The Complete Stories of Truman Capote, Page 2

  TRUMAN CAPOTE

  THE WALLS ARE COLD

  (1943)

  “… so Grant just said to them come on along to a wonderful party, and, well it was as easy as that. Really, I think it was just genius to pick them up, God only knows they might resurrect us from the grave.” The girl who was talking tapped her cigarette ash on the Persian throw rug and looked apologetically at her hostess.

  The hostess straightened her trim, black dress and pursed her lips nervously. She was very young and small and perfect. Her face was pale and framed with sleek black hair, and her lipstick was a trifle too dark. It was after two and she was tired and wished they would all go, but it was no small task to rid yourself of some thirty people, particularly when the majority were full of her father’s scotch. The elevator man had been up twice to complain about the noise; so she gave him a highball, which is all he is after anyway. And now the sailors … oh, the hell with it.

  “It’s all right, Mildred, really. What are a few sailors more or less? God, I hope they don’t break anything. Would you go back in the kitchen and see about ice, please? I’ll see what I can do with your new-found friends.”

  “Really, darling, I don’t think it’s at all necessary. From what I understand, they acclimate themselves very easily.”

  The hostess went toward her sudden guests. They were knotted together in one corner of the drawing-room, just staring and not looking very much at home.

  The best looking of the sextet turned his cap nervously and said, “We didn’t know it was any kind of party like this, Miss. I mean, you don’t want us, do you?”

  “Of course you’re welcome. What on earth would you be doing here if I didn’t want you?”

  The sailor was embarrassed.

  “That girl, that Mildred and her friend just picked us up in some bar or other and we didn’t have any idea we was comin’ to no house like this.”

  “How ridiculous, how utterly ridiculous,” the hostess said. “You are from the South, aren’t you?”

  He tucked his cap under his arm and looked more at ease. “I’m from Mississippi. Don’t suppose you’ve ever been there, have you, Miss?”

  She looked away toward the window and ran her tongue across her lips. She was tired of this, terribly tired of it. “Oh, yes,” she lied. “A beautiful state.”

  He grinned. “You must be mixed up with some other place, Miss. There sure’s not a lot to catch the eye in Mississippi, ’cept maybe around Natchez way.”

  “Of course, Natchez. I went to school with a girl from Natchez. Elizabeth Kimberly, do you know her?”

  “No, can’t say as I do.”

  Suddenly she realized that she and the sailor were alone; all of his mates had wandered over to the piano where Les was playing Porter. Mildred was right about the acclimation.

  “Come on,” she said, “I’ll fix you a drink. They can shift for themselves. My name’s Louise, so please don’t call me Miss.”

  “My sister’s name’s Louise, I’m Jake.”

  “Really, isn’t that charming? I mean the coincidence.” She smoothed her hair and smiled with her too dark lips.

  They went into the den and she knew the sailor was watching the way her dress swung around her hips. She stooped through the door behind the bar.

  “Well,” she said, “what will it be? I forgot, we have scotch and rye and rum; how about a nice rum and coke?”

  “If you say so,” he grinned, sliding his hand along the mirrored bar’s surface, “you know, I never saw a place like this before. It’s something right out of a movie.”

  She whirled ice swiftly around in a glass with a swizzle stick. “I’ll take you on a forty-cent tour if you like. It’s quite large, for an apartment, that is. We have a country house that’s much, much bigger.”

  That didn’t sound right. It was too supercilious. She turned and put the bottle of rum back in its niche. She could see in the mirror that he was staring at her, perhaps through her.

  “How old are you?” he asked.

  She had to think for a minute, really think. She lied so constantly about her age she sometimes forgot the truth herself. What difference did it make whether he knew her real age or not? So she told him.

  “Sixteen.”

  “And never been kissed …?”

  She laughed, not at the cliché but her answer.

  “Raped, you mean.”

  She was facing him and saw that he was shocked and then amused and then something else.

  “Oh, for God’s sake, don’t look at me that way, I’m not a bad girl.” He blushed and she climbed back through the door and took his hand. “Come on, I’ll show you around.”

  She led him down a long corridor intermittently lined with mirrors, and showed him room after room. He admired the soft, pastel rugs and the smooth blend of modernistic with period furniture.

  “This is my room,” she said, holding the door open for him, “you mustn’t mind the mess, it isn’t all mine, most of the girls have been fixing in here.”

  There was nothing for him to mind, the room was in perfect order. The bed, the tables, the lamp were all white but the walls and the rug were a dark, cold green.

  “Well, Jake … what do you think, suit me?”

  “I never saw anything like it, my sister wouldn’t believe me if I told her … but I don’t like the walls, if you’ll pardon me for saying so … that green … they look so cold.”

  She looked puzzled and not knowing quite why, she reached out her hand and touched the wall beside her dressing-table.

  “You’re right, the walls I mean, they are cold.” She looked up at him and for a moment her face was molded in such an expression he was not quite sure whether she was going to laugh or cry.

  “I didn’t mean it that way. Hell, I don’t rightly know what I mean!”

  “Don’t you, or are we just being euphemistic?” It drew a blank so she sat down on the side of her white bed.

  “Here,” she said, “sit down and have a cigarette, what ever happened to your drink?”

  He sat down beside her. “I left it out in the bar. It sure seems quiet back here after all that racket in front.”

  “How long have you been in the navy?”

  “Eight months.”

  “Like it?”

  “It isn’t much concern whether you like it or not.… I’ve seen a lot of places that I wouldn’t otherwise.”

  “Why did you enlist then?”

  “Oh, I was going to be drafted and the navy seemed more to my likin’.”

  “Is it?”

  “Well, I tell you, I don’t take to this kind of life, I don’t like other men bossin’ me around. Would you?”

  She didn’t answer but put a cigarette in her mouth instead. He held the match for her and she let her hand brush against his. His hand was trembling and the light was not very steady. She inhaled and said, “You want to kiss me, don’t you?”

  She watched him intently and saw the slow, red spread over his face.

  “Why don’t you?”

  “You’re not that kind of girl. I’d be scared to kiss a girl like you, ’sides, you’re only making fun out of me.”

  She laughed and blew the smoke in a cloud toward the ceiling. “Stop it, you sound like something out of a gaslight melodrama. What is ‘that kind of girl,’ anyway? Just an idea. Whether you kiss me or not isn’t of the slightest importance. I could explain, but why bother? You’d probably end up thinking I’m a nymphomaniac.”

  “I don’t even know what that is.”

  “Hell, that’s what I mean. You’re a man, a real man and I’m so sick of these weak, effeminate boys like Les. I just wanted to know what it would be like, that’s all.”

  He bent over her. “You’re a funny kid,” he said, and she was in his arms. He kissed her and his hand slid down along her shoulder and pressed against her breast.

  She twisted and gave him a violent shove and he went sprawling across the cold, green rug.

  She got up
and stood over him and they stared at each other. “You dirt,” she said. Then she slapped his bewildered face.

  She opened the door, paused, and straightened her dress and went back to the party. He sat on the floor for a moment, then he got up and found his way to the foyer and then remembered that he had left his cap in the white room, but he didn’t care, all he wanted was to get out of here.

  The hostess looked inside the drawing-room and motioned for Mildred to come out.

  “For God’s sake, Mildred, get these people out of here; those sailors, what do they think this is … the USO?”

  “What’s the matter, was that guy bothering you?”

  “No, no, he’s just a small town moron who’s never seen anything like this before and it’s gone to his head in a funny kind of way. It’s just one awful bore and I have a headache. Will you get them out for me please … everybody?”

  She nodded and the hostess turned back down the corridor and went into her mother’s room. She lay down on the velvet chaise lounge and stared at the Picasso abstract. She picked up a tiny lace pillow and pushed it against her face as hard as she could. She was going to sleep here tonight, here where the walls were pale rose and warm.

  A MINK OF ONE’S OWN

  (1944)

  Mrs. Munson finished twisting a linen rose in her auburn hair and stepped back from her mirror to judge the effect. Then she ran her hands down her hips … the dress was just too tight and that’s all there was to it. “Alteration won’t save it again,” she thought angrily. With one last disparaging glance at her reflection she turned and went into the livingroom.

  The windows were open and the room was filled with loud, unearthly shrieks. Mrs. Munson lived on the third floor, and across the street was a public school playground. In the late afternoon the noise was almost unbearable. God, if she’d only known about this before she signed the lease! With a little grunt she closed both windows and as far as she was concerned they could stay that way for the next two years.

  But Mrs. Munson was far too excited to be really annoyed. Vini Rondo was coming to see her, imagine, Vini Rondo … and this very afternoon! When she thought about it she felt fluttering wings in her stomach. It had been almost five years, and Vini had been in Europe all this time. Whenever Mrs. Munson found herself in a group discussing the war she invariably announced, “Well, you know I have a very dear friend in Paris this very minute, Vini Rondo, she was right there when the Germans marched in! I have positive nightmares when I think what she must be going through!” Mrs. Munson said it as if it were she whose fate lay in the balance.

  If there was anyone in the party who hadn’t heard the story before she would hasten to explain about her friend. “You see,” she would begin, “Vini was just the most talented girl, interested in art and all that sort of thing. Well, she had quite a bit of money, so she went to Europe at least once a year. Finally, when her father died she packed up her things and went for good. My, but she had a fling, and then she married some Count or Baron or something. Maybe you’ve heard of her … Vini Rondo … Cholly Knickerbocker used to mention her all the time.” And it went on and on, like some historical lecture.

  “Vini, back in America,” she thought, never ceasing to revel in the wonder of it. She puffed up the small green pillows on the couch and sat down. With piercing eyes she examined her room. Funny you never really see your surroundings until a visitor is expected. Well, Mrs. Munson sighed contentedly, that new girl had, for a rarity, restored pre-war standards.

  The door-bell rang abruptly. It buzzed twice before Mrs. Munson could move, she was that excited. Finally she composed herself and went to answer.

  At first Mrs. Munson didn’t recognize her. The woman who confronted her had no chic up-swept coiffure … indeed her hair hung rather limply and had an uncombed look. A print dress in January? Mrs. Munson tried to keep the disappointment out of her voice when she said, “Vini, darling, I should have known you anywhere.”

  The woman still stood in the threshold. Under her arm she carried a large pink box and her gray eyes looked out at Mrs. Munson curiously.

  “Would you, Bertha?” Her voice was a queer whisper. “That’s nice, very nice. I should have recognized you, too, although you’ve gotten rather fat, haven’t you?” Then she accepted Mrs. Munson’s extended hand and came in.

  Mrs. Munson was embarrassed and she didn’t know quite what to say. Arm-in-arm they went into the livingroom and sat down.

  “How about some sherry?”

  Vini shook her dark little head, “No, thank you.”

  “Well, how about a scotch or something?” Mrs. Munson asked desperately. The figurine clock on the sham mantelpiece chimed softly. Mrs. Munson had never noticed how loud it could sound.

  “No,” said Vini firmly, “nothing, thank you.”

  Resignedly Mrs. Munson settled back on the couch. “Now, darling, tell me all about it. When did you get back in the States?” She liked the sound of that. “The States.”

  Vini placed the big pink box down between her legs and folded her hands. “I’ve been here for almost a year,” she paused, then hurried on, realizing the startled expression of her hostess, “but I haven’t been in New York. Naturally I would have gotten in touch with you sooner, but I was out in California.”

  “Oh, California, I love California!” Mrs. Munson exclaimed, though in point of fact, she had never been further west than Chicago.

  Vini smiled and Mrs. Munson noticed how irregular her teeth were and decided they could do with a good brushing.

  “So,” Vini continued, “when I got back in New York last week I thought of you at once. I had an awful time trying to find you because I couldn’t remember your husband’s first name.…”

  “Albert,” Mrs. Munson put in unnecessarily.

  “… but I finally did and here I am. You know, Bertha, I really started thinking about you when I decided to get rid of my mink coat.”

  Mrs. Munson saw a sudden blush on Vini’s face.

  “Your mink coat?”

  “Yes,” Vini said, lifting up the pink box. “You remember my mink coat. You always admired it so. You always said it was the loveliest coat you’d ever seen.” She started to undo the frayed silk ribbon that held the box together.

  “Of course, yes of course,” Mrs. Munson said, letting the “course” trill down softly.

  “I said to myself, ‘Vini Rondo, what on earth do you need that coat for? Why not let Bertha have it?’ You see, Bertha, I bought the most gorgeous sable in Paris and you can understand that I really don’t need two fur coats. Besides I have my silver-fox jacket.”

  Mrs. Munson watched her parting the tissue paper in the box, saw the chipped enamel on her nails, saw that her fingers were jewel-less, and suddenly realized a great many other things.

  “So I thought of you and unless you want it I’ll just keep it because I couldn’t bear to think of anyone else having it.” She held the coat and stood turning it this way and that. It was a beautiful coat; the fur shone rich and very smooth. Mrs. Munson reached out and ran her fingers across it, ruffling the tiny hairs the wrong way. Without thinking she said: “How much?”

  Mrs. Munson brought back her hand quickly, as though she had touched fire, and then she heard Vini’s voice, small and tired.

  “I paid almost a thousand for it. Is a thousand too much?”

  Down in the street Mrs. Munson could hear the deafening roar of the playground and for once she was grateful. It gave her something else to concentrate on, something to lessen the intensity of her own feelings.

  “I’m afraid that’s too much. I really can’t afford it,” Mrs. Munson said distractedly, still staring at the coat, afraid to lift her eyes and see the other woman’s face.

  Vini tossed the coat on the couch. “Well, I want you to have it. It’s not so much the money, but I feel I should get something back on my investment.… How much could you afford?”

  Mrs. Munson closed her eyes. Oh, God, this was awful! Just plain
damned awful!

  “Maybe four hundred,” she answered weakly.

  Vini picked up the coat again and said brightly, “Let’s see how it fits then.”

  They went into the bedroom and Mrs. Munson tried on the coat in front of her full-length closet mirror. Just a few alterations, the sleeves shortened, and maybe she would have it re-glazed. Yes, it certainly did things for her.

  “Oh, I think it’s beautiful, Vini. It was so sweet of you to think of me.”

  Vini leaned against the wall, her pale face looking hard in the magnified sunlight of the big bedroom windows.

  “You can make out the check to me,” she said disinterestedly.

  “Yes, of course,” Mrs. Munson said, suddenly coming back to earth. Imagine Bertha Munson with a mink of her own!

  They went back into the livingroom and she wrote the check for Vini. Carefully folding it, Vini deposited it in her small beaded purse.

  Mrs. Munson tried hard to make conversation but she came up against a cold wall at each new channel. Once she asked, “Where is your husband, Vini? You must bring him around for Albert to talk to.” And Vini answered, “Oh, him! I haven’t seen him for aeons. He’s still in Lisbon for all I know.” And so that was that.

  Finally, after promising to phone the next day, Vini left. When she had gone Mrs. Munson thought, “Why, poor Vini, she’s nothing but a refugee!” Then she took her new coat and went into the bedroom. She couldn’t tell Albert how she got it, that was definite. My, but he would be mad about the money! She decided to hide it in the furthest reaches of her closet and then one day she’d bring it out and say, “Albert, look at the divine mink I bought at an auction. I got it for next to nothing.”

  Groping in the darkness of her closet she caught the coat on a hook. She gave a little yank and was terrified to hear the sound of ripping. Quickly she snapped on the light and saw that the sleeve was torn. She held the tear apart and pulled slightly. It ripped more and then some more. With a sick emptiness she knew the whole thing was rotten. “Oh, my God,” she said, clutching at the linen rose in her hair. “Oh, my God, I’ve been taken and taken good, and there’s nothing in the world I can do about it, nothing in the world!” For suddenly Mrs. Munson realized Vini wouldn’t phone tomorrow or ever again.