Editor’s Note: The Last Hotel: A Novel in Suites by Sonia Pilcer. This is the 17th installment of her tales of the Upper West Side in the 1970s. Look for it every Friday. To read the 16th installment, with links to previous ones, click here.
Suite 42
As Rachel entered the lobby, she could feel tension in the air. Saul sat at his table, head buried in the New York Times, eagle-eyeing the stock listings. His small black notebook, where he wrote names and numerals was open. But the newspaper shook.
“Hi, Saul.”
“What do you want?” he demanded, eyes filled with rage.
“I — just – wanted to say hello.”
“HELLO!” he yelled.
Rachel’s high heels clomped quickly as she stalked away.
“Mrs. Winehouse, I’m sorry.” Then he added. “I have some problems.”
Rachel stopped. “With your family?”
“No, no. Though my daughter, never mind. Do you ever see a young woman with dark hair? She lives in the penthouse.”
“Sometimes.”
He nodded. “Does she seem all right?”
“She’s not too friendly.”
Saul nodded ruefully.
Rachel started to walk again, but Saul followed her. “Something’s happening to the hotel,” he said, lowering his voice.
“What do you mean?”
“I’m not sure what these people have in mind. They bought the other partners shares, and want to buy mine. You and the other tenants should keep your ears open.”
As she rode up in the elevator, Rachel moaned, “Why me?” She didn’t want to get involved. What a pain. She’d have to find another place. The elevator stopped at the fourth floor.
Rachel raised the lid of a steaming iron pot. A cloud of meat scent rose, steaming the window. She stuck a fork into the pot, blew, then took a dainty nibble. “Aaah!” she sighed.
Simmering in a thick iron pot overnight, the potatoes, onions, garlic and kidney beans had melted with the beef, creating a cholesterol paste made for masonry, not a mortal mouth. Chicken shmaltz was the secret ingredient in her cholent. Use a piece of steak, never mind what cut. A shank bone. How her grandfather Abe loved to suck the marrow. Sadie had passed the recipe to her granddaughter in a veil of deep secrecy. “Few can resist,” she warned. “Beware of its power.”
That’s how she got Harvey to marry her. Harvey Fox sported a diamond-studded, six-inch mezuzah on his hairy chest. He took her out every Saturday night, usually for dinner and an overnight tête à tête.
One chilly December night when she still lived in the Larchmont house, a Victorian inherited from husband number two, she prepared her cholent. Harvey took a little piece of beef on his fork. He wasn’t a chazzer. He breathed in the aroma. Then another bite. Losing his cool completely, he dove into his plate. Smacking his lips, he cried out, “A masterpiece. Soft, onions… I never ate such a thing!”
That night, Harvey got down on his knees. After he made her come, not once but twice, he popped the question. What Rachel insisted on was a diamond that was a boulder, not a little pencil tip. They’d had a good time together for ten years, but that was over. Kaput. Six years ago, Harvey keeled over dead. Was the stroke from her cholent?
She didn’t really miss him, but sometimes she wanted to be with a man. She still had the yetz.
That’s why Rachel had decided to strike while her friend Faye was in Baltimore for some sort of conference. He’d never be able to resist her grandmother’s legacy. Besides, a man got lonely when he gets used to getting it. Especially if Pincus was such a stud. Rachel had nothing to lose. And she would finally get even with Faye for Ahmet. Even if it didn’t work out, it’d be pure mischief. Seduction. The game enticed her. Even at her advanced age.
It was Faye’s own damn fault. Hadn’t anyone ever told her to keep a good thing to herself? “Pincus is a god in bed. His touch, like a piano tuner. He just knows how to pluck my strings.”
Yech! Rachel wanted to puke. Faye just went on, glowing like a naked bulb. “It’s so wonderful to wake up with Pincus in the morning. That’s our favorite time to make love…”
As far as Rachel could see, Pincus was an alte cocker. He worked for the Jewish Forward and looked like one of those European intellectuals. But she had to admit that Faye’s skin had a glow.
She and Faye had been friends for thirty years, at least. They were the red and black. Faye, an unnatural redhead. Everything about her – her long creepy nails, her vampire rouge and lipstick — was red. Some people think they have to look like a fire engine to get some attention.
Rachel styled herself as a Liz Taylor brunette, turquoise eye shadow over black-kohled eyes, a black beauty mark painted on her right cheek.
Loose lips sink ships. Don’t advertise your man! Especially in NYC, land of no parking spaces, no good men. A war zone of single women, divorcees and widows, especially ripe, mature ones like herself. As for ‘eligible bachelors,’ they were the never-married zhlubs, who live like pigs, divorced losers, and sickly widowers, looking for a nurse. Not me, sweetie. A decent man was hard to find. A hard one, forget it! If you happened to find one, keep it under your wig. Otherwise, you just never know what might happen…
There was the time Rachel had met the Turk. Ahmet. Between number two and three. He wasn’t actually her type – too chunky, but in bed, he became sleek as a seal. Rachel had made the mistake of telling Faye – just before flying out to California. When she returned, Faye couldn’t look her in the eye. She had sampled her specimen.
Rachel had outlived three husbands, two, younger than she. Her secret? Lots of money, good bones, daily treks on her stationary bicycle, and an occasional discrete injection, here and there. After the collagen got rid of the dark circles under her eyes, she looked ten years younger. Everyone said so. And her natural gift for fellatio. That was what Mama Gabor had taught her daughters. Zsa Zsa and Eva were legendary in the Hollywood Hills.
Rachel sold real estate. Whenever one of her friends decided to give up her Westchester place and move to the city, Rachel sold it, taking a percentage for herself. Then she helped her find a co-op in Manhattan, and there was another fee.
She told her reflection in a gilt frame. Guilty? I’m a sinner. A total, unrepentant sinner. I love to be bad. It makes me feel alive. And yet, Rachel fasted on Yom Kippur, and gave herself over to the ritual breast-beating. I cheat, I lie, I steal, I am cruel… Repeated over and over. Chanting it, she prostrated herself.
Now she slipped into a simple but costly black dress, humming ‘Love Me or Leave Me,’ and slipped out of her underwear. As she was about to leave, she sprayed herself with Chanel No. 5. Yes, down there too. Why not? They weren’t children. She threw her keys into her pocketbook, and grabbed a pair of red oven mitts to carry the pot of cholent, wrapped in a blue and white checkered kitchen towel.
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Sonia Pilcer is the author of six novels including The Holocaust Kid. The Last Hotel is now available at your favorite bookstore or Amazon.com. Visit Sonia Pilcer’s web site here.
