“Slatkin,” said Lil. “I don’t know that name.”
“It’s not in the Social Register, Mother,” answered Justine.
“That’s not what I meant, and you know it.”
“He earns a great deal of money, Mother.”
“A television announcer, someone told me.”
“No, he is a broadcaster. On the evening news.”
“Not the little Chinese?”
“No, Mother, that’s the weatherman, and he’s Korean, not Chinese. Bernie is one of the anchormen.”
“Oh, yes, of course. Is he the one with the dimple or the one with the toupee?”
“The dimple. He’s very handsome, Mother.”
“Of course he is, darling. Where in the world did you meet such a person?”
“At Maisie Verdurin’s.”
“Mrs. Verdurin has all those celebrities to dinner, doesn’t she? I’m forever reading about her in Dolly’s column. What were you doing at Mrs. Verdurin’s?”
“We’re here to talk about the man I’m going to marry, not about Maisie Verdurin.”
“What do you suppose old Cora Mandell and Ezzie Fenwick are being so intense about at the next table?” asked Lil.
“Mother!”
“I’m listening, Justine,” said her mother, sharply. “Forgive me if I can’t absorb it all in a flash. This is quite important news, and, after all, we don’t know anything about Mr. Bernard Slatkin, now, do we?”
Justine knew, before her mother even said it, that she was going to say, “Who is he?” She also knew that her mother meant, “Who is his family? What are his schools?”
“Who is he?” asked her mother.
“His parents are dead. He was raised by an aunt and uncle, Sol and Hester Slatkin. Sol is in the printing business. They live in New Jersey. Weehawken.”
“Hmm,” said Lil.
“Bernie went to Rutgers on a scholarship,” said Justine. She loved saying, “He went to Rutgers on a scholarship,” as if it added to the worth of him, a romantic asset to his history. In all her life she had never known anyone who had gone to school on a scholarship, and she found the idea glamorous. Even the names Sol and Hester evoked images in her mind of Ellis Island, and the Statue of Liberty, and huddled masses, although Sol and Hester Slatkin were several generations removed from Ellis Island and lived comfortable lives in comfortable circumstances. “He waited on tables in a fraternity house,” Justine continued, her voice filled with excitement. “And then he went to law school for a year, I forget where, but he dropped out, because he was mad-keen to be in television news. First he was an on-the-air reporter covering City Hall, and then he filled in for a week as anchorman when Charlie Walsh broke his leg, and there was such a favorable reaction to him, I mean, people wrote in about him, he’s so good-looking, wait till you see him, and then they made him a coanchorman full time after Charlie went to Los Angeles.”
“Hmm,” said Lil.
“He’s not after my money, if that’s what you’re worried about, because he earns a fortune, an absolute fortune.”
“They all earn a lot of money, those announcers, don’t they?”
“He’s an anchorman, Mother, not an announcer, and he writes all his own copy. He’s very successful.”
“I meant an anchorman,” said Lil.
“I want a big wedding, Mother, with bridesmaids, and a reception at the Colony Club, and, you know, the works,” said Justine.
“This is so nice, Justine,” said Lil. She shaped her lips into an obligatory smile, but Lil’s lips were very little involved in her smiles. Instead she raised her eyebrows and blinked her eyes shut several times in rapid succession in a manner that suggested, somehow, mirth. “You know, of course, there will be things to discuss with Uncle Laurance down at the bank.”
“Yes”
“When will I meet Mr. Slatkin?”
“As soon as you say. You won’t be difficult, will you, Mother, if Daddy gives me away?”
“Of course not, darling, as long as that tramp he’s married to doesn’t come within my sight lines and is seated somewhere at the back of the church,” said Lil.
“Oh, Mother, I’m so thrilled. And you’re going to love Bernie. He knows everything about Libya and nuclear disarmament and all those things. He’s fascinating.”
“Justine.”
“Yes, Mother?”
“Mr. Slatkin, uh—”
“Please call him Bernie.”
“Yes, of course, Bernie.”
“What about him?”
“He doesn’t wear one of those little beanie hats, does he?”
8
People who worked for Elias Renthal accused him, behind his back, of course, as having a vile nature, as he had no patience whatever for people who were not as consumed with the desire to make money as he was. The accusation would not have offended him if he had been confronted with it. Elias looked on his unpopularity as a natural consequence of wealth and power. Maxwell Luby, Elias’s head trader, was a second-echelon executive, knew it, accepted it, and aspired only to be the best second-echelon executive, an indispensable acolyte to Elias Renthal. Only Max Luby, who had known Elias from the beginning, in Cleveland, did not fear his wrath, which could be extreme, and dared to sometime caution him on the enormity of his wealth, although he refrained from voicing disapproval of the manner of Elias’s rapid acquisition of his fortune.
“You’re like a heroin addict, Elias,” he said, “only about money.”
“What the hell are you talking about?” asked Elias impatiently. Introspection was not a thing that Elias had any time for, especially during business hours, when he liked to devote his fall attention to the fifty computers in his office, beaming fiscal information.
“I remember when you used to think everything would be all right with your life if you had a million dollars. And then I remember when you set ten million as your goal, and then fifty, and then a hundred. You thought the world was going to be your oyster with a hundred million, do you remember?”
“C’mon, c’mon, we got work to do. What is this? Psych One at Cleveland University?”
“But it still wasn’t enough,” Max went on, unperturbed by Elias’s impatience. “Then it was five hundred million. And then you had a billion, even though Mr. Malcolm Forbes said you only had eight hundred million. And now you got three billion. Where does it stop, Elias? How much more do you need?”
Elias looked at Max. “I can’t stop, Max. It’s just too fucking easy. You know what it’s like? It’s like placing red meat in front of a lion.”
Even Max Luby, who knew everything about Elias Renthal, did not know about his several secret bank accounts in Swiss banks with branch offices in Nassau in the Bahamas. He thought that when Elias went to Nassau, it was in connection with a new vacation house he was building in Lyford Key. He didn’t know that one of the accounts was in his name, Max Luby, or that another was in Ruby’s maiden name, R. Nolte. He didn’t know that when Elias got a tip, from a variety of young lawyers in firms that dealt with mergers, or young stockbrokers with access to information not available to everyone, he made collect calls to his Swiss banks in Nassau, who did his buying for him, with no one the wiser.
Lord Biedermeier surveyed the lunch crowd from his favorite table at Clarence’s with a proprietary air. It was he, he was fond of telling all his friends and acquaintances, who had come up with the name for the popular restaurant, when Chick Jacoby was searching for a name that would have an English flavor. “Call it Clarence House,” Lord Biedermeier had proposed, with the speed that he was able to give authors better tides for their books than they had been able to think up themselves. Lord Biedermeier was a great admirer of the Queen Mother, to whom he owed the knighthood that had preceded his title, and had been in the past a frequent visitor at her London residence known as Clarence House. Like all things concerned with Lord Biedermeier, snobbery played a great part. When Clarence House became fondly referred to as Clarence’s, by the people wh
o were regularly seated there by the very fussy Chick Jacoby, Lord Biedermeier, who lunched there most days when he was in New York, was delighted.
He waved his hand in greeting to Charlie Dashwood as Charlie passed his table to join Teddy Vermont and wondered what it was the two men were meeting about. Curiosity, both business and social, always consumed Lord Biedermeier, even about people he scarcely knew. Staring, he removed his pince-nez and, with his thumb and forefinger, massaged the reddened bridge of his nose before returning to a photocopy of an article from the front page of that morning’s New York Times business section about the imminent collapse of Oswald Slingerland’s hotel empire.
He pushed back the cuffs of his custom-made dark gray pin-stripe suit and custom-made Turnbull and Asser shirt and looked at the time on his Cartier watch. It was usually he who kept his guests waiting, but he did not want to risk arriving after Elias Renthal, who did not feel comfortable at Clarence’s, and came ten minutes before the appointed time. As Rochelle Prud’homme passed his table he rose and kissed her hand.
“Such a nice party that was, Rochelle,” he said to her.
“Your flowers were lovely, Lucien,” said Rochelle.
“Who are you joining?” asked Lord Biedermeier.
“My sales staff. I’m bringing out a new line of liquid vitamins, made from the live cells of sheep embryos,” she said.
“My word,” said Lord Biedermeier.
“Longer life, Lucien,” said Rochelle.
“I’m serious about doing your autobiography,” said Lord Biedermeier. “Ah, here is Mr. Renthal.” He eyed Elias Renthal’s pale blue gabardine suit critically. “Do you know each other? Rochelle Prud’homme. Elias Renthal.”
“Hello, Eli,” said Rochelle.
“Hello, Roxy,” said Elias.
“Rochelle,” she corrected him, meeting his eye, about her name.
“Elias,” he corrected her, about his.
“Ta, Lucien,” said Rochelle, moving off to her table. The unfriendly exchange between Rochelle Prud’homme and Elias Renthal was not lost on Lord Biedermeier.
“Old friends, I take it,” he said, commenting on the scene he had just witnessed.
“Old acquaintances would be a better description,” said Elias.
“Business fallout?” asked Lord Biedermeier.
“A corporate raid on Prud’homme Hairdryers. One of my few failures,” said Elias, smiling. “A tough cookie, Roxy Persky, for such a tiny little lady.”
“It’s all this sort of thing, your takeovers, that I think the public will find so fascinating, Elias. Rags to riches is irresistible stuff for your American audiences. What you have done is the American dream,” said Lucien Biedermeier. He halted the conversation while he ordered the wine and the main course, asking Elias to defer to his culinary decisions because the chef, a Hungarian he had known in Budapest who later worked at the Ritz Hotel in London, knew how best to make a dish that was prepared especially for him every time he called ahead.
“Have you ever written?” Lord Biedermeier asked. “Just checks for Ruby,” replied Elias, laughing, as if he had made a bon mot.
Lord Biedermeier smiled appreciatively and then said, “No, seriously.”
“I don’t have time to do all the things I’m doing,” said Elias. “How the hell am I ever to get the time to write my autobiography, Lord Biedermeier?”
“It’s Lucien, Elias,” said Biedermeier. “You won’t have to write a word of your autobiography. I’ll make all the arrangements. All that you’ll have to do is give two hours a week to the writer I’ll hire for you. You just tell him or her your stories, and all the writing will be done for you. It’s that simple.”
“As soon as I get back from London, I’ll meet the writer,” said Elias. He was beginning to warm to the idea of an autobiography.
“How long will you be gone?”
“Just a few days. We’ll be staying at the Claridge’s Hotel.”
“No, no, no,” said Lord Biedermeier. “Simply say Claridge’s. Not the Claridge’s. Nor Claridge’s Hotel either. Oh, dear me, no. Just say Claridge’s.”
“What difference does it make?” asked Elias.
“These are the little signals by which people like us recognize each other,” said Lord Biedermeier.
“Do you think I’ll ever learn all these ins and outs?”
“Oh, certainly, Elias. Certainly.”
“I had this idea, Lucien,” said Elias, taking out a comb from his pocket and combing his hair as he talked.
“No, no, no, you mustn’t do that, Elias,” said Lucien.
“Do what?”
“Comb your hair at Clarence’s, I mean, it’s just not done.”
“God, you sound like Ruby. She’s always telling me I don’t do things the right way. Except make money, of course. That’s what I wanted to talk to you about. The profits from this book. There will be profits, I assume,” said Elias.
“That is always the hope in publishing, Elias, and there is a great interest in tycoon biographies at the moment, especially self-made tycoons. We have every reason at Biedermeier and Lothian to think that there will be a major audience for the story of Elias Renthal, especially since your recent marriage. All that running around you did after your last divorce might not have gone over in middle America, especially for a man your age, but now, with Ruby, you will start to build a place for yourself here in New York. How is the divine Ruby?”
With all his heart Elias Renthal wished he hadn’t once told Lord Biedermeier, in a moment of fraternal camaraderie aboard the Concorde from London to New York, that Ruby could take, as he put it at the time, both his nuts in her mouth at the same time. And with all his heart he wished he hadn’t added, “And I got big nuts,” when he shared that confidence with Lord Biedermeier. He hadn’t known at that point that he was going to marry Ruby Nolte. He knew it was what was on Lord Biedermeier’s mind everytime Lord Biedermeier saw Ruby. He wondered if Lord Biedermeier had told other people what he had said, because he knew he would have told if Lord Biedermeier had said the same thing to him about some girl he was involved with.
“What Ruby and I thought was that I would donate the profits from the book and the paperback sale to the homeless of New York, or to the families of victims of violent crime, or something we think up, as a sort of public-relations pitch.”
“What a good idea, Elias. There’s that young police officer who was paralyzed by the drug dealer. You could give him something. The public eats up that sort of thing.”
“Oh, shit,” said Elias.
“What?” asked Lord Biedermeier.
“I dropped some of this goulash you ordered on my new suit.”
“Quite dashing haberdashery you are wearing,” said Lord Biedermeier.
“Don’t you like my new suit?” asked Elias.
“Pale blue gabardine was never one of my favorites.”
“Oh.”
“But I prefer it by far to the rust-colored gabardine you had on at the office yesterday.”
“I’m all wrong. Is that what you’re trying to tell me?”
“I think with your growing position in the city, you should give more thought to your clothes. Dark grays. Dark blues. And the subtlest pin stripes. You must let me take you to my tailor,” said Lord Biedermeier. “While we’re on the subject, what manicurist do you use?”
“Blanchette, at my office,” said Elias.
“You must tell Blanchette at your office to buff your nails. That glossy polish is frightfully common.”
Elias, bewildered, stared at his fingers. He wondered if he would ever learn all that he was supposed to learn.
“I don’t get it,” said Elias, looking over at the entrance of the restaurant, where Chick Jacoby was turning away some customers whose look did not appeal to him.
“What don’t you get, Elias?” asked Lord Biedermeier.
“This place. Clarence’s. Why do people fight to come here?”
“It’s cheap. That is Chick J
acoby’s secret.”
“That’s what I don’t get.”
“My dear Elias. It’s something you will learn. There is nothing the rich enjoy more than a bargain, especially a bargain that is reserved exclusively for them.”
“Why can’t Ruby learn that? She only likes it if it costs the most.”
“Oh, look who’s coming in,” said Lord Biedermeier, whose eyes were riveted on the door where Chick Jacoby was welcoming some arriving guests, with flourishes, to signal their importance.
“The man with Jamesey Crocus is Dimitri Minardos. Some people call him Mickie Minardos.”
“Who the hell is Dimitri Minardos, for Christ’s sake? Ruby knows who all these people are, but I never do,” said Elias, buttering a roll.
“He designs shoes.”
“Shoes? That’s a big deal? Shoes?” asked Elias, unimpressed.
“Dimitri Minardos is the name on every lip this week,” said Lord Biedermeier.
“What did Dimitri Minardos do?”
“The fascinating Loelia Manchester has fallen madly in love with him, and be assured that Ruby knows who Loelia Manchester is.”
“Damn, I wish Ruby was here,” said Elias.
Ruby at that time was occupied with Cora Mandell on the redecoration of the vast apartment that she and Elias had recently purchased from Matilda Clarke, who, even before the death of Sweetzer Clarke, had not been able to afford to live there any longer.
“Those drapes must have been pretty in their day,” said Ruby, “but I bet they haven’t been changed since the nineteen fifties.”
“Those curtains were hung in nineteen fifty-eight,” said Cora Mandell.
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