But as much as he wanted to, longed to, ached to, Truman Capote could not give himself a parade. Or erect a statue in his own honor. Or name a park after himself. Or rent the Statue of Liberty.
Second to parades, statues, and parks, then, New York loved a party. A really splendid soiree. The Mrs. Astor’s famous Patriarch’s balls, admission only to the Four Hundred as determined by her little lapdog, Ward McAllister. Mrs. Vanderbilt’s costume ball to christen her new mansion, the one that the Mrs. Astor deigned to attend, thus allowing those upstart Vanderbilts into real Society and ushering in the excesses of the Gilded Age. The Bradley-Martins’ infamous Louis XIV party, given in the middle of one of the worst recessions in American history. The Bradley-Martins felt it necessary to leave the country soon after. But every single guest thought it a fabulous time.
Then there were the more recent parties before the war, given by the legendary Elsa Maxwell, that corpulent darling of society. Elsa invented the scavenger hunt: heiresses in their evening clothes accosting hobos for scraps of food, canned goods, whatever was on the list, screeching with laughter, running off with prizes. Treasure hunts in the ballroom of the Waldorf Astoria, millionaires elbowing one another viciously for tin trinkets and plastic whistles.
Then there were the charity galas and openings galore, one practically every night during the season; socialites and their reluctant husbands dressed to the nines. But it was always for a good cause! It was work, really. One simply had to do her part, no matter how tiring it might be, planning a wardrobe for an entire season, spending hours before the mirror ensuring that each gown was flattering from any angle, because, really, one could not trust those photographers to capture the most beguiling aspect.
But there hadn’t been a truly grand party, an honest-to-God, “Honey, let’s get Grandmama’s tiara out,” fancy-dress party in decades. And Truman decided it was his duty to rectify this.
All summer long—the summer of 1966, the golden summer, as even then he knew he would look back on it; the summer of his ascendancy to the very top of the world, literary, popular, social—Truman sang a little tune to himself.
Well, didja evah, what a swell party, a swell party, a swellegant elegant party, this is….
For Truman was going to throw himself a party in lieu of a parade. A party so grand, so exclusive, it would keep him in the headlines for months. It would make those who weren’t invited weep and flee the country, or change their names and go into hiding. It would go down in history as the most, the cherry on top of the sundae, the caviar on top of the toast. The diamond as big as the Ritz.
And so that golden summer, as Truman lounged poolside at his friends’ mansions, sunned himself on their yachts in the Mediterranean, even on the rare occasions it was only him and Jack, silent but companionable on the beach between their adjacent houses in Southampton, he planned (when he wasn’t clipping reviews for his scrapbook, or giving interviews, or posing for photographs). He schemed. He was never without his notebook, a plain, black-covered lined notebook, and he wrote down and crossed out names, over and over and over again. For he was Ward McAllister and the Mrs. Astor and himself, Truman Capote, literary giant/social arbiter, all rolled into one.
He had the power now. And the money.
As he lay on the Agnellis’ yacht that summer—refusing to go off on their exhausting little excursions to some ruin or another, smirking when they all trooped back, dusty and footsore while he had spent the day being served champagne by swarthy stewards, bobbing up and down in the turquoise Mediterranean, admiring the scenery from afar—or lounged by Babe’s pool, or danced with Lee Radziwill (Jackie’s sister, don’tchaknow, the newest addition to his swans), Truman, on the outside, was the same as ever. The same jokester, prankster, entertainer. The same lapdog, pocket fairy, jester.
“I want to pay you all back,” he drawled, when questioned about his notebook, which he guarded fiercely, joked that he kept it locked up in a safe at night. “You’ve all been so kind to me, giving me parties, dinners, vacations, even! Marella, your yacht, it is to die for! A floating palace! So it’s the least I can do, to throw a little ol’ party in return!”
Yes, I want to pay you all back, he said to himself. I want to make you jump through the hoops. Amuse me, amuse me! I want you to remember just who I am now. Truman Capote. The acclaimed author of the acclaimed In Cold Blood, the book that everyone is talking about this summer of 1966. The book none of you shallow idiots could ever have written. I’m not just your little True Heart, your favorite dinner guest, your token fag. I’m just as powerful as you!
And just as glamorous. And just as headline-worthy.