Rules of Civility - Amor Towles [27]
—Give my regards to Miss Evelyn and Mistah Tinkah, he said, as we slowed to a stop.
The door opened on a private foyer—a perfect example of Greek revival elegance with a parquet floor and white moldings and a preimpressionist still life hanging on the wall. Tinker was sitting on a side chair with his arms on his knees and his head lowered. He looked like he was back outside the emergency room. When I stepped off the elevator he was visibly relieved, as if he had begun to worry that I wasn’t going to show.
He took both my hands in his. The features of his face had softened, as if he had put on the ten pounds that Eve had lost in the hospital.
—Katey! Thanks for coming. It’s good to see you.
He was talking a little under his breath. It raised my antennae.
—Tinker. Does Eve know that I’m here?
—Yes, yes. Of course, he whispered. She’s excited to see you. I just wanted to explain. She’s been having a tough go of it lately. Especially at night. So I try to stay in as much as I can. She’s just better when she . . . has company.
I took off my coat and laid it on the other side chair. It should have told me something about Tinker’s state of mind that he hadn’t asked me for it.
—I’m not sure how late I’m going to be. Can you stay until eleven?
—Sure.
—Twelve?
—I can stay as late as you need me to, Tinker.
He took my hands again and then let them go.
—Come on in. Eve! Katey’s here!
We walked through the door into the living room.
If Tinker’s foyer was classically decorated, it was something of a sleight of hand—because it was the only room in the apartment with furnishings from before the sinking of the Titanic. The living room—a grand square with terrace windows overlooking Central Park—looked like it had been airlifted right out of the Barcelona exposition at the 1929 World’s Fair. It had three white couches and two black Mies van der Rohe chairs in tight formation around a glass-topped cocktail table, which was artfully arranged with a stack of novels, a brass ashtray and a deco-era miniature of an airplane. There was no satin, no velvet, no paisley—no rough textures or rounded edges. Just interlocking rectangles that reinforced a general sense of abstraction.
The machine for living, I think the French called it, and there was Eve lounging in the middle of the works. In a new white dress, she was reclining on one of the couches with one arm behind her head and the other at her side. It was a been-here-all-my-life sort of pose. With the lights of the city draped behind her and the martini glass on the carpet, she looked like an advertisement for being in a car wreck.
It was only when you got closer that you could see the damage. On the left side of her face there were two converging scars that cut all the way from her temple to her chin. What symmetry remained was spoiled by the slight droop at the edge of her mouth, as if she was the victim of a stroke. In the manner she was sitting, her left leg looked only slightly twisted, but peeking from under the hem of her dress you could see where the grafts had left her with the skin of a plucked chicken.
—Hey Evey.
—Hey Kate.
I leaned over to give her a kiss. Without hesitation she offered her right cheek, her reflexes having already adapted to her new condition. I sat on the opposite couch.
—How’re you feeling? I asked.
—Better. How’ve you been?
—Same.
—Good for you. Would you like a drink? Tinker, sweetie, could you?
Tinker hadn’t sat down. He was behind the empty couch leaning on its back with both arms.
—Of course, he said standing upright. What would you like, Katey? We were just having martinis. I’m happy to make you a fresh one.
—I’ll take what’s in the shaker.
—Are you sure?
—Why not.
Tinker came around the couch with a glass and reached for the plane that was on the cocktail table. The fuselage came up out of the wings—a witty piece of deco, teetering on the edge of fashion. Tinker plucked off the nose of the plane and filled my glass. He hesitated before putting the shaker back.
—Do you want some more, Eve?