Rules of Civility - Amor Towles [107]
In Mason Tate’s world, there was no room for extenuating circumstances or divided loyalties; so, there wasn’t going to be much patience with displays of jauntiness or wit or other signals of the self-assured. I was just going to have to shoulder the yoke and accept whatever additional humiliations the boss had in store for me, until I had earned my way back into his good graces.
So that’s what I did. I arrived a little earlier. I avoided the watercooler. I listened to Mr. Tate’s critiques of others without a smirk. And Friday evening when Alley went to the automat, like any good penitent from the Middle Ages I went home and copied out rules of grammar and usage:
• When you are reluctant to do something, you are loath to do it, not loathe.
• Of toward and towards, the former is preferred in America, the latter in the UK.
• With possessives, the apostrophe s is used in all proper names ending in s other than Moses and Jesus.
• Use colons and the impersonal passive sparingly.
As if on cue: There was a knock at my door.
It was three succinct raps, too precious to be Detective Tilson or the Western Union boy. I opened the door to find Anne Grandyn’s secretary standing in the hall. He was wearing a three-piece suit, every button buttoned.
—Good evening, Miss Kontent.
—Kontent.
—Yes. Of course. Kontent.
Though as disciplined as a Prussian soldier, Bryce couldn’t resist eyeing my apartment over my shoulder. The sum of what little he saw lent a hint of satisfaction to his terse little smile.
—Yes? I prompted.
—I apologize for bothering you at home . . .
He added a sort of grave inflection to the word home to indicate his sympathies.
—But Mrs. Grandyn wanted you to have this as soon as possible.
He flicked two fingers forward revealing a small envelope. I plucked it free and weighed it in the air.
—Too important to trust to the post office?
—Mrs. Grandyn was hoping for an immediate response.
—She couldn’t phone?
—On the contrary. We tried telephoning. Many times. But it seems . . . Bryce gestured to where the unhooked phone still sat on the floor.
—Ah.
I opened the envelope. Inside was a handwritten note. Please come and see me tomorrow at four. I think it’s important that we speak. She signed it, Respectfully, A. Grandyn, and concluded with the postscript: I’ve ordered olives.
—Can I tell Mrs. Grandyn to expect you? Bryce asked.
—I’m afraid that I shall have to think on it.
—If I may be so bold, Miss Kontent, how long might that take?
—Overnight. But you are welcome to wait.
Naturally, I should have thrown Anne’s summons in the trash. Almost all summons merit an ignominious end. As Anne was a woman of intelligence and will, a summons from her should have been looked upon with particular distrust. And on top of all that was her presumption that I should go to see her! The gall, as they say in all places other than New York.
I tore the letter into a thousand pieces and hurled them at the spot on the wall where a fireplace should have been. Then I carefully considered what I should wear.
For what was the point of standing on ceremony now? Hadn’t we sailed a few hundred nautical miles beyond grandstanding? Hercule Poirot certainly wouldn’t have turned her down. He would have been hoping for such a summons—practically counting on one—as the unforeseen development that would speed the plow of justice.
Besides, I could never resist the sign-off Respectfully; or those who remembered my cocktail preferences with such exactitude.
The bell at suite 1801 was answered at 4:15 by Bryce with a smarmy grin.
—Hello Bryce, I said, holding the sibilant just long enough, so that it would hiss.
—Miss Kon-tent, he said punching back. We’ve been ex-pect-ing you.
He gestured toward the foyer. I walked past him into the living room.
Anne was sitting at her desk. She was wearing glasses, the half-frame sort that prudish women wear—a nice touch. She looked up from her correspondence and raised an eyebrow to acknowledge