FACADE
Towards the end of
her life, rather than grow old, my mother crashed parties. She was a pretty woman, tiny, dark and
lively, with a dazzling smile and great legs, which, as Marlene Dietrich told
us, are the last thing to go. She
was as savvy as she could be engaging, so she would study The New York Times
for coming events. When that
information was not specific enough, she would study gossip columns as
astronomers did the stars.
Usually one of the wags would brag about all the places she
had been and what was coming up of particular note that she, as a stellar
being, was invited to. So my
mother, feeling every bit as stellar, had cards printed up with her press
credentials, which were, in fact, non-existent, and would call ahead to
announce that Helen Schwamm would be attending. Sometimes she would say she was with Gannett Press,
sometimes with DiplomaticWorld, legitimate publications with which she had
absolutely no connection. When she
would arrive at the celebration of this and that, her name would be on the
list. And if there was any
question, she looked so good and was so quick-thinkingly charming, that no one
stopped her. Thus it was that when
New York celebrated its two hundred most important citizens, my mother was
among them.
She was not
without money, but as she had grown up in the Depression, she lived in fear of
running out, and so denied herself certain luxuries she loved, like smoked
salmon. But “No one need go hungry
in New York,” she said to me;” there’s parties from morning to night.” So she had all the smoked salmon hors
d’ouevres she wanted, and, depending on the lavishness of what was being passed,
sometimes even caviar. If
the event included dinner, she would wait till everyone was seated, and look
for the unoccupied chair. Sometimes
if she was feeling particularly social, and had found nothing in the press, she
would check the reader boards in the lobbies of the Plaza or the Waldorf, check
what was happening there, and attend.
She was never
caught, and never embarrassed.
“What if they want to know who you really are?” I asked her once. “How many people in life ever know who
we really are?” she responded.
“Every building in New York has a façade, and so do most of the people.”
As for her
personal entertaining, she had a studio apartment at a nice address, but her
quarters were small. So when she wanted
to reciprocate for an evening she had actually been invited to, she would
invite her friends to meet her at the U.N. for one of their receptions. It was before the days of heavy
security, the guards all knew her(she had given them little gifts to thank them
for their kindness), so they would let her and her tiny entourages in. She saved her key invitations for
Korea. “They have the best ribs,”
she said.
I knew all her
stories, and marveled at them, but had never seen her in action. So on one visit to New York, I asked
her to take me along. The event
was the 25th anniversary of the National Review. “Avoid eye contact,” she told me by way
of preparation. “Keep moving with
great assurance, and let me handle everything.” We went into the lobby of the hotel where the party was
being held. Not content to gain easy access, she sailed up to the security
guard and asked to be directed to the VIP room. He pointed, unquestioning.
We were seated at
a table with Henry and Nancy Kissinger, Clare Booth Luce, Roy Cohn, and the
Baron and Baroness dePortanova. Mother
introduced herself as Helen Schwamm as though it were a name Mrs. Luce should
know, and told her that her daughter, pointing at me, was also a writer. The Kissingers had recently moved
to Connecticut, and Nancy Kissinger, during a lull in the conversation(there
are many with Conservatives) said “My friends can’t believe I’m content to live
so quietly.” Without missing a
beat, my mother said “My friends feel the same about me.”
She is gone now,
and I really miss her. And from
what I’ve observed, so does New York.
