William Kennedy - Very Old Bones

“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.

“This is what your life is going to be like from now on,” I said. “This is what success looks like. The absence of money will never again interfere with your happiness.”

Giselle beamed at me the most extraordinary smile ever uttered by woman. I considered it for as long as it lasted, tucked it away in the archives of my soul, and raised my glass of port to hers. We clinked.

“May our love live forever,” I said.

“Forever,” said Giselle.

“And if it doesn’t, the hell with it.”

“The hell with it,” said Giselle.

“There’s Ava Gardner over there,” I said, pointing to a woman in close conversation with a man whose back was to us.

“Really?” asked Giselle.

“Indubitably,” I said, but then I looked again and corrected myself. “No, it’s not her. I was mistaken. It’s Alfred Hitchcock.”

Giselle’s laughter shattered chandeliers throughout the Palm Court.

I stood next to the yellow roses, staring out of a window of our suite at Fifth Avenue below. The fading light of this most significant day (such frequent confrontations with significance were a delight) was troublesome to my eyes, but I could see a roofless motorcar stop at the carriage entrance to the hotel, saw Henry James step down from it, adjust his soft hat, then extend his hand to Edith Wharton, the pair bound for dinner in the hotel’s Fifth Avenue Café. Teddy Roosevelt struck a pose for photographers on the hotel steps, his first visit to the city since shooting his fifth elephant, and Mrs. John D. Rockefeller waded barefoot in the Plaza’s fountain to raise money for widows and orphans spawned by the oil cartel. As I stared across the avenue at the Sherry Netherland, I saw Ernest Hemingway in the window of an upper floor, his arm around Marlene Dietrich. The great writer and great actress waved to me. I waved back.

At the sound of a door opening I turned to see Giselle, wrapped in the silk robe and negligee I’d bought her when she learned we were staying the night at the hotel. I poured the Montrachet and handed her the glass, then poured my own. Never had a married man been luckier than I at this moment. By virtue of the power vested in me I now pronounce you husband and traitor, traitor and wife. God must have loved betrayals, he made so many of them.

“I think you are probably at this moment,” I said, “the most fucksome woman on this planet.”

“What an exciting word,” Giselle said.

I opened her robe and peeled it away from her shoulders. The perfection in the placement of a mole on her right breast all but moved me to tears. She stood before me in her nightgown, beige, the color of pleasure, and as I kissed her I eased her backward onto the sofa, and knelt beside her. I put my hands on the outside of her thighs and slid her nightgown upward. She raised her hips, an erotic elevation to ease my task, and revealed the bloom of a single yellow rose, rising in all its beauty from the depths of her secret garden.

“Are there thorns on this rose?” I asked.

“I eliminated them,” Giselle said.

“You are the most resourceful woman on this planet.”

“Am I?”

“You are. Did Quinn ever tell you you were resourceful?”

“Never. Say the word.”

“Resourceful?”

“The other word.”

“Ah, you mean fucksome.”

“Yes. I like that word. Don’t get any thorns in your mouth.”

“I thought you said there were no thorns.”

“I don’t think I missed any.”

“Did Quinn ever have to worry about thorns?”

“Never. Shhhhh.”

Silence prevailed.

“Aaaahhhh.”

“Was that the first?”

“Yes.”

Silence prevailed again.

“Aaaahhhh.”

“Was that the second?”

“Yes.”

Silence prevailed yet again.

“Aaaahhhh. Aaaahhhh.”

“Third and fourth?”

“Yes. Say the word.”

“Fourth?”

“No. Fucksome. Say fucksome.”

“I’d rather you say it.”

“Does your stripper say it for you?”

“Never.”

“Is your stripper fucksome?”

“Somewhat.”

“Do you tell her she’s somewhat fucksome?”

“Never.”

“Why are you still wearing your suit?”

“It’s my new glen plaid. I thought you liked it.”

“I do, but you never wear a suit when you make love.”

“This is the new Orson. Natty to a fault.”

“I want to go onto the bed.”

“A sensational idea. Then we can do something else.”

“Exactly. Are you going to keep your glen plaid on?”

“Yes, it makes me feel fuckish.”

“Another word.”

“Do you like it?”

“Somewhat. I think I prefer fucksome.”

“They have different meanings.”

“Does your stripper make you feel fuckish?”

“Somewhat.”

“Have you told her?”

“Never. What does Quinn say that you make him feel?”