Rules of Civility - Amor Towles [66]
—What’s that?!
Dicky looked around the room in shock. Then he waved a dismissive hand.
—Certainly not. It’s a bore. Geriatrics and rush chairmen.
He looked me in the eye.
—What do you say we get out of here? Let’s take a turn through the Village.
—I couldn’t steal you away from your friends.
—Oh, they’ll be all right without me.
Dicky put a hand on my knee, discreetly.
—. . . And I’ll be all right without them.
—You’d better throttle back, Dicky. You’re steering straight for a bulkhead.
Dicky took his hand off my knee with enthusiasm, nodding his head in agreement.
—Righto! Time should be our ally, not our enemy.
He stood up knocking over his chair. He pointed a finger in the air and proclaimed to no one in particular:
—Let the evening end as it began: with a sense of mystery!
Unanticipated advantage #2?
When I arrived at work on July 7, Mr. Parish was in his office talking to a handsome stranger in a bespoke suit. In his midfifties, he looked like a leading man a few years past his prime. From the way the two conversed, you could tell that they knew each other well but maintained a certain self-imposed distance, like high priests from different orders of the same faith.
When the stranger left, Mr. Parish called me in.
—Katherine, my dear. Have a seat. Do you know the gentleman with whom I was just speaking?
—I don’t.
—His name is Mason Tate. He actually worked for me as a younger man before he moved on to greener pastures; or rather, I should say, a series of greener pastures. At any rate, he works for Condé Nast now, where he is in the process of launching a new literary journal and he’s looking for a few assistant editors. I think you should meet with him.
—I’m happy here, Mr. Parish.
—Yes, I know you are. And were it fifteen years ago, this would have been just the place for you. But it isn’t any longer.
He patted the pile of rejection letters awaiting his signature.
—Mason is mercurial, but he is also very capable. Whether his journal succeeds or fails, a young woman with your intelligence will have the chance to learn a great deal at his side. And day to day, it is certain to be more dynamic than the offices of the Pembroke Press.
—I’ll meet with him if you think I should.
By way of answer, Mr. Parish held out Mr. Tate’s card.
Mason Tate’s offices were on the twenty-fifth floor of the Condé Nast building, and from the looks of them you would have thought his forthcoming journal had been a success for years. A striking receptionist sat at a custom-made desk accented with freshly cut flowers. As I was led to Mr. Tate’s office, we passed fifteen young men talking on telephones or hacking away at brand-new Smith Coronas. It looked like the best-dressed newsroom in America. Along the walls were atmospheric photographs taken in New York: Mrs. Astor in an enormous Easter hat; Douglas Fairbanks in the chauffeur’s seat of a limousine; a well-heeled crowd kept waiting in the snow outside the Cotton Club.
Mr. Tate had a corner office with glass walls. The top of his desk was a piece of glass too, floating on a lazy stainless steel X. In front of his desk was a small sitting area with a couch and chair.
—Come in, he called.
His accent was patently aristocratic—part prep school, part Brit, part prude. He pointed a commanding finger at one of the chairs, reserving the couch for himself.
—I’ve heard good things about you, Miss Kontent.
—Thank you.
—What have you heard about me?
—Not very much.
—Excellent. Where were you raised?
—In New York.
—City? Or state?
—The city.
—Have you ever been to the Algonquin?
—The hotel?
—Yes.
—I haven’t.
—Do you know where it is?
—West Forty-fourth Street?
—That’s right. And Delmonico’s? Have you dined there?
—Isn’t it closed?
—In a manner of speaking. What did your father do?
—Mr. Tate, what is this all about?
—Come now. You can’t be afraid to tell me how your father earned his living.
—I’ll tell you what he did, if you tell me why you want to know.
—Fair enough.
—He worked in a machine shop.
—A proletarian.
—I suppose.
—Let me