Rules of Civility - Amor Towles [76]
Back in Manhattan, when we were leaving Wallace’s garage and I thanked him for a terrific afternoon, he hesitated. I think he was weighing whether to ask me back to his apartment, but he didn’t. Maybe he was concerned that by asking, he might somehow spoil the day. So he gave me a kiss on the cheek like a friend of a friend. We exchanged good-byes and he began to walk away.
—Hey Wallace, I called.
He stopped and turned.
—What was the name of the old Irishman? The one who poured the hot chocolate.
—It was Fallon, he said with a smile. Mr. Fallon.
The next day at a little shop on Bleecker Street I bought a postcard of Annie Oakley. She was in full western regalia—a deerskin shirt, white-fringed boots, and two pearl-handled six-shooters. On the back, I wrote: Thanks Pardner. In Thursday’s four o’clock post, I received a note saying: Meet me tomorrow on the steps of the Metropolitan Museum at High Noon. It was signed Wyatt Earp.
Wallace skipped up the museum steps dressed in a pale gray suit with a white cotton handkerchief peeking squarely from his breast pocket.
—I hope you’re not trying to woo me by taking me to see some paintings, I said.
—Definitely not! I wouldn’t . . . know where to start.
Instead, he took me to the museum’s collection of guns.
In the dim light, we drifted shoulder to shoulder from case to case. Naturally, these were guns that were famous for their design or provenance rather than for their firepower. Many had elaborate engravings or were fashioned from precious metals. You could almost forget that they were designed to kill people. Wallace probably knew every last thing there was to know about the guns, but he didn’t overdo it. He shared some colorful arcana and a little bit of lore. Then he suggested we go to lunch exactly five minutes before the novelty of the experience was due to wear off.
When we came out of the museum, the brown Bentley was waiting at the bottom of the steps.
—Hello, Michael, I said, congratulating myself on remembering his name.
—Hello, Miss Kontent.
Once in the car, Wallace asked where I’d like to have lunch. I suggested that he treat me like an out-of-towner and take me to his favorite spot. So we went to the Park, a restaurant on the ground floor of a prominent midtown office tower. In the modern style it had high ceilings and walls without ornamentation. Most of the tables were occupied by men in suits.
—Is your office close to here? I asked innocently.
Wallace looked embarrassed.
—It’s in the building.
—What a stroke of luck! That your favorite restaurant is in the same building as your office!
We ordered martinis from a waiter named Mitchell and reviewed the menus. To begin, Wallace ordered aspic, of all things, and I had the house salad—a terrific concoction of iceberg greens, cold blue cheese and warm red bacon. If I were a country, I would have made it my flag.
While we waited for Dover sole, Wallace began drawing a circle on the tablecloth with his dessert spoon, and for the first time I noticed his wristwatch. It had the inverse of the usual design—white numbers on a black dial.
—Sorry, he said putting down the spoon. It’s an old habit.
—Actually, I was just admiring your watch.
—Oh. It’s . . . an officer’s watch. It had a black face so that at night it would be less likely to . . . draw fire. It was my father’s.
Wallace was quiet for a moment. I was about to ask him a little more about his father when a tall, balding gentleman came to our table. Wallace pushed his chair back and stood.
—Avery!
—Wallace, the gentleman said warmly.
Having been introduced to me, the gentleman asked if I could spare Wallace a moment. Then he led him to his own table where another older man waited. From their demeanors, it was plain that they were seeking Wallace’s counsel. When they