Rules of Civility - Amor Towles [65]
And therein lay the first of two unanticipated advantages of taking a job at the Pembroke Press: presumption. For a young woman the pay at Pembroke was so bad and the professional prospects so poor, it went without saying that you took the job because you could absolutely afford to do so.
—Who are you working with? one of the girls had asked in the cab.
—Nathaniel Parish.
—Oh! How terrific! How do you know him?
How did I know him? My father and he were at Harvard? Grandma and Mrs. Parish grew up summering in Kennebunkport? I spent the semester in Florence with his niece? Honey, you can take your pick.
Dicky was standing now. He took the imaginary steering wheel in hand. He screwed up his eyes and pointed to where the bell buoy tolled.
—You, Aeolus—to whom the king of men
And of the gods has lent the awesome power
To calm the rolling waves, or with the winds
Incite them—now stir your gales to fury;
Upend and sink their ships; or toss them with
their crews upon the open emerald seas!
He gave the Virgil in perfect meter, iamb for iamb. Although, one suspected that Dicky’s ability to quote classical verse stemmed less from a love of literature than from a rote education in prep school which time had yet the time to erase.
Jenny applauded and Dicky bowed, knocking a glass of gin into Roberto’s lap.
—Mon Dieu, Roberto! Be a little more fleet of foot, man!
—Fleet of foot? You’ve ruined another pair of my khaki trousers.
—Come now. You’ve a lifetime supply.
—Whatever the state of my supply, I demand an apology.
—Then you shall have one!
Dicky pointed a finger in the air. He adopted the appropriate expression of sober contrition. He opened his mouth.
—Pencey!
We all turned to see what a Pencey was. It was another Ivy Leaguer coming through the door with a girl on each arm.
—Dicky Vanderwhile! Good God. What next.
Yes, Dicky was a genuine mixer. He took relative pride and absolute joy in weaving together the strands of his life so that when he gave them a good tug all the friends of friends of friends would come tumbling through the door. He’s the sort that New York City was made for. If you latched yourself onto the likes of Dicky Vanderwhile, pretty soon you’d know everyone in New York; or at least everyone white, wealthy and under the age of twenty-five.
When the clock struck ten, at Dicky’s instigation we trundled over to the Yale Club so that we could get a hamburger before the grill closed. Gathered around the old wooden tables, as we drank flat beer from water glasses, there were more wild-eyed anecdotes and witty exchanges. There were more familiar faces, more rapid-fire introductions, more assumptions, presumptions, resumptions.
—Yes, yes. We’ve met before, one of the new arrivals said when Dicky introduced me. We danced a lick at Billy Ebersley’s.
I had been wrong in thinking that no one had noticed my age. Dicky had noticed and, apparently, he found it enticing. He began to leer at me across the table conspiratorially when anyone had anything the least sophomoric to say. He clearly believed too many of the stories he’d heard from school chums about summer escapades with older sisters’ friends. While Roberto and Wellie drew straws to see which of their father’s accounts would be charged, Dicky took the opportunity to drag up a chair.
—Tell me, Miss Kontent, where can we find you on the average Friday night?
He gestured toward his sister and some of the other girls at the table.
—Not with this sorority, I suspect.
—On the average Friday night, you’d find me at home.
—At home, eh? Please be more precise with your adverbial phrases. If you say at home with this crowd, we’ll assume that you’re living with your parents. Wellie there wears candy-striped pajamas and Roberto has model airplanes hanging from the ceiling over his bed.
—So do I.
—The pajamas or the airplanes?
—Both.
—I’d love to see them. So where is this home, precisely, where one can find you in candy stripes on a Friday night?
—Is this where one can find you on the average Friday night,