She carried a steaming cup over to William and looked at him to see whether the significance of her remarks had registered. Satisfied, she smiled and passed him the cup, allowing their hands to touch. He stirred the hot chocolate vigorously.
‘Gerald is attending a conference,’ she continued. It was the first time he had ever heard Mr Raglan’s first name. ‘Do shut the door, William, and come and sit down.’
William hesitated; he shut the door, but he did not feel he could sit in Rags’s chair, nor did he want to sit next to Mrs Raglan. He decided Rags’s chair was the lesser of two evils, and moved towards it.
‘No, no,’ she said, and patted the seat beside her.
William shuffled across and sat down nervously by her side, staring into his cup for inspiration. Finding none, he gulped the contents down, burning his tongue. He was relieved when Mrs Raglan stood up. She refilled his cup, ignoring his murmured protest, then moved silently across the room, wound up the Victrola and placed the needle on a record. He was still looking at the floor when she returned.
‘You wouldn’t let a lady dance by herself, would you, William?’
She began swaying in time to the music. William stood up and put his arm formally around her waist, as if they were in the middle of a crowded dance floor. Rags could have fitted in between them without any trouble. After a few bars she moved closer to William, and he stared over her right shoulder fixedly to indicate that he had not noticed that her left hand had slipped from his shoulder to the small of his back. When the music stopped, William assumed he would have a chance to return to the safety of his hot chocolate, but she had turned the record over and was back in his arms before he could sit down.
‘Mrs Raglan, I think I ought to—’
‘Relax a little, William.’
At last he found the courage to look into her eyes. He tried to reply, but he couldn’t speak. Her hand was now exploring his back, and he felt her thigh move gently against his groin. He tightened his hold around her waist.
‘That’s better,’ she said.
They circled the room, closely entwined, slower and slower, keeping time with the music as the record gently ran down. When it stopped she slipped away and switched off the light. William stood in the near dark, not moving, hearing the rustle of silk as he watched her discard her clothes.
The crooner had completed his song, and the needle was still scratching as the record continued to spin. William stood motionless in the middle of the room. Mrs Raglan took off his jacket, then led him back to the chaise longue. He groped for her in the dark, his shy novice’s fingers encountering several parts of her body that did not feel at all as he had imagined they would. He withdrew them hastily to the comparatively familiar territory of her breasts. Her fingers exhibited no such reticence, and he began to feel sensations he had never dreamed possible. He wanted to shout out loud but checked himself, fearing it would wake the boys sleeping above him. She undid his fly buttons, and began to pull off his trousers.
William wondered how to enter her without showing his total lack of experience. It was not as easy as he had expected, and he grew more desperate by the second. Then her fingers moved across his stomach and guided him expertly. But before he could enter her, he had an orgasm.
‘I’m so sorry,’ said William, not sure what to do next. He lay silently on top of her for some time before she spoke.
‘It will be better tomorrow, William. Don’t forget, Rags is not back until Saturday.’
The sound of the scratching record returned to his ears.
Mrs Raglan remained in William’s mind until lights out the next day. That night, she sighed. On Wednesday she panted. On Thursday she moaned. On Friday she cried out.
On Saturday morning, Rags Raglan returned from his conference, by which time William’s education was complete.
At the end of the Easter vacation, on Ascension Day, to be exact, Abby Blount finally succumbed to William’s charms. It cost Matthew five dollars and Abby her virginity. She was, after Mrs Raglan, something of an anticlimax. It was the only event worthy of mention that happened during the entire break, because Abby was whisked off to Palm Beach with her parents, and William spent most of his time shut away with his books, at home to no one other than the grandmothers and Alan Lloyd. As Rags Raglan attended no further conferences, when William returned to St Paul’s he continued to concentrate on his books.
He and Matthew would sit in their study for hours, never speaking unless Matthew had some mathematical equation he was quite unable to solve. When the long-awaited examinations finally took place, they lasted for one brutal week. The moment they were over, both young men felt relaxed, but as the days slipped by and they waited and waited to learn their results, they became less sanguine.
The Hamilton Memorial Mathematics Scholarship to Harvard was based entirely on the final examination results, and was open to every schoolboy in America. William had no way of judging how tough his opposition might be. When, a month later, he’d still heard nothing, he began to assume the worst, and even wondered if Harvard would offer him a place at all.
William was out playing baseball with some other seniors who were trying to kill the last few days of term before leaving school when the telegram arrived; those warm summer evenings when boys are most likely to be expelled for drunkenness, breaking windows or trying to get into bed with one of the masters’ daughters, if not their wives.
William was declaring in a loud voice, to those who cared to listen, that he was about to hit his first home run. ‘The Babe Ruth of St Paul’s!’ declared Matthew. Much laughter greeted this unlikely claim. When the telegram was handed to William by a second-former, home runs were quickly forgotten. He dropped his bat and tore open the little yellow envelope. The pitcher and fielders waited impatiently as he read the communication slowly.
‘Are the Red Sox offering you a contract?’ shouted the first baseman, the arrival of a telegram being an uncommon occurrence during a baseball game.
Matthew strolled across from the outfield to join his friend, trying to make out from his expression if the news was good or bad. William passed the telegram to him. He read it, leapt high into the air, dropped the piece of paper on the ground and accompanied William as he raced around the bases even though he hadn’t actually hit the ball. The catcher picked up the telegram, read it and threw his glove into the bleachers with gusto. The little piece of yellow paper was then passed eagerly from player to player. The last to read it was the second-former, who, having caused so much happiness while receiving no thanks, decided the least he deserved was to know the contents.
The telegram was addressed to Mr William Lowell Kane. It read: ‘Congratulations on winning the Hamilton Memorial Mathematics Scholarship to Harvard, full details to follow. Abbot Lawrence Lowell, President.’ William never did get his home run, as he was heavily set upon by several fielders before he reached home plate.
Matthew looked on with delight as he revelled in his closest friend’s success, but he was sad to think that it meant they might be parted. William felt it, too, but said nothing; they had to wait another nine days to learn that Matthew had also been offered a place at Harvard.
Upon the heels of that news, another telegram arrived, this one from Charles Lester, congratulating his son and inviting him and William to tea at the Plaza Hotel in New York. Both grandmothers sent congratulations to William, but as Grandmother Kane informed Alan Lloyd, somewhat testily, ‘The boy has done no less than was expected of him and no more than his father did before him.’
The two young men sauntered down Fifth Avenue on a balmy afternoon. Girls’ eyes were drawn to the handsome pair, who affected not to notice. They removed their straw boaters as they entered the Plaza at three fifty-nine and strolled nonchalantly into the Palm Court, where the family group was awaiting them. William’s grandmothers flanked another old lady, who he assumed was the Lesters’ equivalent of Grandmother Kane. Mr and Mrs Charles Lester, their daughter Susan, whose eyes ne
ver left William, and Alan Lloyd completed the party, leaving two vacant chairs for William and Matthew.
Grandmother Kane summoned the nearest waiter with an imperious gloved hand. ‘A fresh pot of tea and more cakes, please.’
The waiter hurried off to the kitchen. ‘A pot of tea and cream cakes, madam,’ he said on his return.
‘Your father would have been proud of you, William,’ the older man was saying to the taller of the two youths.
The waiter wondered what it was that the good-looking young man had achieved to elicit such praise.
William would not have noticed the waiter at all had it not been for the silver band around his wrist. The piece might easily have come from Tiffany’s; the incongruity of it puzzled him.
‘William,’ said Grandmother Kane. ‘Two cakes are quite sufficient; this is not your last meal before you go to Harvard.’
He smiled at the old lady with affection, and quite forgot about the silver band.
23
THAT NIGHT, Abel lay awake in his small room at the Plaza, thinking about the young man he’d served that afternoon, whose father would have been proud of him. He realized for the first time in his life exactly what he hoped to achieve. He wanted to be thought of as an equal by the Williams of this world.
Abel had had quite a struggle on his arrival in New York. He had been obliged to share a single small room with George and two of his cousins. As there were only two beds, he could only sleep when one of them was unoccupied. George’s uncle had been unable to offer him a job, and after a few anxious weeks during which most of his savings were spent on keeping himself alive while he searched from Brooklyn to Queens, he finally found work in a large meat packers’ on the Lower East Side. They paid $9 for a six-and-a-half-day week, and allowed him to sleep above the premises. The warehouse was in the heart of an almost self-sufficient little Polish community, but Abel rapidly became impatient with the insularity of his fellow countrymen, many of whom made no effort to speak English.
He saw George and his constant succession of girlfriends regularly at weekends, but spent most of his evenings during the week at night school improving his ability to read and write English. Within two years he had made himself fluent in his new tongue, retaining only the slightest trace of an accent. He now felt ready to leave the meat packers’ - but for what, where and how?
Three months later, he found out.
Abel was dressing a leg of lamb one morning when he overheard one of the shop’s biggest customers, the catering manager of the Plaza Hotel, grumbling to the butcher that he’d had to fire a junior waiter for petty theft.
‘How can I find a replacement at such short notice?’ the manager complained.
The butcher had no solution to offer. Abel did. He put on his only suit, walked forty-seven blocks uptown and was offered the job of junior waiter in the Palm Court, at $10 a week, with a room provided.
Once he had settled in at the Plaza, he enrolled for a night course in advanced English at Columbia University. He worked conscientiously every evening, secondhand Webster’s open in one hand, pen scratching away with the other. During the mornings, between serving breakfast and setting up for lunch, he would copy out the editorials from The New York Times, looking up in his dictionary any word he didn’t know the meaning of.
For the next two years Abel worked night and day at the Plaza - overtime was a word he didn’t need to look up in his dictionary - until he was promoted to become a waiter in the Oak Room. He now made about twenty-five dollars a week, including tips. In his own world, he lacked for nothing.
Abel’s teacher at Columbia was so impressed by his diligent pupil that he advised him to enrol for a further course, which would be a first step towards taking a Bachelor of Arts degree. He switched his spare-time reading from linguistics to economics, and started copying out the editorials in The Wall Street Journal instead of those in The Times. His new studies totally absorbed him and, with the exception of George, he quickly lost touch with the Polish friends of his early days in New York.
Each day Abel would carefully study the list of those who had reserved tables in the Oak Room - the Bakers, Loebs, Whitneys, Morgans and Phelpses - and try to work out why the rich were different. He read H. L. Mencken, The American Mercury, Scott Fitzgerald, Sinclair Lewis and Theodore Dreiser in his endless quest for knowledge. He studied The Wall Street Journal while the other waiters flipped through the Mirror, and read The New York Times in his hour-long break while they dozed. He was not sure where his newly acquired knowledge would take him, but he never doubted the Baron’s maxim that there was no substitute for a good education.
One Monday in August 1926 - he remembered the occasion well because it was the day Rudolph Valentino died, and many of the ladies shopping on Fifth Avenue wore black - Abel was serving one of the corner tables, which were always reserved for important businessmen who wished to lunch in privacy without being overheard. He enjoyed serving there, as he often picked up pieces of inside information from the conversation. After the restaurant had closed for the afternoon, Abel would check the stock prices of the diners’ companies, and if the tone of the conversation had been optimistic, he would invest a small amount of money in the company. If the host had ordered cigars at the end of the meal, Abel would make a larger investment. Seven times out of ten, the value of the stock he had selected doubled within six months, the period he would allow himself to hold on to any stock. Using this system, he lost money on only three occasions during the four years he worked at the Plaza.
What was unusual about this particular day was that the two diners at the corner table ordered cigars even before they sat down. Later they were joined by more guests, who ordered more cigars and bottles of champagne. Abel looked up the name of the host in the maitre d’s reservation book. Woolworth. Abel had seen the name in the financial columns quite recently, but he could not immediately remember why. The other guest was a Mr Charles Lester, a regular patron of the Plaza, who Abel knew to be a distinguished banker. The diners showed absolutely no interest in their unusually attentive waiter, which allowed Abel to listen intently. Abel could not discover any specific details, but he gathered that some sort of deal had been closed that morning, and would be announced after close of business that evening. Then he remembered. He had seen the name in The Wall Street Journal. Mr Woolworth’s father had started the first five-and-dime store; now the son was trying to raise money to expand. While the guests were enjoying their desserts - most of them had chosen the strawberry cheesecake (Abel’s recommendation) - he took the opportunity to leave the dining room for a few moments to call his broker on Wall Street.
‘What is Woolworth trading at?’ he asked.
There was a pause at the other end of the line. ‘Two and one-eighth. Quite a lot of movement lately; don’t know why, though,’ came the reply.
‘Buy up to the limit on my account until you hear an announcement from the company later today.’
‘What will the announcement say?’ asked the puzzled broker.
‘I am not at liberty to reveal that,’ replied Abel.
The broker was suitably impressed: Abel’s record in the past had led him not to enquire too closely about the sources of his information. Abel hurried back to the Oak Room in time to serve the guests’ coffee. They lingered over brandies for some time, and Abel only returned to the table as they were preparing to leave. The man who picked up the check thanked Abel for his attentive service and, turning so that his friends could hear him, said, ‘Do you want a tip, young man?’
‘Thank you, sir,’ said Abel.
‘Buy Woolworth stock.’
The guests all laughed. Abel laughed as well, took the $5 bill the man held out and thanked him. He also took a further $2,412 profit on Woolworth stock over the next six weeks.
Abel was granted full United States citizenship a few days after his twenty-first birthday, and decided the occasion ought to be celebrated. He invited George and his latest love, Monika, and a girl
called Clara, one of George’s ex-loves, to see John Barrymore in Don Juan, and then on to Bigo’s for dinner. George was still an apprentice in his uncle’s bakery, working for eight dollars a week, and although Abel still looked upon him as his closest friend, he was aware of the growing difference between the penniless George and himself. Abel now had over $8,000 in his bank account and was in his last year at Columbia University studying for a BA in economics. He knew exactly where he was going, whereas George had stopped telling everyone he would be the mayor of New York one day.
The four of them had a memorable evening, mainly because Abel knew exactly what to expect from a good restaurant. His guests all had a great deal too much to eat and drink, and when the bill was presented, George was shocked to see that it came to more than he earned in a month. Abel paid without comment. If you have to pay a bill, always make it look as if the amount is of no consequence. If it is, don’t go to the restaurant again. Whatever you do, don’t complain or look surprised - that was something else the rich had taught him.
When the party broke up at about two in the morning, George and Monika returned to the Lower East Side. Abel felt he had earned Clara and invited her back to the Plaza. He smuggled her through the service entrance into a laundry elevator and then up to his room. She did not require much enticement, and Abel didn’t waste any time on foreplay, mindful that he had to catch some sleep before reporting for breakfast duty. He rolled over at three o’clock, fully satisfied, and sank into an uninterrupted sleep until his alarm rang at 6 a.m. This left him just enough time to make love to Clara a second time before he got dressed.
Clara regarded him sullenly as he put on his white bow tie, before giving her a perfunctory goodbye kiss.
‘Be sure you leave the way you came in, or you’ll get me into a load of trouble,’ he said. ‘When will I see you again?’
Kane and Abel Page 20
