Save Me the Plums

by Ruth Reichl

  I couldn’t imagine.

  “Anna will be there,” Robin persisted. I thought of the last time I’d shared a room with the supreme fashionista; she’d been dressed in a silky teal dress trimmed with pale puffs of gray fur that looked so soft I wanted to reach out and pet them. On her feet were tall butter-colored suede boots that would surely dissolve with the first drop of rain. I pictured myself, the dowdy in a room filled with fabulously gowned women swanning through Si’s legendary art collection, as turbaned waiters proffered extravagant tidbits and bartenders set spectacular cocktails on fire. Even the pre-party—Si celebrated each year by remastering a vintage film for a private screening at the Museum of Modern Art—sounded exotic.

  “You have to get a driver.” Robin stood by my desk, hands on hips, face screwed into her fiercest frown. “If you don’t, you’ll be the only editor on the bus.” This, her stance implied, would be deeply humiliating to her.

  “The bus?”

  “Si hires a bus to take the other guests from the museum to his house. But the editors all take their own drivers. You can’t get on the bus.”

  I was not about to be one-upped by AnnaGraydonDavidPaige. On the night of the party, I let her call a car. “Ask for Mustafa when you get downstairs,” she said.

  The man standing by the sleek black Mercedes was short and thick, with a rugged pockmarked face. As he held the door I noticed he had the hands of a boxer: calloused, large, strong.

  “You don’t use cars.” The sentence, uttered in a heavy Arabic accent, was an accusation.

  “How do you know?”

  He slid behind the wheel and looked into the rearview mirror with a sardonic lift of the eyebrow. “When a new editor comes to Condé Nast, everyone is hopeful. Maybe we can be their regular driver.” I liked the deep, gravelly sound of his voice. “But you? You make us all sad. You never use a car. You don’t bring us a penny.”

  He glanced into the mirror again, smiling to indicate this was a joke. But I could feel the disapproval leaking through the humor. “The subway’s so much quicker.” My voice was small; why did I feel the need to apologize?

  “But there’s a line in your budget for car service! Why waste it?”

  “Tell me where you’re from.”

  He took the hint. “Egypt.” Turning the wheel, he slipped smoothly into the line of cars heading north. “Alexandria. My city is so beautiful.”

  * * *

  —

  WALKING DOWN THE ramp of the museum’s intimate theater, I looked around, disappointed. There was not a gown in sight, and I was glad I’d opted for the vintage couture cocktail suit, the last remnant of Chloe, one of the most successful disguises from my restaurant critic days. It was black satin, tightly fitted, elegant but not over the top; it was also the most expensive garment I owned. The other guests, dressed mostly in drab business suits, were grouped in uncomfortable clusters with vast spaces between the rows. They whispered uneasily to one another, trying to look busy as they avoided eye contact. I was grateful that Michael was already there, and he leapt from his seat, waving energetically. I slid in next to him, making little shushing motions with my hand as I looked around. None of the editors Robin had mentioned seemed to be in attendance.

  We sat in edgy silence until Andrew Sarris, the Village Voice’s venerable movie critic, lurched onto the stage to offer an erudite little lecture about the movie we were about to see. He was a large, gnarled man who resembled an ancient hobbit, and there was a smattering of embarrassed applause. The lights went down.

  I was enthralled by the romantic old French gangster film, but I couldn’t help noticing the people all around me tapping surreptitiously on their BlackBerrys as it played. Latecomers snuck in, filling the back rows. The air prickled with impatience, and when the lights came up a palpable sense of relief flooded the room. As we stood, I noticed that the editors Robin had mentioned, all chic and important-looking, now occupied the back row.

  A large bus waited outside, and as I watched the guests climb on, I saw that Robin was right: No editors were among them. On cue a phalanx of limos rounded the corner, purring out of the mist.

  I peered at the identical sedans. “How will we know which one is ours?” Michael asked.

  “That one.” I pointed at the thickset man, sturdy as a fireplug, leaping from the first car. “Meet Mustafa. He’s from Egypt.”

  My husband stuck out his hand. “Michael,” he said, and began peppering the man with questions about Middle East politics. By the time the car pulled up to the huge glass monolith on the East River, they were so deep in conversation that Michael made no move to get out. “You go.” He pointed upward. “This is so much more interesting than anything that’s going to happen up there.”

  “Mr. Mike.” Mustafa gave him a look of deep reproach. “You cannot abandon Miss Ruth. You don’t know what it’s like at the party. What if she needs some backup?”

  He had a friend for life.

  The lobby—majestic and dramatically dark—was filled with minions waiting to relieve us of our coats. They ushered us into the elevator and we ascended in heavy silence. The doors sprang open at the top to reveal a blindingly white vista, and we exited en masse to march down a wide hallway lined on both sides with vintage movie posters.

  The door at the end was open, revealing a huge art-filled space hanging over the river. Even from the hallway I recognized a Picasso, a Giacometti, a Hirst. Curious about Si’s life, I peered around, seeking signs of human habitation. But with the exception of some sofas and a few small round tables scattered through the rooms, this might have been a museum.

  Many guests had apparently bypassed the entertainment portion of the evening; the apartment was already full of interesting-looking people clad in extravagantly different styles. Some wore drab business suits, some turtlenecks and jeans, but one woman passed me wearing a diamond tiara pinned into upswept hair, looking slightly ridiculous in this crowd. My vintage black cocktail suit also felt like overreaching, and I now wished I hadn’t worn it. Chagrined, I knelt to examine the Damien Hirst cow, who stared balefully out from her formaldehyde-filled cube, as if wondering what she was doing there. “I feel the same, pal,” I muttered.

  “Did you say something, madam?” A waiter stood above me, holding a tray of glasses containing champagne and white wine.

  “May I have some red wine?” I stood up, ducking to avoid his tray. The waiter gave me a look so disapproving that I took an involuntary step back.

  “White wine only,” he intoned in a sepulchral voice. His reproachful hand made a stately gesture, indicating the pale carpet, pale walls, pale sofa. He pointed to the art and thrust the tray of glasses aggressively in my direction.

  Chastened, I took a glass. Michael followed suit.

  Clutching the bubbly, we strolled the perimeter, feeling uncomfortable and out of place. “Just pretend we’re in a museum,” I whispered to Michael. “If only there was someone we knew, someone we could talk to.” At that moment I spied Gina across the room and made my way toward her, thrilled by the sight of a familiar face.

  My relationship with Gina was vastly improved, thanks to the travel editor. In a move that took us all by surprise, Pat had abruptly quit to care for an ailing husband. Before leaving, however, she had offered up the name of her handpicked successor, and Gina and I girded for battle.

  “Never!” I told Larry when he suggested I interview the man. “I don’t want another Pat.”

  “Just see the guy,” he urged. “You don’t have to hire him, but it would be a courtesy to Gina.”

  I’d learned by then that Larry was always right. And it would cost me very little. But the last thing I expected was the man who came bursting into my office, crying, “Couldn’t I just bribe you to hire me?”

  William Sertl threw himself into one of my red velvet chairs, radiating fellowship and energy. Large and
rumpled, with a humorous face dominated by a long ski jump of a nose, he leaned forward and confided, “I’ve always wanted to work at Gourmet.” Shooting me a roguish look, he added, “If you want to know the truth, I’m pretty sure Pat suggested me because she knows I’d do a terrible job. And,” he added guilelessly, “if you respected what she was doing, that would be true.”

  Larry refused to be charmed. “I know you liked him,” he said afterward, “but that man is not what we need.” I watched him consider his next words, but he was never one to pull his punches. “He’s too much like you and Laurie. How many free spirits can we have around here before the whole place falls apart?”

  In the end, however, Larry conceded that hiring Sertl might be a good political move. “Gina will be grateful if you hire Pat’s candidate. And if he disappoints her, she can’t blame you.”

  It did not take long before we all realized that we’d lucked into the perfect person for the job. In addition to being a seasoned travel expert and a wonderful editor, Sertl had a million contacts and was an extremely entertaining writer. He roamed Gourmet’s halls with the irresistible curiosity of a child, poking his long anteater nose into everybody’s business. This would have been annoying had he not been so effortlessly amusing; when you wanted to find Bill, all you had to do was listen for the laughter.

  Once he strolled into a meeting saying, “Sorry I’m late. I was on the phone with Ann Patchett, who’s deep in the Amazon. She just found a turtle at some jungle marketplace and couldn’t bear to have it become somebody’s dinner. She wanted to know if she could expense it.”

  “What’d you tell her?” Larry asked.

  Sertl gave him his most innocent look. “I informed her of Gourmet’s policy, of course, the one that permits writers to expense any animal that rhymes with the name of their editor.”

  We erupted in mirth and spent the rest of the meeting figuring out what other animals Gourmet might be obliged to purchase.

  Gina proved no more immune to Sertl’s charm than the rest of us, and with the quarrel behind us, our partnership began edging into friendship.

  “I’m so glad to see you,” Gina said now, lifting a glass of water from a passing tray. “I’ve been dying to tell you about the strange encounter I had over the weekend. You’re going to love this!”

  She took a sip. “I ran into one of the old Gourmet editors at an afternoon tea.” She mentioned a name; it was one of the patrician white-glove women who had chosen to leave when I arrived.

  “Do people still have teas?”

  “Old Gourmet people do.” A little gurgle escaped. “She said she’d just come from a bar mitzvah. Then she made this funny little face and whispered, ‘The kid’s name is Spencer Shapiro. Don’t you just hate it when they take our names?’ ”

  My shout of laughter was such an unexpected sound in that hushed atmosphere that heads turned in our direction. David Remnick waved and strolled gracefully across the room. “Tell me what’s funny.”

  More people drifted in our direction, and suddenly we were surrounded by an animated group of writers, artists, and politicians. Michael launched into a polite political argument with one of the New Yorker writers, and listening to them I was struck by a thought: if only Mom could be here.

  “What I dream of,” my mother wrote in her teenage diary, “is a life filled with culture and interesting people.” As a young woman she’d moved from Cleveland to New York, chasing a life that turned out to be smaller than her dreams. Being in this room, I knew, would have made her very happy, and now I tried to see it from her perspective.

  Michael was still deep in conversation, but I moved off, weaving through the crowd, shamelessly eavesdropping on the people I passed. “I thought about Brooklyn for the next home of Condé Nast,” Si was saying to a small wiry guy in a skinny black suit, “but after you talked me into buying that sculpture by one of your Brooklyn artists, I changed my mind. It just didn’t hold up. I don’t think Brooklyn is the neighborhood for us.”

  Spotting me, Si came my way. Many eyes followed him, jealously looking to see whom he was favoring with attention. “I’m very pleased you’re planning a major cookbook,” he pronounced. “Gourmet hasn’t done one for fifty years, and it is certainly time.”

  “It is.” Unable to help myself, I added, “And I hope you’re pleased with the advance.” I wanted to make sure Si was aware that we were getting a million dollars; no Condé Nast book had ever earned that much.

  “I am, of course, anticipating a major bestseller.”

  I glanced at his face, wondering if it was a joke. It wasn’t. A million was good, he was implying, but he hoped that it was just the start, that royalties would come rolling in.

  Annoyed, I bent down to commune with the cow. “Did you hear that?”

  “Please tell me you aren’t actually talking to that animal!” I didn’t recognize the voice, but looking up I recognized the art dealer, he of the Brooklyn artist.

  “I am indeed.” I stood up. “I figure any cow who could find his way into this apartment might be able to talk. At least this cow didn’t come from Brooklyn!”

  He grinned. “The embarrassing mistake must be hidden away back there.” He indicated a firmly shut door next to the entrance. At that moment the door swung open and two tiny pugs came scampering out, barking madly. In the instant before Victoria shooed them inside, we had a tantalizing glimpse of the private apartments beyond. Then the door closed.

  “Did you know,” the man asked, “that Si actually packed up his townhouse and moved into this apartment because of those creatures? Nero got too old to climb the stairs, so they moved in here. Had to give up most of his collection—more windows than walls—but he thought Nero would appreciate the view. He even built a ramp so the dog could see out better!”

  I stored this delicious little morsel away; I hadn’t heard it before. Si, like so many Americans, apparently found dogs easier to love than people.

  “Every year,” the dealer continued, “I hang around the door to Si’s private apartments, hoping to find out what’s hidden back there. I think it might tell me something about the private lives of the rich and famous.”

  “So you’re not?”

  “Rich and famous? Hardly. I occasionally sell Si a piece of art, but, you know, it’s only Brooklyn, and that’s not why I’m invited to this party. Si knows I share his passion for old movies, and I think he likes knowing there are other people in the theater enjoying Pépé le Moko as much as he is.”

  “Don’t tell my secretary,” I replied. “She’s convinced this invitation is a mark of high favor, but I’m pretty sure I’m here for the same reason. I love old movies.”

  “We aren’t the only ones.” My new friend steered me through the room, pointing out a famous film writer, a director, MOMA’s curator of films. “Mary Lea is great fun. Let’s see if we can get her to join us for dinner. I promise you it won’t be dull.”

  “Are we going to eat dinner together?”

  “Of course we are! I will tell you scandalous gossip about the guests, and in return you will help me navigate the buffet table.” A waiter passed, and he deftly scooped up the remaining caviar canapés. “Have a few.” He slid some my way. “I always fill up on these. And I advise you to do the same.”

  As he steered me to the line forming in the next room, he whispered, “The wait for the buffet is always long, and when you finally reach the food, it isn’t worth it. I’m hoping you’ll have some advice for me.”

  “Rolls and butter.” I filled my plate with carbohydrates. The bland country-club fare seemed to have been designed primarily to avoid staining the carpet; with the exception of overcooked salmon, it was all white. There was, of course, no garlic. “And save your appetite for dessert.”

  “Do you have inside information?”

  “Yes. But don’t get your hopes too high.” Victoria h
ad asked me to recommend a baker, but when I suggested a cake artist capable of creating something truly spectacular, Victoria demurred. What she wanted was red velvet.

  The dealer’s face fell. “Sweet chocolate fluff topped with sticky goo?”

  “This will be a good version,” I promised.

  Later, as he rose to fetch a third slice, he turned to Michael. “This,” he said, “is the finest dish ever served at this event. I know your wife thinks Si hired her to run a magazine. He might even think that. But as far as the rest of us are concerned, she’s come to improve his birthday party.”

  “No,” I replied, and it was as if Mom were there, speaking through me, “that’s not true. At this party, the food could not matter less.”

  * * *

  —

  “GOOD PARTY?” MUSTAFA asked as he drove us home.

  “Interesting, actually,” Michael conceded. “Although I’m pretty sure I would have had a better time talking to you.”

  But I was riding in a limousine, my limousine, watching buildings glide past in the cool autumn night, wishing my mother were alive. This was the city she had longed to inhabit, and she would have loved knowing I had breached its walls.

  I would never really belong, but I’d been there for a year and a half, and the pieces were finally falling into place. The early angry letters from longtime subscribers—how dare we make changes to their beloved magazine?—had stopped and we were finding a new young audience. “I can’t believe it,” one venerable book agent had recently told me, “but my authors are asking if I can get them into Gourmet!” That felt like a triumph. But what most thrilled me was that our meetings had become raucous, and even the most timid of the editors were daring to speak up; the office felt like a happy place. As for me, for the first time in my life I was doing something that would have pleased Mom, made her proud. And for the first time in my life, I liked that.