The Swans of Fifth Avenue (32 page)

His body, however, was not like theirs; the effort always showed, and he panted and grunted, trying to keep up, sometimes managing to sprint ahead, but always his brow perspired, his chest heaved, his breathing was labored.

Sometimes the lead swan held out her hand, long and white and graceful, sometimes revealing rubies, sometimes emeralds; sometimes empty, waiting only for his hand to grasp it, and the two of them smiled their conspirators' smile and he felt himself no longer working so hard or falling behind, and it was effortless, the two of them together, pulling ahead of the others, sometimes turning to wink or grin.

But then, at the end; as the radiance began to descend upon them, raining down diamonds and sea glass, something happened. He never knew what. Only that he faltered once, smiled, danced, turned his back or ran too far ahead, he never could quite understand which it was. But he closed his eyes, opened them, and found himself once more back on the shore, his feet caked in mud, rooted, left behind. Alone.

And the swans swam on toward that shimmering waterfall of luminescence; they never looked back, no matter how much he cried, how he screamed until his throat was raw and his face was red; they glided forward, one by one disappearing into the slender shadows between the moonbeams, the lead swan allowing the others to go ahead; she stood guard, watching them. And finally, she turned to gaze at him once more with those grave, understanding eyes, and he screeched her name, begged her forgiveness, pleaded her favor, but she turned away to follow the others.

And she, too, vanished into the shadows between the light, and there was nothing left of any of them, only the faint ripples of their wake in the water, which he watched and watched with tears in his eyes, tears that turned into diamonds that turned into dust, the tremors of that wake widening, spreading, rippling into the crystal-dusted indigo of the pond that was the lake that was the ocean that was the dream of a forgotten world.

Until it, too, disappeared.

W
hen I was a girl, I was one of those people who were drawn to New York.

I was born and raised in Indianapolis, Indiana. A lovely place, but I always had the sense that I didn't quite belong. Somehow—and I honestly don't remember how on earth this was possible—when I was fairly young, I got my hands on copies of
Vanity Fair
and
The New Yorker.
I suppose maybe they were carried in the local library, or perhaps the one bookstore at the mall stocked them. All I know is the first time I opened
The New Yorker
—not quite understanding the cartoons, but pretending I did—I realized, finally, where I was meant to be.

And so I wished myself onto these magazines' sophisticated pages.

I read about—and imagined I knew intimately—people like Norman Mailer and Gore Vidal and Brooke Astor; I devoured descriptions of night life and openings and galas and vignettes about Central Park, Tiffany, Bergdorf Goodman, 21. Truman Capote was always featured in the pages of these magazines, and of course I knew about
him
. I saw him on television, a bloated, campy figure waving his hands, telling outrageous stories. I saw him in
Murder by Death,
which at age thirteen, I thought to be hilariously witty.

I knew that Truman Capote was the author of a book called
In Cold Blood,
a book my mother owned but wouldn't let me read. That was about all I knew about him from a literary perspective, however. He was simply one of those flamboyant 1970s characters, just like Liza Minnelli and Halston and the Village People.

In the pages of
Vanity Fair,
I also read, frequently, of a woman named Babe Paley. A fashion icon—that was always how she was described, along with other names like Gloria Guinness, Marella Agnelli, and Slim Keith. By the time I was aware of these women, they were already spoken of reverently, in the past, a past that was still longed for even in the late 1970s. They were ghostly, beautiful images to me, wearing clothes that were exquisite and unattainable. I didn't know anything about “fashion,” of course; I got all my clothes at Sears and J.C. Penney. But I dreamed of fashion, just as I dreamed of New York, and the only thing I regret in my life is that I didn't get there. I was a child of the Midwest, of midwestern parents who, well-intentioned, instilled the fear of God and big cities in me, even as I visualized myself on gritty urban streets, fantasized about taking the subway, longed to be surrounded by skyscrapers and people who talked loudly and in interesting accents. But the fear won out, I'm sorry to say. For a very long time.

But these people, and these streets, have lived in my imagination ever since, and I've read everything there is about them.
Party of the Century
by Deborah Davis, about Truman Capote's famous Black and White Ball.
Capote
by Gerald Clarke.
Truman Capote
by George Plimpton.
Fifth Avenue, 5 A.M.
by Sam Wasson.
Slim,
the memoir of Slim Keith. And
The Sisters
by David Grafton, about Babe Paley and her sisters. I've seen
Breakfast at Tiffany's
more times than I can count. I continue to subscribe to both
Vanity Fair
and
The New Yorker.

And of course, now I've read Capote's own work, and admired most of it—
Other Voices, Other Rooms; In Cold Blood;
his short stories; and
Breakfast at Tiffany's
. The only work of his that I didn't admire, and which was rather a shock to read, was
Answered Prayers,
which included the short story “La Côte Basque 1965.” It didn't seem like his other writing, not at all. I tallied it up to an unfortunate mistake.

But then, one day, I decided to learn more about this unfinished novel. I had known, vaguely, that it resulted in a good old-fashioned literary scandal. I understood the basic details—Truman had divulged secrets that he shouldn't have. He'd tattled, and called it literature. His friends had shunned him. And then he turned into that grotesque figure I knew from my youth. And then he died.

But of course, there's more to the story than that. Isn't there always?

At the heart of everything written about Truman Capote and
Answered Prayers
is always the story of his friendship with Babe Paley. Babe is a sometimes aloof, if gorgeous creature. To me, she's always a bit heartbreaking. “The original trophy wife”—I've seen that phrase used to describe her, often.

Yet that friendship kept buzzing about my brain. That unusual friendship between the grotesque Truman and the exquisite Babe. How? Why? What did it really mean to the two of them? When I looked at photos, and I saw how physically stunning Truman was, back when this relationship was new, I was astonished. This was
not
the Truman Capote I had known growing up.

And that was the puzzle, to me. What had happened to him, to turn him into the caricature I remember, that we all remember when we hear the name “Truman Capote”? What had happened between him and Babe, who was purported, by so many who knew him, to be the one person he had ever loved?

What had happened to them all, these mythological creatures in their penthouses; what had happened to New York, to sophistication, to elegance, to fairy tales?

That's what I wanted to write about; that's the story I wanted to tell: What happened to Truman Capote. What happened to his swans. What happened to elegance. What truly was the price they paid, for the lives they lived. For there is always a price. Especially in fairy tales.

W
ITH EVERY BOOK
I
write, I am more aware that some readers are very curious to know what is fact and what is fiction. I have to say, this book has been the most fun to write by far, since all of its characters were incurable liars in life. This gave me quite a lot of leeway, and it was tremendously interesting to imagine myself into all of these wonderful storytellers' lives. But for those who are curious, here are some guidelines:

All conversations are imagined, although some—like the conversation between Truman Capote and Liz Smith near the end—are known to have occurred. But what exactly was said? That is what I fictionalize. The timeline is faithful. The fallout from
Answered Prayers
is true to life. The relationships are real; in other words, Truman and Babe and Bill Paley were that tight little trio. Slim was Babe's closest female friend. And the salient facts are from life: Ann Woodward was suspected of murdering her husband. She did commit suicide after reading “La Côte Basque 1965.” Babe Paley did have cancer. Truman Capote did die in Joanne Carson's guest room. And so on. The biggest liberty I took concerns the rumored identity of the woman with whom the Bill Paley character had an affair in “La Côte Basque 1965.” At the time, the gossip was that it was Happy Rockefeller, the wife of the governor. More likely, the woman in the story was an amalgamation of the many women with whom Paley had affairs—including, if the gossip was to be believed, Slim Keith. While Slim was definitely the model for Ina Coolbirth in the story, it is also a fact that Babe did not, in her will, leave her dear friend very much. Who told her, then, about Slim and Bill? Who, indeed?

As I always say, the emotions are what I imagine; the motivations and intent behind some of these documented acts. The facts are the bones upon which I stretch the fictionalized flesh. And I hope that you are inspired, after reading
The Swans of Fifth Avenue,
to learn more about these extraordinary, impossibly glamorous, yet ultimately tragic lives on your own. The books I mentioned earlier are excellent places to start, along with Sally Bedell Smith's
In All His Glory: The Life of William S. Paley
and
Conversations with Capote
by Lawrence Grobel.

I never did make it to New York to live. But I did make it to Chicago, which I love; finally, I'm a big city girl. And I visit New York a lot now. I see ghosts in the streets, everywhere I go. Once, in the Plaza, I thought I saw Babe Paley and Truman Capote sitting in a corner, having a glass of champagne.

But it was only a dream, after all.

To my father, Norman Miller

O
ne can write a book alone, but that book won't see the light of day without the help of a lot of very special people:

Thank you, as always, to the wondrous Kate Miciak, my editor; we have climbed a lot of mountains together and I know there are more to come. Also to Laura Langlie, my agent, who fights so many battles on my behalf.

Much gratitude to Gina Centrello and her team of dedicated professionals at Penguin Random House: Libby McGuire, Susan Corcoran, Kim Hovey, Gina Wachtel, Sharon Propson, Quinne Rogers, Leigh Marchant, Robbin Schiff, Allyson Pearl, Benjamin Dreyer, Loren Noveck, and Julia Maguire. A special thank you to Scott Shannon and his amazing digital team. Also to Bill Contardi, to Caitlin McCaskey and Anastasia Whalen at the Penguin Random House Speakers Bureau, and to the amazing Penguin Random House sales reps.

Special thanks to Victoria Wasserman at Thornwillow Press, and Courtney Scioscia and Slater Gillin at Meg Connolly Communications for allowing me to tour the St. Regis Hotel. Also many thanks to the Research Division of the New York Public Library.

And as always, I would be nothing without the support of my family, especially Dennis, Alec, and Ben.

Alice I Have Been

The Autobiography of Mrs. Tom Thumb

The Aviator's Wife

The Swans of Fifth Avenue

M
ELANIE
B
ENJAMIN
has written the
New York Times
bestselling historical novel
The Aviator's Wife,
the nationally bestselling
Alice I Have Been,
and
The Autobiography of Mrs. Tom Thumb.
She lives in Chicago with her husband, and far enough from her two adult sons not to be a nuisance (she hopes). When she isn't writing, she's reading.

melaniebenjamin.com

Look for Melanie Benjamin on
Facebook
.

@MelanieBen

To inquire about booking Melanie Benjamin for a speaking engagement, please contact the Penguin Random House Speakers Bureau at
[email protected]
.