Z: A Novel of Zelda Fitzgerald (11 page)

“I wish my time there had been more like I hear yours was. I was a bit of a hermit.”

I said, “Oh, I can’t believe that. I’ll bet you were just a sensible fella.”

He glanced at me. Now his ears had gone red. He said to Scott, “What a thrill it must be to get a gold seal from the
Times
—and you being just twenty-three, first book…” Ellis shook his head with obvious envy.

I said, “He
is
impressive, isn’t he?”

“Why, thank you, darling.”

Ellis asked him, then, about how closely the experiences of Scott’s main character, Amory Blaine, reflected Scott’s own life.

Scott said, “Loosely. I’ve put a character into a version of my personal history, is what I’ve done.”

“So Blaine’s an alter ego.”

“A somewhat naïve one, yes.”

“Well, sure, of course, that makes sense; you couldn’t write him so wisely if you
were
him.”

Scott beamed.

“Now,” Ellis continued, “about the women in this book—”

“It’s a novel about flappers—you know the term? These independent, morally modern girls?—a flappers’ story, for philosophers.”

Ellis nodded and made a note. “And the selfish girl who breaks his heart—Rosalind. Is she…” He glanced at me again.

I said, “She bears me some resemblance, it’s true—but you see, I
married my
Amory.”

Scott added, “But only after her Amory proved he had a far better outlook and future than our poor hero here.” He thumped the book. “Zelda was used to the finer things in life, things I couldn’t provide until now. She wouldn’t have me until I’d proven myself capable and had a few dollars in my account.”

I said, “Actually, it wasn’t quite as—”

“Darling,” Scott said, opening his cigarette case, then snapping it shut, “I can’t believe it, but I’m out. Would you ring for some while I finish up with Mr. Ellis?”

“Sorry?” I said, surprised that he’d interrupted me.

“Cigarettes. And something for you, Ellis?”

“If they’ve got a ham sandwich. I missed lunch—”

“Sure,” I said, “but I just want to explain that I didn’t—”

“No one thinks the worse of you for making me wait, darling. Women have to be practical.”

I stood up and, in a tone suited to my supposed character, said coolly, “How about I just go find the concierge personally?”

Neither man replied, but I felt their eyes on me as I crossed the room. As I opened the door, I heard Scott saying, “These flapper girls, they’re like racehorses.” I slammed the door closed behind me.
To hell with them,
I thought. Let them find someone else to play fetch.

When I returned ninety minutes later, Ellis was gone and Scott was seated on the floor with half a dozen newspaper clippings laid in front of him. His nearly full cigarette case sat opened on the end table nearby.

“You said you were out!”

He stood up and came to me. “That was just a ruse, so that you’d stop trying to straighten the story. I didn’t want you to dampen Ellis’s interest. Did you see how he looked at you? To him, you
were
Rosalind. In the future, if anyone should bring up the subject of Rosalind being like you, don’t split hairs; play it up.
Be
Rosalind. That’s what they’re hoping for.”

I took a cigarette and lit it from his, dragged on it, then exhaled slowly. “But I’m
not
her. To start with, she’s not Southern, not even a little bit. She’s
New York
society, and I sure am not that.”

He waved away the protest. “Artistic license.”

“And she’s a prissy snob, wouldn’t you say?”

“What, for following her family’s wishes and choosing a wealthy man over Amory? She’s practical.
Chill-minded,
we might call her. These aren’t bad traits necessarily. It’s all about the context, all about how the traits are put to use.”

“You want people to see me like that? Selfish? ‘Chill-minded’?”

“Anyone who knows the real you knows you’re warm and generous and smart. ‘Most Popular’ girl at Sidney Lanier High School—that’s indisputable. For the papers and magazines, what difference does it make who you really are—or who
I
really am, for that matter? It’s like in advertising: give the public what it thinks it wants, and they’ll lay down their cash.”

“Thinking they’re getting some sob-sister confessional about us, sure. I’d think you’d want the book judged on merit.”

“It’s
been
judged—by most everyone who counts; look at these.” He indicated the newspaper clippings. “The latest reviews from the weekend. My agent sent them, and they’re
good
.” His voice broke; he cleared his throat and added, “Max Perkins was a visionary, this proves him out.”

“It proves
you
out,” I said, softening. “You knew what you were talking about all along. It’s a smart, funny, wise book, Scott, and you deserve all this.”

“
We
deserve it. A lot of the dialogue in there came straight out of your diary.”

“The way you gave my words to somebody I would
never
be is pretty keen. Sort of a magic trick, isn’t it? It sure did work, though.”

“It worked, and here we are.”

I went to the window. “I never woulda thought it. Not like this.” I turned back toward him. “You’re sorta impressive.”

He shrugged away the compliment, but his smile said he was pleased. “The thing now is
sales
. Popularity means we get to keep doing things like drinking champagne,” he said, popping the cork from a bottle, “and wearing diamond wristwatches,
and
”—he tapped an envelope that lay on the table—“going to parties like the one next Friday night at George Jean Nathan’s place.”

“Another young Princetonian heir?”

“God no. He’s one of this city’s finest fixtures—editor of
The Smart Set,
plus he’s a writer and a true theater critic of the first order. He knows everyone. Ev-ree-one. And he wants us.”

I remembered
The Smart Set,
first of the prominent magazines to publish Scott’s short stories. I hadn’t realized at the time of the sale what a big deal it was; selling that story hadn’t seemed to boost him much—he’d been focused on selling his novel, and on finding a better job. But that first gust had turned into a strong breeze bringing him all the things he had now: reviews from papers around the country. Books selling out of stores. New stories sold in new places. Steady money coming in. A wedding at St. Patrick’s. A luxurious Biltmore suite. Reporters wanting to interview him—

“It’s
you
this Nathan fella wants,” I said.

“The invitation is for
Mr. and Mrs. Scott Fitzgerald
. And I think the occasion’s going to call for a new dress.”

“A dress for your Rosalind, you mean,” I said, stepping up onto the sofa and walking across it, then stepping onto the back of it. I raised my arms overhead as I balanced, walking carefully along the narrow upholstered frame. “It was easier in Montgomery. I just had to keep on being me.”

“Being you also meant being whatever character you portrayed onstage, didn’t it?”

I jumped down onto the cushion. “I s’pose that’s right.”

“So…”

“So if I go along with this scheme, we’ll be playing parts, that’s what you’re saying. Same as if we were doing this year’s Folly Ball back home.”

Scott handed me a glass of champagne. “Only this time, we’re writing the parts ourselves.”

11

We dined at the Cascades that night, on the Biltmore’s top floor. While it was too cool outside for the roof to be open, we agreed that the fact that it
could
be opened was a thrill. The building was a wonder. Everything in New York City was a wonder, including Scott, who was treating me like the princess I’d once imagined I was. Fruit and cream from room service in the morning. Shopping and hair salon during the day. Dinner—that was the word refined Northerners used for the evening meal, Scott told me—at the top of a grand hotel. Dancing later, to the music of a first-rate orchestra. And champagne. We were drinking rivers of it. I’d told Scott the night before, “I bet you we’ll be peeing bubbles before long!”

And we made love every chance we had. Quickly and vigorously in between activities; languorously when we had hours on our hands. We shared the bathroom sink when we brushed our teeth at night. We talked to each other from the toilet. Marriage suited us, there was no doubt about it.

As the waiter cleared our plates, Scott told me that the interview with Ellis had given him an idea, and he wanted to see what his publisher thought of it.

“I want to write a fictional interview that could then be placed with the
Times
or the
Tribune
. That way, we don’t have to wait for the papers to decide they want someone to do it.”

“A fictional interview? So, another bit of alter-egoism.”

“Sort of. I haven’t worked it out yet … but I have some ideas.”

I could almost see those ideas swimming around in his head and watched, amused, as he took out his notebook and jotted things down.

“I have some ideas, too,” I said suggestively, just before the waiter reappeared with our crème brûlée.

Scott glanced up at me, then caught my meaning and grinned. He asked the waiter, “Don’t we make a fine pair?”

“Absolutely, sir. In fact, a couple at a nearby table was just inquiring whether you weren’t famous, from the pictures or Broadway.”

“Is that so?” Scott said. “Which couple?”

“There, with the spectacles.” The waiter indicated a middle-aged man and woman several tables away.

Scott stood up then, and both the waiter and I watched him go straight over to the couple. He leaned down and spoke animatedly. They laughed, he laughed, then he took a pen from his breast pocket. He uncapped it and, as he did, must have said something that caused the couple to look over at me with appreciative smiles.

I waved graciously, as though this happened all the time.

Scott took the woman’s napkin right out of her lap and spread it on the table, then wrote something on it. When he was finished, he bowed to the man, kissed the woman’s hand, and returned to our table.

He said, “They’d hoped we were actors, but didn’t mind settling for the autograph of the dashing young author of that
scandalous
new novel everyone’s talking about.”

The waiter took a quick look around. “Would you mind…?” He laid Scott’s napkin on the tabletop. “And remind me, what’s the name of your book?”

*   *   *

The next morning, Scott arranged for a meeting at Scribner’s, where he’d see Maxwell Perkins, his editor, along with the fellow who was in charge of publicity there. Left with time to myself, I decided to catch up on my correspondence. I owed letters to the Saras and to Livye and to my parents, and I needed to see whether Tallu was back in New York or still working in London, where she’d been finding an easier path to fame.

Everybody in New York is famous,
she’d written me a few weeks earlier.
Everybody is beautiful. But England’s dying for attractive girls
.
Hope I’ll see you soon, but meanwhile, look up Gene. She’s easy enough to find—just follow the trail of men
.

Scott returned with a spring in his step and a bag of sandwiches in his hands.

“It went well?”

“Oh, they think I have a screw loose, but they’ll indulge me, all right. What do you think of this?” He took a folded page from his pocket, then opened it. “My interviewer’s a guy I’ve named Carleton R. Davis. I’ve got him arriving as I’m here at loose ends. Things are in disarray—just like they are.” He looked around at the mess. Living out of trunks did not encourage tidiness. “And I’m looking for my hat, and this tie,” he said, patting the one he was wearing, blue with tiny white dots, “and my cigarettes, et cetera, but I encourage him to go ahead with his questions. We cover the usual ‘How long did it take to write the book?’ stuff, and I expound somewhat—”

“You, expound?”

He grinned. “Think you know me that well, do you?” He kissed me, then continued, reading from his notes, “He asks me what my plans are next.”

“What
are
your plans next?”

He gazed at me over the top of the page. “I guess you mean my literary plans.”

“No, Carleton R. Davis wants to know
those
.”

“Yes, yes, that’s right.” He looked at the page again. “And I shrug. ‘I’ll be darned if I know. The scope and depth and breadth of my writings lie in the laps of the gods.’”

“Who no doubt are reading
This Side of Paradise
as we speak—so’s to give you appropriate guidance for the future.”

“No doubt at all. And then I expound further, until I’ve impressed our Mr. Davis sufficiently for him to ask whether I intend to be a part of the great literary tradition.”

“Which you do.”

“No! No, that’s just it, that’s just what people would guess a fellow in my shoes would say! But I don’t. ‘There is no such thing,’ I say. ‘The only real tradition is the death of preceding ones.’”

A thought grabbed him and he paused and began to search his pockets, coming up with a pencil. “Hold on.” He laid the paper on the table and jotted something on it. Then he read, “‘The smart literary son kills his own father.’ What do you think?”

“Kinda Greek, isn’t it?”

“The cradle of literature, dearest girl. All writers draw from that well—and how’s that for mixing my metaphors?” He sat down next to me and said, “Give me a hero, and I will tell you a tragedy.”

I started to reply when Scott added, “Wait— Give me a hero … Give me a hero and I’ll tell you … no … I’ll
show
you…”

He reached for the pencil and wrote in the paper’s margin while I waited. It was so funny to see him transferring thoughts to words on paper as if he was taking dictation from those gods he mentioned.

“Here, I think I’ve got it: ‘Show me a hero, and I’ll write you a tragedy.’ That’s good. Don’t know where I’ll use it, but it’s good.”

“Isn’t that Shakespeare?”