The Swans of Fifth Avenue(56)
He had the power now. And the money.
As he lay on the Agnellis’ yacht that summer—refusing to go off on their exhausting little excursions to some ruin or another, smirking when they all trooped back, dusty and footsore while he had spent the day being served champagne by swarthy stewards, bobbing up and down in the turquoise Mediterranean, admiring the scenery from afar—or lounged by Babe’s pool, or danced with Lee Radziwill (Jackie’s sister, don’tchaknow, the newest addition to his swans), Truman, on the outside, was the same as ever. The same jokester, prankster, entertainer. The same lapdog, pocket fairy, jester.
“I want to pay you all back,” he drawled, when questioned about his notebook, which he guarded fiercely, joked that he kept it locked up in a safe at night. “You’ve all been so kind to me, giving me parties, dinners, vacations, even! Marella, your yacht, it is to die for! A floating palace! So it’s the least I can do, to throw a little ol’ party in return!”
Yes, I want to pay you all back, he said to himself. I want to make you jump through the hoops. Amuse me, amuse me! I want you to remember just who I am now. Truman Capote. The acclaimed author of the acclaimed In Cold Blood, the book that everyone is talking about this summer of 1966. The book none of you shallow idiots could ever have written. I’m not just your little True Heart, your favorite dinner guest, your token fag. I’m just as powerful as you!
And just as glamorous. And just as headline-worthy.
And infinitely more interesting.
Still, as rich as he now was from the proceeds of the book—rich enough to make Nina/Lillie Mae spin in her urn, rich enough finally to move from dreary Brooklyn into a stunning Manhattan apartment at the new UN Plaza, an apartment that Babe helped him decorate, with heady views of the East River, the Brooklyn Bridge, lower Manhattan; rich enough to buy Jack’s Southampton house for him, in his own name, and give it to him as a present, possibly the most generous act of his life, and thinking about it still brought tears to his eyes; rich enough to throw this party—still, he wasn’t rich enough to own a yacht. Or a plane. Or a television network.
So he bit his tongue and planned his party gleefully, telling all his swans that of course they’d be invited—why, they’d be the very top of the list!
Still, it wouldn’t do to throw the party for himself. Far too tacky, even for him. And he couldn’t throw it for any of his swans—dear God, what a tangle of shredded feathers, rent designer gowns, torn jewels that would be! No, best to throw it for someone else, someone rather small and dreary; someone not nearly as fabulous as him, if he was going to have to share the spotlight. Someone like Kay Graham.
Poor Kay!
Poor plain Kay, wife of Phil Graham, a tragic suicide. Poor Kay, left with pots of money and a newspaper, The Washington Post, to run. Poor Kay of Washington, D.C., that dowdy little town where women did not dress for lunch, where they did not get their hair done by Kenneth, where the parties were soggy with politicians and other earnest drabs who talked more than they drank.
Poor Kay, whom Babe had introduced him to, and whom Truman had immediately liked, because of her very plainness. Just as he’d been drawn to Alvin and Marie Dewey of Kansas, whom he’d met while researching In Cold Blood (Alvin was the lead detective on the case); just as he was drawn irresistibly to truck drivers and appliance repairmen and dumb, brawny dockworkers. Truman knew he had a fascination for the ordinary that almost overshadowed his fascination with the rich and famous. He truly couldn’t live without either. He’d left many a dinner in a penthouse apartment on Fifth to go down to the docks and pick up a Teamster.
So, Kay. Dowdy, pitiful Kay, who, he insisted in a phone call that summer, needed cheering up.
“No, not really,” she’d replied, puzzled. “I’m just fine, Truman.”
“No, you’re not. I’m going to give you a party. Just a little party, to put a smile back on your face.”
“You don’t have to, but if you want to, I’d be honored.”
“Fine. It’s settled, then. Just an intimate party with dear friends.”
By August, that intimate party had swelled to five hundred “dear friends.” Only five hundred. Maybe five forty. No more. Because that was all the Grand Ballroom at the Plaza Hotel could comfortably hold. And that was to be the setting for this intimate little cheering-up party for his good friend, poor Kay Graham. He, Truman, was giving a party at the Plaza! Mama, Mama, look at me now!
“Now, Marella, don’t feel put out. I couldn’t have you as the guest of honor because everyone else would be jealous! But I will need you to host a pre-party dinner, sweetheart, if you don’t mind. I’m only asking a very few of my dearest friends.”
“Now, Slim, Big Mama, darling! Of course you’ll be tops of the guest list, but I couldn’t have you as the guest of honor—can you imagine how furious La Guinness would be? Knives would be thrown! Daggers! But I’m saving the first dance for you, my darling!”
“Now, Gloria, don’t get furious, but you couldn’t be the guest of honor. That’s going to be Kay Graham, poor Kay! But you know, don’t you, darling, that you’re the guest of honor in my heart of hearts? And I’m instructing you to wear your finest jewelry because it’s going to be fancy, fancy, and you’ll be the belle of the ball, anyway!”
“C.Z.! My pet! What fun we’re going to have! I know you won’t mind if you’re not the guest of honor—you know Kay Graham, don’t you? Poor Kay! I decided she needed some cheering up so she’s going to be the center of attention, because she needs it. But really, who’ll be looking at her, poor dreary soul, when you’re there, the golden goddess of all time?”