Rules of Civility

by Amor Towles

  Dicky hadn’t shown me the note, but I had read it over his shoulder.

  Our bastions are under attack from all sides.

  Our stores of ammunition are low.

  Our salvation lies in your hands.

  And, ever so appropriately, he had signed it Peter Pan.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Now You See It

  The first wind of the New York winter was sharp and heartless. Whenever it blew, it always made my father a little nostalgic for Russia. He’d break out the samovar and boil black tea and recall some December when there was a lull in conscription and the well wasn’t frozen and the harvest hadn’t failed. It wouldn’t be such a bad place to be born, he’d say, if you never had to live there.

  My window overlooking the back court was so crooked you could stick a pencil through the gap where the frame was supposed to meet the sill. I caulked it with an old pair of underpants, set the kettle on the stove, and recalled a few sorry Decembers of my own. I was spared the reminiscing by a knock on the door.

  It was Anne, dressed in gray slacks and a baby blue shirt.

  —Hello, Katherine.

  —Hello, Mrs. Grandyn.

  She smiled.

  —I suppose I deserve that.

  —To what do I owe the pleasure on a Sunday afternoon?

  —Well, I hate to admit it—but at any given moment, we’re all seeking someone’s forgiveness. And at this particular point, I think I may be seeking yours. I put you in the position of playing the fool, which no woman like me should do to a woman like you.

  That’s how good she was.

  —May I come in?

  —Sure, I said.

  And why not? When all was said and done, I knew I couldn’t bear much of a grudge against Anne. She hadn’t abused a trust of mine; nor had she particularly compromised herself. Like any Manhattanite of means, she had identified a need and paid to have it serviced. In its own perverse way, her purchase of a young man’s favors was perfectly in keeping with the unapologetic self-possession that made her so impressive. Still, it would have been nice to see her a little more off her axis.

  —Would you like a drink? I asked.

  —I learned my lesson the last time. But is that tea you’re brewing? That might hit the spot.

  As I readied the pot she looked around my apartment. She wasn’t taking an inventory of my belongings as Bryce had. She seemed more interested in the architectural features: the warped floor, cracked moldings, exposed pipes.

  —When I was a girl, she said, I lived in an apartment a lot like this one, not too far from here.

  I couldn’t hide my surprise.

  —Does that shock you?

  —I’m not exactly shocked, but I assumed you were born rich.

  —Oh. I was. I was raised in a townhouse off Central Park. But when I was six, I lived with a nanny on the Lower East Side. My parents told me some nonsense about my father being sick, but their marriage was probably on the verge of collapse. I gather he was something of a philanderer.

  I raised my eyebrows. She smiled.

  —Yes, I know. The apple and the tree. What my mother wouldn’t have given to have me take after her side of the family.

  We were both quiet for a moment, providing a natural opportunity for her to change the subject. But she went on. Maybe the first winds of winter make everyone a little nostalgic for the days they’re lucky to be rid of.

  —I remember the morning my mother brought me downtown. I was dropped in a carriage with a trunkful of clothes—half of which wouldn’t do me any good where I was headed. When we got to Fourteenth Street it was crowded with hawkers and saloons and trade wagons. Seeing how excited I was by all the commotion, my mother promised I would be crossing Fourteenth Street every week on my way to visit her. I didn’t cross it again for a year.

  Anne raised her cup of tea to drink, but paused.

  —Come to think of it, she said, I haven’t crossed it since.

  She started laughing.

  And after a moment, I joined in. For better or worse, there are few things so disarming as one who laughs well at her own expense.

  —Actually, she continued, crossing Fourteenth Street isn’t the only thing I’ve revisited from my youth because of you.

  —What’s the other?

  —Dickens. Remember that day in June when you were spying on me at the Plaza? You had one of his novels in your bag and it triggered some fond memories. So I dug up an old copy of Great Expectations. I hadn’t opened the book in thirty years. I read it cover to cover in three days.

  —What did you think?

  —It was great fun, of course. The characters, the language, the turns of events. But I must admit that this time around, the book struck me as a little like Miss Havesham’s dining room: a festive chamber which has been sealed off from time. It’s as if Dickens’s world was left at the altar.

  And so it went. Anne waxed poetically on her preference for the modern novel—for Hemingway and Woolf—and we had two cups of tea, and before she had overstayed her welcome, she rose to go. At my threshold, she took one last look around.

  —You know, she said as if the thought had just occurred to her, my apartment at the Beresford is going to waste. Why don’t you take it?

  —Oh, I couldn’t, Anne.

  —Why not? Woolf was only half right when she wrote A Room of One’s Own. There are rooms, and there are rooms. Let me lend it to you for a year. It’ll be my way of settling the score.

  —Thanks, Anne. But I’m happy where I am.

  She reached into her purse and pulled out a key.

  —Here.

  Ever tasteful, the key was on a silver ring with a leather fob the color of summer skin. She put it on a stack of books just inside my door. Then she held up her hand to stay any protest.

  —Just think about it. One day during lunch give it a walk-through. Try it on for size.

  I swept up the key in my palm and followed her into the hall.

  I had to laugh at the whole thing. Anne Grandyn was as sharp as a harpoon and twice as barbed: An apology followed by childhood memories of the Lower East Side; a tip of the hat to her philandering roots; I wouldn’t have been surprised if she’d read the whole works of Dickens just to frost this little éclair.

  —You’re something else, Anne, I said with a lilt.

  She turned back to face me. Her expression was more serious.

  —You’re the one who’s something else, Katherine. Ninety-nine of a hundred women born in your place would be up to their elbows in a washtub by now. I doubt you have the slightest idea of just how unusual you are.

  Whatever I’d thought Anne was up to, I wasn’t ready for compliments. I found myself looking at the floor. As I looked up again, through the opening in her blouse I could see that the skin of her sternum was pale and smooth; and that she wasn’t wearing a bra. I didn’t have time to brace myself. When I met her gaze she kissed me. We were both wearing lipstick, so there was an unusual sensation of friction as the waxy surfaces met. She put her right arm around me and pulled me closer. Then she slowly stepped back.

  —Come spy on me again sometime, she said.

  As she turned to go, I reached for her elbow. I turned her back around and pulled her closer. In many ways, she was the most beautiful woman I had ever known. We were almost nose to nose. She parted her lips. I slipped my hand down her pants and deposited the key.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  Thy Kingdom Come

  It was the second Saturday in December and I was in a six-story walk-up across the East River surrounded by strangers.

  The afternoon before, I had run into Fran in the Village and she was full of news. She had finally checked out of Mrs. Martingale’s and moved in with Grubb. It was a railroad apartment off Flatbush and from the fire escape you could practically see the Brooklyn Bridge. She had a bag in her arms overflowing with fresh mozzarella and olives and canned tomatoes and other Mott Street fare—because it was Grubb’s birthday
and she was going to make him Veal Pacelli. She’d even bought a hammer like her nana used to use, so she could pound the cutlets herself. Then tomorrow night they were having a party and I had to promise to come.

  She was wearing jeans and a tight-fitting sweater, standing about ten feet tall. A new apartment with Grubb and a scaloppine mallet . . .

  —You’re on top of the world, I said, and I meant it.

  She just laughed and slugged me in the shoulder.

  —Cut the crap, Katey.

  —I’m serious.

  —Sort of, she said with a smile.

  Then she got all concerned like she’d offended me.

  —Hey. Don’t get me wrong. Nicer words were never said. But that doesn’t mean they aint crapola! I’m on the top of something, I guess, but it aint the world. We’re gonna get hitched and Grubb’s gonna paint and I’m gonna give him five kids and sagging tits. And I can’t wait! But the top of the world? That’s more in your line of work—And I’m counting on you getting there.

  The crowd was a mulligan stew of their friends and acquaintances. There were gum-smacking girls from the Catholic stretches of the Jersey shore mixed in among a sampling of Astoria’s poets-by-day-watchmen-by-night. There were two big-armed boys from Pacelli Trucking who’d been thrown to the mercy of an up-and-coming Emma Goldman. Everyone was wearing pants. They were crowded in elbow to elbow and ethos to ethos, shrouded in a haze of cigarette smoke. The windows were open and you could see that some of the savvier attendees had spilled onto the fire escape to breathe the late autumn air and take in the almost view of the bridge. That’s where our hostess had perched herself. She was seated precariously on the fire escape’s railing wearing a beret and a low-hanging cigarette in the manner of Bonnie Parker.

  A late arrival from Jersey who came in behind me stopped dead in her tracks when she saw the living room wall. Hung on it from floor to ceiling was a series of Hopperesque portraits of bare-chested coat-check girls. The girls were sitting behind their counters looking aimless and bored but somehow confrontational—as if daring us to be just as aimless and bored as they. Some had their hair pulled back and others had it tucked under a cap, but all were versions of Peaches—right down to her eggplant-colored silver-dollar aureoles. I think the latecomer actually gasped. The fact that her high school chum had posed bare-chested filled her with fear and envy. You could just tell that she had made up her mind to move to New York City the next day; or never.

  In the center of the wall, surrounded by Grubb’s coat-check girls, hung a painting of a theater marquee on Broadway: a Hank Grey original, with apologies to Stuart Davis. He’s probably here, I thought, and I found myself hoping to see his misanthropic silhouette. He was basically a porcupine, but with a sentimental stripe and quills that made you think. Maybe Tinker had been right, after all. Maybe Hank and I had hit it off.

  True to the working-class tone of the gathering, the only alcohol in attendance appeared to be beer—but all I could find were empty bottles. Collecting at the feet of the partygoers, they would occasionally get knocked over like ten pins and rattle across the hardwood floor. Then, coming down the crowded hallway from the kitchen, I spied a blonde holding a newly opened bottle in the air like the Statue of Liberty holds its torch.

  The kitchen was decidedly less gregarious than the living room. In the middle was a raised tub where a professor and a schoolgirl sat knee to knee sniggering over personal business. I made my way to the icebox, which was along the back wall. Its door was blocked by a tall, blue-chinned bohemian. With his pointed nose and vaguely proprietary air, he recalled the half man half jackals that guarded the tombs of the pharaohs.

  —May I?

  He studied me for a second as if I’d roused him from a dream-filled sleep. I could see now that he was as high as the Himalayas.

  —I’ve seen you before, he said matter-of-factly.

  —Really? From what distance?

  —You were a friend of Hank’s. I saw you at The Lean-To.

  —Oh. Right.

  I vaguely remembered him now as one of the WPA types who had sat at the adjacent table.

  —Actually, I was kind of looking for Hank, I said. Is he here?

  —Here? No . . .

  He eyed me up and down. He rubbed his fingers across the stubble on his chin.

  —I guess you aint heard.

  —Heard what?

  He studied me a moment more.

  —He’s gone.

  —Gone?

  —Gone for good.

  For a moment I was startled. It was that strange sense of surprise that unsettles us, however briefly, in the face of the inevitable.

  —When? I asked.

  —A week or so.

  —What happened?

  —That’s the twist. After spending months on the dole, he had a windfall. Not nickels, you understand. Real money. Second-chance money. Build yourself a house of bricks money. But Hank, he takes the whole wad and throws himself a riot.

  The jackal looked around as if he’d suddenly remembered where he was. He waved his beer bottle at the room with distaste.

  —Nothin like this.

  The motion seemed to remind him that his bottle was empty. With a rattle, he dumped it in the sink. He took a new one from the icebox, closed the door and leaned back.

  —Yeah, he continued. It was somethin. And Hank was ring-leadin the whole thing. He had a pocketful of twenties. He was sendin the boys out for tupelo honey and turpenteen. Dolin out the dough. Then around two in the morning he had everyone drag his paintings to the roof. He dumped em in a pile, doused em with gas and set em on fire.

  The jackal smiled, for all of two seconds.

  —Then he threw everybody out. And that’s the last we saw of him.

  He took a drink and shook his head.

  —Was it morphine, I asked.

  —Was what morphine?

  —Did he overdose?

  The jackal gave an abrupt laugh and looked at me like I was crazy.

  —He enlisted.

  —Enlisted?

  —Joined up. His old outfit. The Thirteenth Field Artillery. Fort Bragg. Cumberland County.

  In a bit of a stupor, I turned to go.

  —Hey. Didn’t you want a beer?

  He took a bottle from the refrigerator and handed it to me. I don’t know why I took it. I didn’t want it anymore.

  —See ya round, he said.

  Then he leaned against the icebox and closed his eyes.

  —Hey, I said rousing him again.

  —Yeah?

  —Do you know where it came from? The windfall, I mean.

  —Sure. He sold a bunch of paintings.

  —You’ve got to be kidding.

  —I don’t kid.

  —If he could sell his paintings, why did he enlist? Why did he burn the rest of them?

  —It weren’t his paintings he sold. It was some Stuart Davises he come into.

  When I opened the door to my apartment, it looked unlived-in. It wasn’t empty. I had my fair share of possessions. But for the last few weeks, I had been sleeping at Dicky’s, and slowly but surely the place had become orderly and clean. The sink and the garbage cans were empty. The floors were bare. The clothes lay folded in their drawers and the books waited patiently in their piles. It looked like the apartment of a widower a few weeks after he’s died, when his children have thrown out the trash but have yet to divvy up the dross.

  That night, Dicky and I were supposed to meet for a late supper. Luckily, I caught him before he’d headed out. I told him that I was back at my place and ready to pack it in. It was obvious enough that something had spoiled the evening for me, but he didn’t ask what it was.

  Dicky was probably the first man I’d dated who was so well raised that he couldn’t bring himself to pry. And I must have acquired a taste for the trait—because he was far from the last.

  I poured myself a gin that was sized to make my apartment seem less depressing and sat in my father’s easy
chair.

  I think it had surprised the jackal a little that Hank had wasted his windfall on a party. But it wasn’t hard to see where Hank was coming from. However newly minted the bills, you couldn’t escape the fact that the money from the Stuart Davises was a redistribution of Anne Grandyn’s wealth—and Tinker’s integrity. Hank had no choice but to treat the money with disregard.

  Time has a way of playing tricks on the mind. Looking back, a series of concurrent events can seem to stretch across a year while whole seasons can collapse into a single night.

  Maybe time has played such tricks on me. But the way I remember it, I was sitting there thinking about Hank’s riot when the telephone rang. It was Bitsy in a halting voice. She was calling with the news that Wallace Wolcott had been killed. Apparently, he’d been shot near Santa Teresa, where a band of Republicans were defending some little hillside town.

  By the time I received the call, he was already three weeks gone. In those days, I guess it took a while for the bodies to be recovered and identified and for the news to travel home.

  I thanked her for calling and lay the receiver in its cradle before she’d finished talking.

  My glass was empty and I needed a drink, but I couldn’t bring myself to pour one. Instead, I turned out the lights and sat on the floor with my back against the door.

  St. Patrick’s on Fifth Avenue and Fiftieth Street is a pretty powerful example of early nineteenth-century American Gothic. Made of white marble quarried from upstate New York, the walls must be four feet thick. The stained-glass windows were made by craftsmen from Chartres. Tiffany designed two of the altars and a Medici designed the third. And the Pietà in the southeast corner is twice the size of Michelangelo’s. In fact, the whole place is so well made that as the Good Lord sees about His daily business, He can pass right over St. Patrick’s, confident that those inside will take pretty good care of themselves.