The Swans of Fifth Avenue(74)
“And a very good thief, remember? If it wasn’t for us, he’d have nothing to write about. He stole our stories. He’s a thief. And a murderer, in case you’ve forgotten.”
“He’s a storyteller.” Slim shook her head. “Just like Papa—”
Gloria cut her short with one flash of her dark eyes. The others followed, their heads held high, smiling at one and all. Stopping in the ladies’ room to repair the damage of alcohol and time, as best they could; elbows out, powder flying, lipsticks wielded like daggers. Just in case there were photographers outside.
There were. The familiar, loving click; the adored flash of bulbs, more intimate, more caressing than any kiss. The reverent “Mrs. Guinness! Look this way!” “Lady Keith, give us a smile!”
But then—a cold breeze blew past. Another door opened. A couple—the woman in a floppy hat, wide-legged trousers, the skinny man clad in a fur vest and striped pants—emerged, standing uncertainly on the sidewalk a few feet down. The photographers rushed away.
“Bianca! Mick! Mick Jagger!”
The Swans were forgotten.
Long live the king.
CHAPTER 16
…..
It was the best of times, it was the worst of times….
The Manhattan of the late sixties, early seventies.
Well, actually, it was just the worst of times.
After the ball is over, after the break of day…
Did they know, the morning after Truman’s party, that nothing would ever be the same again? No, they did not. Some claimed, later, that they did know it; that even as they were dancing, they felt a bit like Nero fiddling while Rome was burning. And some newspapers and magazines, in the days and weeks following the bash, did question the whole endeavor, likening it to Marie Antoinette during the Revolution.
But in truth, when the glittering and gay left the ball, removed their dancing shoes, sent out their finery to be cleaned and repaired (or returned, if they’d been gauche enough to have to borrow it), they simply reflected on what a grand time they’d had. And looked forward to more.
But Manhattan, in the sixties and seventies, said, “No. No dice. I’m turnin’ on you, kid.”
Strikes—transit strikes (which Truman and his swans did not notice), garbage strikes (which they did; goodness, even on Fifth Avenue, the garbage piled and piled, up to the sky; the air was fetid with filth and when the winds swirled, garbage took to the skies like soiled, stinking confetti from a macabre ticker tape parade; no one could even go out on the streets without a perfumed handkerchief pressed to her face). Riots—after Martin Luther King Jr. was killed (what a nice man, really; a few had met him in Washington. Kay Graham was really upset by his death), Harlem erupted, not that Babe or Gloria or Slim or Marella or Pam ever went to Harlem, mind you. But still, they could hear the sirens all night long, nobody left her penthouse for fear of—something. Then Bobby Kennedy, and Truman cried and cried; Bobby had been a neighbor of his in the UN Plaza, and they’d had a couple drinks together, although he’d always felt Bobby thought he was performing some kind of civic duty in befriending a homosexual. Still, he’d cried at his death, written poor Rose Kennedy a magnificent letter of solace, which he knew she would treasure forever, if he did say so himself—and to anybody who would listen.
Then Stonewall, and the Village was suddenly crawling with drag queens and homosexuals, and surprisingly Truman had little opinion about all this, even though Babe and Gloria and Slim and Marella and Pam all looked at him with great sympathy in those few days. But Truman went on as normal, didn’t feel compelled to go down and march with any of the other homosexuals, or engage in kick lines in front of the police. And when they all asked him if he’d ever been to the Stonewall Inn, he wrinkled his nose and exclaimed, “God, no—that place?”
And crime. Crime and dirt and filth, the hallmarks of Manhattan in the sixties and seventies. Of course, the swans and their consorts could flee, and they did, whenever possible. But still, they had to be in New York sometimes, carry on the banner of good taste and social responsibility; there were still opening nights, benefits, galas to attend. But crime was right outside their door; Central Park was no longer safe at night, not with all the muggings and beatings and knifings. Times Square—oh, Times Square! For Slim, in particular, who had been part of Broadway’s golden age, it was heartbreaking now to see the empty storefronts, hookers perched on stools on every corner, drug dealers lounging in doorways, cops on the beat, dirty, cheap stores that sold sex toys, inflatable dolls, plastic-looking lingerie.
The people changed, too. No one had manners any longer. No one dressed. Those hippie young men did not hold the door open for ladies. Highballs were no longer the drug of choice; pot and coke and LSD were the new amusements.
A few of them did try LSD, at their therapists’ urging. For a while it was the thing to do—go to a party, drop some acid, lie on velvet pillows staring at the ceiling, waiting to be told the secrets of the universe. But the next morning was always hell, and the ladies didn’t like what it was doing to their skin, so they stopped.
Truman didn’t, however. Truman, in the years after In Cold Blood, the fabulous ball, the apex of his fame, grew puffier, less disciplined. Slept later, roamed pockets of the city he’d never roamed before, brought home men he’d never have looked at before. None of his swans ever figured out exactly what happened between him and Jack. They only knew that the relationship no longer involved sex—Truman was more than happy to let them know that, anyway! And they all found, to their surprise, that they missed Jack, that gruff, humorless, rude-to-the-point-of-insanity man (after all, he’d once told Loel Guinness that he was a Nazi, and while everyone knew this to be true of both Guinnesses, no one had ever said it to their faces!). But they all recognized the steady, no-nonsense influence Jack had had on Truman; he was the ballast to Truman’s airy sails. While they were still somehow in each other’s lives—they still took vacations together, to Verbier, Switzerland, to their twin houses on Long Island—it wasn’t the same as before. Truman was different, because of it. More unstable; some said untrustworthy, at least when they were outside of Babe’s hearing.