The Swans of Fifth Avenue(85)

And the hours were ungodly! Strange, he didn’t remember having to get up at the crack of dawn when he was working on Beat the Devil, with Bogie and Huston, true cinematic geniuses, not like this hack director. But he had to report to the studio every morning he was on call at six A.M., even if all he did during the day was sit around in his costume, just biding his time. And the lights were hotter than Hades, and the other actors—Maggie Smith and David Niven among them—didn’t seem as amused by his stories as Bogie had been, back in the day.

But now the phone was ringing, and it was Liz Smith, calling him from New York. New York! Oh, how he missed it! He squealed into the phone, happy to hear a familiar voice.

“Liz! My angel, my rescuer! I’m so glad to hear from you! Do you have any idea what that amateur Maggie Smith said to me the other day? Now, this is strictly off the record, of course—unless you think it should be otherwise—but—”

“Truman, do you have any idea what’s going on here?” Liz, in her laconic Texas drawl, interrupted him.

“No, what do you mean?”

“Well, Esquire came out today.”

“Of course! I’d nearly forgotten! Tell me, tell me—is it brilliant? Wonderful? The most astonishing thing you’ve ever read?”

“Well, it’s astonishing, all right. Did you hear about Ann Woodward?”

“No, what about her? What did Miss Bang Bang do now?”

“She killed herself, Truman.”

“No!” Truman sat down; oh, this was good! He hadn’t heard half so good in ages.

“And, Truman, the rumor is she had a copy of Esquire in her hands. And the pages were open to your story, ‘La C?te Basque 1965.’?”

“NO!!!” Truman didn’t try to stifle a squeal; think of the publicity! Oh, thank you, Ann Woodward, you fag-hating murdering bitch! “Oh, Liz, really? You’re not making that up, are you, my darling girl?”

“Truman,” Liz said slowly, “I don’t think you quite understand.”

And then Liz proceeded to inform him that all hell was breaking loose in Manhattan; screams and hysterics were being witnessed in penthouses, restaurants, 21, Bergdorf’s. His name was on everyone’s tongues—for his friends, his swans, were not so dumb as he’d assumed them to be; they’d recognized themselves and their stories, after all. Everyone had. And were happy to tell Miss Smith that never again would Truman Capote darken their marble doorsteps.

“How delicious!” Truman kept screaming throughout. “How delightful! What a dream come true!”

“Slim, Gloria, Marella—they’ve all vowed that you’ll never be accepted again. Jackie O, apparently, has taken to her room with her salts. Gloria Vanderbilt is seething, possibly suing.”

“Oh, they’re just saying that! Their plastic noses are out of joint, that’s all. They’ll change their minds in a few days—they always do. I’m simply too famous and fun for them to give me up! But, Liz, really, my darling—is it truly a scandal? A divine, delicious literary scandal, just like in the good old days of Hemingway and Fitzgerald?”

“At the very least,” Liz affirmed. “Truman, everyone is furious, even those who aren’t in the story! And Ann—well, you’ve managed to get everyone all misty-eyed about someone they all simply hated before your story. That’s quite an accomplishment.”

“How did she die?”

“Cyanide pill.”

“Well, darling, I didn’t go out and buy the pill for her, so why blame me?”

“Because of the story, Truman. The part about Ann—you really dredged it all up, and then some, saying that she’d never divorced her first husband. Is that true?”

“It might be.”

“Well, everyone thinks it was vile and unnecessary, at the very least. But the stuff about the Paleys—well, that’s the capper. The nail in your coffin.”

“There’s nothing about the Paleys in my story,” Truman said primly.

“Truman, cut the crap. A Jewish media mogul with a fabulous, kind, beautiful wife, and who can’t keep his pecker in his pants?”

“Darling, read it however you want. That’s what great literature does—it allows people to interpret it in different ways.”

“Great literature?” Truman heard the wry doubt in Liz’s voice.

“Yes, darling, my gossip queen.” And Liz heard the acid condescension in his.

“Well, I can’t reach the Paleys—they’re the only ones who won’t talk to me. Slim, however, is absolutely livid. She’s threatening to sue.”

“Oh, my dearest Big Mama—she never will! Slim’s a smart girl. She knows better—they all know better. What did they expect, anyway? Who did they think I was? I’m a writer! This will all be over soon. But not too soon, I hope!”

“Well, I’m going to write an article about the whole thing for New York magazine.”

“Oh, wonderful! Tremendous! How can I help?”

“I’ll be in touch.”

Truman hung up the phone and clapped his hands with glee. Oh, goody, goody, goody! Maybe Hollywood didn’t know what to do with him—he knew the film was going to be a turkey and he wasn’t going to exactly set the screen on fire. But New York certainly did! He imagined he could hear, from across the continent, all the millions of voices shouting his name—Truman, Truman, Truman!