Cheap Diamonds

by Norris Church Mailer

I rubbed my eyes and heard the sound of the shower going. Of course. I turned over and put the covers over my head. He came out rubbing himself with a towel.

  “Hey, little girl, get up. It’s Christmas!” He came over and dragged the covers off me. “Santa came last night and brought you some goodies.”

  “Okay, okay!” Under the little tree we’d put up was a pile of beautifully wrapped packages, and I felt bad—my one small package of the silver-and-leather bracelet I’d gotten for him seemed small and mingy in comparison.

  “Wow, sweetie, you didn’t have to get me so much! These are so beautiful! Did you wrap them yourself?”

  “Of course I did. Well, open them, girl!”

  “Aren’t you going to get dressed?”

  “I won’t if you won’t.”

  So, stark naked, I tore the gifts open one by one, and every one was perfect. There was an antique dusty-blue velvet bed jacket embroidered in silver thread and trimmed in lace, a lovely mother-of-pearl necklace carved in a peace sign on a delicate silver chain, and a set of three African bracelets made of hammered silver. The biggest box I saved for last, and it was an antique black velvet quilt pieced with green and rose and gold and blue silk, hand-stitched in amber. It was all so exquisite I wanted to cry. I did cry a little.

  “Oh, Aurelius, you shouldn’t have gotten me all this. Everything is perfect. Just perfect.”

  I leaped on top of him and hugged him. We fell on the floor and might have made love again, but I really didn’t want him to have to take another shower, so instead I handed him his bracelet, which he opened up and put on and said with real enthusiasm that it was the best present he’d ever gotten. We kissed, and it truly was a beautiful Christmas morning. Maybe the next time in bed would be better. I went back to my place, got dressed (after a quick bath in oil), and we went out to Joe Jr.’s for breakfast, then we walked around the Village for an hour or two, just happy to be out in the cold sunshine, happy to be young and together. Everyone on the street looked at us and smiled. I guess we stood out, but I loved it and so did he. The way we looked together was part of the attraction for us.

  I called Mama and Daddy from a phone booth, and everyone was there, so I talked to the aunts and uncles, Lucille and her husband, Jim Floyd, who had just gone into partnership with Mr. Wilmerding of Wilmerding’s Funeral Service, which would now be Wilmerding and Hawkins, and talked to Tiffany LaDawn, who chattered into the phone telling me about some bear or whatever that Santa had brought her. I couldn’t believe the kid could talk like that. It felt like I’d been gone a year.

  “I hate it that you’re by yourself on Christmas, Cherry,” Mama said. “I wish you could have come home.”

  “I’m not by myself, Mama. Aurelius is here with me. He’s the sweetest man in the whole world, and he got me so many beautiful things for Christmas. I’ll write and tell you about them. It’s costing too much money to go over them all now.” I’d written Mama about Aurelius, of course, told her he was a musician and how handsome he was, but not the most pertinent things, like that we were sleeping together and he was black. I figured that would take care of itself all in good time.

  “Oh. Is he standing right there? Let me talk to him. I’d like to wish him a merry Christmas.”

  “Uh, well, okay.” Great. This was stupid. I couldn’t think of any reason not to let her talk to him, not without hurting his feelings. I’d just let it go and see what happened. She’d have to find out sooner or later. I handed the phone to him.

  “Hello, Mrs. Marshall. Merry Christmas. You’ve certainly got a beautiful daughter. She’s standing out here in the sunlight, and she looks like an angel. She showed me your picture and I can see where she gets her good looks from.” He was smooth, talking in that deep caramel voice that melted me. I wondered if it was melting my mother.

  “Yes, we’re out here in the park…. It’s cold, but it should be cold. It’s Christmas…. Um-hmm. Yes…. Excuse me, Mrs. Marshall.” He put his hand over the phone. “Oh, honey, do you have more change? I don’t have any and the operator says time is running out.” I dug around in my purse and handed him some coins. “There. Sorry…. Yes, she sure is…. I’m proud of her, too…. She’s going to be famous, that’s for sure…. I will…. I’ll do my best. Do you want to say good-bye?” He handed the phone to me.

  “So, Mama, isn’t he charming? He’s real good-looking, too.”

  “Cherry, is that man black? He sure sounds like it. What kind of a name is Aurelius? Where is he from? Who are his people?”

  “I love you, too, Mama. I’ll write you tomorrow. Y’all have a great dinner. I sure will miss your chicken and dressing. Oh, the operator is cutting in again. Tell Daddy I love him, too. Bye.”

  “Well, I think that went well. Your mother is a sweetheart.”

  “What did she say to you?”

  “Not much. Just to keep you out of trouble. I said I would try, but that’ll be a hard thing to do.”

  “You better believe it. The only question is who’s going to keep you out of trouble?”

  When we got back, Mrs. Digby had her door open and invited us in for eggnog and cookies. I ran up to get her present, a pink silk camisole and tap-panty set, and Aurelius gave her a bone-china teacup and saucer with a lily-of-the-valley pattern, which she opened first and cooed over, giving him a little kiss on the lips, which got her all giggly.

  “Wait until you’re alone to open mine,” I said. “It’s only for the eyes you want to see it.”

  She opened it anyhow, her mouth dropped in delight, and we all laughed. Her eyes sparkled and I could see the old showgirl peek out of her.

  “I’ll save this for a special occasion.”

  “Maybe for some Italian?”

  “You never can tell, can you?” She had a twinkle in her eye, and by golly it wouldn’t surprise me if she really did have an Italian or two in her closet.

  Aurelius had to work that night, so I went over to the loft for dinner with Sal and Lale. They had ordered a turkey dinner complete with all the trimmings—dressing, sweet potatoes, gravy, apple pie, the works—from Balducci’s, the best gourmet food store in the Village. There were twelve of us at dinner—some models I knew, a couple of photographers, and friends of Sal’s. As far as I could tell, Lale didn’t have anybody special as his date, although a few of the girls were simpering around him like the pea brains they were. There I go, buying into the dumb-model thing, but these ones really were.

  Lale and Sal had put up a ten-foot-tall Christmas tree and decorated it with what looked like the booty from a Mardi Gras float, tons of sparkly ropes of beads, glass balls, and twinkling lights. It was gorgeous and was the perfect size for the high ceilings.

  I had managed to finish the portrait, and after dinner, we all gathered around for the unveiling. I sat Sal down in a chair across from it, and Lale put his hands over his eyes. Then I whipped off the sheet and everybody cheered. It was Miss Sally, in Technicolor, wearing her red sparkly Marilyn Monroe dress like the one from Gentlemen Prefer Blondes, feather tiara and all. It nearly drove me crazy painting those sequins, but it was definitely worth it. Sal just sat there and tears came into his eyes. Finally, he got up and hugged me, holding me and rocking back and forth.

  “It’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. Thank you, thank you, Miss Cherry.”

  “When are you going to do mine?” Lale asked. Everybody else said they wanted theirs done, too, so I just said I’d do them when I had time, which would be never. It was like that at school, every girl wanting me to draw a picture of their boyfriends. You just can’t keep doing it for free. One of these days maybe I’d do them for money, but right now this one was for love. Sal had done a lot for me, which I could never repay. He couldn’t take his eyes off it.

  “I’m going to put the sheet back on it if you don’t stop staring at it and talk to us,” one of the girls said. He laughed and popped open a bottle of champagne, but I caught him sneaking looks at it the rest of the night.

  A
fter everyone left, Lale, Sal, and I opened our presents. My big one for Sal was the painting, but I gave him the African batik anyhow, which he seemed to like, tying it around himself like a sarong and doing a little dance. Lale put on the silver-and-leather necklace, and gave me a small kiss on half my lips. It was going to be full on the lips but I turned my head a fraction at the last minute. It was weird—my lip tingled where his touched it, and both of us were a little embarrassed. Then he handed me a small box. It was the size of a ring box. In fact, it was a ring. Not a fancy ring, certainly not an engagement kind of ring, but a wide silver band set with a cool moonstone. It fit my right middle finger like it had been measured. It was so beautiful, so comfortable, that I didn’t want to take it off. It was just the right amount of expensive.

  “Lale, it…it’s…perfect. Thank you so much.” I looked up at him and his eyes were the very color of the glint in the stone. He leaned down to kiss me and this time I turned my face toward him, feeling a stirring down inside that I couldn’t stop from happening. Our lips almost touched, I could smell the sweet champagne of his breath, feel the heat from his skin, but Sal, who had been looking at the painting some more, came over and clapped his hands just in time.

  “Break it up, break it up! Don’t get all mushy on me, guys. Cherry, you haven’t opened my present yet!” He dragged out a huge box, the size of a major appliance. I collected myself and was half grateful for the interruption, half annoyed. Lale was just annoyed, and grumped over to get himself another glass of champagne. I ripped open the paper. Inside was a smaller box, and inside that was a smaller one.

  “What on earth…? Sal, this is ridiculous! If there’s a tiny little box in the bottom of this thing you will be in so much trouble!”

  On the boxes went, more paper, more unwrapping, until finally one the size of a dress box revealed black and gold tissue paper. I delicately opened the paper and there was an exquisite antique dress from the thirties. It was done in chevrons of alternating black and gold sequins on fine net chiffon, had a plunging neckline in front and back, and could have been worn by Jean Harlow or Carole Lombard.

  “Oh, Sal. Oh, my gosh. Where did you find this? This is the most beautiful dress I’ve ever seen in my life. It’s so delicate, I’ll be afraid to wear it.”

  “You save it for a special occasion, my sweetheart. I got it from a friend of mine named Harriet Love—isn’t that delicious? She has a wonderful store in the Village. I throw a lot of business her way and she owed me one. I wanted to get you the shoes to match, but well…”

  “I know, I know. You don’t have to rub it in. People were tiny back in those days. Poor nutrition. I don’t see how they kept from falling over, trying to walk around on feet the size those Chinese footbound women had. You tell Harriet Love I’m there as soon as her doors open tomorrow.”

  The three of us hugged, Lale now over his pout, then we finished off the bottle of champagne.

  41

  * * *

  VOGUE

  Dear Baby,

  Did you have a good Christmas? What did Leo get you? I wish we could just pick up the phone and call each other, but it is so hard with no phone in my room. You can always call Mrs. Digby, though, if you really need to talk to me and I’ll go down to the corner and call you back.

  Big news! I went to Vogue on Monday and met with Diana Vreeland! I had no idea what to expect, but Suzan said if she called me in, it was because she wanted to use me, and I should make a memorable entrance. She is the most vibrant person I have ever met, so I tried to dress up for it. I wore a chamois skirt with a handkerchief hem, my new green lace-up boots, a huge turquoise squash-blossom necklace I got at the flea market that weighs about ten pounds, and a hunter-green turtleneck sweater. I had a scarf of black and rust and turquoise and green wrapped around my head, and two big turquoise bracelets on my arms that were so heavy I felt like I was lifting weights. She said I looked divine, her favorite word. I have to say I was a little nervous, not the least because of something weird that happened right before I went in, which I’ll tell you about in a minute, but first I have to tell you about Mrs. Vreeland. Her office walls are painted in bright-red lacquer and she has leopard-skin carpet over all the floors. Not real leopard skin, of course, though I bet she would use it if she could. There were walls of black lacquered bookcases, the furniture was black lacquer, except for a couple of good wicker chairs, and there was a huge cork inspiration board with tons of pictures and scraps of things she sees and cuts out from everywhere. She had my Diamonds & Ermine ad up there, which thrilled me no end. There was a wonderful portrait of her in profile behind her desk. She really is the bravest woman I know, to have her portrait done in profile with that nose. I thought at first she was ugly, but the more I’m around her, the more beautiful she becomes. Beautiful is not really the word. More like overwhelming. Do I sound like a girl with a crush? I guess I am. Because she really wants me to do stuff for Vogue!! We talked about several layouts she’s planning, a big one she wants to do in Russia! Can you believe it? I never even took French in school because I figured I’d never travel outside the U.S., and now I’ll be going halfway around the world. I really had limited horizons then, didn’t I? Mrs. Vreeland went on and on about Russia for thirty minutes, and I wish I could remember everything she said, she has such a…baroque…way of talking and she adores Russia so much. She described the onion domes in great detail, ones like those on St. Basil’s in Red Square that look like they’re made out of Christmas candy and others that are gilded in pure gold; the White Nights of spring when it never gets dark and people walk their babies in the park at midnight in what seems like eternal blue twilight. Everything looks like a painting then, deep cobalt skies dotted with stars and washed with light toward the horizon, outlining dark-green Maxfield Parrish trees. All the buildings are painted sherbet colors of pink, golden yellow, pistachio green, and pale turquoise with trim like white cake frosting. Leningrad is the most beautiful city in the world, next to Paris, she said, built on canals, but Moscow is earthier, heavy, strong, and dark, and is the soul of Russia. We’ll go to both places. She sees me in the deep snow in a birch forest, and in those little weathered moss-green and cerulean-blue dachas, the ones right out of Peter and the Wolf that are trimmed in unpainted wooden lace. It will be a lot of fur coats and incredible clothes, of course, and a white horse will somehow be involved. That was important to her, me on a white horse in the snow. I was afraid to tell her I had only ridden one those few times at Cassie’s. I’ll just have to fake it. There will be a whole team going, of course, I’m not the only model, and Richard Avedon is going to be the photographer! I keep having to pinch myself—it is so fantastic it doesn’t seem real. The pictures won’t be in the magazine until the winter issue next year, but she has to do them early to take advantage of the snow. She also wants to do a bathing-suit layout for summer with my old friend Ron Bonetti as the photographer. He’s been doing more work for them and this will be a big deal for both of us, kind of a trial, I guess. We’ll go to Miami and shoot on the beach with the pastel Art Deco buildings. She likes the idea of such a pale person as me out on the beach, hiding under umbrellas and hats, scarves and sunglasses, trying to escape from the sun while being right under its eye. She also has this great idea of me moon-bathing on the beach, under a full moon at night, the waves shining silver and reflecting on the dark sand and palm trees. Remember Tripp once said I looked like I was made on the moon? I know, I have to stop thinking about Tripp. I will. I promise. Anyhow, that Miami one we’ll do right after the New Year, as soon as the moon is full. It’s so weird how these things work. They’re always shooting the next season in the middle of the opposite one—summer in winter, fall in spring. I don’t know really how they know what is going to be the fashion that far in advance, but they always do. It’s like some kind of telepathy they have, these designers doing things that are all in sync with each other, like suddenly everybody at once decrees midis are in style, or gauchos or empire waistlines or wh
atever. Although how much of a secret can their designs be, really, since there are tons of people who know what each one is doing and I’m sure everyone has their spies? Anyhow, I feel like I have my ticket to ride on the rocket and am standing in line.

  Which brings me to the weird thing that happened right before I had my appointment. I had a couple of hours to kill, since I had a go-see earlier, so I went to this shop downtown called Love Saves the Day. It’s a crazy antique clothing shop that also sells a lot of other stuff, costume jewelry, old Fiestaware and used toys like Barbie and G.I. Joe, and is really cool. I picked out a few things and went to the dressing room, which was behind a door curtained off into two cubicles, to try them on. I had my clothes off and was putting on a rayon print dress from the forties—you know, the kind with the zipper in the side, which is a little hard to get over your head, so I had it half over my head with my arms sticking up in the air, tightly pinned, when someone came into the other side. I heard sounds of them undressing, and after a couple of minutes the curtain between the cubicles swooped open, and standing there was a naked man. A really good-looking naked man. Holding a huge penis. I was in such shock that I couldn’t move, even if I wanted to, since I was stuck in the dress, trying to get it off up around my shoulders. Thank goodness he didn’t try to touch me. He just stood there and said in this cute French accent, “Don’t you tink I am beeg? Don’t you tink I am beautiful?” I was working as fast as I could to get the dress off without screaming. I said, “Um, yes, you’re big and beautiful, but I have a boyfriend and I’m not interested in going out with anybody new. So let me get dressed, now, please, and shut the curtain.” He smiled like he didn’t understand a word I said and repeated again, “Don’t you tink I am beeg? Don’t you tink I am beautiful?” “Are you from Paris,” I said, trying to buy myself some time as I threw on my clothes. “You sound like you have a French accent.” He only repeated what he had said before, and still he didn’t come closer. By this time I had gotten my clothes on and gathered up my stuff, so I squeezed by, trying not to touch him, and said, “Well, nice talking to you. I have to go now. I have an appointment.”