“It’s a novella. Breakfast at Tiffany’s. Random House published it while I was in Europe, but what a nice treat to come home to. And Babe, of course—she simply insisted on throwing this little fete, even as I begged her not to.” Truman shook his head, but he did not appear to be too put out.
This little fete was taking place in the Oak Room at the Plaza; for Mrs. William S. Paley and her friend, the bestselling author Truman Capote, naturally management had closed it to the public on this night. The vaulted ceilings, the gleaming oak walls, the heavy square bar at the end of the room; the old baronial atmosphere of the place was lightened somewhat by cozy little round tables filled with flowers and copies of Truman’s book. The red cover, emblazoned with the words Breakfast at Tiffany’s, a Short Novel, and Three Other Stories by Truman Capote—Bill could see a copy of it wherever he looked, for Babe had bought out Brentano’s. Bennett and Phyllis Cerf, holding court at the other end of the room, must be counting the profits even while they were making small talk.
But Bennett was only the publisher. Truman was the writer. And Bill respected artists, creative types. He was like Bennett himself—arbiter and procurer of talent—so he had no great awe for the founder of Random House (and besides, there was no money in books, anyway. Television was where it was at). But around someone like Truman, especially tonight, Bill could sometimes be uncharacteristically shy. For Bill Paley truly admired artists, and he had to admit that Truman, swishy and flamboyant, was a complete professional at his craft, taking it very seriously, secreting himself away from even Babe for long periods of time to work on it. And he was good. Talented. Respected by those who should know, his peers and critics. And so Bill had to respect him, too. And sometimes, just like when Jack Benny and George Burns bent their heads together and dissected a joke with the cold precision of surgeons, Bill got a little tongue-tied.
He hadn’t read this book, mind you. And Truman didn’t appear to have expected him to—another thing Bill appreciated about him; Truman simply seemed happy to see his friend, to involve him in his celebration. Before he’d joined Bill at the bar, Truman had been swanning about, gliding through the other guests, accepting accolades with humility, poking and provoking—“So what did you think of Holly? The only completely honest character I’ve ever written, hand to God.” Or, wagging his finger at Slim, at Gloria, at C.Z., at Marella and that dishy little Carol and her equally dishy friend Gloria Vanderbilt—“Now, you don’t think I modeled Holly after you, do you? She’s my own creation!”
But now, with Bill, he seemed to relax, shrug off the famous-author mantle, and appeared happy to talk about anything other than himself.
“Babe said you were about to buy another Degas. I’d love to see it.”
“Yeah, yeah, my broker has a lead. I don’t know where I’ll hang it yet, though. That’s always the thing, isn’t it?”
“Problems, problems,” Truman said with an impish grin, and Bill had to laugh at himself and take a swig of ice-cold bourbon on the rocks.
“Christ, I know, that sounds so pompous. I would have given my left nut to have these kinds of problems, back in the day.”
“Don’t I know it.” Truman narrowed his eyes, looking out at the party. The two men were leaning against the great oak bar; from across the room Babe, tall and impossibly beautiful in a red wool Charles James cocktail suit with a portrait collar, stood out even among this rarefied crowd of millionaires and models, actors and authors. “Now, you see, I have to think about what I’ll write next. What can possibly trump this last book? It’s always on my mind. Do I keep writing short stories? Journalism? What about another novel? I just don’t seem to have the stamina for a novel, though. But it does seem as if it’s expected of me. I have ideas, of course—I record them all. But I don’t know, honey, I just don’t. And there’s so much pressure, you have no idea! Bennett may smile and say, ‘Take your time,’ but he runs a business and I make money for that business, and so I’m a bit like a sharecropper. Indebted to the company store.”
“But you’re talent.” Now Bill felt more comfortable; he was on familiar ground here. “Talent has to be made some allowances. I couldn’t let Jack Benny work fifty-two weeks a year. He needs a hiatus. And when he’s off the air, or we’re in reruns, I lose money, believe me. But he needs the time off to recharge. The show would suffer.”
“What about that Lucy show?” Truman arched an eyebrow and rubbed his forehead with his pinkie finger. “I wouldn’t call that quality television, Bill.”
“No, you’re right. It’s not. And she’s showing some age—the show, that is.”
“Lucy, too.” And Truman sat his drink down, put both hands to the side of his face, and pulled the skin back, tight.