The Ghost of Greenwich Village

by Lorna Graham

  “Girl,” said Vadis, sweeping her eyes over the room, which looked eerily beautiful in low, bluish light, “you’ve done it.”

  “Done what?” asked Eve.

  “Put us squarely in the position to make shit happen.”

  “Hmmm?”

  “Parties like this … we’ll meet everyone. I knew I was onto something when I put you up for this job.” Vadis took a lusty slurp of her drink.

  Eve said nothing. She’d gotten the distinct impression from Mark that being invited to “parties like this” was not just unusual but unheard of. She reached for a shrimp on a passing tray and took a thoughtful bite.

  They stood for a few moments, waiting for something to happen. When nothing did, Vadis searched out a promising mark. “Middle-aged ponytail at two o’clock,” she said. “Has to be in music.” She took a couple of strides and struck up a conversation with a self-consciously hip-looking man wearing a gold wristwatch the size of a saucer. A minute or so later, while he removed a business card from his wallet, Vadis turned to Eve with an impish smile and mouthed, Rolling Stone.

  Eve smiled back, scratching lightly at the stitches on her arm. She looked down at the puffer fish near her waist. A rich orange-brown, its spots appeared traced with diamond dust. Someone jostled her and Eve moved back. The initial interest she’d inspired seemed to have evaporated. She wondered if she should try to enter someone else’s conversation, but that didn’t look easy. The crowd, mostly older and wearing the safe combination of black and diamonds, was absorbed in itself. Groups of twos and threes gathered, glancing furtively at one another and whispering. Eve heard snippets of conversations: “… Went to Fieldston with my husband and still refused to second his nomination to the board.…” “That acquisition was a scandal, an outrage.…” She ordered another drink and was just wondering when Vadis might come back, when a stooped, lanky man with bifocals and a large Adam’s apple appeared next to her.

  “Don’t tell me,” he said, thumping a pencil against the Klieg catalogue. “ ‘Deep Blue See’?”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “What you’ve got on.”

  “Oh. Yes,” said Eve, uncomfortable under the man’s beady gaze.

  “Looks a little big on you. How come you’re wearing it?”

  “I’m not sure what you mean.”

  “What I mean is, what’s your connection here? Who do you know?”

  Eve wanted to say it was none of his business, but the answer to his question proved more satisfying. “Well, actually, I know Mr. Klieg.”

  “Nice try. Nobody knows him. Now, my friend over there thinks your father’s on the donor committee but I said—”

  “Miss Eve,” came a voice from her left. Matthias Klieg stepped between her and the Adam’s apple, neatly ending his inquisition. The designer took her in with raised eyebrows and an abbreviated bow. “Enchanted.”

  Eve did a double take. Matthias Klieg, in person! If Penelope could see her now. Eve straightened her five-foot-three-inch frame, wanting to show the dress off to its best effect. “Thank you for inviting me. It was incredibly kind of you.”

  “It was not my intention to be kind. That dress was to be worn by Dame Alchist, but she called earlier in the week to say she was ill, and I hated to display it on a stand. It looks better when it moves.” His eyes moved over the room.

  Eve nodded and took a long sip of champagne. She’d so believed she and Klieg had shared a connection on the phone, a particular intimacy, like strangers who’d been trapped together in an elevator. She tried to think of something to say. “My mother was such a fan of your work.” Not very original, but at least it was the truth. Klieg nodded absently, looking bored and, if Eve wasn’t mistaken, miserable. “Aren’t you enjoying the evening?” she asked. It was a celebration of his life and work, after all. “You look like you’d rather be sweeping the Rue de Montaigne.”

  This was met by silence. Eve looked away. Then Klieg cleared his throat. “This is not my scene, shall we say,” he said, exhaling heavily before swigging what looked like Campari.

  “Not as much fun as your Paris days?” Eve ventured.

  “Hardly. This is small talk. Small people. Small lives. Nothing irks me more. In Paris, well, forgive my hubris, but I like to think we discussed things that mattered.”

  “You must have known some interesting people.”

  “They were the best days of my life.” He looked down at the floor. “Inside an old man is always a young man, a young man shaped by his friends. Though now all I have of them are memories.”

  Eve presumed she was still young herself. But what friends would she have to think so wistfully of when she was sixty-five or whatever Klieg was? She’d called Audrey and Sandy, her friends from the golfing community, a few times since being here, but all they talked about was the new pool by the green and the fact that Ryan seemed mad for Corinne, which they seemed to think would bother her. At this moment they would be at the clubhouse in their Lily Pulitzer dresses, sipping wine spritzers and droning on about whose husband made more money. She’d known them since her father moved the family to Rolling Links after Penelope died. They were nice enough girls, girls she felt comfortable with in the manner of a child who hangs on to a doll she’s long since outgrown but whose countenance she couldn’t imagine her bedroom shelf without. But they never asked anything about her or about New York. Recently, she’d given up on tending their limp friendship from afar. Eve knew she would survive this shedding of friends, as she was not unaccustomed to loneliness. But she’d always seen this condition as something to be withstood for the moment. She’d never thought of it as memories she wasn’t storing up for her future.

  “Aren’t you still in touch with them?” she asked Klieg.

  “Not really. A few are dead already. And though we were all artists, we were a dissimilar group. The sculptors, like Pierre, used to bicker with the painters. René had a terrible temper and—”

  “Pierre Cavel? René LaForge?”

  “Yes. And the musicians butted heads with the actors. Lars and Ian would debate so loudly that they had no voice left at the end of the evening.”

  “Lars Andersen—the Danish experimental pianist? And you don’t mean Ian Bellingham—head of RADA?” Eve couldn’t believe the list of names that tripped off Klieg’s tongue. Pierre Cavel, René LaForge, Lars Andersen, Ian Bellingham—they’d been known as Europe’s “Postwar Four.” They’d been a symbol of how Europe’s countries could come together after the wreckage and form stronger bonds than they’d shared before.

  “Yes, they are all quite well known—now. Back then it was a different story. We faced parents shocked that we’d left home, disappointed that we hadn’t become bankers or doctors. Most of us were desperate for money, not to mention attention and reassurance. As a result, everyone became determined to establish the superiority of his own art, even his own art form. We fought constantly and were thrown out of cafés almost every night.”

  “But you’re smiling.”

  “I’m thinking of one particular friend. I was quite low in the pecking order as an aspiring ‘dressmaker,’ and he took me under his wing.”

  “How?”

  “He made the others understand that design was not just sewing clothes for life-sized dolls. He explained it to them in an almost academic way—better than I ever could—so they ‘got it.’ He—helped me.” Klieg trailed off here, running his finger around the rim of his glass.

  Just then Vadis, looking so pleased with herself she was almost throwing off sparks, sidled up to Eve, taking her by the upper arm. “Can you get away? There’s a guy who wants to meet you,” she whispered.

  Someone wanted to meet her? Lead the way. She turned to go but something in Klieg’s posture made her stop. He seemed so alone. “I’m not sure—” she whispered to Vadis.

  Vadis cupped Eve’s ear. “Look, I don’t want you to burn this bridge or anything, but this guy’s real cute. And he’s a little closer to your age.”

&
nbsp; Eve glanced at Klieg and tried to read his expression. He was the guest of honor, surely he wanted to mingle? Yet he made no move to circulate. “I’m sorry,” she said, “my friend here has asked me to—”

  “Please, Miss Eve. I am old but not senile.” He turned to go but as his eyes moved over her face he stopped and gazed at her for a long moment, as if seeing her for the first time. Several seconds of this strange suspension went by and then Klieg swallowed as if his throat felt tender. He gave another shallow bow and departed toward a group of cooing, leathery socialites at the bar.

  “Okay, try to look cool.” Vadis pulled Eve toward the other side of the room. Eve looked over her shoulder toward Klieg but the crowd had swallowed him up. “This guy Alex is connected,” assured Vadis. “Rich. And perfect for you. I think he’s even got a collar stay on.”

  It was a slow and awkward walk, what with Eve’s resin waves dancing all around her as she moved, but eventually they arrived at their destination.

  “This is Zander. A and R for Multiplatinum,” Vadis said, touching the arm of a barrel-chested young man with ruddy cheeks and a goatee, who nodded and held his glass up in greeting. “And this,” Vadis continued with emphasis, “is Alex. The next Graydon Carter.”

  He reached for her hand and brought it to his lips. She noticed how his top lip came to two distinct and perfect points, like twin mountains. Eve tried to adjust her posture into something alluring but her encasement in plastic made it rather difficult. “Alex … and Zander?” she asked, finally.

  “You picked up on that,” said Alex, smiling as he let go of her hand. “Short version: We’re both named Alexander. We met in kindergarten. It got confusing when our parents and teachers tried to call one of us, so they decided we should split the name. We did a coin toss when we were seven, with his dad officiating, which is why I got boring ole ‘Alex.’ ”

  “Would you stop perpetrating this nonsense?” said Zander. “When I introduce myself, people think I’m a magician at children’s birthday parties or something.”

  Alex motioned to Eve’s glass. “Looks like you’re empty. More champagne?” Eve nodded and Alex sailed off into the crowd. His neatly cut chestnut hair revealed that he was indeed wearing a collar stay.

  • • •

  Zander and Vadis went off to dance.

  “I’d ask you, but I’m not sure if you can rumba in that thing,” said Alex.

  “Probably not,” Eve replied.

  “And you’re wearing it because …?” he asked.

  Eve told the story of the Klieg interview, enjoying holding the stage. Working for her father had rarely occasioned any interesting tales. “The next thing you know, there’s this dress in my office and I’m being invited here. And it was my very first interview, too.”

  “I guess they better watch out who they have you talk to,” said Alex. “If you interview Donald Trump, you might get one of those hideous apartment buildings by the West Side Highway. Or the president might give you a state.”

  “Just as long as I don’t have to wear it to a party,” said Eve. Alex had a charming laugh. She wondered what he did for a living. At home, one would never ask, relying on back channels for information. New Yorkers, however, seemed quite open about these things.

  “And what about you? Vadis said something about Graydon Carter. Vanity Fair, right?”

  “Yeah. Well, that’s probably overstating it a little. Right now, I work for a publishing house. Marketing. But I am starting a magazine with some friends.”

  Eve balanced her champagne flute on the top wave, where it wobbled slightly with her movements. “Really? What kind?”

  “Top secret for now. But,” he said, winking, “I’ll keep you informed if you give me your number.”

  Vadis and Zander came back from the dance floor, arms looped over each other’s necks and laughing. The rest of the evening flew by in a blur of drinking and flirting. Alex, Zander, and Vadis thrust and parried like characters in a thirties movie, though Alex did give Eve a private smile or two and once he traced the outline of a silvery nautilus shell on her dress with his finger while listening to Zander tell a story about valet stroller parking at the Park Slope YMCA. Everyone else laughed, but Eve, hampered by the dress, and not feeling quite up to speed with local mores yet, stood mostly mute. She didn’t really mind, though.

  Her New York life was starting to happen.

  • • •

  The next morning, Eve took Highball out for a walk and bought one of everything at the nearest newsstand. She spread the papers out on the living room floor, which was almost completely covered. With discipline she didn’t know she had, she read all of the news sections before allowing herself to peruse the arts and gossip pages. And that’s when she saw it.

  In a column called “On the Town,” she spied a series of pictures from the gala. The fourth one down was of her, standing next to Klieg. She had her arms in the air, lengthening her silhouette and showing off the dress to full effect. She didn’t remember making such a demonstrative gesture. Eve’s eyes dropped to the caption. “Unidentified staffer from Smell the Coffee holds attention of evening’s honoree.” Eve retrieved her scissors from her kitchen jumble drawer, cut the picture out, and stuck it to the refrigerator. She stared at it for several minutes before making coffee.

  “Greetings,” said Donald, buzzing around her temples. “What about a little dictation? ‘The Numbered Story’ is ready to pop out of me.”

  Eve was in a munificent mood. “Let me get some paper.” She found the pad and settled down at the bar. “Ready when you are.” Her usual reluctance had abated. She would start looking at this as fun, as a unique bond that she and Donald could share. Writer to writer, and all that.

  There was a pause, followed by a soft whirring. “One: I came upon a porcelain ladder. Two: It was up to me to scale it. Three: The ladder stands at the corner of Waverly and Waverly. Four: The polished rungs glinted in the sun, daring me to try.”

  “Um, Donald? You don’t need to number the sentences, I can keep track.”

  “The numbers aren’t for you; they’re part of the story. Now. Four—”

  “Part of the story?” asked Eve, loosening the neck of her favorite of her mother’s kimonos, the one with the peacock spreading its feathers across the back. “What do you mean?”

  “I told you I wanted to experiment with structure. Continuing on. Five: People went on about their business. Six: They are intimidated by anyone extraordinary.”

  Who would want to read this? The subject matter was tedious and the numbers were just strange. “Donald, are you sure about this?” Eve asked. “What are these numbers for? I’m not sure they work. They sort of break up the narrative, don’t you think?”

  “Thank you for that bit of bright and shiny ‘Intro to Fiction’ analysis. You don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said. “I’m breaking up the ‘narrative’ in order to call into question the whole notion of narrative.”

  “All right, all right. Sheesh,” she said. Then a thought struck. “Before we go on, can I ask you something else?”

  “What?”

  “Did you know Gregory Corso?”

  “Why? You think he could have come up with this?”

  “Why do you always have to be so competitive about everything? It’s just that I walked by a building on Bleecker Street where he used to live. He was about your age. I thought you might have known him, that’s all.”

  “I knew him. I knew all of them.”

  “And?”

  “And what?”

  “What did you think of him?” This was like pulling the proverbial teeth.

  “Talented, everyone acknowledges that. But troubled. Extremely troubled. Used to pull his pants down in the street as some kind of political statement. You think I’m a handful.”

  “Did you ever share your work with him? Did you ever—?”

  “Will you stop hijacking my session with these pointless questions? Can we please get back to my story
? Where was I? Eight?”

  “Seven.” Eve put pen resignedly to paper, wondering why he was so edgy. As he got started again, she also pondered exactly how many blotters of LSD he’d sucked in his day.

  “Seven: The higher I got, the smaller they looked. Eight: I pulled myself up, rung after rung, into the clouds. Nine …”

  • • •

  Eve picked up the pace as she neared the corner of Bleecker and MacDougal. According to everything she’d read, she was about to lay eyes on the San Remo, where Penelope had caroused in the sixties, and where Corso and the other founding Beats—Burroughs, Ginsberg, and Kerouac—had held court in the fifties.

  Eve had been so busy trying to get a career going that she hadn’t had time to track down her mother’s haunts the way she’d wanted to. The conversation with Donald had piqued her interest and she was determined to reignite her quest. Plus, today was a beautiful late April day, the kind that heightened the pleasant naughtiness of lingering indoors. There really was nothing to beat a dark bar on a bright afternoon. It was so decadent, so willful. While everyone else jostled hysterically in the parks, making the most of it, Eve would spend the next few glorious hours in noir-y dim with sallow strangers. Strangers who might become friends. Because that was the way it happened here. Penelope and Donald both had attested to the effortlessness of connecting with fellow Villagers, who responded warmly to like minds and for whom the next lifelong friendship was but a drink away.

  It would all start here, on this corner. Eve tingled as she looked up at the flapping awning. Then her face fell; the San Remo was nowhere to be seen. It had become something called Thai Kitchen. She pressed a curved hand up to the glass to shade her eyes. Dozens of small tables stood lined up on a carpeted floor, each with a tiny bamboo plant in the middle. From the maps spread out on various laps and the cameras slung over shoulders, most of the patrons inside seemed to be tourists.