Rules of Civility - Amor Towles [68]
In suitable unison: Yes Sir.
By 9:00 the phone is ringing.
» I need to meet with Mason immediately.
» I wouldn’t meet with Mr. Tate if he paid me.
» My wife, who is ill, may contact Mr. Tate. I ask that he show the appropriate consideration for her well-being by encouraging her to return home to her children and the care of her physician.
» I have some information on my husband that Mr. Tate may find interesting. It involves a harlot, a half a million dollars and a dog. I can be reached at the Carlyle under my maiden name.
» My client, a citizen above reproach, has learned that his troubled wife is making delusional accusations. Please let Mr. Tate know that should his forthcoming periodical publish any of these sad and fantastic claims, my client is prepared to file suit not only against the publisher, but against Mr. Tate personally.
How do you spell that? Where can you be reached? Until what hour? I’ll give him the message.
—Ahem.
Jacob Weiser, Condé Nast’s corporate comptroller, is standing at my desk. An honest, hardworking sort, he has one of those unfortunate mustaches made popular by the likes of Charlie Chaplin until the likes of Adolph Hitler put them out of fashion forever. You can tell from his expression that he doesn’t like Gotham, not one little bit. He probably thinks the entire venture seedy and prurient. Which, of course, it is, though no more so than Manhattan, and no less glamorous.
—Good morning, Mr. Weiser. How can I help you?
—I need to see Tate.
—Yes. I spoke with your assistant. You’re on his schedule for Tuesday.
—At 5:45. Was that some kind of joke?
—No, sir.
—I’ll see him now.
—I’m afraid that’s impossible.
Mr. Weiser points through the glass to where Mr. Tate is gingerly dipping a chocolate square in the remnants of his coffee.
—I’ll see him now, thank you.
Mr. Weiser advances. It is plain that he would give his life to correct an imbalance in the company’s accounts. But when he takes a step around my desk, I have no choice but to block his way. His face grows as red as a radish.
—Look here missy, he says, trying to constrain his temper, unsuccessfully.
—What’s this all about?
Mr. Tate is suddenly standing between us, directing his question tome.
—Mr. Weiser would like to see you, I explain.
—I thought I was seeing him on Tuesday.
—You are scheduled to do so.
—What’s the problem then?
Mr. Weiser pipes up:
—I’ve just received the most recent expense report on your staffing. You’re thirty percent over budget!
Mr. Tate turns slowly on Mr. Weiser.
—As Miss Kontent has apparently made clear—Jake—I am not available right now. Come to think of it, I’m not available on Tuesday either. Miss Kontent, please meet with Mr. Weiser in my stead. Take note of his concerns and let him know that we will get back to him shortly.
Mr. Tate returned to his chocolate and Mr. Weiser to his adding machine somewhere in the recesses of the third floor.
Most executives expect their secretaries to show an appropriate level of deference; they expect them to be courteous and even-tempered to whomever they’re talking. But not Mr. Tate. He encouraged Alley and me to be as imperious and impatient as he was. At first I thought this was an irrational extension of Tate’s aristocratic belligerence and his Sun King self-importance. But over time, I began to see the genius of it. By making the two of us as rude and demanding as he, Tate was solidifying our positions as his proxy.
—Hey, Alley says, sidling up to my desk. Get a load of this.
At reception there’s a teenage messenger lugging a ten-pound edition of Webster’s Dictionary. It’s finished off in a pretty pink bow. The receptionist points to the middle of the bullpen.
Each of the journalists eyes the messenger coolly as he approaches their desk and smiles wryly once he’s passed. Some of them stand to watch the show. At long last, he comes to a stop in front of Nicholas Fesindorf. When Fesindorf sees the dictionary, he goes more crimson