“And we will have only the best authors involved. Your magazine is just the sort of partnership we need. Literature doesn’t just live on the page. It needs to be nurtured by art and conversation,” she was saying. “We can provide a space for that.” Ava looked at Stephanie’s toes, squished into pointed white heels, and felt sad. She wanted her friend to be able to stand equally at ease, bones splayed with entitled comfort. Maybe in their own establishment, she and Stephanie could preside, just taking up space without all the jostling and measuring and second-guessing that seemed to be their lot as young women. For all her disdain for entrepreneurship, some small slice of the value of ownership revealed itself to Ava. If, by force of will, they were able to bend some small part of the Lazarus Club into something that made enough space for them—maybe if you owned the club, you wore comfortable shoes. This project wasn’t just for her. Stephanie had been squeezing into high heels to wrest from the world what it owed her since she was thirteen years old. She deserved this.
As she talked, a flush had crept over Stephanie’s face and down her low-cut blouse, a wash of dewy excitement at her own eloquence. Ambition made her even more lovely, and Ava wanted her to succeed, to reach a place where she would no longer have to be out here prying status from the fleshy grip of men like this, trading her beauty as currency. “Every great literary moment had its salon. Intellectual life is inseparable from social exchange,” Ava jumped in, wanting to help, to express a support Stephanie probably wouldn’t even notice. She was getting so used to saying things like this that she was forgetting how much she disliked social exchange in reality. “For a movement to emerge from this disconnected modern world—”
“The internet age,” Stephanie interrupted.
“—people need a physical space, like all the great libraries of history.” She raised her eyes from the knotted tie she had been talking to. The eminent editor was still watching Stephanie hungrily.
The recipient of the prurient gaze was careful not to notice. “My partner, Ava Gallanter, has quite the historical perspective,” she said proudly, patting Ava’s back.
Ava held Stephanie’s wrist to forestall any additional jiggling under this politely rapacious gaze. “Maybe we should go,” she said.
A hand caressed Stephanie’s free arm. “You should stay. I could introduce you to a few authors who might be very interested in your project.”
The eager, flattered expression on Stephanie’s face made Ava all the more desperate to rescue her. “We have to finish organizing the books.”
“Just a few more minutes.” She slid from Ava’s grasp, led by a meaty hand.
As the bar in this part of the room was much less crowded, Ava was able to get a cold glass of white wine, handed to her by what she guessed from the earnestness of his smile was an intern. A man standing near the bar expressed his interest in her by engaging in conversation in a strenuously uninterested tone, and she answered his questions as best she could while keeping an eye on Stephanie across the room. In a thin silk blouse and linen slacks creased despite the heat, her body language was calculatingly seductive. One hand pushed a hip forward in provocative contrapposto, the other hand was engaged in a delicate choreography: touching her collarbones, coming to rest on a gentleman’s arm during a confidential pause in the conversation, or pressing fingertips lightly against her lower lips, an unsuccessful attempt to cover up a laugh, that made a shared joke infinitely more intimate. Held in the rapt attention of four or five older men, she looked small to Ava’s eyes, a sparrow encircled by pigeons, who, if a little too paunchy to appear a threat to Stephanie’s quicksilver being, still conveyed a suppressed hostility in their excessive fawning. Each jockeyed for the prize position at her side where her elbow was grasped by successive, avuncular hands. Finally after a flurry of business cards, Stephanie found her way back to Ava slightly sweaty and giggling. “They love our project.” She took a sip from Ava’s wine. “People are so responsive to a concept with substance.”
“Can we get out of here, please?”
Stephanie nodded. “I’ve got what I came for.”
Those that had been watching Stephanie’s progress looked even less friendly as the two women pushed their way out of the circle of prestige. “Should we find George?” Ava asked.
“The last time I saw him he was chatting up two brunettes. He’ll be fine.” They fell out into the hall, and Stephanie pushed the button for the elevator. “I’m just so excited that those famous writers and editors were so into our idea. The dream is happening.” Sweat had caused Stephanie’s mascara to run a little at the corner of her eyes, a faint smear that edged away from the broad curl of her lashes. Ava found she was overheated and longing to get out of her sweaty underwear. She thought of cool water; she and Stephanie swimming somewhere in dark, cold waters, naiads—callous and free, far from the corrupting gaze of men. The thought embarrassed her. The elevator was too stuffy, and she wiped the dampness from her cheeks, checking for the smudges of her own mascara.
Outside, a hot wind was swirling down the empty street; a wooden sign banged against its metal pole, the heavy imminence of a summer storm approaching. Party sounds drifted from open windows. A strip of low-hanging clouds, visible between the rows of high-reaching cornices, sped across the night sky. “We’re living the dream, Ava. We’re going to do it. You’re going to have a salon. I’m going to be a star.”
Stephanie’s elation made Ava suddenly very lonely. “But that wasn’t very fun,” she said sadly. “Those people made me feel like I’m wearing the wrong shoes and reading the wrong books, and that the two are equivalent. Although I don’t know, maybe they are. Are they? Maybe this is a bad idea.”
Stephanie frowned at her. “Do you know I dated one of those guys up there? He’s an editor now, but then he was just some stupid DJ. He dumped me with a text message. Couldn’t even be bothered to call me on the phone after almost six months. ‘Not feeling it,’ it said, ‘We cool?’”
Ava stepped over a pile of newspapers that blew up against their ankles in the hot breeze. “That’s awful. Why do you date guys like that?”
Stephanie brushed aside the comforting hand Ava put on her arm with some irritation. “But, you know what? Three months from now, he’s going to be begging to be a part of my club. They’re all going to read articles about me in the New York Fucking Times, and every last one of them who thought I was just some dumb blonde is going to show up spitting apologies.”
“Why do you care about them?” Ava asked, reaching for her hand, and fumbling, finding her strangely difficult to grab on to. “They don’t even know you.”
“They’re going to. Everyone’s going to know me. And everyone’s going to know that the whole time I was smiling next to some stinking prizewinning sow, I was a million times smarter than everybody judging me.” She paused for just a moment, lost in enraged retrospection. Ava almost asked if she meant the pigs and decided not to. “I know I can do it. I can make this whole thing work. I can get the publicity, I can get the members, if we could just get the stupid renovations money, I could blow this town wide-open.” Stephanie slammed her fist against the iron grill of a closed store, and Ava was startled by the bang.
Ava was thinking that through her force of will, Stephanie probably could eventually wrest whatever exactly it was that she wanted from New York, but then hearing a quiet sniffling, she had the terrifying thought that maybe Stephanie was crying. Ava hadn’t seen Stephanie cry since that first night when she had read Eugene Onegin until she was hoarse to stem the tears of a woman who wasn’t even her friend yet. But now she was purposefully not looking at Ava in a way that made Ava again desperate to comfort her.
“We’ll find it somewhere. There must be someplace else to borrow money. What about credit cards? I’ve never had one. I’m sure we’re not established enough to get one. How does that work?”
The sniffling stopped, and Stephanie turned to her in disbelief. “Are y
ou serious? You’ve never had a credit card?”
“I told you, I read Little Dorrit and it’s all about being in jail for debt and it freaked me out.”
“You’ve had a job since college, you totally have credit.”
Nervous now, Ava picked at her fingernail. “It’s just that’s how so many novels go wrong. Someone gets into debt and then it’s just one straight downward slide until you’re dying of consumption.”
“Jesus Christ, Ava.” Stephanie looked mad, then laughed, and shook her head. “It just never occurred to me anyone could actually have credit. I don’t even have a bank account because those student loan assholes keep me totally cleaned out.”
“Well, I don’t know if I would want—” Ava began but she stopped because Stephanie had wrapped her into a hug that lifted her off her feet.
“You’re totally nuts. I don’t know how you’ve survived in this world as long as you have, but I love you so much. I can’t even believe you let me worry this long. You’re too much, Ava. There’s a million people I need to talk to now that this is settled.” She set Ava down and reached for her BlackBerry and began typing. “I’ve got to go make some calls.”
“I’m just not sure I want to do that,” Ava said, but Stephanie wasn’t listening. “The idea really scares me.”
“I’ll see you at the library tomorrow.” An air-kiss was tossed in her general direction.
Ava wanted to ask her to stay, to keep her company in the midst of the terrible sinking dread, knowing Stephanie would be able to dispel it just with her presence, but she was already walking away. It felt silly to ask. “Um, okay, bye.” Her voice was lost in the empty street, and she watched Stephanie until she was just a narrow strip of white fading into the darkness.
7
A dollop of mortar landed behind the toilet with a splat, and Ava, on her hands and knees, smeared it around with a wooden spoon. She was starting to get the hang of it and soon could justifiably add “tiling” to the list of unexpected skills recently acquired. She had applied for a credit card, and one had arrived with an alacrity that made Ava just a little nervous. It came with pages and pages of fine print, which she intended to read at some point, but Stephanie’s joy was contagious. They had had so much fun that night sharing a bottle of five-dollar sparkling wine, giggling and building castles in the air until they both passed out on the library chesterfield, waking up with hangovers and the indentations of tufted buttons in their soft flesh.
To chase away the panic of sliding gently into the river of debt, Ava threw herself into their renovations, which proved distracting and surprisingly fun. Small hexagonal black-and-white tiles crept across the bathroom floor, filth was scrubbed away, vinyl flooring ripped up and disposed of. She marveled at her new proficiency. Her facility with reading and writing predisposed her to undervalue the life of the mind—surely anything she was that good at must not be very hard—and now that she did things with hammers and wrenches, she was convinced; true achievement lay in the daily application of manual work. Also she loved wearing the painter’s coveralls she had bought that made her feel like a soviet agitator. Her associations for this kind of thing were mostly Russian novelists, and while she wasn’t quite tilling the soil, she still felt vaguely noble and enlightened by it all. She knew renovating part of an exclusive club in order to create another exclusive club was not quite the greater social good, but whenever she started to feel like Marie Antoinette milking the cows, she rolled up her sleeves and worked harder, losing her reservations in sweat and effort.
She reached for another section of tile, but the mesh square that held the small tiles in their prearranged pattern didn’t fit the narrow space behind the sink’s pedestal. She sat back on her heels. “Use the wire clippers,” suggested George from the empty claw-foot tub where he was smoking and studying for an English exam.
Ava pushed her hair back; cement dust left gray streaks in her bangs. “Thanks.” She knelt and began slicing little hexagons free.
There had been some questions about the legality of doing all this work themselves, about the landmarks commission, and licensed contractors and things. When they asked Aloysius, he said of course all the work had to be aboveboard and not to worry too much and then winked and said he just loved flocked wallpaper. Mr. Dearborn told them that the rules were different for interiors and suggested they refinish the floors while they were at it. So they pressed ahead in good faith, but committed the most drastic improvements at night. As they snuck out the rubble in used paint cans and wastepaper baskets, Castor, the doorman, just shook his head and pretended not to notice each time they tottered past to dump their detritus in their neighbors’ elegant wrought iron trash cans.
“Why did I sign up for midcentury American novels?” George flipped through his notes. “All this male malaise is starting to wear.”
Ava started mixing a new batch of mortar. “I can’t help you, too recent for me.”
“And yet you plan to cater to and support the contemporary literati of New York?”
“No, I’m hosting a nineteenth-century salon.”
“I think the madam may have a slightly different plan.” He threw the cigarette he should not have been smoking into the toilet and lit another before handing her more tiles. “Though I have nothing but respect for her authority. Where is her ladyship anyway?”
“How come I never get any honorifics, George? I’m your boss here, too.”
“There is honor in comradely affection,” he replied. “Also you are much less scary than she is.”
“Stephanie is out finding members and investors.” Ava placed the hexagon gently on the floor, enjoying the mortar squishing through the tiles. “So many rich men in cool T-shirts and expensive sneakers. Somehow not what I expected for our salon.”
“You prefer industrialists?” George’s teeth clenched around an imaginary cigar.
“I wish. I’d love to see this place full of top hats and monocles.”
“So your ideal investor would be a Scrooge McDuck.” He nodded sagely. “Although I agree, I would never trust a financier in plimsolls.” He knocked his sneakers one against the other.
Ava laughed. “I hate to ask, George, but do you have any friends at school? What do the other kids at Hunter make of you?”
“I’ve always blazed my own trail. And anyway, I once sat next to a girl in the cafeteria.” George returned to his notebook, whistling. Ava began to twitter along tunelessly as she laid another row of tiles. She didn’t realize he was leading her in “The International” until a third whistle joined them enthusiastically from the hall before fading down the stairs toward the bar. Rodney had become even friendlier now that she was often coated in plaster dust.
They were aspirating a rousing and out-of-tune finale when Ava stopped. “I believe that will be her now.” Stephanie had paid no attention to Ava’s suggestion that a lady should learn to glide silently across a floor.
“How are my darlings?” Stephanie, in heels, stomped into the room.
“Wet mortar.” Ava pointed at the ground. “Be careful. How did it go?”
She picked her way along one wall and climbed into the empty tub with George, plucked his cigarette from his mouth and began smoking it. “Amazing. Everyone loves our idea. The owner of Squeeze said he would be a member.”
“I don’t know what that is.”
Stephanie sighed. “It’s the most exclusive nightclub in New York City. You really need to read my emails. Hand me my bag.” She rummaged around in the torn lining for a second. “Voilà.”
Ava reached for the check. “Five thousand dollars?”
“I decided that was how much our top-tier patron level membership should cost.”
“What’s the matter with people? This club doesn’t even exist yet. Are they just trying to throw their money away?”
“This club is happening and it’s going to be am
azing and no one wants to risk missing out.” Stephanie waved her off. “I said we would mail a membership card. George can rig something up.”
George gave her a thumbs-up and tried unsuccessfully to take his cigarette back.
Ava pressed back against the wall, closing her eyes against the implications of this check. The illusion, already tenuous, that they were acting with the innocent enthusiasm of the Little Rascals opening a lemonade stand was crumbling before the cold reality of fiduciary obligations. Would this possibly count as fraud? If they didn’t manage to pull off this ridiculous project, could they be sent to jail?
But how could they stop now, and what would become of her if they did? Against this shuddering possibility, Ava retreated into uncertainty. The risks felt enormous, but she thought of all these new skills she was gaining, this new sense of her own power and capability. Surely when she had time to get back to her book, once this salon was really going, she would have shed some of that everlasting timidity that plagued her. She was becoming a girl that did things, and if she could tile a floor, how hard could it be to write a novel? In a way she was securing the very future she was worrying about. And anyway, weren’t these the sorts of things great novels were about when it really came down to it, the pursuit of love or money? Maybe she was done writing endless pages of people sitting sadly in ornate, velvet-upholstered chairs, beautiful though they were. She took a deep breath and passed over a book of paint swatches. “For the wall behind the bar.”
Stephanie began turning the pages of colors with great studiousness.
George glanced over. “Those are all white.”
Stephanie didn’t answer, folding the page she was looking at to better compare two almost identical shades. Ava found this solicitousness endearing. It wasn’t exactly perfectionism, this attention Stephanie paid to details, because it didn’t quite feel like there was some larger moral framework behind it, but more just a great capacity for taking things seriously. It was something they shared, and for Ava, often equally picky, but embarrassed about it, Stephanie’s willingness to take pains was oddly pleasurable.
The Little Clan Page 10