Save Me the Plums - Ruth Reichl Page 0,41
again, smiling to indicate this was a joke. But I could feel the disapproval leaking through the humor. “The subway’s so much quicker.” My voice was small; why did I feel the need to apologize?
“But there’s a line in your budget for car service! Why waste it?”
“Tell me where you’re from.”
He took the hint. “Egypt.” Turning the wheel, he slipped smoothly into the line of cars heading north. “Alexandria. My city is so beautiful.”
* * *
—
WALKING DOWN THE ramp of the museum’s intimate theater, I looked around, disappointed. There was not a gown in sight, and I was glad I’d opted for the vintage couture cocktail suit, the last remnant of Chloe, one of the most successful disguises from my restaurant critic days. It was black satin, tightly fitted, elegant but not over the top; it was also the most expensive garment I owned. The other guests, dressed mostly in drab business suits, were grouped in uncomfortable clusters with vast spaces between the rows. They whispered uneasily to one another, trying to look busy as they avoided eye contact. I was grateful that Michael was already there, and he leapt from his seat, waving energetically. I slid in next to him, making little shushing motions with my hand as I looked around. None of the editors Robin had mentioned seemed to be in attendance.
We sat in edgy silence until Andrew Sarris, the Village Voice’s venerable movie critic, lurched onto the stage to offer an erudite little lecture about the movie we were about to see. He was a large, gnarled man who resembled an ancient hobbit, and there was a smattering of embarrassed applause. The lights went down.
I was enthralled by the romantic old French gangster film, but I couldn’t help noticing the people all around me tapping surreptitiously on their BlackBerrys as it played. Latecomers snuck in, filling the back rows. The air prickled with impatience, and when the lights came up a palpable sense of relief flooded the room. As we stood, I noticed that the editors Robin had mentioned, all chic and important-looking, now occupied the back row.
A large bus waited outside, and as I watched the guests climb on, I saw that Robin was right: No editors were among them. On cue a phalanx of limos rounded the corner, purring out of the mist.
I peered at the identical sedans. “How will we know which one is ours?” Michael asked.
“That one.” I pointed at the thickset man, sturdy as a fireplug, leaping from the first car. “Meet Mustafa. He’s from Egypt.”
My husband stuck out his hand. “Michael,” he said, and began peppering the man with questions about Middle East politics. By the time the car pulled up to the huge glass monolith on the East River, they were so deep in conversation that Michael made no move to get out. “You go.” He pointed upward. “This is so much more interesting than anything that’s going to happen up there.”
“Mr. Mike.” Mustafa gave him a look of deep reproach. “You cannot abandon Miss Ruth. You don’t know what it’s like at the party. What if she needs some backup?”
He had a friend for life.
The lobby—majestic and dramatically dark—was filled with minions waiting to relieve us of our coats. They ushered us into the elevator and we ascended in heavy silence. The doors sprang open at the top to reveal a blindingly white vista, and we exited en masse to march down a wide hallway lined on both sides with vintage movie posters.
The door at the end was open, revealing a huge art-filled space hanging over the river. Even from the hallway I recognized a Picasso, a Giacometti, a Hirst. Curious about Si’s life, I peered around, seeking signs of human habitation. But with the exception of some sofas and a few small round tables scattered through the rooms, this might have been a museum.
Many guests had apparently bypassed the entertainment portion of the evening; the apartment was already full of interesting-looking people clad in extravagantly different styles. Some wore drab business suits, some turtlenecks and jeans, but one woman passed me wearing a diamond tiara pinned into upswept hair, looking slightly ridiculous in this crowd. My vintage black cocktail suit also felt like overreaching, and I now wished I hadn’t worn it. Chagrined, I knelt to examine the Damien Hirst cow, who stared balefully out from her formaldehyde-filled cube, as if wondering what she was doing there. “I feel the same, pal,” I muttered.
“Did you