Rules of Civility - Amor Towles [116]
Two weeks before, to impress me, he had taken me to Carnegie Hall to hear some Mozart piano concertos. The first was a pastoral designed to let the spirit flower in a nocturnal breeze. Dicky fidgeted like a sophomore in summer school. At the end of the second, when the crowd began applauding and the old couple in front of us stood, Dicky practically leapt from his seat. He clapped with wild enthusiasm and then grabbed his coat. When I told him it was just the intermission, he looked so crestfallen that I had to take him immediately to Third Avenue for a burger and a beer. It was a little place I knew where the owner played jazz piano accompanied by a stand-up bass and a high school snare.
This low-rent introduction to small group jazz was a revelation for Dicky. The improvisational nature of it was grasped by him instinctively. Unplanned, disorderly, unself-conscious, it was practically an extension of his personality. It was everything he liked about the world: You could smoke to it, drink to it, chatter to it. And it didn’t make you feel guilty for not giving it your full attention. In the nights that followed, Dicky had a gay old time in the company of small group jazz and he gave me credit for it—not always in public, but when it mattered, and often.
—Will we ever go to the moon? he asked, as the vibraphonist acknowledged applause with a tilt of the head. It would be so marvelous to set foot on another planet.
—Isn’t the moon a satellite? asked Helen with her innately unsure erudition.
—I should like to go, Dicky confirmed to no one in particular.
He sat on his hands and reflected on the possibility. Then he leaned sideways and kissed me on the cheek.
—. . . And I should like you to come.
At some point, Dicky shifted to the other side of the table to talk with TJ and Helen. It was a sweet display of self-confidence, as he no longer felt the need to entertain me or to advertise his claim on my attentions. It goes to show that even a man who craves constant approval can attain self-assurance through a little hanky-panky.
As I returned one of Dicky’s winks, I saw a ragtag crowd of WPA types collecting around the table behind him. In their company was Henry Grey. It took a moment for me to recognize him because he was ill shaven and had lost some weight. But he didn’t have trouble recognizing me. He came right over and leaned on the back of Dicky’s empty chair.
—You’re Teddy’s friend. Right? The one with the opinions.
—That’s right. Katey. How’s the pursuit of beauty coming?
—Rotten.
—Sorry to hear that.
He shrugged.
—Nothing to say and no way to say it.
Hank turned to watch the band for a moment. He nodded his head more in agreement with the music than in time with it.
—Got any cigarettes? he asked.
I pulled a pack from my purse and held it out. He took two cigarettes handing one back to me. He tapped his ten times against the tabletop and then tucked it behind an ear. The room was hot and he was beginning to sweat.
—Listen. What do you say we go outside?
—Sure, I said. But give me a second.
I went around the table to Dicky.
—That’s the brother of an old friend. We’re just going out for a smoke. All right?
—Of course, of course, he said, showing off his burgeoning self-confidence.
Though just to be on the safe side, he draped his jacket over my shoulders.
Hank and I went outside and stood under the club’s canopy. It wasn’t winter yet, but it was plenty brisk. After the cozy quarters of the club, it was just the ticket for me. But not for Hank. He looked as physically uncomfortable as when he had been inside. He lit his well-packed cigarette and inhaled with unapologetic relish. I was getting the picture that Hank’s lean and agitated physique might not be a manifestation of his struggles with color and form.
—So, how’s my brother? he asked, flinging his match into the street.
I told him I hadn’t seen Tinker in two months and that I didn’t even know where he was—though I guess