blandly.

  She gave her hair a final rub with the towel and tossed it in a pile. She had an athlete’s body and a backless dress that she was going to wear to great advantage. As she moved her arms you could see her muscles articulate around her shoulder blades. She didn’t bother to sit when she put on her shoes. She slipped her feet into them and wiggled her heels until they wedged their way in. Then she extended her long thin arm over her shoulder and zipped her own dress.

  In the mirror, I saw a glimmer on the carpet under the settee where her shoes had been stowed. Crossing the room, I got down on my knees and reached for the object. It was a diamond earring.

  The brunette was watching me now.

  —Is this yours? I asked, knowing it wasn’t.

  She took it in hand.

  —No, she said. But it’s quite a piece.

  She looked around the room indifferently.

  —These normally travel in pairs.

  As I checked under the settee, she shook the wet towels. We looked around for a minute more and then she handed the earring back.

  —A fortune of war, she said.

  The swimmer was more right than she knew. Because I was fairly certain that this particular earring—with its baguette-cut diamonds and its clasp in white gold—was one of the pair that Eve had found in Tinker’s bedside table.

  Descending the curved front stair I felt off my balance, as if the one glass of champagne had gone straight to my head. Whatever news Tinker and Eve were bringing home from Paris, I wasn’t ready to hear it—not in a setting like this. I slowed my pace and shifted to the outer edge of the staircase, where the steps were widest and the banister was close at hand.

  Crowding the lobby was a parade of new arrivals—more flyboys and self-zipping brunettes. Jolly glad to see one another, they were blocking the exit with their fashionably lateness. But if Tinker and Eve were at Whileaway, they wouldn’t be stuck in the lobby; they’d be adding sparks to the hour in the company of friendly foursomes. As I reached the bottom stair I figured it was twenty steps to the door and half a mile to the train.

  —Katey!

  A woman marching out of the great room caught me off guard. But I should have known who it was from the pace of her approach.

  —Bitsy . . .

  —Jack and I are positively rotten about Wally rushing off to Spain.

  She had two glasses of champagne and thrust one in my hand.

  —I know he’s been saying for months he intended to join up, but no one thought he’d go through with it. Especially after you came along. Are you beside yourself?

  —I’m doing all right.

  —Of course you are. Have you heard from him?

  —Not yet.

  —Then no one has. Let’s figure out when we can lunch. You and I are going to be fast friends this fall. That’s a promise. But come say hi to Jack.

  At the entrance to the great room Jack was having a good laugh with a girl named Generous, who appeared anything but. Even at ten feet you could tell she was spinning a yarn at a friend’s expense. As Jack introduced me, I wondered how long I’d have to chat before I could extricate myself politely.

  —Go back to the beginning, Jack told Generous. It’s priceless!

  —All right, she said with expert weariness—as if boredom had been invented the day she was born. Do you know Tinker and Evelyn?

  —She was in the car wreck with them, Bitsy said.

  —Then you’re definitely going to want to hear this.

  Freshly back from the Continent, Generous explained, Tinker and Eve were spending the weekend at Whileaway in one of the guesthouses. And that morning, while everyone was having a dip, Tinker had admired Splendide.

  —That’s Holly’s yawl, Jack explained.

  —His baby, Generous corrected. He leaves it bobbing on its buoy so everyone can ooh and aah. Anyhow. Your friend was going on and on about the boat and just like that, all nonchalant, Holly says, Why don’t you two take her for a spin? Well, you could have burned us to the ground like Atlanta—Holly lending his boat! But he and Tinker had planned the whole thing, you see—the swim on the dock, the on and on, the nonchalance. There was even a bottle of bubbly and a stuffed chicken stowed on board.

  —What does that tell you? asked Jack.

  —That someone’s thrown in the towel, said Bitsy.

  There it was again. That slight stinging sensation of the cheeks. It’s our body’s light-speed response to the world showing us up; and it’s one of life’s most unpleasant feelings—leaving one to wonder what evolutionary purpose it could possibly serve.

  Jack held up an imaginary trumpet and gave it a bah bup bup baah as everyone laughed.

  —But here comes the best part, said Jack, egging Generous on.

  —Holly assumed they’d be out for an hour or two. Six hours later, they still hadn’t come back. Holly began worrying they’d made a run for Mexico. When up to the dock come two brats in a dory. They say they came across Splendide—run aground on a sandbar. And the man on board promised them twenty dollars if they could find him a tow.

  —God save us from romantics, said Bitsy.

  Someone ran up wild-eyed, choking with laughter.

  —They’re coming in. Towed by a lobster boat!

  —We’ve got to see this, said Jack.

  Everyone made for the terrace. I made for the front door.

  I suppose I was in a state of modified shock; though God knows why. Anne had seen it coming for months. Wyss too. The whole crowd at Whileaway seemed prepped and ready to gather on the dock for the impromptu celebration.

  Waiting for my coat, I looked back toward the great room. It was emptying out as the last gawkers made for the French doors. A man a little older than me in a white dinner jacket stood in front of the bar. With his hands in his pockets, he seemed lost in sober reflection. Cutting in front of him, a celebrant grabbed a magnum by the neck and then knocked over an urn filled with hydrangea while heading back outside. The dinner-jacketed man watched with an expression of moral disappointment.

  The footman returned with my coat and I said thanks, conscious a moment too late that like the college boys at the beginning of the evening, I hadn’t looked him in the eye either.

  —You’re not leaving us so soon!

  It was old Mr. Hollingsworth coming in from the driveway.

  —The party’s lovely, Mr. Hollingsworth. And you were so kind to invite me. But I’m afraid I’m feeling a bit under the weather.

  —Oh. I’m sorry to hear that. Are you staying nearby?

  —I took the train in from the city. I was just going to ask someone to call me a cab.

  —My dear, that’s out of the question.

  He looked back toward the great room.

  —Valentine!

  The young man in the white dinner jacket turned. With his fair-haired
good looks and serious mien, he seemed like a cross between an aviator and a judge. He took his hands out of his pockets and walked quickly across the lobby.

  —Yes, father.

  —You remember Miss Kontent. Wallace’s friend. She’s not feeling well and is headed back to the city. Can you take her to the station?

  —Of course.

  —Why don’t you take the Spider.

  Outside, the Labor Day wind was scattering leaves to the ground. You could just tell it was going to pour. The rest of the weekend would have to be cribbage and tea to the tune of a banging screen door. The casinos would be shuttered, the tennis nets lowered, and the dinghies, like the dreams of teenage girls, would be dragged ashore.

  We crossed the white gravel drive to a six-bay garage. The Spider was a two-seater, fire engine red. Valentine passed it, opting for the 1936 Cadillac, bulky and black.

  Along the drive there must have been a hundred cars parked on the grass. One had its lights on, its doors open, its radio playing. On the hood lay a man and woman smoking side by side. Valentine gave them the same look of moral disappointment that he had given the magnum grabber. At the end of the drive, he turned right heading toward the Post Road.

  —Isn’t the station in the other direction?

  —I’ll take you in, he said.

  —You don’t have to do that.

  —I’ve got to head back anyway; I’ve got a meeting first thing.

  I doubted he really had a meeting; but it wasn’t a ploy to spend time with me. As he drove, he didn’t look over or bother to make conversation. Which was just as well. To get out of that party, we both would have volunteered to walk a rabid dog.

  After a few miles he asked me to check the glove compartment for a pad and pen. He balanced the pad on the dash and wrote some notes to himself. He tore the top sheet off and stuffed it in his jacket pocket.

  —Thanks, he said, handing back the pad.

  To stave off any chatter, he switched on the radio. It was tuned to a station playing swing. He turned the dial. He passed over a ballad, paused on a speech by Roosevelt, and then turned back to the ballad. It was Billie Holiday singing “Autumn in New York.”

  Autumn in New York,

  Why does it seem so inviting?

  Autumn in New York,

  It spells the thrill of first-nighting.

  Written by a Belarusian immigrant named Vernon Duke, “Autumn in New York” practically debuted as a jazz standard. Within fifteen years of its first being played, Charlie Parker, Sarah Vaughn, Louis Armstrong, and Ella Fitzgerald had all explored its sentimental bounds. Within twenty-five, there would be interpretations of the interpretations by Chet Baker, Sonny Stitt, Frank Sinatra, Bud Powell, and Oscar Peterson. The very question that the song asks of us about autumn, we could ask ourselves of the song: Why does it seem so inviting?

  Presumably, one factor is that each city has its own romantic season. Once a year, a city’s architectural, cultural, and horticultural variables come into alignment with the solar course in such a way that men and women passing each other on the thoroughfares feel an unusual sense of romantic promise. Like Christmastime in Vienna, or April in Paris.

  That’s the way we New Yorkers feel about fall. Come September, despite the waning hours, despite the leaves succumbing to the weight of gray autumnal rains, there is a certain relief to having the long days of summer behind us; and there’s a paradoxical sense of rejuvenation in the air.

  Glittering crowds

  And shimmering clouds

  In canyons of steel—

  They’re making me feel

  I’m home.

  It’s autumn in New York

  That brings the promise of new love.

  Yes, in the autumn of 1938 tens of thousands of New Yorkers would be falling under the spell of that song. Sitting in the jazz bars or the supper clubs, the worn and the well-to-do would be nodding their heads in smiling acknowledgment that the Belarusian immigrant had it right: that somehow, despite the coming of winter, autumn in New York promises an effervescent romance which makes one look to the Manhattan skyline with fresh eyes and feel: It’s good to live it again.

  But still, you have to ask yourself: If it’s such an uplifting song, then why did Billie Holiday sing it so well?

  When I got on the elevator early Tuesday morning, I found that like Mason Tate’s desk, it was made of glass. A story below me, stainless steel gears turned like the works of a drawbridge while thirty stories overhead was a square of clear blue sky. On the panel in front of me were two silver buttons. One that said Now and one that said Never.

  It was seven o’clock and the bullpen was empty. On my desk sat the letter to Bette Davis’s agent, its flaws faithfully transcribed and carefully proofed. I read the letter one more time, then I put a fresh piece of stationery in the typewriter and fixed it. I left both versions on Mr. Tate’s desk with a handwritten cover note indicating that given his time constraints, I had taken the liberty of preparing a second draft.

  Mr. Tate didn’t buzz until the end of the day. When I went in, he had the two versions of the letter sitting side by side on his desk, both of them unsigned. He didn’t invite me to sit. He looked me over like a model student who’s been caught slipping out of the dorm after curfew. Which in a way is just what I was.

  —Tell me about your personal situation, Kontent, he said at last.

  —I’m sorry, Mr. Tate. What is it you would like to know?

  He leaned back in his chair.

  —I can see you’re unmarried. But do you like men? Do you have children stashed away? Siblings you’re raising?

  —Yes, no, and no.

  Mr. Tate smiled coolly.

  —How would you describe your ambitions?

  —They’re evolving.

  He nodded his head. He pointed to the draft of an article that was on his desk.

  —This is something of a profile by Mr. Cabot. Have you read any of his pieces?

  —A few.

  —How would you characterize them? Stylistically, I mean.

  Despite its wordiness, I could tell that Mr. Tate generally appreciated Cabot’s work. Cabot had a good instinct for the intersection of gossip and history and he seemed to be an unusually effective interviewer—charming people into answering questions that were better left unanswered.

  —I think he’s read too much Henry James, I said.

  Tate nodded for a second. Then he handed me the draft.

  —See if you can make him sound a little more like Hemingway.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Read All About It

  Two nights later, an unseasonal snow fell in my dreams. Ashlike and serene, it settled over a city block lined with tenements and Coney Island amusements and the brightly colored minarets of the church where my grandparents were wed. Standing on the steps of the church, I reached out to touch the doors—so blue they could have been fashioned from planks of heaven. While somewhere on the periphery, all of twenty-two, her hair in barrettes, a safecracker’s satchel in hand, my mother looked left and looked right and then turned the corner at a sprint. I reached out to knock on the door, but it knocked first.

  —Police, a weary voice called. Open up.

  . . .

  The clock read two in the morning. I put on a robe and cracked the door. In the stairwell stood a top-heavy cop in a plain brown suit.

  —Sorry to wake you, he said not sounding it. I’m Sergeant Finneran. This here’s Detective Tilson.

  It must have taken me a while to hear them, because Tilson was sitting on the stairs interrogating his nails.

  —Do you mind if we come in?

  —Yes.

  —Do you know a Katherine Kontent?

  —Sure, I said.

  —Does she live here?

  I pulled my robe tighter.

  —Yes.

  —Is she your roommate?

  —No . . . I’m she.

  Finneran looked back at Tilson and the detective looked up from h
is nails as if I’d finally roused his interest.

  —Hey, I said. What’s this all about?

  The station house was quiet. Tilson and Finneran led me down a back stair into a narrow passage. A young cop opened a steel door that led to the holding cells where the air smelled of mold and ammonia. Eve was laid out like a rag doll on a cot without a blanket. Over a little black dress, she was wearing my flapper’s jacket, the same one that she’d worn the night of the accident.

  According to Tilson, she had passed out drunk in an alley off Bleecker Street. When one of the beat cops found her, she didn’t have a purse or a wallet, but in the pocket of the coat they found—believe it or not—my library card.

  —Is that her? Tilson asked.

  —That’s her.

  —You said she lives uptown. What do you figure she was doing around Bleecker Street?

  —She likes jazz.

  —Don’t we all, said Finneran.

  I stood by the door waiting for Tilson to open the cell.

  —Sergeant, he said, get a matron to put her in the showers. Miss Kontent, why don’t you come with me.

  Tilson took me back upstairs into a little room with a table, chairs, no windows. It was obviously an interrogation room. Once we both had a paper cup of coffee in front of us, he leaned back in his chair.

  —So, how do you know this . . .

  —Eve.

  —Right. Evelyn Ross.

  —We were roommates.

  —Is that right. When was that?

  —Until January.

  Finneran came in. He nodded at Tilson and then supported the wall.

  —So when Officer Mackey roused your friend in the alley, Tilson continued, she wouldn’t tell him her name. Why do you think that was?

  —Maybe he didn’t ask nicely.

  Tilson smiled.

  —What does your friend do?

  —She’s not working right now.

  —How about you?

  —I’m a secretary.

  Tilson put his fingers in the air and pretended to type.