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Knock, knock.

Everybody decent?

Oh, for fuck's sake... carnations?

Who would dare?

Brooke Astor.

Relentless.

There.

Hellebores, your favorite.

Better.

Oh.

I'm so tired.

No, it's not a hangover.

In fact, you'll be proud to know

I haven't had a drink in three months.

The first weeks were agony, but now I swear

I really don't even crave it.

Just the thought of a drink makes me squirm.

Serenity, courage and wisdom.

There are many wonderful things about sobriety.

The little catchphrases are not among them.

Scooch over, dear, let me lay down.

Oh.

You're positively frigid, Babe.

Everything's frigid without you.

Is it better in there?

I may be joining you before too long.

Knock, knock.

May I come in?

Let me in, please.

Let me in.

- Hello? - Hey, Jack.

Let me in.

Let me in, Jack. Please let me in, Jack.

- Tru? - Please let me in.

- Are you okay? - I just w...

wanted to come in.

I need to...

Something smells very good.

Is that garlic? You like garlic now?

I like a lot of things now,

but I've always liked garlic. Are you drunk?

I am as sober as Pat Boone on a Sunday.

May I please come in?

I'm seeing someone, Truman,

and I would prefer not to inflict you on him.

- Even sober. - Well,

I certainly can't blame you.

Mmm, it smells so good.

What is that, tomatoes, rosemary?

It's a Bolognese sauce, Mr. Capote.

- Oh. - I made pasta, too.

Please stay.

I've always wanted to meet you.

All right, come in.

No, no, Nick,

the drugs, the drink... I can't anymore,

it led to real problems,

as I'm sure poor Jack has no doubt told you.

He only says glowing things about you.

Is that true, Jack?

In fact, it is.

Oh, and yet here we are,

trying to live without each other.

Oh. Hey.

I get along without you very well.

I think Nick is

too young to know that tune.

Are you writing now, Truman?

I know everybody asks you that,

but I've read everything you've ever...

I'm going to finish Answered Prayers, actually.

But... and-and Jack may like to hear this...

it's going to be, uh, my apology

for Cote Basque.

An apology, really?

You, Truman?

Mm, and a kind of a masterpiece.

An apology and an explanation to all the people that I hurt.

The swans and...

... a confession of my misdeeds

and the reasons and...

how I hurt them.

But fiction, you know, as was Cote.

Well, it's, uh,

too late for Babe to forgive you.

And Bill Paley...

won't.

Just forget that and...

what if, uh, Lee and Slim say,

"Too little, too late, fuck off"?

Well, let me ask you a question, Jack.

Why do you always forgive me?

Who says I do?

Well, I'll tell you why. Because apologies,

when heartfelt, matter.

Because that is how the heart is built.

It wants to forgive.

Hmm, does it?

I think this may be wishful thinking on your part.

No. I've seen it.

On death row, with those boys in Kansas.

I've seen...

You know, people want both to...

forgive and to be forgiven.

Well, what do you think, Nick?

Uh, well, uh...

I'm a bishop's son.

"Do not judge, and you will not be judged.

Do not condemn, and you will not be condemned.

Forgive, and you will be forgiven."

Hold on.

Thank you for letting me in.

At the door,

you looked so stricken. Why?

Oh, just old ghosts, you know.

No, I'm happy for you.

You deserve someone good to love you.

And so do you.

Sober, writing...

you're just, uh, you're very easy to love like this.

No, but I don't want love.

I want forgiveness.

And not just for what I wrote, but f...

for what I have done.

Whether these people forgive you or not may have

more to do with who they are than anything else.

It's...

When you're apologizing, there's only one person

to be thinking of, and that is yourself.

Everybody else can figure it out on their own.

It was the end of the world,

and I couldn't decide what to eat.

Some version of life would go on,

for some, but for myself,

P.B. Jones, the closing of La Cote Basque

was an event of cataclysmic proportions.

Usually when an institution is shuttered,

it takes years for the spirits and poltergeists

to creep from their hiding places,

but at La Cote, they just couldn't wait.

All the ghosts had come for lunch.

There was Sidney Dillon with his wife Cleo.

The murderess herself, Ann Hopkins,

at a table with her mother-in-law,

Hilda Hopkins.

Lee and Jackie were there.

And in a far corner was none other

than Lady Ina Coolbirth herself.

Ina was shunting my gaze.

She was still bitter over how I'd bandied about her story

of Sidney and the governor's wife.

In fact, everyone in the dining room

had been a victim at one time or another

of the author's indiscretions.

I had come this very afternoon to dine

with one such embittered soul,

Kiki Kasperzak.

Kiki entered with the flushed look

of one just in from a polo match.

She wore a red number she'd picked up in Palm Beach,

that only a certain kind of woman could get away with.

She was one of them.

Hello, P.B. Jones.

Kiki.

What does one order for a last supper?

The answer to your question, P.B.,

is all of it.

- We'll take everything, Jules. - Thank you.

We passed the afternoon gossiping and eavesdropping.

At the far table, Lady Ina was being stood up,

though she tried to play it off.

Would you care to order, Ms. Coolbirth,

or prefer to wait for your companion?

Companion? I'm not waiting for anyone.

Of course I'll order.

Companion. Please.

Though it was plain to see she'd ordered

her champagne with two glasses.

Meanwhile...

I'll have a numbingly cold glass of Limoncello

with a sprig of mint.

Mm, how refreshing.

I'll do the same thing.

In that case, just bring me a Campari soda.

Poor Jackie.

She can't even help herself stealing her sister's drink order.

And at the best table, Cleo Dillon

was writing something on a napkin.

A room number at a hotel in midtown.

Out with it.

Something on your mind, P.B.?

I'm sorry, Kiki.

You should be.

She had spent the last five years

waiting to hear only those words.

What I wrote...

was cruel.

No. You've got it wrong.

That's not what you should apologize for.

What really stung, P.B., was...

... where you lied for profit.

On purpose.

You cheapened the nuance of our lives.

You understood how imprisoned I felt in my life.

Trapped.

And what you wrote...

didn't acknowledge any of that.

It was a two-dimensional cave scratching

saying, "We ate, we drank, we fucked,

and, God, we hated each other."

I trusted you...

to show me I was more than that.

You knew how I felt.

I wanted to go back.

Back to the person I was before...

life happened to us all.

To me.

You're right.

And I will never do that again.

It may be too late.

But maybe not.

I do have

one other small thing I could offer.

What I had was a plan.

A way to set free, in some small way,

the spirit of that goddess in the gilded cage.

To let her be the girl she had once been.

To hide the great symbol of her wildness

somewhere the judges and whisperers could never see it,

but the dreamers and poets and cowboys might.

The farther we drove,

the more she changed.

She was becoming herself.

Raw, uncut,

pure, concentrated, happy.

She was America.

The hotel it hung in in Mexico City was shuttered.

A ruin, but I figured this place had some life in it.

I used to drink and fuck here.

That's another story.

And suddenly, I understood what freedom was.

Real freedom.

It was something that could only be experienced

by those who had suffered and been stifled,

silenced, forced to pretend, ached.

Hey, Diego Phan,

we'd like to sell you this gorgeous nude.

Yeah? How much?

Two whiskies.

I like it.

It'll look good over the juke.

Next to the armadillo.

The cowboys'll love it.

Who's the girl? She's a real killer.

Oh.

Beautiful women.

Women stay beautiful forever,

unless they're evil.

So many evil beauties.

I wasn't evil.

Well then. Cheers.

- To late freedom. - To late freedom.

It was the product of years and years

and years of longing,

hoping,

and when freedom came

it washed over you like a tidal wave,

all at once,

when the universe decided

it was your time.

Maybe it wasn't the end of the world after all.

Maybe, for Kiki, the world was just beginning.

What you think?

I don't know.

It's out of character for you.

More like your...

juvenilia, frilly.

The kind of stuff you used to pound out

before you found your voice.

What a load of shit.

It's not very kind, mother.

- Here. Take this. - I'm on the wagon.

Your writing is a little stiff.

It'll loosen you up, okay?

The warmth, that's what you're looking for.

Now, take it. Jesus.

That's funny.

The drink... how it helps.

Now your criticisms,

which sting like a wasp...

I can barely feel them anymore.

I have to criticize you, Tru.

You represent me.

You always have.

Come on.

If it weren't for me reminding you,

would you ever strive to do better?

No.

Let's get to work on the next part.

And let's try to make it

a little less fruity.

Right.

- Less fruity. - Mm-hmm.

You really never change, Nina.

Well, I think the muse

has revealed herself.

Oh, you're gonna like this next part, Mama.

Lady Ina's string had run out in the late

middle part of her life amongst the famous

and the rich,

and whatever society was left at the apex.

She was now hungry,

bitter, and she sure was lonely.

It was young hustlers, navy boys

and gigolos in assignations

at the Wales Hotel in Carnegie Hill,

but she wanted love again.

Or if not love, at least power. And if not power, well,

security would do in a pinch.

No, no, no. Not you.

- Stop, please. Just stop. - Fuck off. Leave me alone.

My legs are shorter than yours. I can't keep this up.

I saw you come out of the Whitney.

Stop, please, would you?

What's on at the Whitney... is it the Claes Oldenburg

giant ice pack sculpture?

I met a girlfriend for soup in the cafeteria.

Who has time for art now?

- What is it you want? - To...

be able to talk again.

Talk?! Are you insane?

Why didn't you think of that before you turned me into...

... Lady Coolbirth... that person I am now?

Ow!

Ow.

And then the venom from his deadly snakebite

finally just drained out of her.

And what was left was a lingering, sorrowful anger

comingled with a yearning.

And a bone-deep exhaustion.

Maybe she was just tired.

Maybe she realized how much he regretted.

Maybe she suddenly felt

how much energy it had taken to loathe him.

But for whatever the reasons,

she let him follow her home.

You're not packing like Cleo taught us all.

These should all be delicately wrapped...

Who has the fucking energy for tissue paper?

Cleo's gone.

And where I'm going, nobody's watching me unpack.

Are you really gonna stay mad at me forever?

You know where I'm moving to?

To a little one bedroom "cottage" in Santa Barbara,

A place called Hope Ranch.

- Ha! Hopeless ranch. - Oh, fuck.

- It's always foggy there. - Perfect.

Another old broad on the beach

collecting sand dollars drinking cheap vodka.

Nobody around because you

made me unlovable. Unfuckable.

No, you're so fuckable, dear.

Nobody even liked your goddamn story,

so it's not like it could have been worth it.

It didn't even get you out of financial trouble.

You gained nothing. But you made me a joke.

You made my dreams and ambitions seem so ugly,

when it was all I had.

I consisted of my ambitions, you fuck!

Why am I even taking these?

They're from Japan.

I got them, then Betty Bacall did

and everyone said hers were prettier.

Your story cast its spell and took away everything I had!

Throw it.

Throw the dish at me.

At me, at Cleo, at Bacall, and everyone,

but for Christ's sake,

you've got to get rid of this anger!

Throw it!

It's worth a fortune.

And, after I picked up and flung

the first priceless piece of china against the wall,

it was open season.

Lady Ina went berserk.

Enough plates. I've missed you.

And I you.

And I know exactly what you need.

To be the special one for once.

My own Black and White Ball?

- But you'll wear red. - Really?

Bill Blass is waiting to design it for us.

The second Black and White Ball.

And it is to honor Lady Ina Coolbirth!

Yay!

It surpassed the prior ball

in terms of splash, publicity,

exclusivity and glamour.

The guest list was even grander.

The champagne flowed freer.

This time, no soggy chicken hash,

but beluga caviar from a Russian in Paris.

And Lady Ina Coolbirth was a dazzling vision, a triumph.

It was rumored that she was about to be named

chief of protocol at the White House

or ambassador to the Court of St. James's

or at very least head of the Academy of Motion Pictures.

Maybe all the above.

And it was also the night

she met her final and most deeply felt love,

the love story she had always been denied.

- What do you think? - Yeah.

This Lady Ina Coolbirth...

she's a trouper.

You've always been drawn to strong women like me.

I'm not sure you were all that strong.

I think it was a very dry teat

I was suckling at, Mother.

Let me in!

Let me in. Please!

Let...

Hey, Fredrick, Freddie?

Would you, uh, run down to the lobby

and get me some smokes?

I'm almost out.

Chesterfields, hon.

Stop fucking me.

Jesus Christ, what is the matter with you?

What?!

They're gonna bill me for this.

Why can't I come dance, too? Like this.

And do my special thing.

Oh, stop it, for God's sake.

Jesus, you are a basket case.

Doesn't it ever bother you, the way people stare?

Mama, I don't like that man.

Let's just be me and you.

Oh, you don't like that man, huh?

You like your little bow tie, don't you? Huh?

And your gingham shirt

and your Fauntleroy trousers

and those suspenders?

You like those, don't you?

- Huh? - Mm-hmm.

Well, they all cost money,

and money is what Mama doesn't have.

That's why I have to woo and marry

a man like that...

without you messing everything up.

A boy.

That's the last thing

they always say when they're running for the hills.

"Oh, I didn't know you had a boy."

I want to tell them, "I don't.

Have you seen the little thing, the way he flounces?

It's not a boy at all."

Lucky me, I got myself a sideshow attraction.

I told him you were my nephew.

I said I was doing a good turn for my wayward sister

who's on a boxcar train

somewhere between here and San Francisco.

It was pretty good, wasn't it?

Huh?

All right, now, listen to me.

You stay in here and be just as quiet as a little mouse.

And then,

Mama's gonna give you

the very last dance of the night, okay?

Shut up and just stay in here.

All right? Don't make any more noise.

Ooh, you look beautiful.

Let me in!

I will say...

this chapter is superior to the other.

Stronger.

Here, have another drink.

You're onto something. Don't lose the flow.

Oh, oh. Wait.

And here.

Boy.

Here.

Try a few of these.

Hm? They'll keep you going.

Look at these pills, huh?

Like lozenges of pure relief.

What a century.

The meds, boy, oh boy.

But you...

you just sit here and write.

Come on.

Make them love you again.

Oh, and here,

take a few more bennies.

Keep you going.

P.B. Jones walked into the restaurant

and there wasn't the usual

collective frisson of worry. Just ease.

- He spotted Lee. - Why are you so down on California, for chrissake?

You used to love it, and...

- Hi. - Oh, Jesus.

A famously gay

minor moviemaker with an acid tongue...

more acid even than hers...

specializing in ballet flicks

and flimsy celluloid smart-assery,

Burt Moss. Nobody's idea of a good guy.

- No, I've got something for you. - Oh, what could you possibly

have for me, you snail-darter?

Look. Read it. It's your memoir.

- Wh... - I know you're stuck.

It's got your voice.

I am giving you this book, and it'll be as if you wrote it.

I know you wanted literary credibility.

I've found it very easy

to write in your voice because I know you so well.

She knew she had not been blessed with the talent

or even the force of will to finish such a book,

but that didn't matter because he was doing it for her,

and it was as true and right as if she had done it herself

because P.B. knew where all the bodies were buried.

And she would finally be better at something

than her fairy-tale sister.

It's utterly beautiful.

- It's me. - No, it's, uh...

Okay, fine. What's the shrink's number?

"And I can give you something else you want,"

says P.B. Jones, quietly.

She looked at P.B.

"I can help you get rid of that mistake."

"What mistake?" "The film director," he says.

- Yes, yeah. - "I can help you

kill the smarmy little fucker."

How did you know?

- That was a mistake. - Mm.

He likes chorus boys and Bijan of Beverly Hills

and Jerry Robbins and yachts, that's it.

Well, we can get rid of him.

Now he was going to help

his aggrieved friend remove the latest grief,

and in so doing,

reestablish his own primacy in her life.

A friend again.

A friend to warm the phone lines

and have someone to gossip with again.

A friend indeed.

There had been too many small

and large humiliations to bear in this life of hers.

Enough was enough.

And now she had accidentally

on purpose married a viperous homosexual,

and everyone knew, a dancer turned director,

and how that stung.

But P.B. had,

in his travels, learned a lot, including

how to poison someone using nicotine.

A Russian sailor had taught him

that parlor trick in a flophouse

in the seaport of Split, in Croatia.

It was a matter of taking the liquid form of the substance,

at a very high concentrate,

and finding the right delivery system.

Will this really work?

And after feeding the victim some sort of sleeping pill,

in this case, a nicely ground-up

fistful of Seconal... another good title...

in some very good single malt whiskey,

injecting the concentrate of tobacco behind the ear.

I read your latest story while you were napping.

Did you read the Lee stuff?

The book isn't working for one reason,

and I'll tell you what that is.

You may be writing about the end of society,

the last gasp of a dying class,

their habits and foibles.

But there is no discernible

raison d'être

because you are not in touch

with your hatred.

All these stories about the Swans...

it's all about them letting you

back into their hearts,

you bringing a gift to make up for it.

So write about my suicide.

Why is that so hard for you?

You were in your late twenties when I did it.

You weren't a baby.

Do you think that made it hurt less?

Did you ever even read the police report, huh?

- Don't you walk out on me! - You're drunk, Nina.

Of course I'm having affairs.

How else would I survive you?

You walk out on me and you will never

stop paying the bills for it,

do you understand?

No!

Accidental overdose?

How did they know?

There was nobody there.

That's the story you should tell.

The story of the black swan.

I don't want to tell that story.

Please.

I'm not asking.

I'm demanding.

I'm your mother.

You show some goddamn respect.

She's getting ready.

I can smell it.

I know this scene.

Oh, boy.

I hope you're prepared.

Please, don't.

Please.

You know, you told me that of all your swans...

of which I was only an honorary member...

that I was the one that reminded you most of your mother.

Well, you had the same exhausted

look of terror in your eyes.

Which you have, too.

I recognized it.

Maybe that's why you were so cruel to me.

Could you ever forgive me for what I wrote about you?

Never.

There are some things that are beyond forgiveness.

And the others won't forgive you, either.

If you publish the finished Answered Prayers...

even if you think you're being kind...

it'll just make it worse.

Those friendships died with Cote Basque...

the golden age of society.

Which you... you helped kill.

Perhaps it was a...

a subconscious

final gift to your mother.

And to yourself, for never feeling

like you truly belonged.

So, what can I do now?

I think you know.

Poor Nina.

Don't you want to say goodbye?

I'm not good at goodbyes.

I can't.

My masterpiece.

The book or your soul.

It's up to you.

Light it.

Go on.

You comfortable? You got your notepads,

your pencils, erasers,

alcohol, tobacco, firearms...

You need anything else?

Uh, just a muse to whisper in my ear.

Mwah, mwah.

Truman, what have you done?

What did you do?

I'm gonna get some towels.

Why did you come? My mother.

Oh, Truman.

Truman. Truman.

Mama.

It's so cold.

I'm so cold.

How could this be California?

Beautiful.

What are you saying?

Beautiful. Babe.

Beautiful.

No.

Jack, are you still there?

Yes, I'm still here.

So, the book... is it there?

He said he was gonna finish it out there.

Huh?

The last time I saw him,

he said he had a grand plan

- for Answered Prayers. - Oh, Jack.

- He was in no shape. - I know, I know.

Truman... grand plans.

Just seemed like there might be something to it this time.

No.

I picked up one of his notebooks

- by the pool. - What was in it?

Gibberish.

Just one thing written over and over.

"A dream, a dream, a dream.

A dream that's as real as stubbing your toe."

Whatever that means.

Oh, what are we gonna do, Jack,

now that he's not here anymore to tell us what to do?

Do you want to plan the memorial?

Uh...

No. You should do it.

He was closest to you at the end.

He...

He wanted to be cremated.

I'll take care of it.

Bye.

Up next, this very special item.

From the estate of the late Joanne Carson,

the second wife of Johnny Carson,

this very unusual item.

Mrs. Carson was a great and loyal friend

of the great writer Truman Capote,

who died at her home in Bel Air in 1984.

And today, we're selling his ashes.

And this is an historic lot, friends.

This is the first time in the modern era

that a celebrity's ashes have been at auction.

And we're gonna start the bidding right now at just $2,000.

2,000 right there in the back of the room, 2,000.

2,500 will be the next bid, I have 25 right here.

3,000 is the bid right now, 3,000 on the phone.

3,500 is the bid right now.

Friends, remember you are bidding against

an entire world on the phone right now.

3,500 is the bid I'm looking for now.

35 is the bid.

Friends, think about this, Mrs. Carson famously said

that these ashes... having them... gave her great comfort.

In fact, she kept them beside her bed.

4,000 is the bid I'm looking for now, 4,000 right now.

4,500'll be the bid.

45 is the bid right there. Thank you.

5,000 is the bid.

I have 5,000 right there number 110. Darby?

$6,000 from a bidder from Hong Kong.

6,000 is the bid, looking for 6,500...

The lady in green, thank you.

7,000 is the bid, looking for seven.

Now I have 7,000, looking for eight.

- 7,500 from Berlin. - 7,500 from Berlin.

And now we have eight. Now looking for nine.

9,000, the lady in green. She's back.

9,000 is the bid right now. Looking for $9,500.

Friends, think about this: if Truman were here right now,

he'd be loving this. I mean, this is a scene,

and he loved to cause a scene. How about $10,000?

- 10,000 to the lady in orange right there. - Can I keep going?

Yes, it's fine, you can afford it.

Tell me when to stop.

11,500 from the lady in green right there.

12,000 right behind her. Thank you.

12,500 for Mr. Capote's ashes.

12,500 is the bid right now.

13,000 from the lady in green.

13, five. 14,000. 14,500 in the back, there.

15,000 right there. 15 and a half.

16,000 is the bid I'm looking for now.

Mr. Capote's ashes going once, for $45,000.

Going twice. Going three times

to a mystery buyer in New York. Confirmed.

And, at $45,000...

Sold!

For $45,000.

I wonder who bought them.

Some oligarch for his library, maybe?

- I'm just glad we got out when we did. - Oh.

Look at all these flip-flops people are wearing.

God, to a formal auction.

The world is so graceless now.

I never thought society would simply evaporate.

What happened?

Everything ends.

Shall we go have lunch?

The Polo Lounge.

It's the only place left that's a little like New York.

Mm, nothing's a little like New York anymore.

Not even New York.

Jesus, what a dump.

Let's get out of here, hmm?

Amen to that.

Come on, dear.

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