The Swans of Fifth Avenue(68)
But more than anything, Jack hated the people that Truman had gathered, the glittering, chattering—God, his ears throbbed from the noise, the orchestra and the mad laughter and the screeches of recognition—sycophants that Truman collected as he collected those damn antique paperweights of his that cluttered every surface. Well, Truman had his own apartment now, which Jack did not visit as much as Truman would have liked. So the paperweights, like the people, filled the space that Jack himself had once filled.
He still loved Truman. He always would. He loved his drive and ambition and his touching, thoughtful little gestures. He loved his wit. His morbid fascinations, which few people knew about—his dark broodings, which he allowed only Jack to see. Well, he supposed Truman let Babe see that side of him, too, but that didn’t matter because Babe was a woman. And Jack liked Babe, too; he liked her warmth, her kindness, that sense of grave uncertainty behind the beautiful fa?ade.
But Truman wasn’t the same Truman Jack had met back in the early fifties when they were both young and poor and ambitious. Truman was successful now. Jack hated to acknowledge that Truman was the kind of person who was f*cked up by success, but he suspected it was true. He’d always been a strange little combination of intense focus while he was writing and impulsive, scatterbrained gadfly when he wasn’t. The gadfly was winning out, sadly.
Jack took a drink—rare, for he didn’t drink much these days—and sat alone at a table, studying the party. Truman had boasted of the guest list, declared it a masterpiece of curation, a brilliant mix of people and types—Society, Hollywood, Broadway, the literary world, artists and dancers, plain folks such as the Deweys. But Jack had to laugh; no one was mingling. The Hollywood types sat together, so did the Broadway types—Alan Jay Lerner, that prick, was holding forth with Stephen Sondheim while Hal Prince looked on—and of course, Truman’s swans all swam together in their tight, prissy little formation, turning their jeweled backs to everyone who didn’t have several million in ready cash.
And Truman—look at him! Jack was ashamed, really; he was sickened, his stomach tightened, and it wasn’t just the bourbon. It was the waste, the shameful waste, and Jack knew, even if Truman didn’t, that there was no turning back from this night. It marked the end of Truman Capote, the serious writer, and it made Jack want to puke. Jack worked and worked, just as hard as Truman, and his novels were never successful, despite Truman’s loyal support. And Truman, having written what Jack thought really was a great book, was straying down a different path now, and Jack knew that Truman wouldn’t have the fortitude to turn back to the grind, the reality, of actual writing.
Truman wanted to be loved, and now he was—so he thought—by about five hundred of the most famous people in the world, and he’d written the book he’d said he was destined to write, and so what more did he have to work for?
Jack knew Truman too well. And he was sick for him, and for what it meant for the two of them, because they would never be the same together, content to spend their days isolated, writing, cooking, reading aloud to each other. Those days were gone now. This damn ball marked the end of the two of them, Jack and Truman, Truman and Jack.
Jack set down his glass. He got up, stretched, knowing that he looked damn good in a tux, even as he loathed the thing—Truman had quivered in fear of Jack turning up in dungarees and an old fishing shirt. “Please, Jack, do come. It won’t be the same without you, and I want to show you off. But please, dear, don’t embarrass me!”
As he heard the music change—Peter Duchin was very good at anticipating the mood of the room, sliding smoothly from more current music to the classics, some of which had been written by some of the distinguished guests—Jack bent down, touched his toes, lengthened his calves, those former dancer’s calves.
Then he spied Betty Bacall at a table; the actress had been out there cutting quite a rug earlier with Jerome Robbins, that mean bastard. Jack had never danced for Robbins—he had for de Mille, in the original production of Oklahoma!—but he’d heard stories of him, how he was such a stingy, tyrannical son of a bitch. Which didn’t predispose Jack to like him, or even be civil to him.
Jack approached Betty, reached out his hand; she smiled that cat’s smile, narrowed those knowing eyes, and joined him on the dance floor.
She followed his lead expertly, improvised when he did as they glided gracefully to the tune of “The Days of Wine and Roses,” conducted by Henry Mancini himself, whom Peter Duchin had coaxed up to take the baton to his own composition. The two of them were a tall, lean, elegant pair; it was as if their bodies were built for each other, this dance, this party, this moment of simple elegance.
After the song was done, Jack felt a familiar gaze fall, warm as a caress, upon the back of his neck. He turned and locked eyes with Truman, who was standing on the other side of the dance floor; both their eyes filled with tears.
Jack gave him a gallant little bow, and Truman placed his hand upon his heart.
Then Jack escorted Betty Bacall back to her table, kissed her hand, and walked away.
Already, he was missing Truman.
—
FRANK SINATRA WAS PISSED.
Why the f*ck he’d come to this fairy’s ball, he had no idea. Well, yeah, he had. Mia. Mia wanted to go, she said it would be fun, there’d be lots of people there he knew, it was the place to be. So he’d put up with it—wore a f*cking mask, at least for about five seconds, before he ripped it off after some little dick in the crowd outside the hotel had called out, “Hey, Frankie Batman!” He’d rounded up a few acceptable people, like Leland and Pam Hayward, the Bennett Cerfs, Claudette Colbert, that classy old dame, and commandeered a table, handed a waiter a hundred bucks and asked for three bottles of Wild Turkey, and watched as Mia happily danced with some of the younger crowd.