Rules of Civility - Amor Towles [9]
Eve leaned her head back, pursed her lips and shot a ray of smoke toward the ceiling.
—Now, what about you, Theodore?
—Well, I guess if you stacked all the books I’ve read, you could climb into a cab.
—No, said Eve. I mean: What about you?
Tinker answered relying on the ellipses of the elite: He was from Massachusetts; he went to college in Providence; and he worked for a small firm on Wall Street—that is, he was born in the Back Bay, attended Brown, and now worked at the bank that his grandfather founded. Usually, this sort of deflection was so transparently disingenuous it was irksome, but with Tinker it was as if he was genuinely afraid that the shadow of an Ivy League degree might spoil the fun. He concluded by saying he lived uptown.
—Where uptown? Eve asked “innocently.”
—Two eleven Central Park West, he said, with a hint of embarrassment.
Two eleven Central Park West! The Beresford. Twenty-two stories of terraced apartments.
Under the table Eve kicked me again, but she had the good sense to change the subject. She asked him about his brother. What was he like? Was he older, younger? Shorter, taller?
Older and shorter, Henry Grey was a painter who lived in the West Village. When Eve asked what was the best word to describe him, after thinking a moment Tinker settled on unwavering—because his brother had always known who he was and what he wanted to do.
—Sounds exhausting, I said.
Tinker laughed.
—I guess it does, doesn’t it.
—And maybe a little dull? Eve suggested.
—No. He’s definitely not dull.
—Well, we’ll stick to wavering.
At some point, Tinker excused himself. Five minutes went by, then ten. Eve and I both began to fidget. He didn’t seem the sort to strand us with the check, but a quarter of an hour in a public john was a long time even for a girl. Then just as panic was setting in, he reappeared. His face was flush. The cold New Year’s air emanated from the fabric of his tuxedo. He was grasping a bottle of champagne by the neck and grinning like a truant holding a fish by the tail.
—Success!
He popped the cork at the tin ceiling drawing discouraging stares from everyone but the bass player whose teeth peeked out from under his mustache as he nodded and gave us a boom boom boom!
Tinker poured the champagne into our empty glasses.
—We need some resolutions!
—We aint got no resolutions here, Mister.
—Better yet, said Eve. Why don’t we make resolutions for each other?
—Capital! Tinker said. I’ll go first. In 1938, the two of you . . .
He looked us up and down.
—Should try to be less shy.
We both laughed.
—Okay, said Tinker. Your turn.
Eve came back without hesitation.
—You should get out of your ruts.
She raised an eyebrow and then squinted as if she was offering him a challenge. For a moment he was taken aback. She had obviously struck a chord. He nodded his head slowly and then smiled.
—What a wonderful wish, he said, to wish for another.
As midnight approached, the sound of people cheering and cars honking became audible from the street, so we decided to join the party. Tinker overpaid in freshly minted bills. Eve snatched his scarf and wrapped it around her head like a turban. Then we stumbled through the tables into the night.
Outside, it was still snowing.
Eve and I got on either side of Tinker and took his arms. We leaned into his shoulders as if against the cold and marched him down Waverly toward the carousing in Washington Square. As we passed a stylish restaurant two middle-aged couples came out and climbed into a waiting car. When they drove away, the doorman caught Tinker’s eye.
—Thanks again, Mr. Grey, he said.
Here, no doubt, was the well-tipped source of our bubbly.
—Thank you, Paul, said Tinker.
—Happy New Year, Paul, said Eve.
—Same to you, ma’am.
Powdered with snow, Washington Square looked as lovely as it could. The snow had dusted every tree and gate. The once tony brownstones that on summer days now lowered their gaze in misery were lost for the moment in sentimental