The Chelsea Girls(20)

She pointed to a pear-shaped man standing by the piano, with a wide forehead and a grim look on his face. He was listening to an older man, handsome, who Hazel recognized as a well-regarded artist. “Is that the painter John Sloan?”

Winnifred gestured around the room, beaming like a proud mother. “She’s full of famous people.”

“The hotel, you mean?”

“Exactly.”

The Chelsea Hotel. A “she,” like a lumbering redbrick ship filled with foolish dreamers.

Hazel would have to use the phrase somewhere in her work.

“Oh no, watch out for fireworks.” Wanda and Winnifred spoke in tandem and giggled at each other.

“You dare to show your face, Ben Stolberg!” The words came from a woman of around seventy who appeared from the bedroom, with thick, swept-up hair and a profile that belonged on a Greek coin. Even though her skin was wrinkled and stippled with age spots, her mouth was still generous and her eyes a vivid green, matching the wrap that she tossed dramatically over one shoulder. Lavinia Smarts was even taller in person than she appeared onstage, a fact that surprised Hazel.

Miss Smarts glared at a man who’d just arrived through the front door and looked to be in his late fifties. The man opened his mouth to offer a retort, but someone turned up the music, so Hazel couldn’t hear his reply.

Wanda shouted into Hazel’s ear. “That’s your hostess, Lavinia Smarts. She and Ben are always at each other’s throats.”

“Why?”

“Politics. When things get crazy, everyone goes up to the roof to avoid getting decked by a flying ashtray.”

The music grew even louder, the sounds of violins drowning out any attempt at conversation. Across the room the argument carried on, like a silent movie. Hazel secretly rooted for Lavinia Smarts to win.

“Lavinia Smarts was a communist but is now a socialist,” shouted Wanda. “That’s what the fight’s all about. Ben Stolberg finds her political views abhorrent, whether communist or socialist.”

“He hates all ‘ists,’ really,” added her sister.

“Are you a communist?” Wanda asked politely when the orchestral music quieted down.

Hazel didn’t answer outright. “Why?”

“We have a number of them organizing on the first floor, if you’re interested.”

The thought made her smile. “Back in the day, my brother was active in the CPUSA. I went along for the ride, really.” Ben had joined the Communist Party of the USA in the thirties, after droning on and on at home about the imbalance of wealth during the Depression and the rise of fascism in Europe. He’d call her into his room to read from some Communist text or other, and she’d sit at the end of his bed, cross-legged, nodding as if she understood but really just enjoying his attention. He’d had the lashes of a girl, long and lovely, but the rest of him was all boyish exuberance, quoting Karl Marx the same way he’d once carried on about the Hardy Boys mysteries.

“I suppose everyone has a right to an opinion,” offered Hazel to the twins.

“Maybe not for long.”

Wanda had a point. In the years since the war had ended, political sentiment in the United States had turned hard to the right. Mr. Stolberg turned off the record player with a sharp scrape that made Hazel put her hands to her ears.

“Listen, Miss Smarts,” he said. “You want to know why the Screen Actors Guild insists that all members take an oath of loyalty? Because the entertainment industry is filled with pinkos.”

Miss Smarts wasn’t cowed. “Says who? Joseph McCarthy? He’s just making it up as he goes along. How can you not see that?”

Mr. Stolberg wagged a plump finger in her face. “The commie spies have already made inroads throughout America. It’s only a matter of time before they take over and destroy democracy forever. We must fight back.”

“How? By invading Korea? It’s on the other side of the world, for God’s sake. It has nothing to do with us.” She looked around the room, currying support, and Hazel nodded vigorously.

“Korea is only the beginning.” Stolberg was turning red. “We have to defend ourselves from the incursion.”

“You mean send more boys out to die? Enough, I’ve heard enough. You must leave at once.” She extended one arm out, finger pointing to the door, and Mr. Stolberg did a dramatic bow before exiting. Obviously, this was a repeat performance, and neither seemed to take it personally, Mr. Stolberg rolling his eyes on his way out, and Miss Smarts taking a long swig out of a glass and twirling around.

“Where’s this new writer we have on board?” She came to a stop in front of the sofa, jutting out one hip.

Hazel got to her feet, noting that Miss Smarts was taller by at least five inches. She introduced herself and thanked her for the invitation.

“Please, call me Lavinia,” she insisted. “I remember your father fondly, as well as your brother. You Ripleys are a talented bunch.”

“Thank you.” The theater community was so small, Hazel immediately felt comfortable with Lavinia, as if she’d known her for years. “We also have a friend in common,” she added.

“Who is that?”

“Maxine Mead.”

Lavinia clapped her hands together, her eyes twinkling. “A delightful child. I remember her well, from my days on tour. I hear she’s off in California making movies. How is she doing?”