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.
Then there was Gloria. La Guinness, as Truman had dubbed her.
Ah, Gloria.
“What do you think, Bill?” Slim turned to her companion, now very stooped, thinner than his rangy frame warranted. His hair was very sparse, and he had a hearing aid in one ear.
“What?” He turned up the aid.
“What do you think about Gloria? Do you think she really did it? Commit suicide?”
“It was a heart attack, wasn’t it?” Like many men his age—eighty-three—his voice was querulous, high, and loud. Not the commanding bark it once had been.
“That’s what Loel said, anyway. But one of her maids—well, it’s just that she had been so despondent, so low, those last few years.” Gloria had died in 1980; only two years after she’d envied Babe for checking out before growing too old.
“I don’t believe that bunk.” Bill signaled for the waiter, ordered some wine for the two of them. “Not Gloria. Why would anyone do that? Especially her?”
“Because she was beautiful,” Slim replied quietly. “Once.”
“So were you. Still are, to some.” Bill grinned, and she glimpsed the man he had been, the man she’d known for more than fifty years; the man she first met, before he married Babe, on a fishing trip in Cuba with Papa. If she closed her eyes, she could visualize him then, brown all over, except for that blinding white smile. His hands, she remembered; that’s what she first noticed about him. His hands, huge, always open, always grasping. Wanting more.
“Stop,” Slim retorted, slapping away one of those hands now, as it grasped her knee. “We’re too old for this.”
“We didn’t used to be. We could go up to the apartment, just like we used to.” Bill grinned, and suddenly looked ten years younger. Maybe twenty.
And Slim relaxed; she allowed Bill to grasp her knee, she squeezed that huge hand, the fingers now knobby, arthritic, but the grasp still powerful. Sure of what he desired; certain that it could be attained.
Sex hadn’t packed up and left, after all. She was surprised to feel that eager tingle between her thighs.
“I assume your wife is out of town, then?” Slim knew it was cruel, to remind him of their old game. But it slipped out.
Bill released her hand. They both picked up their menus.
“So, I imagine you heard about Truman?”