Rules of Civility

by Amor Towles

  Sitting in that seat, in the span of a sandwich you could pay witness to the pilgrimage of New York’s devoted. Hailing from every corner of Europe, donned in every shade of gray, they turned their backs on the Statue of Liberty and marched instinctively up Broadway, leaning with pluck into a cautionary wind, gripping identical hats to identical haircuts, happy to count themselves among the indistinguishable. With over a millennia of heritage behind them, each with their own glimpse of empire and some pinnacle of human expression (a Sistine Chapel or Götterdämmerung), now they were satisfied to express their individuality through which Rogers they preferred at the Saturday matinee: Ginger or Roy or Buck. America may be the land of opportunity, but in New York it’s the shot at conformity that pulls them through the door.

  Or so I was thinking, when a man without a hat emerged from the crowd and rapped on the glass.

  Trip of a heartbeat, it was Tinker Grey.

  The tips of his ears were as red as an elf’s and he was sporting a grin like he’d caught me in the act. Behind the glass, he began talking enthusiastically—but inaudibly. I waved him in.

  —So, is this it? he asked as he slid into the booth.

  —Is this what?

  —Is this where you go when you want to be alone!

  —Oh, I laughed. Not exactly.

  He snapped his fingers in mock disappointment. Then, announcing he was famished, he looked around the place with groundless appreciation. He picked up the menu and reviewed it for all of four seconds. He was in the irrepressible good humor of one who’s found a hundred-dollar bill on the ground and has yet to tell a soul.

  When the waitress appeared I ordered a BLT; Tinker leapt straight into uncharted territory, ordering Max’s eponymous sandwich which the menu defined as unparalleled, world famous and legendary. When Tinker asked if I’d ever had it, I told him I’d always found the description a little too long on adjectives and a little too short on specifics.

  —So, do you work nearby? he asked, when the waitress retreated.

  —Just a short walk.

  . . .

  —Didn’t Eve say it was a law firm?

  —That’s right. It’s an old Wall Street practice.

  . . .

  —Do you like it?

  —It’s a little stodgy, but I suppose that’s predictable.

  Tinker smiled.

  —You’re a little long on adjectives and short on specifics yourself.

  —Emily Post says that talking about oneself isn’t very polite.

  —I’m sure Miss Post is perfectly correct, but that doesn’t seem to stop the rest of us.

  Fortune favoring the bold, Max’s special sandwich turned out to be a grilled cheese stuffed with corn beef and coleslaw. Within ten minutes it was gone and a slice of cheesecake had been plopped down in its place.

  —What a great spot! Tinker said for the fifth time.

  —So what’s it like being a banker? I asked as he attacked his dessert.

  For starters, he confided, you could barely call it banking. He was really more of a broker. The bank served a group of wealthy families with large stakes in private companies controlling everything from steel plants to silver mines, and when they were seeking liquidity, his role was to help them find an appropriate buyer, discreetly.

  —I’d be happy to buy any silver mine you’ve got, I said, taking out a cigarette.

  —Next time, you’ll be my first call.

  Tinker reached across the table to give me a light and then set his lighter down on the table beside his plate. Exhaling, I pointed to it with my cigarette.

  —So what’s the story there?

  —Oh, he said, sounding a little self-conscious. You mean the inscription?

  He picked up the lighter and studied it for a moment.

  —I bought it when I got my first big paycheck. You know, as sort of a gift to myself. A solid gold lighter engraved with my initials!

  He shook his head with a wistful smile.

  —When my brother saw it, he gave me hell. He didn’t like that it was gold or that it was monogrammed. But what really ticked him off was my job. We’d get together for a beer in the Village and he’d rail against bankers and Wall Street and jab me with my plans of traveling the world. I kept telling him I was going to get around to that too. So finally, one night he took the lighter out into the street and had a vendor add the postscript.

  —As a reminder to seize the day whenever you lit a girl’s cigarette?

  —Something like that.

  —Well, your job doesn’t sound so bad to me.

  —No, he admitted. It’s not bad. It’s just . . .

  Tinker looked out on Broadway, gathering his thoughts.

  —I remember Mark Twain writing about an old man who piloted a barge—the kind that ferried people from a landing on one side of the river to a landing on the other.

  —In Life on the Mississippi?

  —I don’t know. Maybe. Anyway—over thirty years, Twain figured this man had shuttled back and forth so often that he’d traveled the length of the river twenty times over, without leaving his county.

  Tinker smiled and shook his head.

  —That’s what I feel like sometimes. Like half my clients are on their way to Alaska while the other half are on their way to the Everglades—and I’m the one going from riverbank to riverbank.

  —Refill? the waitress asked, coffeepot in hand.

  Tinker looked to me.

  The girls at Quiggin & Hale had forty-five minutes for lunch and I was in the habit of being in front of my typewriter with a few minutes to spare. If I left right then, I could probably make it. I could thank Tinker for the lunch, jog up Nassau, and catch the elevator to the sixteenth floor. But what would the latitude be for a girl who was usually prompt? Five minutes? Ten? Fifteen if she broke a heel?

  —Sure, I said.

  The waitress filled our cups and we both leaned back, our knees knocking due to the narrowness of the booth. Tinker poured cream in his coffee and stirred it round and round and round. For a moment, we were both quiet.

  —It’s churches, I said.

  He looked a little confused.

  —What is?

  —That’s where I go when I want to be alone.

  He sat upright again.

  —Churches?

  I pointed out the window toward Trinity. For over half a century, its steeple had been the highest point in Manhattan and a welcome sight to sailors. Now, you had to be in a diner across the street just to see it.

  —Really! Tinker said.

  —Does that surprise you?

  —No. It’s just that you don’t strike me as the religious sort.

  —I’m not. But I don’t go during the services. I go in the off-hours.

  —To Trinity?

  —To all sorts. But I prefer the big old ones like Saint Patrick’s and Saint Michael’s.

  —I think I’ve been in Saint Barth’s for a wedding. But that’s about it. I must have walked by Trinity a thousand times without stepping inside.

  —That’s what’s amazing. At two in the afternoon there’s nobody in any of them. There they sit with all that stone and mahogany and stained glass—and they’re empty. I mean, they must have been crowded at one point, right?—for someone to have gone to all that trouble. There must have been lines outside the confessionals and weddings with girls dropping flower petals in the aisle.

  —From baptisms to eulogies. . . .

  —Exactly. But over time the congregation has been winnowed away. The newcomers set up their own churches and the big old ones just get left alone—like the elderly—with memories of their heyday. I find it very peaceful to be in their company.

  Tinker was quiet for a moment. He looked up at Trinity where a pair of seagulls circled the steeple for old time’s sake.

  —That’s really great, he said.

  I toasted him with my coffee cup.

  —It’s something few people know about me.

  He looked m
e in the eye.

  —Tell me something that no one knows about you.

  I laughed.

  But he was serious.

  —That no one knows? I said.

  —Just one thing. I promise, I’ll never tell a soul.

  He crossed his heart to prove it.

  —All right, I said, setting my coffee cup down. I keep perfect time.

  —What do you mean?

  I shrugged.

  —I can count sixty seconds in sixty seconds. Minute in and minute out.

  —I don’t believe it.

  I gestured with a thumb to the soda pop clock on the wall behind me.

  —Just let me know when the second hand gets to twelve.

  He looked over my shoulder and watched the clock.

  —Okay, he said with a game smile. On your mark . . . Get set . . .

  Zowie, Eve had said later that afternoon. Someplace, somewhere, sometime. How’d you get all that?

  In taking depositions, one thing you learn is that most people have respect for a direct and well-timed question. It’s the one thing they’re not prepared for. Sometimes, they show their cooperative intent (and buy some time) by repeating it back to their questioner: How did I get all that? they ask politely. Sometimes, they counter the boldness of the question with a touch of indignation: How’d I get what? Whatever the tactic, the seasoned attorney knows that when someone is stalling in this manner, there is fertile ground for further inquiry. So, the best response to a good question is something put simply without hesitation or inflection.

  —He mentioned it when you were in the bathroom at Chernoff’s, I said to Eve.

  We exchanged a closing pleasantry and I returned to my desk. I removed the slipcover from my typewriter, found my place in the deposition and rattled away. In the second sentence of the third paragraph, I made my first typo of the afternoon. In transcribing a list of someone’s chief concerns, for chief I typed thief. And let the record show that those two letters aren’t even close to each other on the keyboard.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Deus Ex Machina

  On Friday night, as we were getting dressed, Eve wouldn’t even chat about the weather.

  My conscience having gotten the better of me, I’d fessed up. Sort of. In the course of conversation, I mentioned in an offhand manner that I’d run into Tinker downtown and that we’d had a cup of coffee.

  —A cup of coffee, she said, equally offhand. How nice.

  Then she clammed up.

  I took a stab at complimenting her outfit: a yellow dress, six months out of season and all the sharper for it.

  —Do you really like it? she asked.

  —It looks great.

  —You should try it on for size some time. Maybe you can have a cup of coffee with it.

  I was opening my mouth, not sure of what to say, when one of the girls barged in.

  —Sorry to interrupt, ladies, but Prince Charming’s here. And he’s brought his chariot.

  At the door to our room, Eve took a last look in the mirror.

  —I need another a minute, she said.

  Then she went back into the bedroom and took off her dress, as if my compliment had put it out of style. Outside the window I could see that a cold drizzle was falling in vindication of her mood. I followed her down the stairs thinking: We’re in for it all right.

  In front of the boardinghouse Tinker was standing beside a Mercedes coupé as silver as mercury. If all the girls at Mrs. Martingale’s saved a year’s pay, we couldn’t have afforded one.

  Fran Pacelli, the five-foot-nine City College dropout from North Jersey who lived down the hall, whistled like a hard hat appreciating the hem of a skirt. Eve and I went down the steps.

  Tinker was obviously in a good mood. He gave Eve a kiss on the cheek and a You look terrific. When he turned to me, he smiled and gave my hand a squeeze. He didn’t offer me the kiss or the compliment, but Eve was watching and she could tell that she was the one who’d been shortchanged.

  He opened the passenger side door.

  —It’s a tight fit in back, I’m afraid.

  —I’ll take it, I said.

  —That’s mighty big of you, said Eve.

  Beginning to sense that something was amiss, Tinker looked at Eve with a hint of concern. He put one hand on the car door and with the other gestured like a gentleman for her to get in. She didn’t seem to notice. She was too busy looking at the car, sizing it up from hood to heel. Not like Fran had; more like a professional.

  —I’ll drive, she said, holding out her hand for the keys.

  Tinker wasn’t ready for that one.

  —Do you know how to drive? he asked.

  —Do I know how to drive? she said like a Southern belle. Why, I been drivin my daddy’s tractah since I was nyn yeahs old.

  She tugged the keys out of his hand and walked around the hood. As Tinker climbed in the passenger seat looking a little unsure, Eve made herself comfortable.

  —Where to, Mac? she asked, putting the key in the ignition.

  —Fifty-second Street.

  Eve turned on the engine and ripped into reverse. She backed away from the curb at twenty miles an hour and screeched to a halt.

  —Eve! Tinker said.

  She looked at him and smiled sweetly, sympathetically. Then she put it in gear and roared across Seventeenth Street.

  Within seconds it was clear that she was filled with the spirit of the Lord. When she swerved onto Sixth Avenue, Tinker almost grabbed the wheel. But as we zigzagged through traffic, she drove in one fluid motion, accelerating and decelerating in imperceptible increments like a shark cutting through water, timing each light to the second. So we both sat back, quiet and wide-eyed—like others who put themselves in the hands of a higher power.

  Only as we turned onto Fifty-second Street did I realize that he was taking us to the 21 Club.

  In a sense, Eve had cornered him into it. Nice, nicer, nicest—what was he supposed to say?

  But just as Eve had wanted to impress Tinker by showing off the quasi-Russian demimonde that we semi-frequented, Tinker probably wanted to impress us by offering a glimpse of his New York. And from the look of things, he had a good shot at succeeding, whatever Eve’s mood. In front of the restaurant, the exhaust of idling limousines spiraled from tailpipes like genies from a bottle. A valet in a top hat and topcoat opened the door of the car and another one opened the door to the restaurant, revealing a lobby full of Manhattanites waiting hip to hip.

  At first glance, 21 didn’t seem particularly elegant. The dark walls were decorated with framed drawings that could have been ripped from an illustrated weekly. The tabletops were scuffed and the silverware clunky like at a chophouse or a university dining hall. But there was no mistaking the elegance of the clientele. The men wore tailored suits and accented their breast pockets with untouched handkerchiefs. The women wore silk dresses in royal colors and chokers of pearls.

  When we came before the coat-check girl, ever so slightly Eve turned her shoulders toward Tinker. Without missing a trick, he swung the coat off her back like a matador swinging his cape.

  Eve was the youngest person in the restaurant not bussing a tray, and she was ready to make the most of it. Her last-minute dress was a red silk number with a scooped neckline, and she had apparently traded up to her best support bra—because the tops of her breasts could be seen from fifty feet in a fog. She had been careful not to spoil the impression with jewelry. In a small red lacquered box, she kept a pair of graduation-day diamonds. On her ears, the studs provided a nice little sparkle that complemented her dimples when she smiled. But she knew better than to wear them into a place like this—where one had nothing to gain from formality and everything to lose by comparison.

  The maitre d’, an Austrian who had plenty of reason to be harried and wasn’t, welcomed Tinker by name.

  —Mr. Grey. We’ve been expecting you. Please. Right this way.

  He said the word Please as if it was a sentence unto its
elf.

  He led us to a table on the main floor. It was the only empty one in the room and it was set for three. As if he could read minds, the maitre d’ pulled the middle chair out and motioned for Eve to have a seat.

  —Please, he said again.

  Once we were seated, he held a hand in the air and three menus materialized like giant playing cards in the hands of a magician. He delivered them with ceremony.

  —Enjoy.

  The menu was the largest I had ever seen. It was almost a foot and a half high. I opened it expecting a cavalcade of choices, but there were only ten. Lobster tail. Beef Wellington. Prime rib. The items were handwritten in the generous script of a wedding invitation. There were no prices, at least not on my menu. I peeked at Eve, but she wouldn’t peek back. She scanned her menu coolly and then laid it down.

  —Let’s have a round of martinis, she said.

  —Capital! said Tinker.

  He raised a hand and a white-jacketed waiter appeared where the maitre d’ had been. He had all the fast-talking charm of a country club con artist.

  —Good evening, Mr. Grey. Good evening, ladies. If I may be so bold, you’re the best-looking table in the place. Surely, you’re not ready to order? The weather is horrendous. May I bring an aperitif?

  —Actually, Casper, we were just talking about having some martinis.

  —Of course you were. Let me take these out of your way.

  Casper tucked the menus under an elbow and within minutes, the drinks arrived.

  Or rather, three empty glasses arrived. Each had a trio of olives skewered on a pin that was propped on the rim of the glass like an oar on the hull of a rowboat. Casper placed a napkin on top of a silver shaker and rattled it good. Then he carefully began to pour. First, he filled my glass to the brim. The liquor was so cold and pure it gave the impression of being more translucent than water. Next he filled Eve’s glass. When he began filling Tinker’s, the flow of alcohol from the shaker slowed noticeably. And then trickled. For a moment it seemed as if there wasn’t going to be enough. But the gin kept trickling and the surface kept rising until with the very last drop Tinker’s martini reached the brim. It was the sort of precision that gave one confidence.