Ruth flinched, her lips in a long, hard line. “You don’t want to act? It was good enough for your brother.”
“But I’m not Ben. I’m not going to be Ben. I have to find my own way.”
“Exactly what do you think you’ll do instead? You’re in your room all day, typing away, like Hemingway. Do you think you can be a Hemingway? That’s not what’s in your blood. What’s in your blood is the theater.” She stood and dumped out the rest of her tea in the sink. “At this rate, you’ll be playing old harridans before you know it.”
Enough was enough. “Then I might as well stick around and learn from the best.”
The slap came as a complete surprise. Ruth had never raised her hand to Hazel before, and for a moment, Hazel wasn’t sure exactly what had happened. She put her hand to her cheek and then looked at her fingers, as if the answer could be found there.
“I’m sorry, Hazel. I didn’t mean it.”
Her mother tried to hug her, to pull her close, but Hazel stepped back, hands in the air, to block her. She needed space, time to think, without her mother fussing about and telling her what to do every minute of the day. Enough was enough. And there was one place where she might be able to find this reprieve.
As her mother’s apology slid into tears, Hazel packed a bag and jumped in a cab. She gave the driver the name of the Chelsea Hotel and stared out the window as the taxi pulled up to the redbrick building, a handsome melding of Victorian Gothic and Queen Anne styles that loomed over Twenty-Third Street.
Her plan was to stay there for a few days and collect herself, cool off. She wasn’t called in to work this week anyway, and she needed a break from her mother’s self-pity and recriminations.
In the lobby, she examined the eclectic mix of art on the walls. One was signed de Kooning, and she remembered seeing his first one-man show a couple of years earlier. Victorian flourishes filled the foyer, including a massive mahogany fireplace that wouldn’t be out of place in a Scottish castle. Tables with gleaming marble tops reflected the circular chandelier. The furniture was too big for the size of the room, but the high ceilings helped manage the scale.
A young couple stood at the front desk, chatting with the clerk. The woman tottered on heels so high Hazel was amazed she’d been able to navigate the foyer, and had a purple fascinator perched on her head that matched the suit clinging to her slender frame. She turned around and gave Hazel a tentative smile.
The woman was a man. With five-o’clock shadow and thick eyebrows. In women’s clothing. The couple disappeared into the elevator.
“All right, miss.” The man behind the counter tugged at the brown bow tie around his neck and motioned to Hazel, entirely unperturbed by the strange sight. “What can I help you with?”
She tried to remain unruffled, as if being here were perfectly normal. Maxine had warned her the place was eccentric. “I’d like a room, please. Nothing fancy. I’ll be here for a few days.”
He looked at his register and frowned. “We’re almost fully booked. Who are you, exactly?”
The question threw her. “I’m sorry?”
“Who are you? What do you do?”
“I’m a writer.” She’d never said that out loud before. Never dared to. The words hung in the air.
The man perked up considerably. “We’ve had a number of famous writers here. O. Henry in room 412, Edgar Lee Masters in 214. Thomas Wolfe wrote Look Homeward, Angel in 829. Mark Twain lived here as well. You a novelist?” He spoke with a vaguely European accent that Hazel couldn’t place.
“No. A playwright.”
“Huh. In that case.” The man scribbled something down in his register. “What’s your name?”
“Hazel Ripley.”
“Sign here.”
She did so, and snapped open her pocketbook.
“No need for that yet,” he said. “Let’s get you settled first. You seem like a nice enough girl.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“Full name’s David Bard. At your service. You got any problems, you just come to me. My office is around the corner.” He plucked a key off a hook and led her to the elevator. His upbeat manner and ill-fitting suit endeared him to her immediately.
A weathered bellhop appeared, wearing a frayed navy uniform that looked about as old as he was. He picked up her suitcase and followed them inside the elevator.
“This here is Percy,” said Mr. Bard. “And in case you need anything fixed, ask for Krauss.”
She reminded him that she was only there for a few days. “I doubt I’ll need a handyman.”
He just smiled.
They got out on the fifth floor and walked past a wide marble staircase that spiraled through the middle of the building, its railing studded with bronzed-iron passionflowers.
Mr. Bard opened the door to one of the rooms at the very end of the hallway, and Hazel gasped. Rows of handsome bookcases lined one wall, with a fireplace opposite. A solid rosewood beam separated two open spaces, the walls of one painted a robin’s-egg blue and the other a sunny yellow, with golden wood floors that ran on the diagonal. Matching red brocade chairs flanked the fireplace, but the rest of the furniture trumpeted mismatched patterns and colors that unexpectedly blended in with one another. Stained glass in the transom windows topped off the room’s riot of colors and textures.
To the left was a small kitchen. A bedroom sat just off the main room, its decor only slightly more subdued than that of the salon.
She thought of her meager savings. “This is beautiful, but I can’t possibly afford it.”
“I’m afraid it’s all we have. But you’re only here for a few days, you say, right? Let’s agree on fifteen dollars a night and call it a day.” He laughed at his joke.
“Are you sure? Once I’m here, I may never want to leave.”
He smiled. “Won’t be the first time. Price is cheaper by the month, by the way. If you’re a true artist, and I can tell just by looking at you, you are, this is the place for you. Back when it was built, the plan was to make it a utopia for creative minds, whether poor or rich. The Chelsea was the tallest building in New York City until 1902. We still have a roof garden where you can enjoy the view.”
Hazel let him ramble on at length. This was obviously a man who enjoyed his work.
After he left, she unpacked the few items she’d brought with her and placed her typewriter and manuscript on the small desk. In the kitchen, she checked the icebox, which was empty, and poured a glass of water from the sink, realizing after the first sip that the cold tap ran hot water, and vice versa.
One window looked out west, across the roof of the synagogue next door, while the French door in the main room faced north. She turned the knob and stepped out onto the narrow, lacy balcony.
Five stories below, traffic zoomed along Twenty-Third Street.
With a start, she realized what was wrong with her play: the setting. It was far too specific and unwieldy. What if she set the story in a grand hotel, like the Chelsea, but one that’s crumbling away in a war zone, under siege, with only a handful of guests left? Forget nationalities, make it a war story that’s not tied to any particular war, so the characters are stripped down to their essence. They suspect there’s an enemy in their midst, an enemy who insists he works for the resistance. It would raise questions of patriotism and nationalism, faithfulness and betrayal, everything that had churned inside Hazel from her time in Italy.
Hazel reconsidered the strange person she’d observed in the lobby. What if one of the leading men was actually a leading lady, but her gender wasn’t revealed right away? Hazel thought of Shakespeare, who often had girls wearing drag in order to remain safe in a dangerous world—Rosalind, Viola. If she layered in a love story between the two leads, the whole thing would truly sing.
She practically skipped back to the desk and rolled a fresh sheet of paper into the typewriter. Fingers poised on the keys, she considered how many other writers had stayed here, in this hotel. She could almost feel the ghosts of former guests pressing around her, encouraging her. This place was a living, breathing muse, one that coddled its guests and kept them warm while they scribbled away. Or, from the sound of the piano she’d heard in the hallway and the artwork in the lobby, composed or sang or painted.