I realized with each new sip of Scotch that Dr. Tannen was wrong. I had, since Germany, accepted the doctor’s rules and entertained no temptation to suck on a whiskey bottle. But here again came that most wondrous potion into my life, already sending enriched phlogiston into my internal organs, upthrusting my spirit to an equivalency with Presidents, giants of capital, movie stars, and great writers, and providing me with all this not through fraudulence, bravado, delusion, or hallucination. None of that was on the table. This was real. I saw the future unrolling itself before me, knew phlogiston, fraudulence, badness, chocolates, yellow roses, and new neckties when I saw them, Mr. Plaza.
I ordered another Scotch.
A man of about forty years sat at the next table and placed his folded New York Times on an adjacent chair. I could read one headline: U.S.-South Korea Units Lash Foe; Jet Bombers Cut Routes Far North. The owner of the newspaper ordered a martini and I asked him, “Could I borrow your Times for a quick look?”
The man shrugged and nodded and I looked through the paper: Senate will confirm Chip Bohlen as ambassador to Moscow despite McCarthy attack. Alfred Hitchcock melodrama, I Confess, is panned by reviewer. Twenty-three killed, thirty wounded in Korea, says Defense Department. Salome, with Rita Hayworth, Stewart Granger, and Charles Laughton, opens at the Rivoli Wednesday.
It all served to incite informational depression in me, especially the opening of Salome. We all know what Salome does to John the Baptist, don’t we, moviegoers? I folded the newspaper and returned it to my neighbor.
“The news is awful,” I said.
“You mean out of Korea?” said the man, who had a look about him that Orson seemed to recognize.
“Everywhere. Even Alfred Hitchcock isn’t safe.”
“Who’s Alfred Hitchcock?”
“He’s a Senator. A Roman Senator. He looks like Charles Laughton.”
“Oh.”
“He’s married to Rita Hayworth. You know her?”
“The name has a ring.”
“I agree,” I said. “Reeeeee-ta. A ring if there ever was one.”
“I beat Korea,” the man said.
I now realized that this man looked very like Archie Bell, the warrant officer I had served with at Frankfurt. It wasn’t Archie, of course, but there was something about the mouth; and the eyes were similar. But the face, the hair — nothing like Archie.
“They sent me to Korea,” Archie said, “and they thought they were givin’ me tough duty. You know what I did? I beat the shit out of my knee with an entrenchin’ tool and got a medical discharge. They thought I caught shrapnel. Got the pension, all the musterin’-out stuff, and right away I invested it in Jeeps. Willys, you know the company?”
“The name has a ring,” I said. “Will-yyyyyys.”
“Today Kaiser-Frazer bought Willys for sixty-two mill. You know what that means?”
“Not a clue.”
“That’s major-league auto-making. My broker says I could double my money.”
“Smart,” I said. “Very smart. I had a pretty good afternoon too. I started out with a hundred, and it’s ten times that now, maybe more.”
“Hey, buddy, this is a good day for the race.”
“The human race?”
“Nooooooo. The race race. We’re beatin’ the niggers.”
“I noticed. They don’t have any in here. But then again Lincoln used to drink here,” I said.
“Izzat right?”
“Every President since Thomas Jefferson drank here.”
“Izzat right? I didn’t think the place was that old.”
“Who’s your broker?”
“Heh, heh. You think I’m gonna tell you?”
“You know who my broker is?”
“Enhhh.”
“Thomas Jefferson.”
“A two-dollar bill.”
“My card, friend,” I said, handing him the business card of the Life editor. “Call me anytime. Let’s have lunch and plan some investments.”
“Watch out for falling rocks,” the man said.
“Here?”
“Everywhere,” he said, and he smiled a smile that I recognized from the poker games in Frankfurt. This was the Captain, invested with Archie Bell’s smile. I left the Oak Bar without looking back, knowing my past was not far behind. I took the elevator to the suite, put on my new clothes, opened a bottle of Le Montrachet to let it breathe, then descended to the Palm Court to meet the most beautiful, most sensual, most photographic, most photogenic wife in the history of the world.
“You look merveilleux,” Giselle said, stroking the waves of my hair, feeling the silk of my pocket handkerchief between her thumb and forefinger. I had been sitting alone in the Palm Court, sipping whiskey, listening to the violin and piano playing Gershwin’s “Summertime,” when the livin’ is easy, a perfect theme for this day. The song wafted over the potted palms, over the heads of the thinning, mid-afternoon crowd.
“I never expected this,” Giselle said.
“I decided to reward myself,” I said.
“Reward? What happened?”
“My editor loves my book. I asked him for an instant advance and got it.”
“Oh, Orse, that’s beautiful.” She leaned over and kissed me, pulled away, then kissed me again.
“And what about your day?” I asked.
“They hired me. I go to work whenever I want. Tomorrow if I want. I told them I wanted to go to Korea and cover the war.”
“I knew it would happen. Why wouldn’t they hire you?”
“I thought they wanted more experience.”
“They buy talent, not experience. Everybody buys talent.”
“Isn’t it nice we’re both so talented?”
“It’s absolutely indescribable,” I said.
“I always knew you were going to be famous,” she said. “My wonder boy. I knew it. That’s one of the reasons I married you.”
“Merveilleuse,” I said.
“I was so surprised when you said to meet you here,” Giselle said. “I thought we’d meet in some terrible Irish café.”
“There are no Irish cafés, my love.”
“I’m so happy,” she said. “Order me something.”
“Port. You love port in the afternoon.”
“And Le Montrachet,” she said.
“I know.”
She looked at the wine list, found half a dozen port wines listed, their prices ranging from one dollar to eighteen dollars. She ordered the four-dollar item, and the waiter smiled.
“You know,” said the waiter, “this is the wine Clark Gable ordered when he proposed to Carole Lombard. Right at that table over there.” He pointed to an empty table.
“It’s fated,” said Giselle.
“You two seem to be very much in love,” the waiter said. I looked up at him and saw a Valentino lookalike, a perfect waiter for the occasion.
“What’s more,” the waiter added, “the first day this hotel opened, a Prussian count proposed to his American bride in this room. So you see, this is where happy marriages begin.”
“What a waiter!” I said. “I’m putting you in my will. What’s your name?”
“Rudolph Valentino,” the waiter said.
“I thought so,” I said. “Bring us the port. Two.”
Giselle kissed me again. “My wonder boy,” she said.
The light in the Palm Court was pale beige, my favorite color on Giselle. I looked at the display of desserts the Palm Court offered: raspberries and strawberries, supremely ripe and out of season, bananas, grapes, peaches, plums, pineapples, and fruit I could not call by name. This was the center of the fruitful universe. All things that happened within its confines were destined to change the world. Values would tumble. The rain of money and glory would fall on all significant consumers. There was no end to the sweetness of existence that was possible if you ordered a bowl of raspberries in the Palm Court.