Rules of Civility - Amor Towles [101]
Chinoiserie was a restaurant in Chinatown which had recently come into vogue. The interior was a fantasy of soon-to-be-clichéd Oriental fixtures: large porcelain urns, brass Buddhas, red lanterns, and the stiff-postured silent deference of an Oriental waitstaff (the last servile ethnicity of America’s nineteenth-century immigrant classes). At the back of the dining room two wide zinc doors swung to and fro, giving the clientele a direct view into the kitchen. It was so hectic it looked more like a village market than a commissary—complete with burlap sacks of rice piled on the floor and cleaver-wielding cooks holding live chickens by the throat. The well-to-do of New York were in love with the place.
The front of the restaurant was partly offset from the dining room by a large crimson screen swirling with dragons. In front of me a broad-shouldered man with the twang of an oil-producing state was trying to communicate with the maitre d’, an impeccably groomed Chinaman in a tuxedo. Though both men could travel the normal distance from their accents to the neutral ear of the educated New Yorker, they were finding the distance between their respective homelands difficult to traverse.
The maitre d’ was explaining politely that without a reservation he would not be able to seat the gentleman’s party. The Texan was trying to explain that whatever table he had would do just fine. The maitre d’ suggested that perhaps a table later in the week would suffice. The Texan replied that no table was too close to the kitchen. The Chinaman stared at the Texan for a characteristically inscrutable moment. So the Texan stepped forward and characteristically put a ten-dollar bill into the maitre d’s palm.
—Confusion say, the Texan observed, you scratchee my back, I scratchee yours.
The maitre d’, who seemed to get the gist of the remark, would have raised an eyebrow had he had one. Instead, with a sort of grim we-invented-paper-a-thousand-years-ago resignation, he gestured stiffly toward the dining room and led the Texans in.
As I waited for the maitre d’ to return, there was Bitsy handing her jacket to the coat-check girl. To have gotten here this fast, she must have walked. We greeted each other and turned toward the dining room.
That was when I saw Anne Grandyn. She was sitting alone in a booth with empty dishes scattered around the tabletop. She looked typically at ease. Her hair was short, her outfit sharp. On her earlobes she wore her emeralds. She didn’t notice me because she had her eyes trained toward the hallway that led to the washrooms, from which Tinker then appeared.
He looked beautiful. He was back in one of his tailored suits—a tan affair with narrow lapels. He wore a crisp white shirt and a cornflower tie, having (thankfully) put his open-collar days behind him. He had shaved off his beard and gotten a trim, reassuming the elegant and understated appearance of the Manhattan success story.
I stepped back behind the screen.
My assignation with Tinker wasn’t until 9:00 at the Stork Club. My plan was to arrive at 8:30 and hide behind a pair of tinted glasses and my new red hair. I didn’t want to spoil the fun. Bitsy was still standing in front of the dining room. If Tinker saw her, my cover might be blown.
—Psst, I said.
—What? she whispered.
I pointed toward the booth.
—Tinker’s here with his godmother. I don’t want them to see me.
Bitsy looked perplexed. So I grabbed her by the arm and pulled her behind the screen.
—Are you talking about Anne Grandyn? she asked.
—Yes!
—Isn’t he her banker?
I looked at Bitsy for a moment. Then I pushed her farther behind the screen and leaned around it. A waiter was just pulling back the table so that Tinker could take his seat. Tinker eased into the booth beside Anne. And in the moment before the waiter tucked the table back, I could see Anne sliding her hand discreetly along Tinker’s thigh.
Tinker nodded to the maitre d’, who was standing nearby, signaling that they were ready for the check. But when the maitre d’ put the small red-lacquered