Rules of Civility - Amor Towles [112]
The night was young.
It took Dicky five minutes to answer the banging on his door. We hadn’t seen each other since we crashed the party at Whileaway.
—Katey! What a terrific surprise. Terrific and . . . hieroglyphic. He was dressed in tuxedo pants and a formal shirt. He must have been tying his tie when I began knocking because it was hanging freely from his collar. It made him look dashing in an untied-black-tie kind of way.
—May I?
—Absolutely!
When I had gotten off the subway uptown, I had stopped for a drink or two at an Irish bar on Lexington. So I slid past him into the living room a little like a will-o’-the-wisp. I had only been in Dicky’s place when it was crowded with people. Empty, I could see how orderly Dicky was under his gay exterior. Everything was in its proper place. The chairs were arranged in alignment with the cocktail table. The books in the bookcases were organized by author. The freestanding ashtray was just to the right of the reading chair and the nickel-plated architect’s lamp just to the left.
Dicky was staring at me.
—You’re a redhead again!
—Not for long. How about a drink?
Obviously expected elsewhere, Dicky pointed toward the front door and opened his mouth. I raised my left eyebrow.
—Why, yes, he conceded. A drink is just the thing.
He went to a fine Macassar cabinet along the wall. The front panel came down like the writing surface of a secretary.
—Whiskey?
—Your pleasure is mine, I said.
He poured us both a dram and we clinked glasses. I emptied mine and held it out in the air. He opened his mouth again as if he was going to speak but emptied his glass instead. Then he poured us both more suitable portions. I took a swig and spun around once as if to get my bearings.
—It’s a lovely place, I said. But I don’t think I’ve seen the whole thing.
—Of course, of course. Where are my manners? Right this way!
He gestured through a door. It led into a little dining room lit by taper-style sconces. The colonial table had probably been in the family since New York was a colony.
—Here lies the refectory. The table’s designed for six, but seats fourteen in a pinch.
At the other end of the dining room was a swinging door with a porthole. We went through it into a kitchen that was as clean and white as heaven.
—The kitchen, he said turning his hand in the air.
We went through another door and down a hallway, passing a guest room that was obviously unused. On the bed were summer clothes neatly folded, ready to be stowed for the winter. The next room was his bedroom. The bed was neatly made. The only loose piece of clothing was his tuxedo jacket, which hung over a chair in front of a little writing desk.
—And what’s in here? I asked, pushing open a door.
—Uhm. The lavatorium?
—Ah!
Dicky seemed sweetly reluctant to include it on the tour; but it was a work of art. Wide white tiles with a heavy glaze ran from floor to ceiling. It had the luxury of two windows: one over the radiator and one over the tub. The tub was a freestanding porcelain number six feet long with claw feet and nickel plumbing rising from the floor. On the wall a long glass shelf was lined with what appeared to be lotions, hair tonics, colognes.
—My sister has an affinity for Christmas gifts from the salon, Dicky explained.
I ran my hand along the rim of the tub as one would along the hood of a car.
—What a beauty.
—Cleanliness is next to godliness, Dicky said.
I emptied my drink and put the glass on the windowsill.
—Let’s give it a spin.
—What’s that?
I lifted my dress up over my head and kicked off my shoes.
Dicky looked as wide-eyed as a teenager. He emptied his drink in a gulp and put it teetering on the edge of the sink. He began talking excitedly.
—You’ll not find a finer tub in all New York.
I turned on the water.
—Its porcelain