The Chelsea Girls полностью

A show. Good. She’d have a chance to watch the other actors. In New York, she’d been given the script for Blithe Spirit, which had been a big hit on Broadway four years earlier, along with instructions to learn the maid’s role, and she had managed to memorize some of the lines during the flight.

The lines were the easy part for Hazel, as she’d been a serial understudy for the past few years. Hazel’s hope, when she first auditioned for the USO, was to be able to break out of her understudy rut and finally act onstage in a real performance. This was her chance to try something new, so that when she returned to New York, she’d be taken seriously as a major actress, not just a backup to be called upon when the leading lady got the flu. Which, with Hazel’s bad luck, had never happened. She’d even established a reputation among producers: Hiring Hazel Ripley as an understudy guaranteed that your leading lady would never miss a show. Twenty plays now under her belt, without going on even once.

Every night, she’d feel a guilty flicker of relief as the star flounced through the stage door, healthy and raring to go, but Hazel attributed her own reticence to her lack of experience. Surely, once she’d gotten a taste of performing in front of an audience, she’d become just as competitive and eager to take center stage as her brother and father had been. She was a Ripley, after all.

Her mother, Ruth, thought that joining the USO tour was a terrible idea, listing off the names of entertainers who had been injured or killed while abroad, usually in plane crashes. “And let’s not forget that pretty Jane Froman, who almost lost both legs when her plane crashed into a river in Portugal,” Ruth had said. “Accidents happen all the time. You know that’s true.”

Hazel had changed the subject fast, recognizing the dangerous quiver in Ruth’s voice. But she remained undeterred. The opportunity to get onstage while supporting her country was too good to pass up, and she viewed it as a way to honor her brother’s memory while, at the same time, stepping out of his shadow. Not to mention the pay was ten dollars a day plus meals. She’d filled out a long questionnaire, had her fingerprints taken, and gotten inoculated for diseases she’d never even heard of. And now, finally, she’d arrived.

The Jeep pulled into an enormous field, where Mount Vesuvius could be seen smoking away in the distance. Soldiers had taken seats on long benches facing a truck. One side of the truck bed was folded down to expose a platform furnished with a small table and four chairs; a drab-olive canopy was strung overhead. A flag hung from one side, with the words USO CAMP SHOWS written in blue on a white background. This was the stage, although it couldn’t be more than fifteen feet wide. A few hundred soldiers milled about, chatting and smoking cigarettes, with hundreds more still making their way across the field.

“Over there.” The driver pointed behind the truck, where a large tent had been erected. “That’s where the performers are.” He helped her out and handed her the two suitcases. One held the remaining dastardly uniform and other sundries, while the other was full of her best dresses. The Actors’ Handbook had listed a series of dos and don’ts: For the stage, bring dresses that you’d wear on an important Saturday night date. Travel as a unit at all times. If you behave properly, you’ll increase your chance of making the better tours and improve your living and feeding conditions. Made them sound like livestock, that last one.

“I’d walk you in, but we’re not allowed inside.” The driver’s neck turned red at the very idea. “Good luck.”

“No! Don’t say that.”

The soldier’s eyebrows knitted together with concern. “What?”

“You’re supposed to say, ‘Break a leg.’”

He broke out in a wide smile. “Right. Break a leg.”

Hazel nodded goodbye and slid through the opening in the tent flap backward, awkwardly maneuvering her suitcases inside.

“Well, it’s about time.”

Hazel blinked, her eyes adjusting to the dark interior.

A woman around her age, with hair the color of fire, did a slow turn, the better to show off a curvy figure that oozed out of a green silk dress. Behind her, three women perched on low stools in front of a splintered mirror, applying the final touches of stage makeup.

The redhead’s lip curled. “Hazel Ripley, where the hell have you been?”

At least she knew she was in the right place. “I came straight from the plane.” She shrugged, lifting the suitcases a couple of inches to prove it.

“Get out of that and into something pretty. They just called ten.”

“I’m sorry?”