C
laire stared at the dragon, and the dragon stared back. Then the dragon shrugged. If Claire had been the man inside the dragon suit, she would have shrugged, too.
For the magazine’s “
Life
Goes to a Party” section, Mrs. Luce had tapped Claire to cover the gala she was hosting at the River Club on what turned out to be a lovely April evening. The River Club was exclusive even among the exclusive private clubs of New York City. The club’s waterfront gardens and its dock on the East River were legendary. The event was for Mrs. Luce’s favorite charity, United China Relief. Much of China was under Japanese occupation, and UCR was an amalgam of charities that provided assistance to areas still fighting back.
“Life
Goes to a Party” was the most dreaded assignment a
Life
photographer could get. The party rooms were generally difficult to light, and for these sorts of parties the photographer was expected to wear evening clothes, not advantageous when you might have to climb a ladder or lie on the floor. And then there were the party guests to contend with. Once Claire’s colleague Hansel Mieth was set upon by a rowdy guest at a Waldorf-Astoria stag party. She hit the guy, and from then on Mack told women photographers to strike back whenever necessary.
As much as the staff hated the feature, readers loved it. It gave them a window into celebrated places most could never hope to visit,
like the Stork Club and El Morocco in New York, as well as princely mansions around the country and abroad.
Little did the readers know how lucky they were
not
to be invited, because most of the events were extravagantly dreary. Claire and her colleagues had the job of making them appear exciting and glamorous. Shooting this feature was fun only when
Life
most definitely had not been invited. In that happy case, the photographer had to sneak in and take the photos secretly with a camera concealed in her handbag or in the pocket of his suit jacket. In this way, you might even capture an indiscretion or two. If you were really lucky, you’d be discovered, and you could photograph the host or his minions throwing you out.
“Delighted to meet you at last,” Mrs. Luce was saying. Her blond hair was pulled back, her smile was as fixed as a fashion model’s. She was stunning, Claire had to admit, even more stunning in person than in photos. “I’ve admired your work in my husband’s magazine.” That surface charm. Maybe Claire could avoid the reputed daggers. Mrs. Luce needed something from her, which made things easier. She’d even sent a car to pick her up, which Claire appreciated.
“Thank you, Mrs. Luce. I’ve admired your work, too.”
Mrs. Luce gave Claire a long appraisal and appeared displeased by what she found. Claire thought she’d dressed appropriately, wearing an off-the-shoulder royal blue gown with a loose, gauzy skirt for freedom of movement. She wore her mother’s pearls and diamond-and-pearl earrings to match. However, Mrs. Luce had a reputation for wanting to be the best-looking woman in a room.
“Your dress is beautiful, Mrs. Luce.” It was a full-length, closely cut Chinese silk gown, dark red with intricate embroidery. Mrs. Luce even had the figure for it.
“Thank you. It’s called a cheongsam. Now, Claire, you must photograph the flowers. And we’ll want coverage of how lovely the room looks before everyone arrives.”
“Yes, Mrs. Luce.” Clearly Mrs. Luce would call Claire by her first
name and Claire would call her “Mrs. Luce.” She led Claire on a tour of the River Club’s cavernous Art Deco ballroom, its geometric decorations shimmering in silver and lapis. Mrs. Luce had already dealt with a crisis tonight, having arrived at the club to find that the decorator had inadvertently hung Japanese lanterns throughout the ballroom.
“Remove those
immediately
,” Mrs. Luce had ordered, and she’d instructed Claire to edit the film accordingly.
“Now, Claire, please make certain your lights aren’t blinding. Surely you can bounce them off the wall or the ceiling instead of pointing them into the eyes of my guests. And don’t use flashbulbs. That’s not really necessary nowadays, is it? Especially when you’ll be setting up lights.”
“I’ll do my best, Mrs. Luce,” Claire said, an edge of rancor slipping into her voice. Claire never appreciated writers, even the boss’s wife, interfering with her work.
Mrs. Luce glanced at Claire sharply. “Let’s hope your best is good enough.”
Ah, well. One night, how bad could it be? The ballroom was indeed arranged beautifully. Apricot-colored roses overflowed from the centerpieces on each table. The dance floor was highly polished, the band was tuning up, the dragon was perfecting his gait, long tail dragging behind. In the games area, Chinese men in traditional garb were setting up dart boards and balloons. Waiters hovered with hors d’oeuvres on trays, expectantly awaiting the first arrivals. The barmen were arranging and rearranging glasses. Claire herself could have used a drink, but Mrs. Luce certainly wouldn’t approve of that.
The guests began to arrive, and just to make the party even more…unusual than Claire had imagined possible, they were in costume. Imperial Chinese-inspired costumes, ornately beaded and brocaded, with elaborate headgear to match for both men and women.
“All right, Seth, here we go,” Claire said to the young man who stood beside her, clutching a clipboard. Tonight she had an assistant
helping her with the equipment and captions. His most important job was to make certain that every shot was documented, every name spelled correctly. Seth Wiley was tall and thin, with an almost concave chest, which made him appear shy. He had a boyish, questioning look. His bow tie was askew. Seth was a recent graduate of Yale, Mr. Luce’s alma mater, and a favored staff recruitment center. “I want you to stand near Mrs. Luce every ten minutes or so, just quietly, not bothering her, in case she has special instructions for us.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Moving around the ballroom as it grew crowded, Claire felt the raw power of the gathering. Rockefeller, Willkie, Baruch, Lamont—the evening overflowed with national leadership, financial, industrial, and political. And what did these leaders spend their time doing at the party? They continually glanced over shoulders, seeking even more influential partners for conversation. They competed in their enthusiastic support for the suffering masses of China by tossing darts at balloons.
Looking across the room, Claire had to smile when she saw Seth hovering beside Mrs. Luce. The boss’s wife appeared to like him, whispering in his ear. Seth took to his job heartily, making notes and hurrying back to Claire. His sincerity and eagerness were appealing.
On a night like this, you felt the influence the Luces wielded. The guests were more than willing to appear ridiculous in their Chinese costumes if their dear friend Harry and his wife demanded it. He greeted their fawning in his usual way, with a pointed question or two, then an abrupt dismissal. People were familiar with his rudeness and ignored it. If he liked you, he might put you on the cover of one of his magazines. Run a feature or two or three about you or your company.
Fortune
might embrace you. He might make you
Time
’s Man of the Year. Claire had heard through the rumor mill that huge amounts of money had been raised for United China Relief in Hollywood from producers and actors who were dependent on the acres of free publicity that
Life
’s entertainment stories provided.
Halfway through the evening, Claire stood at the side of the ballroom, taking a break and observing the crowd. Seth had excused himself for the men’s room.
“Looks like you’re doing a good job. Under tough circumstances.” Henry Luce stood beside her, dressed in white tie rather than Chinese robes, a sensible choice.
“Thank you. I agree.”
To this, he actually laughed.
“Your wife is looking very beautiful, Mr. Luce.”
“Thank you. I agree.”
She hadn’t seen him since their meeting in his office, when she’d pushed him to cover penicillin development. “Looks like this party is a success.”
“Yes. John D. Rockefeller the Third is here. Wendell Willkie, Bernard Baruch…” He rattled off the list with a boy’s wonder, as if he himself weren’t among the famous names. As if they came here—not because of the power of his magazines—but strictly out of sympathy for China, the beloved, lost land where his missionary parents had raised him.
“I’m sure you’ve raised a good deal of money for China tonight.”
“No matter how much we raise, the need is greater still. The horrors faced by the Chinese people…” He proceeded to lecture her on the starving people of China and on Generalissimo and Madame Chiang Kai-shek as their only hope. He put his faith in the Christian Chiangs to defeat China’s Japanese occupiers and to resist the atheist Communist insurgents. Apparently he ignored the darkly whispered reports of the Chiangs’ corruption.
“You must miss your homeland,” Claire said.
Luce did not reply. He was studying the crowd, and when he spoke again, he didn’t look at her. “I haven’t forgotten our conversation.”
She waited for him to say more.
“I’m moving forward.”
She took this as an acknowledgment that he’d transformed her idea into his idea.
“I’m considering the potential.”
“Thank you.”
“No need to say thank you. I’m not doing it for you.”
He was known to speak this way. Was he joking? She couldn’t tell.
“Of course not.”
Seth joined them.
“Who are you?” Luce asked.
Seth appeared bewildered.
“What do you want?”
Undoubtedly recognizing Mr. Luce, Seth didn’t know how to respond.
“The lady and I are talking.”
Claire stepped in. “Seth, I don’t believe you’ve been introduced to our editor. Mr. Luce, this is Seth Wiley, who recently joined our staff. A Yale graduate. He’s doing a fine job tonight.”
“Good to meet you, sir.” Seth bowed, the Asian influence seeming to have rubbed off on him. Mr. Luce did not offer his hand to the new recruit. They had reached an impasse. Claire needed to resume work anyway.
“I think I’ll go out on the terrace,” she said. “I’d like to get some shots from the outside looking in.”
“I’ll go with you,” Luce said. “Carry your camera bag.”
“Thank you.” This was indeed an honor. To Claire’s knowledge, only Margaret Bourke-White had been so recognized.
With a triumphant look at poor Seth, Mr. Luce picked up the bag and strode across the room, parting the crowd. Claire followed, Seth trying to keep up. She sensed the crowd filling in and Seth being left behind.
Outside, the terrace was peaceful and cool after the packed crowd inside. The gardens were filled with the flowers of early spring, cro
cuses, daffodils, forsythia. She caught the scent of hyacinth on the breeze. A Chinese junk had moored at the Club’s dock on the far side of the East River Drive. Only a few cars traversed the still-incomplete roadway. Claire turned and peered into the ballroom through the wide French doors. This was a perfect shot, romantic and intriguing. The camera on its tripod took the position of the magazine reader at home, staring through an arched doorway into a warm scene of formal evening clothes, dancing, and enchantment.
“Mr. Luce, you see how beautiful this shot is?”
“Beautiful? How?”
“Because of the composition. You see, the ballroom framed by the arched doorway? The dancers looking dazzling and alluring? The costumes romantic and mysterious?”
He looked through the camera. “I do see it.” He sounded amazed. “It’s a good shot,” he added gruffly, a puzzled expression on his face, as if he were struggling for words that would be more poetic and would express better, or more exactly, what he meant. “I can see it. A good shot,” he repeated, finally.
“Glad to see someone’s earning her salary tonight.” Mrs. Luce swept onto the terrace. “Harry, my dear, you mustn’t let your employees monopolize your time with their problems. Your guests are waiting for you.” She took her husband’s arm. He allowed himself to be led away. Claire wondered if he ever regretted his headlong pursuit of this woman, or regretted the sorrow he must have caused his family. As she led her husband inside, Mrs. Luce managed to turn and whisper to Claire with a measure of privacy, “If you’re searching for a man, Claire Shipley, I suggest you don’t do it on
Life
’s time.”
Well, there was a line worth repeating, one that sounded like it’d come right out of her famous play,
The Women
. After seeing
The Women
, Eleanor Roosevelt reputedly said that the only woman she knew who actually talked like the catty women in the play was Clare Boothe Luce herself. Claire imagined regaling her photographer bud
dies with the line at the staff watering hole over a gin and tonic. She tried to suppress her laughter. With luck her supposed impropriety with Mr. Luce would ensure that she’d never have to work with Mrs. Luce again.
By ten, the crowd began to thin. Mr. Luce departed, but his wife stayed, courting the guests as they said good-bye. Claire pulled the plugs on the lights, abruptly rendering the scene less glamorous. The waiters started to clear the dessert dishes. The maintenance men brought back the ladders that Claire and Seth had used to put up the lights, a sure sign that as far as they were concerned, this party was over. At an empty drinks table, Seth was organizing and numbering the film, matching it with sheets of captions. Evening gown and all, Claire climbed a ladder and began to take down the lights.
“Can I give you a hand?” she heard from below. She looked down to see her father, dressed in white tie. He looked supremely debonair, without a trace of the faux-Chinese about him.
“What are you doing here?” she asked.
“You learning manners from your boss?” he asked smoothly.
“No,” she caught herself. “Sorry, you surprised me. Have you been here all evening? I didn’t see you.”
“Yes, I’ve been here, and I’ve seen you, but I stayed out of your way. Nobody likes a parent hanging around when they’re working. Kept my eye on you, though. Very impressive.”