Save Me the Plums - Ruth Reichl Page 0,43

“She said she’d just come from a bar mitzvah. Then she made this funny little face and whispered, ‘The kid’s name is Spencer Shapiro. Don’t you just hate it when they take our names?’ ”

My shout of laughter was such an unexpected sound in that hushed atmosphere that heads turned in our direction. David Remnick waved and strolled gracefully across the room. “Tell me what’s funny.”

More people drifted in our direction, and suddenly we were surrounded by an animated group of writers, artists, and politicians. Michael launched into a polite political argument with one of the New Yorker writers, and listening to them I was struck by a thought: if only Mom could be here.

“What I dream of,” my mother wrote in her teenage diary, “is a life filled with culture and interesting people.” As a young woman she’d moved from Cleveland to New York, chasing a life that turned out to be smaller than her dreams. Being in this room, I knew, would have made her very happy, and now I tried to see it from her perspective.

Michael was still deep in conversation, but I moved off, weaving through the crowd, shamelessly eavesdropping on the people I passed. “I thought about Brooklyn for the next home of Condé Nast,” Si was saying to a small wiry guy in a skinny black suit, “but after you talked me into buying that sculpture by one of your Brooklyn artists, I changed my mind. It just didn’t hold up. I don’t think Brooklyn is the neighborhood for us.”

Spotting me, Si came my way. Many eyes followed him, jealously looking to see whom he was favoring with attention. “I’m very pleased you’re planning a major cookbook,” he pronounced. “Gourmet hasn’t done one for fifty years, and it is certainly time.”

“It is.” Unable to help myself, I added, “And I hope you’re pleased with the advance.” I wanted to make sure Si was aware that we were getting a million dollars; no Condé Nast book had ever earned that much.

“I am, of course, anticipating a major bestseller.”

I glanced at his face, wondering if it was a joke. It wasn’t. A million was good, he was implying, but he hoped that it was just the start, that royalties would come rolling in.

Annoyed, I bent down to commune with the cow. “Did you hear that?”

“Please tell me you aren’t actually talking to that animal!” I didn’t recognize the voice, but looking up I recognized the art dealer, he of the Brooklyn artist.

“I am indeed.” I stood up. “I figure any cow who could find his way into this apartment might be able to talk. At least this cow didn’t come from Brooklyn!”

He grinned. “The embarrassing mistake must be hidden away back there.” He indicated a firmly shut door next to the entrance. At that moment the door swung open and two tiny pugs came scampering out, barking madly. In the instant before Victoria shooed them inside, we had a tantalizing glimpse of the private apartments beyond. Then the door closed.

“Did you know,” the man asked, “that Si actually packed up his townhouse and moved into this apartment because of those creatures? Nero got too old to climb the stairs, so they moved in here. Had to give up most of his collection—more windows than walls—but he thought Nero would appreciate the view. He even built a ramp so the dog could see out better!”

I stored this delicious little morsel away; I hadn’t heard it before. Si, like so many Americans, apparently found dogs easier to love than people.

“Every year,” the dealer continued, “I hang around the door to Si’s private apartments, hoping to find out what’s hidden back there. I think it might tell me something about the private lives of the rich and famous.”

“So you’re not?”

“Rich and famous? Hardly. I occasionally sell Si a piece of art, but, you know, it’s only Brooklyn, and that’s not why I’m invited to this party. Si knows I share his passion for old movies, and I think he likes knowing there are other people in the theater enjoying Pépé le Moko as much as he is.”

“Don’t tell my secretary,” I replied. “She’s convinced this invitation is a mark of high favor, but I’m pretty sure I’m here for the same reason. I love old movies.”

“We aren’t the only ones.” My new friend steered me through the room, pointing out a famous film writer, a director, MOMA’s curator of films. “Mary Lea is great fun. Let’s see