Rules of Civility - Amor Towles [78]
We both sat back and laughed. We laughed because somehow we suddenly knew exactly where we stood. Ever since the visit to the hunt club, a small uncertainty had buzzed between us. It was a sense of chemistry that had been a little elusive, a little imprecise. Until now.
Maybe it was because we found being in each other’s company so effortless. Maybe it had something to do with the fact that he had clearly been in love with Bitsy Houghton since he was a kid (star-crossed romance being the spoiler that it is). Either way, we knew that our feelings for each other weren’t urgent, or impassioned, or prone to deception. They were friendly and fond and sincere.
It was like the honeymoon bridge.
The romantic interplay that we were having wasn’t the real game—it was a modified version of the game. It was a version invented for two friends so that they can get some practice and pass the time divertingly while they wait in the station for their train to arrive.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
The Pursuit of Perfection
August 26, 98°. As if by design, the glass of Mason Tate’s office was just thick enough so you could hear him raising his voice without gleaning the specifics. At this particular juncture, he was articulating some nuance of dissatisfaction to Vitters, the staff photographer, while pointing a commanding finger in the direction of New Jersey.
Judging from a distance, most people probably assumed that Mason Tate was insufferable. Certainly, he seemed to care about his little glamour magazine to an irrational degree: That rumor is too well founded. This blue too cerulean. That comma too early. This colon too late. But it was precisely his nit-picking mania that lent a sense of purpose to the rest of us.
With Tate at the helm, the work of Gotham wasn’t some vague agrarian battle with the seasons in which the outcomes of one’s efforts were held hostage to time and temperature; it wasn’t the drudgery of the firetrap seamstress needling the same loop over and over until it’s one’s sanity that’s being stitched into a seam; nor was it the life of the seafarer exposed to the elements for years at a time, returning like Odysseus older, weaker, nearly forgotten—unrecognizable to all but one’s dog. Ours was the work of the demolition expert. Having carefully studied the architecture of a building, we were to install an array of charges around its foundation set to go off in an orchestrated sequence such that the building would collapse under the weight of its own infrastructure—simultaneously inspiring gawkers with awe and clearing the way for something new.
But in exchange for this heightened sense of purpose, you kept your hands on the wheel or got them whacked with a ruler.
As Vitters sprinted back to the safety of his darkroom, Tate buzzed me three times in quick succession: Get. In. Here. I smoothed my skirt and picked up a steno pad. He turned from the drafting table looking especially imperious.
—Does the color of my tie look more accommodating than usual?
—No, Mr. Tate.
—What about my new haircut. Does it seem more encouraging?
—No, sir.
—Is there anything about me today which would suggest that I want an unasked-for opinion more than I did yesterday?
—Not in the least.
—Well, that’s a relief.
He turned back to the drafting table and leaned against it with both arms. On it were ten different candids of Bette Davis: Bette in a restaurant; Bette at a Yankees game; Bette strolling down Fifth Avenue, putting the window treatments to shame. He isolated four pictures that had been taken within minutes of each other. They showed Bette, her husband, and a younger couple seated in a booth at a supper club. On the table were full ashtrays and empty glasses. The only food left was a candle-lit slice