The Chelsea Girls

CHAPTER EIGHT

Hazel

June 1950

After that first tweak with Maxine in rehearsal, which came to Hazel in a rush of inspiration and panic, the cast and crew settled into a rhythm. She and Maxine fell into an easy alliance onstage, just as they had in Italy. Artistically, Hazel knew what she wanted and what she was doing. Whenever she had a logistical question, she counted on the grizzled stage manager to answer it and guide her forward. From her stints understudying, she knew that a good stage manager—who acted as the glue that held the cast, crew, and production team together—was the key to a smooth ride when it came to wrangling the strong personalities of the theater world.

Mr. Canby sometimes stopped by rehearsals but generally kept out of Hazel’s way, other than making sure she had everything she needed, and after a couple of days, she no longer thought twice about piping up to offer her opinion, whether with the set designer or the wardrobe mistress. A dramatic shift between Hazel and Maxine, almost a role reversal, had clicked into place after Maxine’s tearful, terrible confession. In Naples, at least in the beginning of their friendship, Hazel had hung back, observing, while Maxine ruled as queen bee, and now Hazel was the trailblazer and Maxine the vulnerable one. Hayseed Hazel had taken the wheel, with Maxine along for the ride, and so far the dynamic was working nicely.

Back at the Chelsea, Hazel was usually exhausted after a day of rehearsing, but Maxine never lagged. She could often be found wandering the halls in the evenings in a silk caftan and turban, popping from room to room, checking in on the twins or Virgil Thomson. Or she’d force-march Hazel up to the roof, where Lavinia held what she called her “sunset happy hours.” The three would talk shop as the lights of the city twinkled around them.

Meanwhile, the entire city pulsated with a strange new energy. The threat of another war, this time with Korea, loomed in the papers and the news. America had slain the fascists, and the communists were next, according to the politicians. Hazel had made some minor changes to the play, subtle parallels with what was going on now, in the hopes that her words might make her audience reconsider this headlong rush into another fight.

One Thursday night after rehearsal, she wished desperately to go back to her room and lie down, but Maxine insisted she join them at Sardi’s. “You have to show the cast that you’re one of us, not just the girl who tells everyone what to do and bosses them about.”

“I’m the woman who bosses everyone about, and that suits me fine,” Hazel couldn’t help teasing, but she agreed to go.

Usually, walking into a room with Maxine set off a quiet roar. She knew how to make an entrance. But not this time. In fact, the entire restaurant was unusually subdued. A smattering of actors and Biltmore crew members had gathered around one end of the bar, and a few glanced over at Hazel and Maxine with tight smiles. Odd.

The group opened up to include them. Maxine nudged Floyd and pointed out the hundreds of caricatures of theater luminaries that hung on the restaurant’s walls. “Maybe I can get you to do mine again when our show is a smash hit, right, Floyd?”

Floyd nodded and smiled, but didn’t answer.

“What’s going on?” asked Hazel. “Is something wrong, did someone die?”

“Just some political inanity,” said Floyd.

“What on earth are you talking about?” Maxine put a hand on her hip. “You all are looking like we got panned before we even opened.”

Brandy Sainsbury handed over a thin booklet. “This just came out.”

Hazel studied the cover over Maxine’s shoulder, an illustration of a red hand about to clasp a microphone. Red Channels: The Report of Communist Influence in Radio and Television. Hazel read the lines at the bottom of the page out loud: “Published by Counterattack, the newsletter of facts to combat communism.”

“Came out today.” Floyd spoke quietly. “It lists people in the entertainment industry who are linked to communism.”

“Like who?” asked Maxine.

Brandy rattled off names. “Aaron Copland, Pete Seeger, Orson Welles, Lillian Hellman, Arthur Miller, Dorothy Parker. A hundred and fifty-one people in all.”

“And you.” Maxine, who had been leafing through it while Brandy spoke, held up a page to Hazel.

“Me?”

Hazel took it from her. Like the other names, hers was followed by a list of “offenses,” all of which had occurred in the 1930s: signing a petition for the Scientific and Cultural Conference for World Peace, attending an anti-fascist rally, being a member of the Actors’ Equity Association, having signed a congratulatory telegram to the Moscow Art Theatre, and donating to a clothing drive for Spanish refugees. A couple of the entries were incorrect, listing organizations she’d never even heard of.

“What was wrong with attending an anti-fascist rally?” Hazel looked to Maxine, confused. “That’s who we went to war against.”

“They say these are all communist fronts.” Brandy again.

“Look at this last one.” Hazel pointed to a line on the page. “It was a clothing drive. I gave away an old coat. This is utterly ridiculous.”

“So it is.” Maxine took the booklet from her hands and tossed it onto the bar. The others stared at it as if it were radioactive. Maxine shook her head. “This will all blow over.”

The more Hazel thought about it, the more outraged she became. “But it’s not right. Who published this?”

“A company called American Business Consultants.” Brandy shrugged. “Their heart is in the right place. They don’t want communists to infiltrate our country and destroy democracy.”

Hazel disagreed. “But you can’t go after people who are innocent in order to scare everyone else out of their wits. It’s just fearmongering.”

Floyd spoke quietly. “They’re not kidding about this stuff. Look at what happened to the Hollywood Ten.” Three years earlier, in a challenge to free speech, a group of Hollywood screenwriters had refused to reveal whether or not they were communists. The case had made its way through the courts, but lost a chance to appeal when two Supreme Court justices died within a couple of months of each other, tilting the Court to the right. Several of the Hollywood Ten had recently begun serving prison sentences for contempt.

“They’re trying to scare us,” Hazel said. She didn’t have to add that it was working. “They’re basically saying that if you wanted to help out with war relief, or if you were for a good relationship with Russia—back when we were allies of Russia fighting on the same side, I might remind you—you’re now an enemy of America. That, my friends, is what’s un-American. Not this stupid pamphlet of rumors and falsehoods.”

The people around them burst into applause. She hadn’t meant to make a speech, but she was their director. If she didn’t speak up, who would?

“That’s right,” said Floyd. “If Hazel’s a communist, then I’m one, too. We must all stand together.”

More cheers.

“Um, Hazel, can I talk to you for a moment?”

Brandy had sidled up to Hazel, and linked arms with her. Hazel allowed her to pull her off to the side, away from the group.

“What’s going on, Brandy?”

“Everything’s great. I love the play, it’s amazing, I mean, you’re so talented.”

“Thank you.”

“I consider myself so lucky to be part of this team, really lucky.”

Hazel waited.

“I hate to complain about anything, but—” Brandy took a breath. “Well, it’s about my costume. Floyd showed me the sketch and I just don’t look good in that color, and trust me, I have a really good eye. I know what works on me and what doesn’t. I tried to explain that, but he said my first choice didn’t fit with the show’s palette.”

“What’s your first choice?”

“Tangerine.”

Hazel smiled. With all the drama going on in the world, it was a strange relief to have to consider the color of a dress. “Well, you know it’s really up to the costume designer. They get the final say, as they have to make outfits that work together onstage. If they allowed every actor to have a preference, the play won’t look as good, it would be visual chaos.”

“I would think you have the final say. As director, and all.”

Floyd was staring at them from across the room, on the alert. Obviously, they’d already had some kind of tiff. Hazel nodded for him to come over. She didn’t want Brandy to think she could bulldoze her way into getting what she wanted. Or Floyd to think she talked behind people’s backs.

“Ladies?”

“Floyd, Brandy was explaining that she has an issue with the color of her costume.”

“You mean the aubergine dress that will fit her like a glove?”

Brandy shook her head. “In the sketch, the dress is purple. I hate purple, it makes me look sallow and fat.”

“It’s a lush, deep hue, I promise,” insisted Floyd. “The color of a sweet plum, just like you.”

The flattery was lost on Brandy. She crossed her arms. “I look much better in bright colors. Like tangerine.”

Floyd shook his head. “Orange? No, I cannot have you parading around in orange. The rest of the cast is in cool tones. You’ll stand out like a garish citrus fruit.”

“Better than an ugly eggplant.”

Hazel had to shut down this verbal food fight. “Let’s wait and see the dress once Floyd is finished with it, all right? If you really don’t like it, we’ll reconsider.”

Brandy reluctantly agreed before flouncing off.

“That girl is used to getting her way,” said Floyd. “Should I just dye the dress in a big vat of orange and get it over with?”

“Not at all. I’ll handle her, don’t you worry. Let’s just hope this is our biggest dilemma.”

Three days later, North Korea declared war on South Korea.

Hazel tore through the newspaper articles, alarmed at the thought of another war. The North Koreans were backed by Russia, the South Koreans by America. The country would become a proxy for a larger conflict, communism versus democracy, of that Hazel had no doubt.

For her brother and his friends, who came of age in the 1930s, communism as a philosophy was all the rage, and Ben had jumped on the bandwagon right off, following the lead of brilliant writers like Clifford Odets and Albert Maltz. Practically everyone who was in a creative field looked to communism as a way to even out the gross misbalances of society, especially after the Depression exposed the wide rift between the rich and the poor.

At least once a week, Ben knocked on her bedroom door, some petition or other in hand, and asked her to add her name to it. Most of the time she never even bothered to read it. Everyone was taking up causes and trying to impose change, and she was happy to follow Ben’s lead and take part.

At his urging, she’d joined in marches, like the one to support the Spanish Republicans against Franco. News of the violence and horror in Spain, of executions of anyone thought to be communist, including priests, had spread to the United States, and Ben and his buddies had embraced the cause. That afternoon, they’d marched and shouted, and then crowded into someone’s basement apartment to go over next steps. She’d never seen her brother so engaged, his face shining with purpose, until he’d been drafted into the army and was heading off to his own war. And his own death.

Now there would be more boys sent abroad to a foreign country, who’d never traveled anywhere outside of the United States and would be in a strange land, told to fight and kill people. Like the soldiers she’d met in Naples.

Shaking off the dark thoughts, she headed down to the hotel lobby to meet Maxine for brunch. Mr. Bard stood in the middle of the space, overseeing two workers who were hanging an enormous oil painting above the fireplace. She stopped and studied it. “Very nice.”

“By one of our sixth-floor tenants. Couldn’t pay rent but I figure this will cover a couple of months.”

His graciousness touched her. “That’s very kind of you.”

“Did you see the Feds outside?”

“What?”

“Been there the past week or so, on and off. Could be any one of our guests who they’re after, other than Mr. Stolberg, of course. Wonder if he’s the one who sent for them.” He scratched his chin and surveyed the painting. “Pull the right side up two inches.” He nodded. “Great.”

“Has anyone asked them what they’re doing there?”

The workers climbed down their ladders and folded them up. “Watch that, don’t scratch the floors.” Mr. Bard turned back to Hazel. “Nah. Why bother? They go through the garbage, they tap our phones. We know it and they know we know it. Just like Hungary, where I came from. I’m used to it. You Americans think it’s all so free. But no one’s free.”

Out on the street, Hazel peered around. A black sedan was parked next to the fire hydrant, unoccupied and unticketed. Maxine stumbled out of the hotel, a scrape of mascara down one cheek, which Hazel wiped off with a handkerchief. “Long night?”

“The usual.” Even Maxine managed to look alarmed when Hazel told her about the Feds staking out the hotel, listening in on their phone calls. She glanced at the car before taking Hazel by the arm. “I don’t know about you, but I could use a sangria.”

“Unbelievable. You never stop, do you?”

They did an about-face and headed into the street entrance of El Quijote, the Spanish restaurant located in one of the hotel’s former dining rooms. The interior decor was best described as Iberian bordello, featuring red leather seating, a long, dark bar peppered with fake Tiffany pendants, and rough adobe-style walls that would leave a scratch if you got too close. The place was huge, with rooms off of rooms. They grabbed a couple of seats at the bar. A few tables were filled with folks who looked like they’d accidentally stumbled in, but the place was otherwise empty. This was way too early in the morning for the restaurant’s usual clientele.

Lavinia Smarts sat at a table way in the rear, talking to an older man. She waved at them before turning back to her conversation.

“She’s so regal,” said Maxine, sliding onto a barstool. “That’s what I want to be like when I’m her age. A doyenne.”

“No one messes with Lavinia,” said Hazel.

As she said the words, she spied a man in a black suit in a shadowy corner of the restaurant. He was scribbling in a notebook, and when he wasn’t writing, he was staring right at Lavinia.

She elbowed Maxine. “Don’t be obvious about it, but that man seems like he’s surveilling our friend.”

Maxine pretended to drop a napkin and eyed the man as she picked it up from the floor.

“That was so obvious, Max!” Hazel almost laughed. “Seriously, no one would ever guess you were an actress.”

The man turned away, so they couldn’t get a good look at his face.

“You’re worried for nothing. He’s probably an accountant who wishes he was a writer, and comes here to soak up the poetic atmosphere,” said Maxine.

Lavinia rose and hugged her friend goodbye, before disappearing through the side door that connected the restaurant to the hotel lobby. As she did so, the man snapped the notebook shut and pulled out his wallet, tossing a few bills down on the table before trailing her.

Hazel stood, pulling Maxine along with her. “No. He’s up to no good.”

In the lobby, there was no sign of either Lavinia or her tail, and the elevator was slowly ascending. Instead of waiting, they hoofed it up the stairway. At the third floor, Hazel peered up over the railing. She loved this view, straight up, the ornate railing wrapping around and around and disappearing into the blinding whiteness of the skylight. Fancy and overdone, as if she were in Paris or London.

But this time, a few floors above, the man in black was looking right back down at her.

She withdrew fast and whispered to Maxine. “He saw me, he’s up there.”

They picked up the pace, trying to walk as quietly as possible, but as their steps quickened, the man’s did, also. Around and around they went, until they heard a bang.

“The door to the roof.” Hazel stopped. “We have him trapped.”

“I’m not sure we should follow him. What if he’s got a gun?”

Hazel thought of Lavinia. The very least they could do was show these men that they weren’t afraid, that the hotel residents would stand up for one another and resist such intrusion. “We’re just a couple of girls getting some sun. Come on.”

They pushed through the heavy door.

The man stood near one of the gables, looking down over the avenue as if he was searching for his ride. When he saw them, he took off his hat and fanned his face, an attempt at nonchalance. Hazel looked about. No one else was up there with them.

She made a beeline for him. “Who are you?” Up close, he was younger than she’d expected, and rather skinny. His nose was slightly too big for his face, above rose-colored lips that belonged on a girl. His unruly thatch of brown hair could use a barber. This guy sure didn’t seem like a Fed.

He looked from Maxine to Hazel, as frightened as a chicken.

Hazel stuck her hands on her hips. “Are you a Fed? If so, you’re a disgrace to the agency, going after a sweet old lady. We saw you, and the residents of the hotel don’t tolerate being spied on.”

“I’m not a Fed.” His voice was deeper than Hazel expected.

“Oh, please, everyone in the hotel knows we’re being watched.” Hazel studied him. Even though the morning was cool, sweat beaded down the man’s temple. The walk up the stairs had winded Hazel, but not that much. “We saw you taking notes about Lavinia Smarts.”

He tugged at his collar, as if trying to catch his breath. “I’m not a Fed.” The words were barely audible. “I work in the private sector.”

“What does that mean?” Maxine asked.

He grimaced, as if he had some kind of tic, but didn’t respond. Something was off.

“We seem to have stumped him,” said Maxine.

To Hazel’s surprise, the man slowly listed to one side before sliding to the ground, a clump of boxwood breaking his fall.

Not what Hazel had expected. “What on earth? Did he just faint?”

They bent low over him, unsure of what to do next.

“He passed out,” said Hazel.

“No. He’s having a fit.”

Maxine was right. The man had gone rigid, his mouth parted, eyes open and looking off to the side. His body shook as if he were in a washing machine, and his lips began to turn blue.

Hazel turned to Maxine. “Go down and call for someone. Have them send for help.”

“I’ll be right back.” Maxine rushed off.

Hazel had no idea what to do. She tried to hold his head, to keep him from hitting it on the base of the planter. He was unreachable, his eyes rolled back and a horrible grimace on his mouth. She knelt down, the gravel of the roof digging into her knees, her mouth dry, and pulled his head and shoulders onto her lap. As the man’s vibrations coursed through her, she murmured calm words, as soothing as possible, to try to draw him out of his trance.