Rules of Civility

by Amor Towles

  —Since 1934, I said.

  —That must make you one of the senior girls!

  —Not by a long shot.

  We were quiet for a few seconds. I thought maybe she was finally getting the message. Instead she launched into a monologue.

  —Isn’t Miss Markham something else? I’ve never met anyone like her. She is just so impressive. Did you know that she speaks French? I heard her speaking it with one of the partners. I swear, she can see the draft of a letter once and remember it word for word.

  Charlotte was suddenly chattering at twice her usual pace. I couldn’t tell if it was nerves or an effort to say as much as possible before the train arrived at her stop.

  —. . . But then all the people at Q&H are just so especially nice. Even the partners! I was in Mr. Quiggin’s office just the other day to get some things signed. Have you been in his office? Why, of course you have. You know how he has that fish tank just filled with fish. Well, there was this one little fish that was the most amazing shade of blue and its nose was pressed against the glass. I couldn’t take my eyes off it. Even though Miss Markham tells us not to let our eyes wander around the partners’ offices. But when Mr. Quiggin finished he came right around his desk and told me the Latin names of each and every one of those fish!

  As Charlotte was speeding along, the chambermaid across the aisle had raised her gaze. She was staring at Charlotte and listening as if she had stood in front of such a fish tank one day not long ago, when she too had had delicate features and beautiful skin, when her eyes were hopeful and wide and the world had seemed splendid and fair.

  The train arrived at Canal Street and the doors opened. Charlotte was talking so fast she didn’t notice.

  —Isn’t this your stop?

  Charlotte jumped. She gave a sweet, mousy wave and disappeared.

  It was only when the doors closed that I saw the merger agreement on the bench beside me. Clipped to the front was a note FROM THE DESK OF THOMAS HARPER, ESQ, with the name of a Camden & Clay attorney scrolled in Harper’s prep school cursive. Presumably, he had sloughed off the delivery of this draft on Charlotte by applying a little schoolboy charm. It wouldn’t have taken much. She was born to be charmed. Or intimidated. Either way, it showed a solid lack of judgment on both their parts. But if New York was a many-cogged machine, then lack of judgment was the grease that kept the gears turning smoothly for the rest of us. They’d both end up getting what they deserved one way or another. I lay the agreement back on the bench.

  We were still stalled at the station. On the platform a few commuters had gathered in front of the closed doors looking hopefully through the glass like Mr. Quiggin’s fish. I redirected my gaze across the aisle and found the chambermaid staring at me. With her doleful eyes, she looked down at the forgotten document. It wouldn’t be the both of them who got what they deserved, she seemed to be saying. That charming boy with his fine enunciation and floppy bangs, they’ll let him talk his way out of it. And little miss wide eyes, she’ll pay the price for the both of them.

  The doors opened again and the commuters piled on board.

  —Shit, I said.

  I grabbed the agreement and got an arm between the doors just before they closed.

  —Come on, sweet stuff, said a conductor.

  —Sweet your own stuff, I replied.

  I headed up the east side stair and began working my way toward Ludlow looking among the wide-brimmed hats and the Brylcreemed hair for a bobbing black chrysanthemum. If I didn’t catch her in five blocks, I told myself, this agreement was going to merge with an ash can.

  I found her on the corner of Canal and Christie.

  She was standing in front of Schotts & Sons—kosher purveyors of all things pickled. She wasn’t shopping. She was talking to a diminutive old woman with black eyes in a familiarly funereal dress. The old woman had this evening’s lox wrapped in yesterday’s news.

  —Excuse me.

  Charlotte looked up. An expression of surprise turned to a girlish smile.

  —Katherine!

  She gestured to the old woman at her side.

  —This is my grandmother.

  (No kidding.)

  —Nice to meet you, I said.

  Charlotte said something to the old lady in Yiddish, presumably explaining that we worked together.

  —You left this on the train, I said.

  The smile left Charlotte’s face. She took the document in hand.

  —Oh. What an oversight. How can I thank you.

  —Forget it.

  She paused for a second and then gave in to that worst of compulsions:

  —Mr. Harper has a meeting first thing tomorrow with an important client, but this revision needs to be at Camden & Clay by nine so he asked if on my way to the office I could—

  —In addition to a Harvard degree, Mr. Harper has a trust fund.

  Charlotte looked at me with bovine bewilderment.

  —These will hold him in good stead should he ever be dismissed.

  Charlotte’s grandmother looked at my hands. Charlotte looked at my shoes.

  In the summer the Schottses rolled their barrels of pickles and herring and watermelon rind right onto the sidewalk, sloshing a vinegary brine on the paving stones. Eight months later you could still smell it.

  The old woman said something to Charlotte.

  —My grandmother is asking if you would join us for dinner.

  —I’m afraid I’m previously committed.

  Charlotte translated, unnecessarily.

  From Canal Street, I still had fifteen blocks to go, which was about ten too short to warrant another subway fare. So in the language of the neighborhood, I schlepped. At every intersection I looked to my left and right. Hester Street, Grand Street, Broome Street, Spring. Prince Street, First Street, Second Street, Third. Each block looked like a dead end from a different country. Tucked among the tenements you could see the shops of other Fathers & Sons selling the reformulated fare of their home countries—their sausages or cheeses, their smoked or salted fish wrapped in Italian or Ukrainian newsprint to be trundled home by their own unvanquishable grandmothers. Looking up, you could see the rows of two-room flats where three generations gathered nightly for a supper bracketed by religious devotions as saccharine and peculiar as their after-dinner liqueurs.

  If Broadway was a river running from the top of Manhattan down to the Battery, undulating with traffic and commerce and lights, then the east-west streets were eddies where, leaflike, one could turn slow circles from the beginning to the ever shall be, world without end.

  At Astor Place, I stopped to buy the evening edition of the Times at a curbside newsstand. The front page offered a modified map of Europe, graced with a gentle dotted line to reflect a shifting frontier. The old man behind the counter had the white overgrown eyebrows and kindhearted expression of an absentminded country uncle. It made you wonder what he was doing there.

  —Nice night, he said, presumably referencing what little he could see of it reflected in the milliner’s window.

  —Yes, it is.

  —Do you think it’ll rain?

  I looked over the East Side rooftops where the Evening Star shone as clear as the beacon of a plane.

  —No, I said. Not tonight.

  He smiled and looked relieved.

  As I handed him a dollar, another customer approached and stopped a foot closer to me than was necessary. Before I had a chance to take him in, I noticed the newsman’s eyebrows droop.

  —Hey sister, the customer said. You have a smoke or somethin?

  I turned and met his gaze. Well on his way from unemployed to unemployable, his hair was much longer now and he had a poorly groomed goatee, but he had the same presumptuous smile and the wandering eye that he had had when we were fourteen.

  —No, I said. Sorry.

  He gave a shake. Then he tilted his head.

  —Hey. I know you, right?

  —I don’t think so.

  —Sure, he sai
d. I know you. Room 214. Sister Sally Salamone. I before E except after C . . .

  He laughed at the thought of it.

  —You’ve mistaken me for somebody else, I said.

  —I aint mistaken, he said. And you aint somebody else.

  —Here, I said, holding out my change.

  He held up both hands in mild protest.

  —I couldn’t presuppose.

  Then he laughed at his own word choice and walked off toward Second Avenue.

  —That’s the problem with being born in New York, the old newsman observed a little sadly. You’ve got no New York to run away to.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  The Lonesome Chandeliers

  —This is Katey Kontent.

  —This is Clarence Darrow.

  The typewriters at Quiggin & Hale steamed full speed ahead, but not so loudly that I couldn’t hear the lilt back in Evey’s voice.

  —When did you get in town, Miss Darrow?

  —Four score and seven hours ago.

  —How was Key West?

  —Droll.

  —No need for jealousy on my end?

  —Not a smidgen. Listen. We’re having a few friends over tonight. We’d love it if you’d round out the table. Can we lure you away?

  —From what?

  —That’s the spirit.

  I arrived at the Beresford forty minutes late.

  As embarrassing as it is to admit, I was late because I was having trouble deciding what to wear. When Eve and I lived at the boardinghouse we shared our wardrobe with the other girls on the floor and we always looked smart on Saturday night. But when I moved out, I had something of a rude awakening—I discovered that all the fun clothes had been theirs. I apparently owned all the frumpy utilitarian numbers. Scanning my closet, the clothes looked as drab as the sheets outside my window. I settled on a navy blue dress that was four years out of date and spent half an hour with a sewing kit shortening the hem.

  Manning the elevator was a big-shouldered sort whom I didn’t recognize.

  —Hamilton isn’t on tonight? I asked as we ascended.

  —That boy’s gone.

  —That’s too bad.

  —Not for me, it aint. I wouldn’t have no job if he still had it.

  This time, it was Eve waiting for me in the foyer.

  —Katey!

  We kissed each other on the right cheeks and she took both of my hands in hers, just as Tinker liked to do. She stepped back and looked me over as if I was the one just returned from two months at the beach.

  —You look great, she said.

  —You’re kidding, right? You look great. I look like Moby Dick.

  Evey squinted and smiled.

  And she did look great. In Florida, her hair had turned flaxen and she had cut it back to her jaw, accentuating the fineness of her features. The sardonic lethargy of March had been exorcised and a teasing glint had returned to her eye. She was also wearing a spectacular pair of diamond chandeliers. They cascaded from her earlobes to her neck and sparkled over the evenly tanned surface of her skin. There was no question about it: Tinker’s Palm Beach prescription had been spot on.

  Eve led the way into the living room. Tinker was standing beside one of the couches talking with another man about shares in a railroad. Eve interrupted him by taking his hand.

  —Look who’s here, she said.

  He was looking good too. While in Florida, he had lost his nursemaid pounds and his hangdog demeanor. He had taken to entertaining without a tie and his tanned sternum showed through his open collar. Without quite letting go of Evey’s hand he leaned forward and gave me a peck on the cheek. If he pecked to make a point, he needn’t have. I had already gotten the lay of the land.

  No one seemed particularly put out that I was late, but the price I paid was missing the drinks. About a minute after I was introduced, I was ushered into the dining room empty-handed. From the looks of the crowd, I had missed more than a round.

  There were three other guests. Sitting to my left was the man that Tinker had been speaking to when I’d arrived: a stockbroker nicknamed Bucky who summered near Tinker as a boy. In the relapse of ’37, apparently Bucky had had the good sense to cash out before his clients. Now he lived comfortably in Greenwich, Connecticut. He was a fine-looking charmer who, while nowhere near as smart as he sounded, was at least of better cheer than his wife. With her hair pulled back, Wyss (short for Wisteria!) seemed as prim and miserable as a schoolmarm. The state of Connecticut is one of our nation’s smallest, but it wasn’t small enough for her. In the afternoon, she probably climbed her colonial stair and looked out her second-story window toward Delaware with a bitter, envious gaze.

  Seated directly across from me was a friend of Tinker’s named Wallace Wolcott. Wallace, who had been a few years ahead of Tinker at St. George’s, had the fair hair and solemn grace of a collegiate tennis star who never quite cared for the sport. For a moment, I wondered whether it was Eve’s or Tinker’s idea to invite him on my behalf. Maybe it was a shared plan, the sort of transparent conspiracy that good marriages are made of. Whosever idea, it was a misfire. Wallace, who had a slight speech impediment—a sort of dead stop in the middle of every remark—was obviously more interested in playing with his spoon than making eyes at me. All in all, one got the sense he’d rather be behind his desk at the family paper concern.

  The party was suddenly talking about ducks.

  On the way back to New York, the five of them had stopped over in South Carolina at the Wolcotts’ hunting plantation and they were debating the finer points of mallard plumage. I let my mind wander until I became conscious that someone was asking me something. It was Bucky.

  —What’s that? I asked.

  —Have you ever been hunting down south, Katey?

  —I’ve never been hunting in any direction.

  —It’s good sport. You should join us next year.

  I turned to Wallace.

  —Do you shoot there every year?

  —Most years. A few weekends in the . . . fall and spring.

  —Then why do the ducks come back?

  Everyone laughed but Wyss. She clarified on my behalf.

  —They grow a field of corn and flood it. That’s what attracts the birds. So in that sense, it’s actually not that “sporting.”

  —Well, isn’t that the way that Bucky attracted you?

  For a moment, everyone laughed but Wyss. Then Wyss started laughing and everyone laughed but Bucky.

  The soup was served. It was black bean with a spoonful of sherry. Maybe it was the sherry that Tinker and I had shared. If so, it was poetic justice for someone. But it was too soon to tell for whom.

  —This is delicious, Tinker said to Eve, his first words in half an hour. What is it?

  —Black bean and sherry. And don’t worry. There’s not a spot of cream in it.

  Tinker gave an embarrassed smile.

  —Tinker’s been minding his nutrition, Eve explained.

  —It’s working, I said. You look terrific.

  —I doubt that, he said.

  —No, Eve said raising her glass to Tinker. Katey’s right. You’re positively glowing.

  —That’s because he shaves twice a day, said Bucky.

  —No, said Wallace. It’s the . . . exercise.

  Eve pointed a finger at Wallace in agreement.

  —In the Keys, she explained, there was an island a mile off the coast and Tinker would swim there and back twice a day.

  —He was a . . . fish.

  —That’s nothing, Bucky said. One summer he swam across the Narragansett Bay.

  The starlike blushes on Tinker’s cheeks grew a shade redder.

  —It’s only a few miles, he said. It’s not hard if you time the tides right.

  —How about you, Katey, Bucky asked, taking another stab at it. Do you enjoy a good swim?

  —I don’t know how.

  Everyone sat up in their seats.

  —What’s that?!

  —You don
’t know how to swim?

  —Not a stroke.

  —Then what?

  —I sink, I suppose. Like most things.

  —Did you grow up in Kansas? asked Wyss without irony.

  —I grew up in Brighton Beach.

  More excitement.

  —Splendid, said Bucky, as if I’d climbed the Matterhorn.

  —Don’t you want to learn? asked Wyss.

  —I don’t know how to shoot either. Between the two, I’d rather learn to shoot.

  Laughter.

  —Well that’s well within your grasp, Bucky encouraged. There’s really nothing to it.

  —Obviously, I know how to pull a trigger, I said. What I want to learn is how to hit a bull’s-eye.

  —I’ll teach you, said Bucky.

  —No, said Tinker looking more at ease with the shift of attention. Wallace is your man.

  Wallace had been drawing a circle on the linen with the tip of his dessert spoon.

  —Is that right, Wallace?

  —. . . Hardly.

  —I’ve seen him shoot the center of a target at a hundred yards, Tinker said.

  I raised my eyebrows.

  —True or false?

  —True, he said shyly. But to be fair, a . . . bull’s-eye doesn’t move.

  When the bowls were cleared, I excused myself to go to the bathroom. A nice burgundy had been served with the soup and my head was beginning to turn on its spindle. There was a little washroom near the living room, but thumbing my nose at etiquette, I went down the hall to the master bath. From a quick look around the bedroom I could see that Eve was no longer sleeping alone.

  I peed and flushed. Then, as I was standing at the sink washing my hands, Eve appeared. She winked at me in the mirror. She hoisted up her dress and sat on the toilet, just like old times. It made me regret having wanted to snoop.

  —So, she said coyly, what do you think about Wallace?

  —He seems grade A.

  —And then some.

  She flushed and pulled up her hose. She came over and took my place at the sink. There was a small ceramic cigarette box on the vanity. I lit one and sat on the john to smoke. I watched as she washed her hands. From where I was sitting you could see her scar. It still looked red and a little inflamed. But it wasn’t getting much in her way anymore.