“I heard your time in the Gulag was simply divine, and you had caviar and vodka every day,” Slim called across the table.
“It was, and I did, but that’s beside the point. And you can read all about it when the book’s published—oh, didn’t I tell you?” Truman turned coy, tucking his chin into his chest, assuming that breezy, “oh, this old thing?” attitude he always assumed whenever he talked about his work. “Bennett said when I’m finished with the article—and the writing is going divinely, thank you very much!—he’s going to bring it out in book form, too. I already have a title. The Muses Are Heard.”
Babe led the applause, which Truman grandly allowed; she was thrilled that only to her had he told the whole story. How he’d been so amused by the whole experiment of taking Porgy and Bess to Soviet Russia that he simply had to tag along and write about it. How disappointed the entire company had been when, in fact, they were not served caviar and vodka every day. How absurdly the producers had behaved, believing themselves to be great ambassadors of the arts and not just wealthy dilettantes, looking for glory. How curious the Russian audiences had been about the black actors and singers, how they’d asked about lynchings and other things no one really wanted to discuss. How one night Truman found a bar full of Soviet drag queens, hidden in the basement of a basement of a basement; hidden from the police. And how hideous the men had been, yet how they’d touched him with their bravery, their tattered dresses so tacky, but obviously cherished.
Everyone at this table at Le Pavillon was Truman’s friend—at times, each could claim he had whispered that she was his very best friend, ever. But only Babe knew that for sure. Their friendship was a fact of her life, as she knew it was a fact of his. The best fact of her life, as she’d recently told her analyst. Who’d nodded and written this down and made no comment, other than, after the session was over, to ask if she could get Truman to autograph a book for him.
“Now, ladies.” Truman raised his hands, like a conductor; like a well-rehearsed orchestra, they all turned to him, breathless. “Thank you. But that’s not why I asked you all to lunch with me today. Lift up your plates and see what’s there!”
Puzzled, Babe did so, like the rest. This was a surprise, then! Even to her. And she had a momentary pang of pique. Why hadn’t Truman let her in on the joke first?
“What is it?” C.Z. waved a small, elegant envelope, sealed. Each exquisitely manicured hand held an identical one.
“Open them,” Truman cried, a very impish gleam in his eye that Slim, at least, caught. And that made her hold her breath as she opened her envelope.
Inside were four calling cards. Face-lift was printed on one card; Breasts on another. Tummy tuck and Nose job were printed on the last two.
Everyone tittered nervously, surveying the cards. Slim squinted through her glasses at Truman. “True Heart, dear, what deviltry are you up to now?”
“Well,” Truman drawled, his eyes still sparkling. “Everyone’s had it done, haven’t they? At least once? One kind of plastic surgery?”
Pamela pulled her neckline up. Gloria reached for her bag, ready to manufacture some kind of excuse for leaving. C.Z. laughed.
Slim watched Babe, who had paled, even as she continued to gaze smilingly at Truman. Trusting him, Slim realized. Completely trusting him not to humiliate her, or anyone else at this table. Yet Slim could not quite do that. Truman was fun, so much fun—God, who else would show up at Kenneth’s while she was getting her hair done with the unpublished memoirs of a Paris gigolo and read them aloud to her in his most resonant voice while she was helplessly trapped by the hair dryer?—but there was always a dark undercurrent gurgling at his feet, threatening to suck under those who got too close.
“Now, I’m going to call out a name, and I want you each to hold up the appropriate card. Let’s start with something easy. Marilyn Monroe—a darling girl and a dear friend of mine, but oh, what a mess she is! Do you know”—he lowered his voice to a whisper—“that while she was married to DiMaggio, she was terrified of his mother? The most beautiful woman in the world, according to some—not me, though”—and once again, Truman squeezed Babe’s hand beneath the table—“spending her days in the kitchen trying to make spaghetti sauce just like Mama DiMaggio used to make?”
“No,” C.Z. squealed. “No! Are you serious?” And then she held up her Nose job card, and Truman put his finger to his own nose, and they both giggled.
They leaned in to hear more gossip about the Hollywood star, whom no one would ever have invited into their homes, but in whom they were all voraciously interested, anyway.