If The Good Die Young…

I just read the news that Henry Kissinger has turned 100.  This fact is, in my opinion, living proof that the good die young.  Of course I may change this view as I advance much beyond my current age of 80.  

That this man was awarded, in true Orwellian fashion, the Nobel Peace Prize shows that high-level hypocrisy was not the exclusive province of the US.  Frankly I had expected better of the Scandinavians.  Dr. Kissinger shared the award with Le Duc Tho, the North Vietnamese diplomat, who had the good graces to refuse the honor.  One should, however, recall that the Nobel Peace Prize had previously been awarded to Yassir Arafat and President de Kerk of South Africa, both of whom may have perhaps qualified for the Most Improved award.

Long ago, I was Professor Kissinger's student in Harvard’s Gov 180 course, where we learned more than anyone would want to know about the 1815 Congress of Vienna.  I pride myself for having been able, early on, to see what a dangerously self-important egotist he was. No other Harvard prof, in my experience, was hissed by his students as regularly—and as deservedly—as Henry the K.  But I never would have predicted that he would acquire the opportunity (and the inclination) to be a war criminal—and an unrepentant one at that.

Indeed, sometime in the early 80’s, I was invited to a fancy dinner party given by New York’s then-reigning doyenne of high-level co-op apartment brokering, Alice Mason. She had built her clientele list (and her social status) by hosting charming dinner parties for her clients and, more importantly, would-be clients.  A generous sprinkling of A-List New York somebodies were included as bait for the merely rich.  (I was there mostly due to an excess of unattached women and a shortage of unattached--and relatively presentable--men such as myself.)

One day I received a call from Alice, inviting me to one of her upcoming soirees. She breathlessly divulged the news that among her guests that night would be the estimable Dr. Kissinger.  I responded to this news by saying "Then I suspect you shouldn't invite me."  Alice asked why.  I said that, were I to be in the same room as him, I doubt that I could have resisted standing up and telling your guests they were dining in the company of a war criminal.  She wisely suggested she should perhaps invite me to a different dinner.

And indeed she did.  Some months later, I arrived at her relatively modest apartment to find several rooms crowded with sufficient seating for roughly 40 guests.  As I settled into my seat, I introduced myself to an attractive middle-aged woman on my left who said she was Helen Gurley Brown, a name I of course recognized.  

Now, thanks to my mother who had schooled me in the 1950s in the writings of Simone de Beauvoir, I considered myself to be anything but a misogynist--indeed closer to a proto-feminist, male division.  But I was sufficiently snobbish to have dismissed Helen Gurley as a part of pop culture, second division, never having considered reading one of her books.

Well, as we chatted, I found myself totally delighted by this wise, witty woman.  I completely ignored the woman on my right, in thrall to the delightful Ms. Brown.  I left Alice's apartment, chastising myself for making superficial and erroneous judgments. Indeed the very next day I hied myself to the nearest bookstore and inquired if they had any writings by Helen Gurley Brown. I was told, "Yes, just one--'How to Talk to a Man.' " I said that, while it wasn't precisely what I was looking for, it would do.

I opened to Chapter One and read its stern dictum re the best way for a woman to Talk to a Man.  It stated flatly "Don't talk."  The book explained for her presumed female readers that in her long experience, men have no interest in what YOU have to say--they just want to tell you the long, boring story of THEIR lives.

As I read these first few paragraphs, I realized in horror that it contained a near- perfect description of our interaction the previous evening.  I had done probably 90% of the talking and walked away captivated by HER conversational skills.  I vowed to be more of an interlocutor and much less of a monologist in the future--a promise my wife will tell you I have obeyed mostly in the breach.

I spent most of the next ten years living in Los Angeles, where several social occasions and a few business dealings brought me into close contact with Helen's husband, film producer David Brown.  He was one of the rare true gentlemen in the film business, at least in the LA division of it.  He was a man of his word and, incidentally, extremely well-dressed.  We became good friends and enjoyed more than a few lovely luncheons. On the occasion of my semi-casual contact with his wife,  I decided against telling her of my epiphany following our long-ago meeting.  Nor did I speak of my subsequent realization of what a pompous and--worse--judgmental ass I had been.  This was not because I thought it wouldn't please her, but because it would appear to be shameless pandering in the form of a pseudo-confession.

Segue now about five years hence, and I have become engaged to the wonderful woman who became my wife, the lovely and accomplished Terry Steiner.  I was

in the process of moving back to New York, my fiancee having told me, "For better or for worse, but not for Los Angeles."  

One day, about a month prior to our upcoming wedding, I am coming out of a meeting with an executive of the Hearst Corporation about my possibly playing a role in their impending moves in the then-nascent internet space.  As I emerge from the Hearst HQ, I spot Helen coming out of the same building where her magazine Cosmopolitan was headquartered.  She was in fact waiting on the corner for her bus to arrive.  (She was famously cheap.)

When I greet her, she asks if I still live in Los Angeles.  I reply that I do but I will soon be moving back to New York, as I am marrying a lifelong New Yorker.  She says to me, in a  somewhat acid tone, "Let me guess--she's 28."  I say, "No, Helen, she's 40."  She then asks if it is my intended's first marriage, and when I reply in the affirmative, she then says, "And it's your second marriage, yes?"  When I reply, "No I have reached the ripe old age of 51 without having previously married."

At this point, still standing on a crowded street corner, Helen grabs my arm in a vice-like grip and says "An unmarried 40-year old woman is marrying a previously unmarried 50-year old man?  I must have your story for Cosmo."  My perhaps unwise rejoinder was the following: "Helen, please don't take this badly, but one of the reasons I am marrying Terry is my strong belief she has never read a single issue of Cosmopolitan." (I later asked Terry if my supposition about her magazine reading habits was correct.  She confirmed its basic accuracy, saying she had only read Cosmo at the hairdresser's and she thought that didn't count.  I concurred.)

Unsurprisingly, Helen took my needlessly provocative declaration badly--very badly.  On several subsequent encounters, she ostentatiously snubbed me.  Later, her gracious husband persuaded her to forgive me for my smart-ass remark and on our next meetings, she greeted me, but with a studied hauteur.  

Some 15 years later, I read of Helen's death at age 90, two years after her husband's departure.  Her New York Times obit contained one of the rare witticisms found in that section of the Paper of Record.  As I recall it gave Helen’s age at death as 90, but added "Some parts of her were considerably younger."

Ah, but Helen's death doesn't end this anecdote.  At a lovely lunch in a smart Westside apartment about ten years after my marriage, I am seated with about a dozen Bright Young Things, mostly previously unknown to me.  When I hear the name Cosmopolitan spoken, it triggers my telling the group the story of my unwise dismissal of the magazine to its famous former editor.  One of my fellow guests looks at me and says, "I gather, Roger, you didn't catch the name of the lovely lady at the end of the table.  It's Joanna Coles, the current editor of Cosmopolitan."

Oops.

This very attractive blonde British woman a few seats away from me graciously smiles at my chagrined face and says, "Oh, it's all right, I have become used to such remarks."

Going back to Alice Mason, some time after her death news that had only been quietly rumored became openly acknowledged:  Alice, a mover and shaker in New York cafe society, was in fact a very light-skinned African-American.  She was born into a prominent Philadelphia family well-placed in the Black Bourgeoisie.  Alice had "passed" all these years as white, during years when her actual racial identity would have, sadly, been a hindrance to her lofty social ambitions.  Indeed her proudly African-American sister had been a major figure in the mid-century civil rights movement.  But that was not Alice's choice.