Rules of Civility - Amor Towles [34]
Charlotte was holding a large document with both hands in front of her waist, the way a schoolgirl holds her textbooks. From the thickness of it you could tell it was the draft of a merger agreement or an offering plan. Whatever it was, she shouldn’t have had it with her.
I let the silence grow awkward.
Though apparently not awkward enough.
—Did you grow up in the neighborhood? she asked.
—I grew up in Brighton Beach.
—Jeepers, she said.
She was about to ask what Brighton Beach was like or which subway ran there or if I’d ever been to Coney Island, but a train came to my rescue. There were still only a scattering of people on the platform so the conductors ignored us. They smoked cigarettes with worldly indifference like soldiers in between assaults.
Charlotte took the seat beside me. On the bench facing us, there was a middle-aged chambermaid disinclined to raise her eyes. She wore an old burgundy coat over her black and white uniform and a pair of practical shoes. Above her head hung a poster from the Department of Health discouraging the practice of sneezing without a handkerchief.
—How long have you worked for Miss Markham? Charlotte asked. It was to Charlotte’s credit that she said Miss Markham rather than Quiggin & Hale.
—Since 1934, I said.
—That must make you one of the senior girls!
—Not by a long shot.
We were quiet for a few seconds. I thought maybe she was finally getting the message. Instead she launched into a monologue.
—Isn’t Miss Markham something else? I’ve never met anyone like her. She is just so impressive. Did you know that she speaks French? I heard her speaking it with one of the partners. I swear, she can see the draft of a letter once and remember it word for word.
Charlotte was suddenly chattering at twice her usual pace. I couldn’t tell if it was nerves or an effort to say as much as possible before the train arrived at her stop.
—. . . But then all the people at Q&H are just so especially nice. Even the partners! I was in Mr. Quiggin’s office just the other day to get some things signed. Have you been in his office? Why, of course you have. You know how he has that fish tank just filled with fish. Well, there was this one little fish that was the most amazing shade of blue and its nose was pressed against the glass. I couldn’t take my eyes off it. Even though Miss Markham tells us not to let our eyes wander around the partners’ offices. But when Mr. Quiggin finished he came right around his desk and told me the Latin names of each and every one of those fish!
As Charlotte was speeding along, the chambermaid across the aisle had raised her gaze. She was staring at Charlotte and listening as if she had stood in front of such a fish tank one day not long ago, when she too had had delicate features and beautiful skin, when her eyes were hopeful and wide and the world had seemed splendid and fair.
The train arrived at Canal Street and the doors opened. Charlotte was talking so fast she didn’t notice.
—Isn’t this your stop?
Charlotte jumped. She gave a sweet, mousy wave and disappeared.
It was only when the doors closed that I saw the merger agreement on the bench beside me. Clipped to the front was a note FROM THE DESK OF THOMAS HARPER, ESQ, with the name of a Camden & Clay attorney scrolled in Harper’s prep school cursive. Presumably, he had sloughed off the delivery of this draft on Charlotte by applying a little schoolboy charm. It wouldn’t have taken much. She was born to be charmed. Or intimidated. Either way, it showed a solid lack of judgment on both their parts. But if New York was a many-cogged machine, then lack of judgment was the grease that kept the gears turning smoothly for the rest of us. They’d both end up getting what they deserved one way or another. I lay the agreement back on the bench.
We were still stalled at the station. On the platform a few commuters had gathered in front of the closed doors looking hopefully through the glass like Mr. Quiggin’s fish. I redirected my gaze across the aisle and found the chambermaid staring at me. With her doleful eyes,