The Swans of Fifth Avenue(48)
“I don’t understand!” he had raged, but in the next breath, he was sobbing pitifully. “What did they think? I’m an author! I write what I know!”
C.Z. had let him rage on, whispering only murmurs and soothing, clucking sounds, much as she would to an outraged child. She’d told him that she didn’t hate him, that she understood, that people were really quite na?ve, that yes, now that he asked, the writing was spectacular, truly. This new short story was the best thing he’d ever written.
“La C?te Basque 1965” was not the best thing he’d ever written, however. C.Z. actually had to suppress her laughter as she read the thing. The short story was just a play, really. A dialogue, running commentary, bitchy gossip. Certainly it was nothing like his best work, which for her remained In Cold Blood.
C.Z. didn’t take too much seriously. She never had; she’d been born with a silver spoon in her mouth, but had removed it at her first gurgle and flung it across the nursery. But when she’d read In Cold Blood almost ten years earlier, she, like all of Truman’s swans, had been stunned into an uncomfortable bashfulness around him. Suddenly their gay, gossipy little friend, arm candy, pocket change, was another creature entirely. A giant, a literary sentinel. She wondered how she’d ever imagined that they looked at the world in the same way, thought the same thoughts, shared the same vices and delights and interests.
Truman simply stopped being Truman. For a while, anyway.
She remembered the writing of that book, how it had taken years and years. He still, during the time of the writing, went to their parties, took them dancing at the Peppermint Lounge when their husbands refused. He still sat around the fire and gossiped with them. Only once in a while, C.Z. supposed, he would have a far-off look; she would see his lips move, he’d take a notebook out and jot something down, or more often, he’d suddenly become very downcast, and still everyone continued their merry dance about him, like a maypole. But he always snapped out of it and jumped right back in.
But then the book came out and everyone read it (and they really did this time, as opposed to his other books) and the name Truman Capote began to be spoken in hushed, awed tones, and every television, newspaper, and radio personality with an ounce of self-importance wanted to interview him. Truman had been famous before, of course, and even during the writing of In Cold Blood, the movie of Breakfast at Tiffany’s came out, further catapulting him in the limelight—
Oh, C.Z. laughed and laughed, a throaty, sexy laugh so at odds with her crisp Brahmin drawl, remembering how she’d seen the movie with him. Not the first time he’d seen it—that he’d shared with Babe, of course—but later, during a matinee, the two of them sneaking into the back row of the dark theater, munching on Cracker Jack. Truman had whispered such catty things, a running commentary of bitchiness, during the whole movie—Audrey Hepburn is a nice enough little thing, but she’s not my Holly. Marilyn Monroe is who I wanted. But poor Marilyn—no one would work with her. Oh, look—isn’t it terrible what they’ve done to Mickey Rooney? It’s offensive. Not to mention a crime, the way he’s chewing the scenery—it’s a wonder he didn’t gain fifty pounds! Patricia Neal—marvelous woman, but why did they have to add her character? I think Fred’s much more interesting if he’s just a common male gigolo, more like Holly. Now, watch for the scene when Audrey has to sing that song. “Moon River”—well, it’s a nice enough little tune, but it’s not the one I wrote in the book, which—I have to say it—was much more appropriate. But look at how nervous Audrey is; she’s shaking as she holds the guitar. You can’t really see it in the final cut, but trust me, I was there on the set that day. And, darling, let me tell you about Audrey’s husband, Mel—
She’d had to go back and see the movie again, alone, because she hadn’t had a real chance to with Truman by her side.
So Truman had been famous before—and if he hadn’t been, he wouldn’t have been part of their circle—but nothing like what happened to him after In Cold Blood.
And no one—not even Babe—felt entirely comfortable with him, once they realized that he had done something truly important and groundbreaking in literature. C.Z. was the first to admit she knew nothing about writing. Other than that the author was someone to be respected and revered—and until then, she’d never thought of Truman as an author, believe it or not. He was simply an ornament, a bauble to be collected, enjoyed, and appreciated, but not really admired.
C.Z. opened the doors to her spectacular terrace. She felt the setting Florida sun bathe her skin, warm every follicle, open every pore. She inhaled profoundly, remembering how her father always taught her to breathe deeply when outdoors, the better to clear the lungs. She sniffed the salty ocean spray and the candy sweet perfume of jasmine in pots all over the terrace. The blue of her pool was bluer than the ocean, which was just a short stroll across a lawn that was so manicured, it looked as if you might cut your feet on it. But you couldn’t; it was soft, like rainwater, something no visitor could ever understand, given how coarse and sticky Florida grass was everywhere else.
Days like this, when the air hummed with insects, and flowers were so abundant as to look almost comical, like a movie set from an old MGM musical, reminded her of her youth. She had made mistakes then, as poor Truman seemed to be making them now. Or, rather, had already begun to make them, years ago, once In Cold Blood came out. That was really it, C.Z. decided; that’s when he began to f*ck up.