The Chelsea Girls(32)

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.”