by Amor Towles
—Wallace, I asked as he handed me my plate, if I declared war on America, would you stay and fight with me?
When dinner was over, I helped Wallace carry the gifts to the back pantry. Lining the hallway were photographs of family members smiling in enviable locales. There were grandparents on a dock, an uncle on skis, sisters riding sidesaddle. At the time it seemed a little odd, this back hall gallery; but running into a similar setup in similar hallways over the years, I eventually came to see it as endearingly WASPy. Because it’s an outward expression of that reserved sentimentality (for places as much as kin) that quietly permeates their version of existence. In Brighton Beach or on the Lower East Side, you were more apt to find a single portrait propped on a mantel behind dried flowers, a burning candle, and a generation of genuflection. In our households, nostalgia played a distant fiddle to acknowledgment of the sacrifices made by forebears on your behalf.
One of the pictures was of a few hundred boys in coat and tie.
—Is that St. George’s?
—Yes. From my . . . senior year.
I leaned a little closer, trying to find Wallace. He pointed to a sweet, unassuming face, which I had already passed over. Wallace was just the sort who blends into the background of the school photo (or the greeting line at the cotillion) but who, with the passage of time, increasingly stands out against the lapses in character around him.
—This is the whole school? I asked after another moment of scanning the boys’ faces.
—You’re . . . looking for Tinker?
—Yes, I admitted.
—He’s here.
Wallace pointed to the left side of the photograph where our mutual friend stood alone at the outskirts of the assembly. Given another minute, I would certainly have identified Tinker. He looked just as you’d expect him to look at the age of fourteen—his hair a little tussled, his jacket a little wrinkled, his eyes trained on the camera as if he were ready to spring.
Then Wallace smiled and moved his finger across the photograph to its opposite edge.
—And he’s here.
Sure enough, at the far right of the assembly was another figure, slightly blurred, but unmistakably him.
In order to have the whole school in focus, Wallace explained, they used the old box cameras on stilts where an aperture is slowly pulled across a large negative, exposing one part of the assembly at a time. This allows someone on the far side to sprint behind the student body and appear in the photograph twice—but only if he times it well and runs like the devil. Every year a few freshmen tried the stunt, but Tinker was the only one Wallace remembered succeeding. And from the wide smile on the second Tinker’s face, you sensed that he knew it.
Wallace and I had been reasonably true to our promise of leaving Tinker and Eve out of our conversations. But there was something nice for the both of us in seeing Tinker’s Puckish self at play. We lingered, giving the stunt its due.
—Can I ask you something? I said after a moment.
—Sure.
—That night we all had dinner at the Beresford—when we were riding down in the elevator, Bucky made a crack about Tinker rising like a phoenix from the ashes.
—Bucky is . . . a bit of a boor.
—Even so. What was he talking about?
Wallace was silent.
—Is it that bad? I prodded.
Wallace smiled softly.
—No. It’s . . . not bad, per se. Tinker came from an old Fall River family. But I gather his . . . father had a run of rotten luck. I think he . . . lost just about everything.
—In the Crash?
—No.
Wallace pointed to the photograph.
—It was around then, when Tinker was a freshman. I remember, because I was a . . . prefect. The trustees met to discuss what they should do given the . . . change in his circumstances.
—Did they give him a scholarship?
Wallace gave a slow shake of the head.
—They asked him to leave. He finished high school in Fall River and . . . put himself through Providence College. Then he got a job as a clerk at a . . . trust company and began working his way back up.
Born in the Back Bay, attended Brown, and worked at his grandfather’s bank. That had been my smug assessment of Tinker ten minutes after we’d met.
I took a second look at the photo of this boy with his curly hair and friendly smile and for the first time in months, I wanted to see him. Not to hash anything out. I didn’t need to talk about Eve or what had or hadn’t or might have happened. I just wanted a second shot at a first impression—to have him walk into The Hotspot and sit at the neighboring table and watch the band—so that when the soloist began to bray and Tinker gave me that bewildered smile, I could take him in without assumptions. For this little piece of information from Wallace told me something that I should have known all along—that as Tinker and I had come of age, we hadn’t been on opposite sides of a threshold; we’d been standing side by side.
Wallace looked back and forth across the photograph with a probing gaze—as if the very moment that it had been taken was when Mr. Grey had lost the last of the family fortune—and the two Tinkers on either side of the assembly represented the end of one life and the beginning of another.
—Most people remember the phoenix for being born from the ashes, he said. But they forget its other feature.
—What’s that? I asked.
—That it lives five hundred years.
The next day, Wallace shipped out.
Well, not exactly.
In 1917, they “shipped out.” Young men in pressed uniforms with fair hair and red cheeks gathered in battalions on the docks of the Brooklyn shipyards. With their duffel bags on their shoulders, they marched up the gangplanks of the great gray cruisers gamely singing choruses of “Over There, Over There.” And when the whistle finally blew, they competed to hang over the railings so that they could blow kisses at their sweethearts or wave to their mothers, who presciently wept in the background.
But if you were a well-to-do young man in 1938 off to fight in the Spanish Civil War, there wasn’t much fare to fan. You bought a first-class ticket on the Queen Mary and showed up on the docks after a leisurely lunch. Passing among the tourists who were already thumbing through phrase books, you politely made your way up the gangplank and headed to your cabin on the upper deck where your luggage, which had been sent ahead, was being carefully unpacked by a steward.
Ever since the League of Nations prohibited the volunteering of extra-nationals in the conflict, it had been bad form to discuss that you were headed there while you dined at the captain’s table (seated in between the Philadelphia Morgans and the Breezewood sisters in the company of their aunt). You certainly couldn’t say it to the immigration officials in Southampton. Instead, you’d say you were on your way to Paris to see some school chums and purchase a painting or two. Then you’d take the train to Dover, the boat to Calais, and a car to the south of France, where you could either hike over the Pyrenees or hire a fishing trawler to run you down the coast.
—See you Mike, Wallace said at the gangplank.
—Good luck, Mr. Wolcott.
When he turned to me, I observed that I wouldn’t know what to do with my Saturdays anymore.
—Maybe I could run some errands for your mother? I suggested.
—Kate, he said. You shouldn’t . . . be running someone’s errands. Not mine. Not my mother’s. Not Mason Tate’s.
When Michael and I were driving back from the dock, it was pretty mournful in the car—for the both of us. As we crossed the bridge into Manhattan I broke the silence.
—Do you think he’ll be careful, Michael?
—Being that it’s a war, Miss, that would sort of defeat the purpose.
—Yes. I suppose it would.
Through the windows of the car, I saw city hall float past. In Chinatown, miniature old women crowded around street carts laden with ungodly fish.
—Shall I take you home, M
iss?
—Yes, Michael.
—To Eleventh Street?
It was sweet of him to ask. If I had given Wallace’s address, I think he would have taken me there. After pulling up to the curb, he would have opened the door to the backseat, Billy would have opened the door to the building, and Jackson would have brought me in the elevator up to the eleventh floor, where for a few weeks more I could fend off my future. But with a pile of presents waiting patiently in a law firm’s file room, Michael would soon be covering the brown Bentley in tarpaulin even as John and Tony dismantled the Remington and the Colt and stowed them in a locker. Maybe it was time for my brush with perfection to be dismantled and stowed away too.
On the Thursday after Wallace left, I wandered over to Fifth Avenue after work to see the windows at Bergdorf’s. A few days before, I’d noticed that they’d been curtained for the installation of the new displays.
Winter, Spring, Summer, Fall, I always looked forward to the unveiling of the new seasons at Bergdorf’s. Standing before the windows, you felt like a tsarina receiving one of those jeweled eggs in which an elaborate scene in miniature has been painstakingly assembled. With one eye closed you spy inside, losing all sense of time as you marvel at every transporting detail.
And transporting was the right word. For the Bergdorf’s windows weren’t advertising unsold inventory at 30% off. They were designed to change the lives of women up and down the avenue—offering envy to some, self-satisfaction to others, but a glimpse of possibility to all. And for the Fall season of 1938, my Fifth Avenue Fabergé did not disappoint.
The theme of the windows was fairy tales, drawing on the well-known works of the Brothers Grimm and Hans Christian Andersen; but in each set piece the “princess” had been replaced with the figure of a man, and the “prince” with one of us.
In the first window, a young lord with raven hair and flawless skin lay in state under a flowering arbor, his delicate hands folded on his chest. But at his side stood a dashing young woman (in a red bolero jacket by Schiaperelli), her hair cut short for battle, her sword tucked neatly through her belt, and the reins of her faithful horse in hand. With an expression at once worldly and compassionate she looked down upon the prince in no apparent rush to rouse him with a kiss.
In the next window, with the renaissance trickery of an opera set, one hundred marble steps descended from a palace door to a cobbled court, where four mice hid in the shadow of a pumpkin. On the periphery, the diminishing figure of a golden-haired stepson turned the corner at a sprint, while front and center knelt a princess (in a fitted black dress by Chanel) looking with determination at a Derby shoe made of glass. From her expression you could just tell that she was ready to call her kingdom into action—from the footmen to the chamberlains—and have them scour the countryside from dawn to dusk for the boy who fit that shoe.
—It’s Katey, isn’t it?
I turned to find a prim brunette at my side—Wyss from the little state of Connecticut. If I had been asked to speculate on Wisteria’s style for an afternoon in August, I would have guessed Garden Club of America; but I would have been wrong. She was dressed in perfect elegance with a cobalt blue short-sleeved dress and a matching asymmetric hat.
At Tinker and Eve’s dinner party, we hadn’t exactly hit it off, so I was a little surprised that she’d bothered to approach me. As we exchanged pleasantries, her demeanor was welcoming and her eyes almost twinkled. Naturally, the conversation turned quickly to their European holiday. I asked how it went.
—Lovely, she said. Perfectly lovely. Have you ever been? No? Well, the weather in July in the south of France is ravissant, and the food is not to be believed. But it was such an added pleasure to be with Tinker and Evelyn. Tinker speaks such beautiful French. And being a foursome provides that extra spark to every hour: the early morning swims on the strand . . . and the long lunches overlooking the sea . . . and the late night jaunts into town . . . Though of course (light laugh), Tinker adds a little more spark to the early morning swim and Eve to the late night jaunt.
I was beginning to understand why she had approached me, after all.
That night at the Beresford, she had been the odd girl out. But like a seasoned evangelist, she’d put up with the fast talk and the occasional wisecracks at her expense, confident that the Good Lord would one day reward her for her patience. And here it was: redemption day. The Rapture. The unexpected chance for a little table turning. Because when it came to the south of France, we both knew exactly who was the odd one out.
—Well, I said, winding down the conversation. It’s good to have you all back.
—Oh, we didn’t come back together. . . .
She stayed me with the gentle touch of two fingers on my arm.
I could see that the color of her fingernail polish matched the color of her lipstick precisely.
—We intended to, of course. Then just before we were scheduled to sail, Tinker said he had to stop in Paris on business. Eve said she just wanted to go home. So he bribed her (conspiratorial smile) with a promise of dinner on the Eiffel Tower.
(Conspiratorial smile returned.)
—But, you see, continued Wyss, Tinker wasn’t going to Paris on business at all.
?
—He was going to see Cartier!
To Wyss’s credit, I could feel a slight burning sensation on my cheeks.
—Before they left for Paris, Tinker pulled me aside. He was in an absolute state. Some men are hopeless when it comes to these things. Ruby bracelet, sapphire brooch, sautoir de perles. He didn’t know what he should get.
Naturally, I wasn’t going to ask. But it didn’t make a difference. She was already extending her left hand languidly to show a diamond the size of a grape.
—I just told him to get her one of these.
When I got back downtown, still reeling a bit from my encounter with Wyss, I finally went to the grocer to restock the pantry of my routines: a new deck of cards, a jar of peanut butter, a bottle of second-grade gin. Trudging up the stairs, I was a little stunned to smell that the bride in 3B had already perfected her mother’s Bolognese, maybe even improved upon it. I turned the key while balancing the groceries in the crook of my arm, crossed the threshold, and almost stepped on a letter that had been slipped under my door. I set the bag down on the table and picked the letter up.
It was in an ivory envelope embossed with a scallop shell. On the front, there was no stamp, but it was addressed in perfect calligraphy. I don’t think I had ever seen my name so beautifully inscribed. Each of the Ks stood an inch tall, their legs sweeping elegantly under the other letters, curling at the end like the toe of an Arabian shoe.
Inside, there was a card edged in gold. It was so thick I had to rip the envelope to set it free. At the top was the same image of the scallop, while below were the time and date and the requesting of the honor of my company. It was an invitation to the Hollingsworths’ sprawling Labor Day affair. From a few hundred miles at sea, another act of grace by the right fine Wallace Wolcott.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Fortunes of War
This time when I arrived at Whileaway, I didn’t have to take a detour through the garden—I got to go right through the front door with the rest of the invited guests. But having let Fran convince me to buy a dress from the Macy’s bargain bin that looked better on her figure than mine, I couldn’t shake that nagging feeling that I should have been pushing my way through the hedge. As if to make the point, two college boys brushed past me at the door. They sloughed off their coats into the hands of a footman and took glasses of champagne from a waiter—making eye contact with neither. With no achievements behind them, they already looked as self-assured as the flyboys would at the end of the Second World War.
At the entrance to the great room, exactly where you couldn’t avoid them, representatives of the Hollingsworth family had formed an impromptu receiving line: Mr. & Mrs., two of the boys, one of the wives. When I gave my name, Mr. Hollingsworth welcomed me
with the polite smile of one who has long since quit keeping track of his children’s acquaintances. But one of the older sons leaned over.
—She’s Wallace’s friend, Pop.
—The young lady he called about? Why of course, he said—adding quasi-confidentially: That call caused quite a stir, young lady.
—Devlin, chastened Mrs. Hollingsworth.
—Yes, yes. Well, I’ve known Wallace since the day he was born. So if there’s anything you’d like to know about him that he wouldn’t tell you himself, come and find me. In the meantime, make yourself at home.
Outside on the terrace, the breeze was temperate and wild. Though the sun had yet to set, the house was lit from stem to stern as if to assure arriving guests that should the weather take a turn for the worst, we could all stay the night. Men in black tie conversed casually with the rubied and the sapphired and the sautoir de perles-ed. It was the same sort of familiar elegance that I had seen in July, only now it spanned three generations: Alongside the silver-haired titans kissing the cheeks of glamorous goddaughters were young rakes scandalizing aunts with wry remarks sotto voce. A few stragglers from the beach with towels on their shoulders were making their way toward the house looking fit and friendly and not the least ill at ease for running late. Their shadows stretched across the grass in long, attenuated stripes.
A table at the edge of the terrace supported one of those pyramids where overflowing champagne from the uppermost glass cascades down the stems until all of the glasses are filled. So as not to spoil the effect, the engineer of this thousand-dollar parlor trick produced a fresh glass from under the table and filled it for me.
