Z: A Novel of Zelda Fitzgerald

by Therese Anne Fowler

  “It’s been judged—by most everyone who counts; look at these.” He indicated the newspaper clippings. “The latest reviews from the weekend. My agent sent them, and they’re good.” His voice broke; he cleared his throat and added, “Max Perkins was a visionary, this proves him out.”

  “It proves you out,” I said, softening. “You knew what you were talking about all along. It’s a smart, funny, wise book, Scott, and you deserve all this.”

  “We deserve it. A lot of the dialogue in there came straight out of your diary.”

  “The way you gave my words to somebody I would never be is pretty keen. Sort of a magic trick, isn’t it? It sure did work, though.”

  “It worked, and here we are.”

  I went to the window. “I never woulda thought it. Not like this.” I turned back toward him. “You’re sorta impressive.”

  He shrugged away the compliment, but his smile said he was pleased. “The thing now is sales. Popularity means we get to keep doing things like drinking champagne,” he said, popping the cork from a bottle, “and wearing diamond wristwatches, and”—he tapped an envelope that lay on the table—“going to parties like the one next Friday night at George Jean Nathan’s place.”

  “Another young Princetonian heir?”

  “God no. He’s one of this city’s finest fixtures—editor of The Smart Set, plus he’s a writer and a true theater critic of the first order. He knows everyone. Ev-ree-one. And he wants us.”

  I remembered The Smart Set, first of the prominent magazines to publish Scott’s short stories. I hadn’t realized at the time of the sale what a big deal it was; selling that story hadn’t seemed to boost him much—he’d been focused on selling his novel, and on finding a better job. But that first gust had turned into a strong breeze bringing him all the things he had now: reviews from papers around the country. Books selling out of stores. New stories sold in new places. Steady money coming in. A wedding at St. Patrick’s. A luxurious Biltmore suite. Reporters wanting to interview him—

  “It’s you this Nathan fella wants,” I said.

  “The invitation is for Mr. and Mrs. Scott Fitzgerald. And I think the occasion’s going to call for a new dress.”

  “A dress for your Rosalind, you mean,” I said, stepping up onto the sofa and walking across it, then stepping onto the back of it. I raised my arms overhead as I balanced, walking carefully along the narrow upholstered frame. “It was easier in Montgomery. I just had to keep on being me.”

  “Being you also meant being whatever character you portrayed onstage, didn’t it?”

  I jumped down onto the cushion. “I s’pose that’s right.”

  “So…”

  “So if I go along with this scheme, we’ll be playing parts, that’s what you’re saying. Same as if we were doing this year’s Folly Ball back home.”

  Scott handed me a glass of champagne. “Only this time, we’re writing the parts ourselves.”

  11

  We dined at the Cascades that night, on the Biltmore’s top floor. While it was too cool outside for the roof to be open, we agreed that the fact that it could be opened was a thrill. The building was a wonder. Everything in New York City was a wonder, including Scott, who was treating me like the princess I’d once imagined I was. Fruit and cream from room service in the morning. Shopping and hair salon during the day. Dinner—that was the word refined Northerners used for the evening meal, Scott told me—at the top of a grand hotel. Dancing later, to the music of a first-rate orchestra. And champagne. We were drinking rivers of it. I’d told Scott the night before, “I bet you we’ll be peeing bubbles before long!”

  And we made love every chance we had. Quickly and vigorously in between activities; languorously when we had hours on our hands. We shared the bathroom sink when we brushed our teeth at night. We talked to each other from the toilet. Marriage suited us, there was no doubt about it.

  As the waiter cleared our plates, Scott told me that the interview with Ellis had given him an idea, and he wanted to see what his publisher thought of it.

  “I want to write a fictional interview that could then be placed with the Times or the Tribune. That way, we don’t have to wait for the papers to decide they want someone to do it.”

  “A fictional interview? So, another bit of alter-egoism.”

  “Sort of. I haven’t worked it out yet … but I have some ideas.”

  I could almost see those ideas swimming around in his head and watched, amused, as he took out his notebook and jotted things down.

  “I have some ideas, too,” I said suggestively, just before the waiter reappeared with our crème brûlée.

  Scott glanced up at me, then caught my meaning and grinned. He asked the waiter, “Don’t we make a fine pair?”

  “Absolutely, sir. In fact, a couple at a nearby table was just inquiring whether you weren’t famous, from the pictures or Broadway.”

  “Is that so?” Scott said. “Which couple?”

  “There, with the spectacles.” The waiter indicated a middle-aged man and woman several tables away.

  Scott stood up then, and both the waiter and I watched him go straight over to the couple. He leaned down and spoke animatedly. They laughed, he laughed, then he took a pen from his breast pocket. He uncapped it and, as he did, must have said something that caused the couple to look over at me with appreciative smiles.

  I waved graciously, as though this happened all the time.

  Scott took the woman’s napkin right out of her lap and spread it on the table, then wrote something on it. When he was finished, he bowed to the man, kissed the woman’s hand, and returned to our table.

  He said, “They’d hoped we were actors, but didn’t mind settling for the autograph of the dashing young author of that scandalous new novel everyone’s talking about.”

  The waiter took a quick look around. “Would you mind…?” He laid Scott’s napkin on the tabletop. “And remind me, what’s the name of your book?”

  * * *

  The next morning, Scott arranged for a meeting at Scribner’s, where he’d see Maxwell Perkins, his editor, along with the fellow who was in charge of publicity there. Left with time to myself, I decided to catch up on my correspondence. I owed letters to the Saras and to Livye and to my parents, and I needed to see whether Tallu was back in New York or still working in London, where she’d been finding an easier path to fame.

  Everybody in New York is famous, she’d written me a few weeks earlier. Everybody is beautiful. But England’s dying for attractive girls. Hope I’ll see you soon, but meanwhile, look up Gene. She’s easy enough to find—just follow the trail of men.

  Scott returned with a spring in his step and a bag of sandwiches in his hands.

  “It went well?”

  “Oh, they think I have a screw loose, but they’ll indulge me, all right. What do you think of this?” He took a folded page from his pocket, then opened it. “My interviewer’s a guy I’ve named Carleton R. Davis. I’ve got him arriving as I’m here at loose ends. Things are in disarray—just like they are.” He looked around at the mess. Living out of trunks did not encourage tidiness. “And I’m looking for my hat, and this tie,” he said, patting the one he was wearing, blue with tiny white dots, “and my cigarettes, et cetera, but I encourage him to go ahead with his questions. We cover the usual ‘How long did it take to write the book?’ stuff, and I expound somewhat—”

  “You, expound?”

  He grinned. “Think you know me that well, do you?” He kissed me, then continued, reading from his notes, “He asks me what my plans are next.”

  “What are your plans next?”

  He gazed at me over the top of the page. “I guess you mean my literary plans.”

  “No, Carleton R. Davis wants to know those.”

  “Yes, yes, that’s right.” He looked at the page again. “And I shrug. ‘I’ll be darned if I know. The scope and depth and breadth of my writings lie in the laps of the gods.’”

  “Who
no doubt are reading This Side of Paradise as we speak—so’s to give you appropriate guidance for the future.”

  “No doubt at all. And then I expound further, until I’ve impressed our Mr. Davis sufficiently for him to ask whether I intend to be a part of the great literary tradition.”

  “Which you do.”

  “No! No, that’s just it, that’s just what people would guess a fellow in my shoes would say! But I don’t. ‘There is no such thing,’ I say. ‘The only real tradition is the death of preceding ones.’”

  A thought grabbed him and he paused and began to search his pockets, coming up with a pencil. “Hold on.” He laid the paper on the table and jotted something on it. Then he read, “‘The smart literary son kills his own father.’ What do you think?”

  “Kinda Greek, isn’t it?”

  “The cradle of literature, dearest girl. All writers draw from that well—and how’s that for mixing my metaphors?” He sat down next to me and said, “Give me a hero, and I will tell you a tragedy.”

  I started to reply when Scott added, “Wait— Give me a hero … Give me a hero and I’ll tell you … no … I’ll show you…”

  He reached for the pencil and wrote in the paper’s margin while I waited. It was so funny to see him transferring thoughts to words on paper as if he was taking dictation from those gods he mentioned.

  “Here, I think I’ve got it: ‘Show me a hero, and I’ll write you a tragedy.’ That’s good. Don’t know where I’ll use it, but it’s good.”

  “Isn’t that Shakespeare?”

  Scott thought for a moment, then shrugged. “Who can say?”

  12

  We’d invited Scott’s friends to meet his bride in the Biltmore’s Palm Court. Dressing for this date was no different from dressing for any party or dance back home, yet I was anxious. Without Montgomery’s humidity, my hair didn’t quite know how it should behave. Without Montgomery’s context, I didn’t know quite how I should behave.

  Except for Ludlow Fowler, these men knew me only from whatever Scott had told or written them. I was accustomed to being assessed only for my actual actions—I had control over what I did and with whom, and once I’d made up my mind to act, I was happy to let the dust settle however it would. But God knew what things Scott had said after our breakup; to any or maybe all of them, I might be a fickle speed of a girl who’d led Scott on and then dashed his hopes and then roped him in again and finally caught him. Everybody knew of couples like that, where the poor man was obviously in over his head and miserable for it. If that was the Princeton pack’s impression of me, I couldn’t allow it to stand. Nor would I stand for them seeing me as Rosalind. That was fine for strangers, but these men were like brothers to Scott.

  I’d be my most charming with them, and plainly affectionate with Scott, and I’d let him shine in his well-deserved limelight. They’d see, then, that what Scott and I had—regardless of anything he might have said before—was genuine love and mutual respect. I’d make Sara Haardt proud.

  My dress was a navy-blue chiffon number that Scott had spotted in a shop window. He said everything I’d brought from home looked provincial when contrasted with what New York women were wearing—even I could see that. So, odd as it was to take fashion advice from a man, I’d had to admit that if I was going to be a famous author’s wife—his apparently notorious wife—I needed to look the part. Gone were the simple cotton blouses and casual skirts that had been my everyday wear. Now I had finer cotton, and silk! My skirts and dresses showed my lower calves. I had smart hats and soft leather gloves and shoes in four different colors.

  In truth, it had been awfully nice to walk into a shop and buy the thing I’d decided I wanted. No debating with my mother over color or style or length, no wheedling required, no discussion of sticking to Daddy’s budget. Scott had peeled off ten-dollar bills and given them over to the shopgirl while encouraging me to buy more, if I liked.

  Now Scott stood behind me at the mirror while I applied my lipstick and put on my hat. “Aren’t you a wonder?” he said.

  I smiled at his reflection. He wore a new striped tie that made his eyes silvery sage. His cheeks still had a rosy glow from our Central Park outing. He’d parted his hair in the center and combed it smoothly back, which made him look polished and confident. I said, “You aren’t too bad yourself.”

  “In all the nonsense that will come from this lot tonight—and it’s likely to be an arcane mix of football and poetry and literary journals and publishing and bourbon and war and girls—I want you to know that you, my dearest, darling wife, are the center of my universe.”

  “In that case,” I said, turning to face him in person, “I might let you stay.”

  * * *

  There were too many of them to keep straight at first. That first night, I hardly tried. It was enough to greet each of them in my new role, then sit among them as though I were an anthropologist who’d been drafted into a strange tribe.

  Ludlow Fowler was easy to remember, having been at the wedding. “Mrs. Fitzgerald,” he said, taking both my hands and kissing my cheek. In his tailored suit and with freshly cut fine blond hair, he smelled like old money and somehow also of gardenias, as if his mother might still be sending him milled French soaps and he was still inclined to use them. Straightforward and confident in the way that born-rich men so often are, Ludlow reminded me of some of the well-off fellas back home.

  The other five—who I’d later know as Bunny, Biggs, Townsend, Alec, and Bishop—I would have to study a bit, except for Edmund Wilson, the misnamed Bunny, who I’d heard so much about. He looked something like the reporter, Ellis, but Bunny’s clothes fit better, and it was clear right off that Bunny fit better in the world. He likely belonged to the first type of men, the ones who believed they were entitled to a chance at any girl who enticed them—though I was certain that Bunny’s tastes were very particular.

  After the initial polite questions directed at me, who they surely saw as an odd new appendage that Scott had somehow acquired along with his new celebrity status, the men moved quickly into a hearty discussion of This Side of Paradise. Most of them had read it and had already offered Scott their critiques and their praise. What they wanted to know now was what it was like to be scrutinized so publicly, to be the latest literary sensation.

  “You don’t look famous,” one said.

  “Except that you seem to be wearing Fowler’s suit,” said another, a tall, blue-eyed, blond man who had a friendly smile.

  Scott said, “That’s what selling a story’s film interest will do for a man; it’s got nothing to do with the book.”

  “It’s the book that made them look at the story.”

  “It’s George Nathan that made them look at the story.”

  I followed the banter, amused.

  “No,” Scott said, “that story, ‘Head and Shoulders,’ went to The Saturday Evening Post, not The Smart Set. My agent, Harold Ober, got it to the movie people.”

  “My agent. Gad. He says it as if to the manor born.”

  “I still say it was Nathan. He’s got a crush on you, Fitz.” This was from the dark-haired, young-looking one.

  Ludlow Fowler nodded toward me. “But we needn’t worry about our boy’s manhood now.”

  “Do we know any other fairies?”

  The dark-haired one again: “I was in Greenwich not long ago and met a pair—that is, they weren’t a couple, that is, they were two. Edna Millay and Djuna Barnes.”

  “Lesbians aren’t fairies,” Bunny Wilson said. “Christ, call yourself a wordsmith?”

  Scott said, “Nathan’s no fairy.”

  “Edna Millay is a lesbian?”

  “I’ve seen her with men.”

  “I saw her with a woman.”

  Ludlow said, “Never mind that. How many stories have Nathan and Mencken taken from you now, Fitz?”

  “Six. And The Saturday Evening Post’s taken four.”

  “Paying…?” asked the dark-haired one.

&nb
sp; “The Post?” Scott said. “Four hundred for one, four-fifty for the next two, and my agent’s got them to five hundred for the new ones.”

  This stopped the conversation for a moment as all except Bunny and Ludlow stared at him, agog.

  “And The Smart Set pays…?”

  “Thirty,” Bunny answered, his voice as crisp and authoritative as three new ten-dollar bills. “Which won’t cover much more than his room here tonight, but the literary cachet is invaluable, isn’t that right, Fitz?”

  Scott rubbed one hand over his hair and smiled.

  The discussion went on for a time. Several of the men had brought flasks, which now began to appear more frequently; this then prompted a debate about the effectiveness of last October’s Volstead Act, and alcohol’s correct place within intelligent society. Did a thinking man need it? Did it hinder or enhance a writer’s productivity?

  Bunny turned to me. “Zelda, what do you think?”

  “I believe it makes most men better dancers,” I said, and held out my hand for his flask.

  He complied, laughing. “I’m afraid that even liquor can’t help me much there.”

  Scott caught my eye. His smile was one of gratitude. I had done something—perhaps everything—right.

  * * *

  This group, and this bookish world in which they lived and were simultaneously creating, was a collegiate literary circle puffed into wide proportions by the New York magazines and papers; that’s how I saw it before long.

  Before their reign, before a smart, young writer named Dorothy Parker said too much too well and was fired for it, before Scott’s success, before people everywhere had been ravaged by war and flu, there’d been little glamour in the literary world. To be a writer then was to be a drab little mole who thought big thoughts and methodically committed them to paper, hoping for publication but not courting it, and then burrowing back into the hole to think again for a while.

  With this group, though, and their counterparts from Yale, and the postwar push for life, for fun, for all the things Scott and I were seeking and embodying, the literary world put its foot into the circle of the entertainment world’s spotlight. Not far; far enough, though, for the public to see the polished, well-cut shoe and wonder to whom it might belong.