The Swans of Fifth Avenue Read online

  The Swans of Fifth Avenue is a work of historical fiction. Apart from the well-known actual people, events, and locales that figure in the narrative, all names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to current events or locales, or to living persons, is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2016 by Melanie Hauser

  All rights reserved.

  Published in the United States by Delacorte Press, an imprint of Random House, a division of Penguin Random House LLC, New York.

  DELACORTE PRESS and the HOUSE colophon are registered trademarks of Penguin Random House LLC.

  LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA

  Benjamin, Melanie

  The Swans of Fifth Avenue : a novel / Melanie Benjamin.

  pages cm

  ISBN 978-0-345-52869-8 — ISBN 978-0-345-53975-5 (eBook)

  1. Capote, Truman, 1924–1984—Fiction. 2. Paley, Babe Mortimer—Fiction. 3. Upper class—New York (State)—New York—Fiction. I. Title.

  PS3608.A876S93 2016

  813’.6—dc23

  2014048099

  eBook ISBN 9780345539755

  randomhousebooks.com

  Book design by Barbara M. Bachman, adapted for eBook

  Cover design: Belina Huey

  Cover photograph: © Lillian Bassman, 1956

  v4.1_r1

  ep

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Epigraph

  Preface

  La Côte Basque, October 17, 1975

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  La Côte Basque, October 17, 1975

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Palm Beach, Florida, October 17, 1975

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  La Côte Basque, October 17, 1975

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  La Côte Basque, 1984

  Author’s Note

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  By Melanie Benjamin

  About the Author

  THE BEST TIME TO LEAVE A PARTY IS WHEN THE PARTY’S JUST BEGINNING.

  —Diana Vreeland

  Languid, lovely, lonely; the swans arched their beautiful necks and turned to gaze at him as he stood rooted to the shore, his feet encased in mud. They fluttered their eyelashes, rustled their feathers, and glided over to their leader, the most beautiful of all. There was no sound save the sigh of their graceful bodies drifting across the water.

  Watching from the shore, wringing his hands, willing himself still for once, even as he had a childish urge to hop first on one foot, then the other, he was filled with the old fear; that he wasn’t good enough, brave enough, handsome enough, tall enough—enough. Still he hoped, he dreamed, he waited; holding his breath, he fixed his gaze upon the most dazzling of them all, the lead swan. Like he was making a birthday wish, he blew his breath toward her and her alone, praying the wind would catch it and carry it to her, a prayer.

  As she bent her lovely head toward the other swans, she was seen to listen gravely, as if this was a most solemn rite; as if there was no other topic in the world that needed her attention, no wars and deaths and treaties and dilemmas. Only this, his happiness.

  The other swans whispered, whispered; one hissed, but he could not tell which it was. Then they broke ranks; they swam into a preordained formation, a perfect arc surrounding their leader, who remained utterly still, her head bowed in reflection.

  Then she raised her head, turned, and looked at him, still standing on the shore. They all turned to look; the swans, with one choreographed movement, beckoned to him with their blinding-white wings that were arms, he saw for the first time. Arms as white as snow leopards; whiter than the pearls around the swans’ fragile necks.

  The lead swan did not beckon. But her eyes, those dark, glittering pools of unfathomable loneliness, never left his as his feet took wing; as he skimmed the surface of the water, not a swan, no, never would he be one of them, and even then he knew it. He was a nymph, a hovering dragonfly—a sprite, landing among the swans with a burst of delighted laughter. They laughed, as well, all of them—except for their leader.

  She only continued to watch him as he was passed about from one to the other like a new baby. When the swans were finished, when they sat him down on the water and took up their positions once more, he found himself between them and the lead swan. Uncertain, but dizzy with joy and belonging, he took a step toward her, still marveling at how the water was not water but the most polished marble beneath his feet, the feathers on the swans were not feathers but fur and cashmere and silk and satin, threaded together, hand-sewn to their disciplined bodies that were designed only for adornment.

  And his swan, now—that was how he thought of her, and would forever, naming her, claiming her, forgetting already that it hadn’t been his privilege to do the choosing—held out her hand, and he took it, as trustingly as a child. Mischievously as an imp.

  Then the swans closed ranks about him.

  And he was home.

  La Côte Basque, October 17, 1975

  …..

  “He killed her. It’s as simple as that.” Slim’s hands shook as she spilled a packet of menthols all over her plate. “Truman killed her. And I’d like to know who the hell it was who befriended that little midget in the first place.”

  “It wasn’t I,” Pamela insisted. “I never did like the bugger.”

  “Oh, no, it wasn’t me—I warned you about him, didn’t I?” Gloria asked rhetorically, those Latin eyes flashing so dangerously, it was a good thing there were only butter knives on the table.

  “I don’t believe it was me,” Marella murmured. “No, no, it was not.”

  “It sure as hell wasn’t me.” Slim spat it out. “And if he’s not convicted for murder, I’m going to sue him for libel, at the very least.”

  The table went silent; this was almost as much of a bombshell as the reason they were gathered in haste, eyes hidden behind dark glasses, as though that could disguise their famous faces. Odd, Slim thought, how they’d all had the same idea: to hide, as if they were the ones at fault when, really, it was Truman who should hide his face. Now and forever.

  But defiantly, they had agreed to meet at the scene of the crime: the restaurant that had spawned the literary scandal of the century, as it was already being called. Slim Hawks Hayward Keith, Marella Agnelli, Gloria Guinness, and Pamela Churchill Hayward Harriman—not a shrinking violet in the bunch—had descended upon La Côte Basque, always the place to see and be seen, especially today.

  “Where’s C.Z.?” Gloria asked suddenly. “The honorable Mrs. Guest should be here, too. It only seems right. After all, she was here when it all began. Like it or not, she’s one of us.”

  “C.Z.’s probably off digging a hole somewhere. Do you know what she did when I called and asked her if she’d read it? She laughed. She laughed! ‘Oh, Slim,’ she said. ‘If you didn’t know by now that Truman Capote couldn’t keep a secret, then you’re a much bigger fool than I am!’ Of course, he didn’t say a thing about her.”

  “But what about—?” Pamela asked, and they all glanced at the empty chair at the end o
f the table. “Wasn’t C.Z. outraged on her behalf, at least?”

  Slim finally lit the blessed, blessed cigarette and took a long draw. She leaned back in her chair and exhaled, narrowing her eyes at Pamela. Strange, how Truman could bring them together, how he’d made allies out of enemies with his pen. “She wasn’t, not that I could tell.”

  “But Dillon, that odious man in Truman’s story—it is Bill, isn’t it? It’s supposed to be Bill Paley?”

  Slim took a big breath, but couldn’t meet her friends’ collective, searching gaze. “Yes. It is, I know it is. Don’t ask me how; I just do.”

  Pamela, Gloria, and Marella gasped. So did the other tables nearby; when the four women entered the restaurant together, all heads had turned their way. Some in astonishment, some in outright glee. Others in admiration. But all in curiosity.

  Marcel, their favorite waiter, cautiously approached the table with the customary bottle of Cristal. He showed it to them, and Gloria wearily waved her hand in assent; he popped the cork, but without the usual flourish. He knew.

  Everyone knew.

  The latest issue of Esquire had hit the stands that morning, the cover a profile picture of a fat and pasty-looking Truman Capote, the headline trumpeting the acclaimed author of In Cold Blood’s newest, hotly anticipated short story. “La Côte Basque 1965,” it was called. It was now one P.M. Liz Smith was probably already on the phone, frantically asking their maids if Madam was in or out.

  Well, this madam is out, Slim thought to herself. And she might very well stay out, for the rest of the day. Hell, the rest of the night. Where was Papa when she needed him? For she would have hopped the next plane to Cuba, if that were still permissible. And if Hemingway were still alive, daiquiri in one hand, rifle or fly reel in the other, his big, virile, lecherous grin on his face at the sight of her, wondering when the hell he was going to get around to writing a book about her, the most fascinating woman he’d ever met.

  Ah, but that was another story, from a different time. A different life.

  Today, the story was different. And it wasn’t really her story at all, Slim realized; she had been used, yes. But in the end, her secrets, mainly, remained intact. Still, that did not dampen her sense of betrayal, her bitterness at what her True Heart—her stomach soured at the memory of that pet name!—had done.

  The murder Truman Capote had committed, plain as day, by telling the stories he had told. Stories that he did not have a right to tell.

  Stories they never should have told him in the first place.

  “No one will return his calls now. No one will invite him anywhere. He’s finished in society. Dead—as dead as—” Pam dabbed ostentatiously at her blue eyes, which, Slim couldn’t help but observe, remained resolutely dry.

  There was a lull in the conversation, a cloud that dropped over their table, dulling the brilliant light, throwing shadows on the gleaming cutlery, the sparkling crystal.

  “Does anyone really remember when they first met him? Or did he just appear, like the plague?” Slim was in a reflective mood; one she did not allow herself often, and one that did not sit well with her companions, generally. Lunch at La Côte Basque was not for soul-searching.

  But today was different. Today, they’d opened the pages of Esquire magazine and seen themselves—not merely themselves, but their kind, their tribe, their exclusive, privileged, envied set—eviscerated, skin flayed open, souls laid bare, ugliness acknowledged. Secrets betrayed and lives destroyed. By the viper in their nest; the storyteller in their midst.

  But Truman Capote wasn’t the only one who could tell tales, they decided over another glass of Cristal.

  “So tell me,” Slim cooed, her tongue comfortably loose, her throat deliciously numb. “How the hell did that southern-fried bastard get here in the first place?”

  The four inclined their still-gorgeous necks, put their perfectly coiffed heads together in consultation. Beads and feathers quivered on gesticulating arms. Jewels and gold flashed on punctuating hands as they tried to piece it all together. From the very beginning. The story of how Truman Capote came to betray all his swans—but one especially. The one they all loved the most. Even Truman.

  Especially Truman.

  The problem with this particular story, however, was that Truman was the one who had told it to them in the first place.

  CHAPTER 1

  …..

  Once upon a time—

  It was the best of times, it was the worst of times—

  There once was a man from Nantucket—

  Truman giggled. He covered his mouth like a little boy, and tittered until his slender shoulders shook, his blue eyes so gleefully mischievous that he looked like a statue of Pan come to life.

  “Oh, Big Mama! I am such a naughty imp!”

  “True Heart, you are priceless!” Slim had laughed, too, she remembered, laughed until her ribs ached. Truman did that to her in those glorious early days; he made her laugh. That was it, really. The simple truth of the matter.

  When he was young, back in 1955, when they were all young—or, at least, younger—when fame was new and friendships fledgling, fueled by champagne and caviar and gifts from Tiffany’s, Truman Capote was a hell of a lot of fun to be around.

  “Once upon a time,” Slim had finally pronounced.

  “Yes. Well…,” and Truman drawled it out in his theatrical way, adding several syllables. “Once upon a time, there was New York.”

  New York.

  Stuyvesants and Vanderbilts and Roosevelts and staid, respectable Washington Square. Trinity Church. Mrs. Astor’s famous ballroom, the Four Hundred, snobby Ward McAllister, that traitor Edith Wharton, Delmonico’s. Zany Zelda and Scott in the Plaza fountain, the Algonquin Round Table, Dottie Parker and her razor tongue and pen, the Follies. Cholly Knickerbocker, 21, Lucky Strike dances at the Stork, El Morocco. The incomparable Hildegarde playing the Persian Room at the Plaza, Cary Grant kneeling at her feet in awe. Fifth Avenue: Henri Bendel, Bergdorf’s, Tiffany’s.

  There was a subterranean New York, as well; “lower” in every meaning of the word. Ellis Island and the Bowery and the Lower East Side. The subway. Automats and Schrafft’s, hot dogs from a cart, pizza by the slice. Chickens hanging from windows in Chinatown, pickles from a barrel on Delancey. Beatniks in the Village with their torn stockings and dirty turtlenecks and disdain for everything.

  But that wasn’t the New York that drew the climbers, the dreamers, the hungry. No, it was lofty New York, the city of penthouses and apartments in the St. Regis or the Plaza or the Waldorf, the New York for whom “Take the ‘A’ Train” was a song, not an option. The New York of big yellow taxis in a pinch, if the limousine was otherwise occupied. The New York of glittering opening nights at the Met; endless charity balls and banquets; wide, clean sidewalks uncluttered by pushcarts and clothing racks and children playing. Views of the park, the river, the bridge, not sooty brick walls or narrow, dank alleys.

  The New York of the plays, the movies, the books; the New York of The New Yorker and Vanity Fair and Vogue.

  It was a beacon, a spire, a beacon on top of a spire. A light, always glowing from afar, visible even from the cornfields of Iowa, the foothills of the Dakotas, the deserts of California. The swamps of Louisiana. Beckoning, always beckoning. Summoning the discontented, seducing the dreamers. Those whose blood ran too hot, and too quickly, causing them to look about at their placid families, their staid neighbors, the graves of their slumbering ancestors and say—

  I’m different. I’m special. I’m more.

  They all came to New York. Nancy Gross—nicknamed “Slim” by her friend the actor William Powell—from California. Gloria Guinness—“La Guinness”—born a peasant in a rural village in Mexico. Barbara Cushing—known as “Babe” from the day she was born, the youngest of three fabulous sisters from Boston.

  And Truman. Truman Streckfus Persons Capote, who showed up one day on William S. and Babe Paley’s private plane, a tagalong guest of their good friends J
ennifer Jones and David O. Selznick. Bill Paley, the chairman and founder of CBS, had gaped at the slender young fawn with the big blue eyes and funny voice; “I thought you meant President Truman,” he’d hissed to David. “I’ve never heard of this little—fellow. We have to spend the whole weekend with him?” Babe Paley, his wife, murmured softly, “Oh, Bill, of course you’ve heard of him,” as she went to greet their unexpected guest with her legendary warmth and graciousness.

  Of course, Bill Paley had heard of Truman Capote. Who hadn’t, in Manhattan in 1955?

  Truman, Truman, Truman—voices whispered, hissed, envied, disdained. Barely thirty, the Boy Wonder, the Wunderkind, the Tiny Terror (this last, however, mainly uttered by other writers, it must be admitted). Truman Capote, slender, wistful bangs and soulful eyes and unsettling, pouty lips, reclining lazily, staring sultrily from the jacket of his first novel, Other Voices, Other Rooms. A novel that neither Babe nor any of her friends such as Slim or Gloria had bothered to read, it must be admitted. But still, they whispered his name at cocktail parties, benefits, and luncheons.

  “You must meet—”

  “I’m simply mad about—”

  “Of course you know—”

  Truman.

  “I introduced you to him first,” Slim reminded Babe after that fateful weekend jaunt to the Paleys’ home in Jamaica; that startling, stunning weekend when Babe and Truman had found themselves blinking at the first dazzling sunrise of friendship, still so new that they didn’t quite understand that it was friendship, this thing that had cast a spell over the two of them to the exclusion of mere mortals. “You just don’t remember. But he was mine, my True Heart. It’s not fair that you’ve stolen him from me.” And Slim pouted and shook her blond hair, always hanging over one eye, looking more like Lauren Bacall than did Lauren Bacall, which was only appropriate, since Lauren Bacall had modeled herself after Slim. “Around the time he was working on the screenplay of Beat the Devil, Leland brought him home for dinner one night. Don’t you remember?”