Summer at Tiffany

by Marjorie Hart

  “He’s from Germany—his name is Hans Koelbel—Piatigorsky was in his class when they studied with Klengel,” I couldn’t help bragging.

  “We’ve inherited a lot of great artists from Europe,” he said. “Stravinsky, Schoenberg—and then Bartók, who happens to be here in the hospital—very ill I’m afraid.” Stopping to light a cigarette, he added, “You probably know that Hindemith is at Yale.”

  “Paul Hindemith?” I almost jumped out of my chair.

  “Yes,” he said. “Have you played his music?”

  “Have I! I’m playing his unaccompanied cello suite for my next recital—”

  “Really,” he said, leaning forward. “Too bad you won’t be at Yale to perform it.”

  I laughed. “Wouldn’t that be funny—a girl at Yale!”

  “We have girls at Yale,” he said, looking at me, surprised. “The School of Music admits women.” He set his glass down, looking at me seriously. “As a matter of fact, you should apply for a scholarship. Yale needs talented cellists—I know for certain that you’d qualify.”

  A scholarship at Yale? I almost choked on my wine.

  I sat there stunned as the Shuttleworths and Mr. Smith began talking about scholarships and the Yale music program.

  “You’d be interested to know”—Mr. Smith turned to me—“Hindemith has organized a Collegium Musicum—students play Renaissance instruments like the viola da gamba.”

  “What an opportunity!” Mrs. Shuttleworth broke in. “And the timing couldn’t be better.” She sliced me another piece of gingerbread. “You can go from here directly to New Haven—just in time for the fall semester. Won’t your parents be thrilled?”

  “It’s only six weeks away,” Mr. Smith added.

  My cheeks were blazing, my head reeling. Or was it the wine?

  Mr. Shuttleworth refilled my glass. “Just think—you can graduate from Yale.”

  “Good for you—and for Yale,” Mr. Smith agreed.

  I returned to my apartment in a daze, I could think of nothing else. Except Jim.

  106 Morningside Dr.

  Dear Family,

  I had an incredible evening—invited to the Shuttleworths’ to play sonatas. The pianist teaches at Yale! We played the Brahms—luckily Mrs. Shuttleworth had the music. The most fascinating thing—Hindemith is teaching at Yale. I almost fell over! Also, did you know that women can enroll at the School of Music? Amazing what I’ve learned since I’ve been here! You can imagine what an exciting night I had there!

  We’re still planning to see a Yankee game, Phil, and I haven’t spent your five dollars—yet! This Saturday, we’re heading for the ocean. We’re so excited. The Shuttleworths wrote out the directions—you have no idea what a great help they’ve been!

  Love, Marjorie

  Hindemith—the Collegium Musicum—French Renaissance Music—the Ivy League—oh my!

  The Shuttleworths have helped me beyond my wildest dreams! They’re as thrilled as I am about Yale. Maybe there’s life without a boyfriend!

  My parents are going to be so proud. I can hear my father, the dramatic way he makes announcements. And Mother’s face will light up! The semester I stayed home to help after her surgery was an eye-opener—teaching her piano students for fifty cents a lesson and playing the church organ on a meager salary. Yet I never heard my mother complain. Not once.

  Still, how can I tell them about running off to New Haven and not going back to Iowa U.? What will Mr. Koelbel think after all the concerts he arranged for me next semester?

  It’s the chance of a lifetime—but with so many strings attached. Why couldn’t life ever be simple?

  Chapter Fourteen

  MR. HUTCHISON, meticulously dressed with a gold watch chain across his vest, was explaining to Marty and me the history of the legendary Tiffany Diamond, mounted above him in a glass case. He said it had been discovered in Africa, in 1877, and the Tiffany Company sent it to Paris to be studied for a year before it was cut to the present 128.51 carats with ninety facets. “That’s why it gleams like the sun,” he explained. “The largest flawless, perfectly colored canary diamond ever mined!” As he continued the fascinating history, I heard a loud rap.

  It was Mr. Judd at the watch counter.

  Reluctantly, I left.

  Although he could see I was hurrying, he rapped again, looking grim. I was fond of Mr. Judd, who entertained us with colorful stories about famous customers like Al Jolson, Mrs. Rudyard Kipling, and Enrico Caruso. But today he seemed oddly aloof.

  “Please take this watch to the repair room—it seems the second hand is not quite accurate.” He glanced at the customer leaning against the counter. “This gentleman has a taxi waiting.”

  A taxi waiting? This gentleman? This character didn’t look like he could afford a taxi ride around the block, let alone pay for one with the meter running. His snap-brim fedora hat was pulled to his eyebrows and he was stuffing a packet of tobacco into the pocket of a heavy, ill-fitting jacket. Strange customer.

  I placed the Patek Philippe watch in my bag, surprised that it needed repair. These exceptional watches were accurate to the second with a reputation for having the finest mechanism in the world. Why would this guy care if it was one second off? But who was I to question? I rushed to the employees’ elevator, and headed for the second floor. “This watch needs the second hand fixed immediately—the customer has a taxi waiting,” I breathlessly informed the head repairman.

  He nodded, though not impressed with the urgency, and gave it to the watch man inside. I peered through the glass as he removed the back of the case and adjusted the loupe to his eye. I prayed it wouldn’t take long.

  How could that down-and-out customer own a Patek Philippe watch, I wondered. Maybe he was one of those miserly millionaires with wads of cash stashed under a mattress, or a messenger for a big-time celebrity. But I knew from Mr. Judd’s anxious expression it was important to hurry.

  I stared at the large clock on the wall and shifted my weight from one foot to the other, giving my left leg a rest, then the right. Time dragged like an endless Bruckner symphony. I peeked through the window at the repairman hunched over his worktable, then to the clock on the wall. The only sound was the echoing hum of the second hand as it clicked forward every notch. Tk—tk—tk—tk, like the repetitious slap of a rope on the sidewalk with the rhythm of the jump-rope chant:

  RICH man, POOR Man, BEGGAR Man, THIEF

  DOC-tor, LAW-yer, MER-chant, CHIEF!

  I felt my heart beating faster and faster, as if I were jumping rope. How long could I keep up this left-right dance?

  Suddenly, the watch man turned around, replaced the back of the case, wrapped the watch painstakingly, then moved with deliberate steps to the door and handed it to the head man, who in turn gave it to me. It seemed as if we were all trapped in a slow-motion movie.

  With the watch safely in my bag, I thanked him, ran for the elevator, and concentrated on regaining my composure before reaching the main floor. The customer was still there, staring at the Tiffany Diamond. His hat drooped over his forehead as he slouched against the counter. Please—at Tiffany we don’t lean on counters!

  After Mr. Judd gave him the package, our scruffy customer shuffled out. The doorman assisted him through the Fifth Avenue entrance and we watched as he climbed into the taxi and sped away.

  Mr. Judd leaned over the counter and said in a confidential tone, “That man is a notorious New York gangster. He goes by an alias, but his real name is like yours—Jacobson.”

  Holy moly! A gangster . . . with my name? Be still my heart. Forget “poor man.” This one was a rich thief! I felt as if I’d just dodged a bullet.

  “THIS GENTLEMAN WOULD like you to model these earrings,” Mr. Hutchison said, nodding to his customer.

  Model? My favorite fantasy. In the last Vogue issue, Tiffany’s pear-shaped diamond ear clips peeked out of a pink felt hat by Lilly Daché, worn by a gorgeous model. It made me gasp. I didn’t have a hat, but I brushed my long h
air back and lifted my chin high. I’d try my best.

  I glanced at the attractive customer, though his dark hair was slicked back as if it was plastered on his head, a bit greasy. His bleary eyes darted about, making me feel uneasy. Hutchison was holding a pair of glittering diamond earrings in the graceful shape of a swan and showed me the delicate device in the back to secure them. I’d never worn earrings in my life.

  While they watched, I gave them a Vogue-type smile, halfway between a smirk and a pout. I placed the earring on my right ear and secured it easily. For my left ear, I hesitated, unsure how to proceed.

  Instinctively, I raised my right arm behind my head to reach my left ear. I caught a glimpse in the mirror of my elbow sticking straight up in the air. I looked like an orangutan in the zoo, scratching its back, and burst into a giggle. Gone was my refined Vogue smile.

  The customer chuckled, too, exposing a row of yellowed teeth.

  “Lovely diamonds,” he said, turning his head to look at both, “interesting shape—but maybe you could match those blue eyes of hers with sapphires.” Mr. Hutchison nodded to the salesman across the aisle, who brought a pair of stunning sapphires circled by small diamonds.

  “I didn’t know you had models,” the customer mused, stepping closer to me. Mr. Hutchison explained that I was a girl from Iowa, filling in for their pages.

  “Oh,” he said, “one of those wholesome Iowa girls on their way to the big city.”

  Would you believe a wholesome Iowa girl on her way to Yale?

  “Tell me,” he asked, “do you ride bareback on horses in Iowa?”

  “No, not yet.” I almost laughed out loud.

  “Have you ever been to a horse race?” he said, peering at me.

  I tried a convincing smile. “I’m afraid I haven’t had that opportunity.”

  “Pity—what a pity,” he said. Then, turning to Mr. Hutchison, “Why don’t we try—yes—those pearl earrings,” he said, pointing to the counter.

  Good grief! I have to go through this again? We weren’t finished? It was just the beginning. After the pearls, there were amethysts, then emeralds, and on to rubies. My face matched their color when I realized our esteemed customer wasn’t looking at earrings. His gaze was definitely lower than my earlobes.

  He was staring at my bust.

  In the mirror, I saw how my bra lifted each time I reached my arm behind my head. He moved closer, so close I could see the red veins on his nose and the hairs in his nostrils.

  Our customer wasn’t talking about horses anymore. He’d moved on to nightclubs. Had I been to the Stork Club? Had I heard of Brenda Frazier and the other New York debutantes? Would I like to see that exclusive Cub Room? Actually, I’d have given my treasured eyelash curler to see it. Instead, I smiled demurely like a wholesome Iowa gal. But he was flirting. I knew flirting. Why wasn’t he thinking of that dear one he was buying the earrings for, his mother, his wife, or his sweetheart, instead of giving me the eye?

  By now a considerable number of salesmen were trying to assist Hutchison with their offerings of earrings. With an audience forming, my cheeks began to burn, my heart to thud. I had no skill at hiding embarrassment.

  Please, please, make up your mind.

  “Which pair do you like the best,” he asked me, “the sapphires—or those lovely diamonds?”

  “The diamonds!” I replied enthusiastically. “The swan shape—they’re exceptional!” And exceptionally expensive.

  “Yes—the diamonds are quite special,” he said. I didn’t dare move. He was now only a nose length away—we were eyeball to eyeball.

  “Very special!” I squeaked out.

  “Then it’s decided,” he said to Hutchison. Turning back to me, he winked. “Remember to be right here the next time, young lady.”

  As soon as he left, the salesmen crowded around. Did I know he was famous? Fabulously rich? New York’s most eligible bachelor?

  “I could tell he liked you,” one of them said, “so the next time, try this. Begin by telling him the history of the Tiffany Diamond—ask about the horse races—and then the nightclubs, his stomping grounds. You never know what might happen!”

  Who cared? All the coaching in the world would never sway me, even when they told me who he was. The famous playboy, Mr. Jimmy Donahue, heir to the Woolworth fortune.

  106 Morningside Dr.

  Dear Family,

  Guess what?? There’s a gangster here in New York with our name! He walked into Tiffany’s for a watch repair—a horribly expensive watch—while a cab was waiting. When he left, I found out his name is Jacobson. I could have fainted—talk about embarrassing! Is there a skeleton in our closet I don’t know about? Maybe it’s Jacobsen—Norwegians AREN’T gangsters! That’s New York City for you—they let hoodlums run around loose!

  Tonight we’re heading to an opera. Tickets are only a quarter at Lewissohn Stadium—a wonderful open-air theater. Though Carolyn will be with her boyfriend, our friends from Long Island are coming with us. More later.

  Love, Marjorie

  La Bohème! The characters were like us—starving artists in the garret. But the story was so sad; everybody cried at the end when Mimi died. Except me. I began sobbing in the third act during the snow scene when Rodolfo and Mimi broke up—and all the way to the end.

  Back at our apartment, Sheila opened a Coke, lit a cigarette, pulled up the chenille chair, and crossed her legs.

  “Guess what?” she said, raising her eyebrows. “Bet you don’t know which Kappa went all the way?”

  Did that get our attention! The girls flocked around like hummingbirds. “Who?” “Tell!”

  “Can’t tell—I promised,” Sheila said, enjoying the dramatic silence. “But I can give you a hint—she’s the last one you’d ever expect.”

  Immediately, we began yelling names, starting with the seniors down to the pledges.

  “Not one of my pledges—I know.” I’d been their pledge captain and I’d watched them like a hawk.

  Someone yelled, “Marty!”

  “No way . . . I’m as pure as the driven snow.”

  “Hey,” Joannie said, “quit looking at me—Eric has been in the Pacific forever.”

  Anita laughed. “It’s not me . . . but I know how you do it!”

  Ohmygosh.

  I looked at her, amazed.

  “I asked my dad if it was this way”—Anita slapped her palms together vertically—“or this way.” Now she slammed her hands together, right over left—horizontally.

  “And that’s the way—according to my father.” Anita giggled.

  Joannie was looking at Anita. “Bet that’s not the only way,” she said, slyly.

  “How would you know?” Sheila accused Joannie.

  Suddenly, my flushed face got attention that it didn’t welcome.

  “Marjorie!” Everyone shouted.

  My blush turned to tears. “I don’t even have a boyfriend,” I confessed. “Not anymore.”

  After a gasp of silence, the girls chimed in, “You’re kidding,” “How could he?” “That creep!”

  Our living room turned blue with smoke as everyone shared a horror story about being ditched, jilted, or left in the lurch. The wild stories went from juicy to lurid, until Joannie gave me a sympathetic look. “If he calls again—you just tell him you’re calling it all off.”

  Like a stage cue, Sheila jumped up and snapped her fingers. “Yeah—‘You say eether and I say eyether—You say neether and I say nyther—’ ” Everyone joined in. “Eether, eyether, neether, nyther—Let’s call the whole thing off!”

  Jumping up and forming a chorus line, we screamed the verses: “You like potato and I like potahto—you like tomato and I like tomahto—Potato, potahto, tomato, tomahto—LET’S CALL THE WHOLE THING OFF—”

  Nobody could kick higher than I could—did we have fun! I was delirious until everyone dropped from exhaustion and crawled into bed . . . except me.

  I stared out our window for a long time, at that bleak brick
wall where not a speck of sky could ever be seen.

  Chapter Fifteen

  SATURDAY MORNING, I was happily humming “At the tables down at Mory’s—” as we rolled up our Jantzen swimsuits in a towel. We grabbed a bag of peanuts, and counted the money for the subway, the train, and two buses. It was an all-day trip. There was one agonizing moment on the subway when I thought I saw Jim—until his look-alike turned around.

  The bus to the beach was so crowded we had to wait for the next one. People were laden down with umbrellas, picnic hampers, sand pails, blankets, and even inner tubes! With gas rationing no one dared use their stamps to drive a car simply for pleasure.

  We finally arrived at Jones Beach in early afternoon.

  Neither Marty nor I had ever dipped our toes in an ocean before, and we quickly saw what we had been missing. This was heaven, with white stretches of beach hot beneath our feet, gusts of cooling wind, and birds skimming close to the water. Breathing in that crisp, salty air, listening to the roar of the surf, I wondered why anyone lived anyplace else. And obviously, the throngs of sunbathers, with kids, picnic boxes, and beach umbrellas, felt the same way.

  We laid out our towels close to water’s edge, feeling so lucky that other bathers hadn’t claimed this space.

  Jumping through the waves was exhilarating—after the freezing shock of the first one. Each time, we ventured farther beyond the breakers, as fearless about this new adventure as we had been when we first boarded the train back in Iowa. But try as I might to actually swim, the ocean waves made things a lot different from swimming in Lake Comar!

  Back on land, I wasn’t sure whether it was the salty air or the lingering giddiness over modeling earrings for a millionaire that emboldened me, but the beach seemed spread out like a stage, and despite the fact I hadn’t tried a handstand in years, I began cartwheeling across the sand, then walking on my hands. Then without warning, my arms began to cave, and my feet lowered into a backbend—my hands and feet holding me up in a bridge position. I was stuck. But aware that I’d attracted an audience—one little family—I was determined not to disappoint. I dug my feet into the sand, and kicked my feet back up into a brief handstand, before crashing into a kneeling position. I kept a big smile on my face, and they clapped for me regardless.