The Swans of Fifth Avenue(95)
Gloria rose from her chair, stretched a little, balancing on the tips of her toes. Something in her knee popped, though, so she sank back down.
“In a way, Babe was the lucky one,” she said, staring into the water glass, sensing the clouds begin to gather, soon to crowd out the sun.
“Oh, Gloria! What could you possibly mean?” Marella shook her head.
“She was only sixty-three. She got out with her beauty still more or less intact.” Gloria smiled ruefully. “She didn’t have to grow old. Hellishly old.”
No one said anything, although each glanced at her own hands, then the hands of her friends, and where they once silently compared rings and jewels and bracelets, now they compared veins and wrinkles and dark spots.
“How long do you think Bill will last, before remarrying?” C.Z. nodded toward Bill, surrounded by his friends, his children. He looked dazed; he was eating a plate of Babe’s marvelous food, but methodically, not with his usual gusto.
“Not long,” Gloria replied.
“I think he’ll stay single,” Slim said defiantly. “I think he’ll be fine, on his own. He’ll surprise us all.”
“No.” C.Z. shook her head. “If ever there was a man who couldn’t be single, it’s Bill Paley. I’m grateful my Winston died before me. He couldn’t have been on his own, either. Men like that—men who are so focused on one thing, one great, big thing—can’t.”
“I wonder how long Truman will last now. No matter what we think of him, I’m positive he’s devastated by this,” Pam mused, shrugging at Slim’s glare.
“Not long,” C.Z. said with a sigh of true concern. “Have you seen him on television lately? He’s killing himself, just killing himself. It’s like he wants to die, with all the booze and the coke and the pills.”
“Well, that’s one way to go,” Gloria retorted. “And not a bad one. If he’s really intent on doing himself in. He committed social suicide, and he caused a real suicide—poor Ann!—so who gives a damn if it leads to his own? Sometimes you just have to know when it’s time to leave. You have to understand when your time is over. Your time in the sun. Our time is over, you know. With Babe gone, now it’s well and truly over. The world isn’t the same.”
Slim narrowed her eyes at Gloria; apparently, she was the type of person who made someone else’s tragedy all about herself.
“Shut up, Gloria. You’re just feeling morbid today. So is everyone. I don’t know about you, but I intend to live forever.” Slim lit up a cigarette, wincing at the fact that she didn’t have to think of Babe anymore when she did. “As for Truman,” Slim retorted, inhaling in pure ecstasy, her eyes closed. “He’s like a snake—no, a cockroach. He’ll outlive us all.”
Then she opened her eyes; they were full of tears.
“But Christ, wasn’t it fun, back then? Back when we were young?”
The swans nodded, each lost in her own thoughts. Primarily of Truman, to their surprise; on this day of Babe’s funeral, it was Truman they were thinking of. Truman, back then. Truman, sitting like a little boy, lithe legs crossed, at their feet, his blue eyes big with wonder, his golden hair brushing his forehead; Truman, reading his short stories at the Ninety-second Street Y, their pocket pet suddenly all grown up, brilliant, electric, a new jewel in their collection.
Truman and Babe dancing in the shadows at Kiluna, that meltingly beautiful, blissful smile on Babe’s face, a sparkle in her eyes that none had seen before as she twirled around with abandon, finally sliding into Truman’s arms, the two of them so content with each other, so at peace, that everyone else felt like intruders to look at them. Yet no one could take their eyes off the pair.
That’s what the swans remembered, as they drank Babe’s wine and ate her food one last time. Truman and Babe. Darkness and light, elegance and impudence. Beauty and brains, heart and soul.
Together.
La C?te Basque, 1984
…..
“Bill, darling man.”
“Slim.”
They air-kissed, then allowed the ma?tre d’ to escort them to one of the front tables.
The restaurant hadn’t changed much since Henri Soulé’s death in 1966, the year of Truman’s ball. The seaside murals on the walls were still there, the linens still the finest, the tables still groaned with fresh flowers, the bill for these rumored to be in the thousands per week. There was a new chef, but the food was still heavy French, with an emphasis on cream and butter.
Bill Paley and Slim Keith took their seats at an intimate table à deux. Instinctively, each sucked in his gut, sat up straight, scanned the room surreptitiously. But they were disappointed, it must be said.
For few of their contemporaries were present; the restaurant was mainly filled with businessmen on expense accounts. Bill, of course, knew some of these and nodded, while Slim relaxed, let out her breath, and lit a cigarette.
“Where the hell is everybody?” Slim asked, but it was a rhetorical question. She knew.
They’d gotten old, some had died. The Duke of Windsor had passed away even before Babe. Wallis was in France now, rumored to be mad as a hatter, locked away by servants.
Marella and Gianni still puttered around on their yachts but increasingly remained in Italy, at their palace, forgotten gods taking refuge on Mount Olympus. C.Z. still had her gardens, published many gardening books, and remained as unflappable as ever. Slim did still see her now and again when C.Z. was in Manhattan, serving on charity boards, her blond Boston beauty finely honed and weathered, so that she resembled that type of Brahmin matron she’d sworn she always loathed, but never tried too hard to prevent herself from becoming, at that. For all her fun, her breeziness, her memories of Diego Rivera, C.Z. had always dressed like a debutante. And now, like a figurehead with her pearls, cashmere, and tweed.