Rules of Civility - Amor Towles [111]
He looked up with grim resignation.
—Was Anne actually an old friend of your mother’s?
. . .
—No. I was at Providence Trust when we met. The head of the bank invited me to a party in Newport. . . .
—And this exclusive arrangement you have—this concession to sell the shares of a railroad—those are her holdings?
. . .
—Yes.
—Were you her banker before or after your situation?
. . .
—I don’t know. When we met, I told her I wanted to move to New York. She offered to introduce me to some people. To help me get on my feet.
I whistled.
—Wow.
I shook my head in appreciation.
—The apartment?
. . .
—It’s hers.
—Nice coat by the way. Where do you keep them all? Now what was I about to tell you? Oh yeah. I think you’ll find this funny. A few nights after Eve bounced you, she threw herself such a celebration that she passed out in an alley. The cops found my name in her pocket and they picked me up to identify her. But before they let us go, a nice detective sat me down with a cup of coffee and tried to get us to change our ways. Because he thought we were prostitutes. Given Evey’s scars, he assumed she’d been roughed up on the job.
I raised my eyebrows and toasted Tinker with my coffee cup.
—Now, how ironic is that!
—That’s unfair.
—Is it?
I took a sip of coffee. He didn’t bother to defend himself, so I barreled ahead.
—Did Eve know? About you and Anne, I mean.
He shook his head wanly. The very definition of wanly. The apotheosis of wanly.
—I think she suspected there might be another woman. But I doubt she realized it was Anne.
I looked out the window. A fire truck rolled to a stop at the traffic light with all the firemen standing on the runners, hanging from the hooks and ladders, dressed for a fire. A boy on the corner holding his mother’s hand waved and all the firemen waved back—God bless them.
—Please, Katey. It’s over between Anne and me. I came back from Wallace’s to tell her. That’s why we were having lunch.
I turned back to Tinker thinking out loud.
—I wonder if Wallace knew?
Tinker winced again. He just couldn’t shake that wounded look. It was suddenly inconceivable that he had seemed so attractive. In retrospect, he was so obviously a fiction—with his monogrammed this and his monogrammed that. Like that silver flask in its leather sheath, which he must have topped off in his spotless kitchen with a tiny little funnel—despite the fact that on every other street corner in Manhattan you can buy whiskey in a bottle that’s sized for your pocket.
When you thought of Wallace in his simple gray suit giving quiet counsel to the silver-haired friends of his father, Tinker seemed a vaudeville performer by comparison. I suppose we don’t rely on comparison enough to tell us whom it is that we are talking to. We give people the liberty of fashioning themselves in the moment—a span of time that is so much more manageable, stageable, controllable than is a lifetime.
Funny. I had looked upon this encounter with such dread. But now that it was here, I was finding it kind of interesting; helpful; even encouraging.
—Katey, he said, or rather implored. I’m trying to tell you. That part of my life is over.
—Same here.
—Please, don’t say that.
—Hey! I said cheerfully, cutting him off again. Here’s one for you: Have you ever been camping? I mean, actually camping in the woods? With the jackknives and the compasses?
This seemed to strike a chord. I could see his jaw muscles tense.
—You’re going too far, Katey.
—Really? I’ve never been there. What’s it like?
He looked down at his hands.
—Boy, I said. If your mother could only see you now.
Tinker rose abruptly. He banged his thigh into the corner of the table, disturbing the tranquility of the cream in its pitcher. He laid a fivedollar bill by the sugar, showing appropriate consideration for our waitress.
—Coffee’s on Anne? I asked.
He staggered to the door like a drunk.
—Is this too far? I called after him. It doesn’t seem so bad!
I put another five dollars on the table and got up. As I walked toward the door