Just before the crash of ’29, John D. Rockefeller, Jr., had leased twenty-two acres on the west side of Fifth Avenue to build a complex of art deco office buildings and an opera house. After the crash, the opera house had to be abandoned. But that didn’t stop Rockefeller executing the rest of the project. Single-handed, the richest family in the world developed not one but fourteen office towers, with roof gardens and a central plaza, creating the most elegant street space in the city. Its delightful central court doubled as an open restaurant in summer and small ice rink in winter. Toward the end of a decade of building, some of the construction workers, one December, decided to put a Christmas tree in the plaza.

Rockefeller Center was a triumph. It was big, it was elegant, it was rich. It was created by New Yorkers who refused to take no for an answer. Even the Depression couldn’t keep them down. That was it, Charlie thought. That was the point of New York. Immigrants came here penniless, but they made it all the same. God knows, the first Astor had come with almost nothing. It was the tradition, going right back to those hard, salty East Coast sea captains and settlers from whom he and his son descended. Rockefeller was a titan, like Pierpont Morgan, or President Roosevelt—princes of the world, and with the New York spirit, every one.

“That’s Rockefeller Center,” he said to his son. “They kept on building it right through the Depression because Rockefeller had money and guts. Isn’t it fine?”

“Yes,” said Gorham.

“A New Yorker can never be beat, Gorham, because he gets right back up again. Remember that.”

“Okay, Dad,” said the little boy.

The cab took them round, up Sixth and back through Central Park. It was really very pleasant. But as they came back to where they’d started, Charlie couldn’t help reflecting upon one, inescapable truth. They’d just taken a horse-drawn hansom, like tourists. Tonight he’d take Gorham to a show, somewhat like a tourist. And tomorrow he’d have to take him back to Staten Island.

And then his son spoke.

“Dad.”

“Yes, Gorham.”

“When I grow up, I’m going to live here.”

“Well, I hope you will.”

The little boy frowned, and looked up at his father solemnly, as if he had not quite been understood.

“No, Dad,” he said quietly, “it’s what I’m going to do.”

Charlie arrived at the gallery quite early, but Sarah Adler was already there.

The Betty Parsons Gallery was on Fifty-fifth Street. It had only opened in 1946, but it was already famous. Partly, no doubt, it was Betty’s character. Born into old money, she’d followed the prescribed path, married young and respectably. But then she’d rebelled. She’d gone to Paris, and set up house with another woman. In the thirties she’d lived in Hollywood, and been a friend of Greta Garbo. Finally, an artist herself, she’d set up her gallery in New York.