Hollywood, California. 

Wednesday, January 15, 5:30pm 

“Welcome to Château Céleste. Checking in?”  

I see the taxi pulling away, lights reflecting off the wet sidewalk, raindrops  bouncing off the glass hotel canopy.  

“Three nights in a suite?...I see you requested room number 27...great!”  

I take in the lobby. Cool. Very cool. The outside looks classic French but  inside itʼs all weathered brick, high exposed ceilings, open metal stair,  moody lighting, gallery art. Smattering of antiques. Sort of new Euro  traditional meets L.A. loft. 

“Hereʼs your key and if youʼd like to come down and join us in the bar,  weʼre having wine tasting and tapas at 6:00. Weather report looks good for  tomorrow. Should be back to our usual blue skies, so check out our rooftop  lounge for morning coffee. Enjoy your stay!” 

“Thanks!” 

Room number 27. 

Newly remodeled. It certainly has a great feel about it. Light, spacious,  herringbone oak floors, three windows, all with city views, generous closet,  handsome bed. Classic but with contemporary styling. Sharp. Love the grey  marble in the bathroom. Just enough vintage Paris style in the mix to make  it interesting without being obvious. Nice. I can see why itʼs getting good  reviews. Wonder if it felt this good back in the 50ʼs? 

Causes me to think - what is it exactly about a great hotel room that feels  so good? Is it those perfectly crisp white sheets? That stack of fluffy  towels? The feel of the Italian leather pulls when you slide open the closet  drawers?  

Or, is it just a sense of escape - a feeling of temporary freedom, anonymity  - a secret hideout where, if you turn off your phone, you might never be  found?  

I unwind with a long hot shower. Dress, check messages, cancel Spago and  head down to the bar.  

Itʼs like winter out there but glancing around, I see designer sunglasses atop  heads, bare shoulders, and the perfectly tanned legs Iʼve come to expect  year-round from this kind of hip Southern California crowd. Belvedere  straight up. Two olives. Steady dance beat. Cool vibe. Casual, chic. Iʼm  liking it.  

I settle into a persimmon leather barstool and survey the menu. 

Thursday, 9:30am 

The girl on the desk was right. Killer views up here on the roof! Hollywood  sign clear as a bell. Great Americano. Chicago feels like a million miles  away. A good start to my free day. 

I check back in with Layla on the desk and learn that yes, this place does  have a history, but nothing really recorded or published. The best person  to talk to is Rosarita, the semiretired housekeeper from their sister act  location, The Hollywood Hotel, directly across the street. She has stories  for days. Can they contact her for me? Sure! Love helpful staff!

Ten minutes or so later, Rosarita appears in the Château Céleste lobby.  Diminutive, 80ʼs-ish, olive skin, white hair pulled back in a little chignon,  timeworn face but with a glint in her eye that says, “I can tell you stories.”  So far, so good. 

Not sure where to start.  

“I have some letters. Letters sent from this hotel...and a few things. From a  woman who I believe may have stayed here sometime in the 1950ʻs and  60ʼs. An Eva Delfino. Does that name ring a bell?” 

She looks at me intently. 

“Eva Delfino? Eva Céleste Delfino?” 

I feel the hair go up on the back of my neck. 

“Do you mind if we sit?”  

 I reach into my bag and take out the tooled leather wallet.  “I have this...please...open it” 

I hand it to her. She runs her fingers over the worn crocodile leather and  studies the faded gold monogram.  

F. L. R. 

Slowly, she opens it up and slides out the engraved brass key.  

C.C.  

Room 27 

“Where did you get this?” 

“It was in my fatherʼs things. In an old cigar box with a red lace  handkerchief and this photo. Is this her?”

She takes off her glasses and squints closely at the faded black and white  image. 

“Yes.Yes, thatʼs her. Céleste. She mostly went by Eva Delfino but we knew  her as Céleste. You know, she actually lived here for several years. In that  room. Room 27.  

She had a history, that much we all knew. All a little mysterious. We heard  she had been a socialite in the 30ʼs. Apparently worked for the French  resistance in the 40ʼs...then escaped from Paris at the end of the war.  Ended up in Buenos Aires...in a tango club. They say she owned it, but  there were things we never knew for sure. 

I was just a young thing back then, working the laundry presses. Night  shifts mostly. I always took special care of her and she would give me little  gifts. I loved her. Everyone loved her.” 

She studies the photo again, clearly deep in thought. 

“She was so beautiful. Beautiful. And passionate! Loved to travel. Loved  art, music, especially opera...anything to do with the theatre. Antiques too.  See that wall clock over there? That was hers. We found it in her room  after she left. And that piece of art there above that chair? She had brought  that with her from a little shop in San Telmo. She became the life and soul  of this place...was very close to Guillermo, the owner. He renamed it  Château Céleste which made her happy - for a while.” 

She lapses again into deep thought. After a while I ask her what else she  might remember. 

“Well, my memoryʼs not what it was, but I think when she first arrived, this  place was called the Dryden. It was pretty run down. Had been apartments  for a while. Needed so much work. She really turned it into someplace  special - spent a fortune on her suite - and these rooms down here too.  Brought in an inlaid rosewood piano, I remember that, and a chandelier  she had sent from Austria. Studded leather chairs from Argentina. She  would have these fabulous parties in the bar that went on all night. So  glamorous! Some big names too. But donʼt ask me to name names - Iʼm still  old school - not like now with the paparazzi and all those talk shows.”

She leans forward a little, her dark eyes brightening. 

“She would show them how to tango - weʼd stand over there, over there by  the door and watch. She was amazing. Such charisma, so intense! She had  friends who were something in the studios. Costume designers. Musicians.  Somebodyʼs secretary sheʼd meet for lunch up on Mulholland. But  directors, mostly. Theyʼd send red roses, oh, those roses! Other gentlemen  callers too. They would come and go.  

But the Cuban.  

Rinaldi was his name. Francisco Rinaldi. 

He was really the love of her life. So handsome...came from Key West.  Now, they could dance! Heʼd show up maybe two or three times a year.  Every time he left, she would lock herself in her room...wouldnʼt see her  for days. Weʼd just hear the music coming from behind her door, that faint  tango music...tell me about your father...”  

We talk for the next hour, forging a connection that happens maybe once  in your life, if youʼre lucky. Me, the itinerant freelancer, she, the loyal hotel  employee. She hands me the wallet and I feel her dark eyes studying my  face, searching my soul.  

I shake her hand and tell her how much I appreciate her taking the time.  Sheʼll never know how much. 

I order a Perrier with lime, sink back into the supple leather of the chair,  and try to collect my thoughts. I had figured on more of a wild goose  chase, more detective work than this. I guess some things are just meant to  be. 

I pull out the old picture of my father. Dark, quite handsome. A little  raffish, even, with that wisp of cigar smoke curling around the brim of his  signature Panama hat. Top of the old sailboat barely visible in the  background. He always did have impeccable taste. 

Saturday, January 19, 10:00am

Huevos Rancheros with avocado, enjoying the morning sun. How lucky  these Southern Californians are that they get to live outside like this in  January.  

I pick up my bag and stand for a moment at the foot of the bed, taking a  last look at the L.A. skyline. The door closes and as I head back down the  hall, I swear I hear the faint, faint sound of tango music behind me. 

Layla is smiling. 

“Checking out? I have something for you - Rosarita asked me to give you  this. Your taxi is outside...safe trip back!” 

Itʼs a shallow brown box, lined with tissue. Inside is a perfectly pressed,  cream silk handkerchief. Initials F. L. R. embroidered at one corner.  

As the limestone facade of Château Céleste recedes into the busy street  scene behind me, I realize that some mysteries are worth solving and some  secrets are worth keeping.

‍