Chapter Eight
A week later, I’m back at the Dominion, but this time I’m working.
No Twist of Fate for me until after five o’clock or so.
They are doing quite a bit of work here, but since the hotel is what it is—a world-renowned architectural monument always booked with influential guests—they want me to work invisibly.
Royalty, movie stars, politicians, or prosperous bankers shouldn’t be inconvenienced ever, but especially by a building inspector. I respect that.
This morning, Claudia flew to New York for meetings with Nickel, so I am taking my time. She won’t notice, because she doesn’t micromanage my projects. I solve my own problems; I’m known for taking things off her plate. Besides, I want to enjoy my stay here. History never gets old for me.
The Dominion, like my cherished Library Bar, is a shining example of Art Deco architecture and design.
Had Gatsby ever visited Toronto, this is where he would have stayed.
I’m fairly sure F. Scott Fitzgerald never did, but I do like to picture him here.
I envision him meandering through the lobby well into the night, his jacket slung casually over his shoulder, saxophones and sultry voices filling the place with jazz.
Zelda is with him, naturally, overly friendly with strangers after too much champagne, and her focus drifts.
She takes off her shoes; they dangle from her fingertips by their thin straps.
She flips her mink stole over one shoulder while the sleeve of her silk dress slips lazily off the other.
She spins barefoot on the marble floors, the young queen of the socialites, never believing she might grow old.
I can almost hear her giddiness echoing off the high ceilings and glittering chandeliers, dancing amid the wail of the trumpets and the pounding drums.
So, when Claudia told me she was headed to New York and added the Dominion inspections to my ongoing condo appointments, I didn’t complain.
It’s crazy windy my first morning on-site at the Dominion.
When I walk through the hotel’s front entrance off Front Street, the flags snap over my head, and I’m glad to shut out the blustery world as the door swings shut behind me.
It’s like a sanctuary in here, with its expansive, high-ceilinged entrance, then the dozen or so wide black marble steps.
At the top of the stairs, the walls fall away to reveal the massive lobby, contained by sweeping beams and marble columns.
Glorious sprays of fresh flowers light up the tables.
The wood ceiling, patterned with painted inlays, rises two storeys.
It stretches above the second-floor wraparound balcony, where guests can peer down at Clockwork, the dazzling lobby bar, glowing under muted chandeliers.
Somehow, this place has the ability to appear both vast and cozy, with its brown leather couches and smaller, more intimate tables, of which only about a quarter are presently occupied.
In the background I hear a piano playing, and again I think of Zelda.
Practically speaking, the Dominion is wildly expensive for guests who crave the “gold” experience, not just the history.
When it comes to more expensive amenities and fancier rooms, I prefer Toronto’s Ritz-Carlton, if I’m being honest. Even the Shangri-La.
But if you get a standard room at the Dominion, you can stay in this extraordinary castle for less than a lot of the inferior hotels in the city.
A tray of coffees in hand, I make my way toward the ballroom, where I’ll meet up with the construction crew.
The Dominion set the bar for luxury hotels around the world in its glory days, and during its recent major renovations, the Dominion returned to those standards.
That meant bringing the legacy up to date while maintaining the history.
The company they worked with was Accor Design the subbasement area here carries that eerie, abandoned feeling.
It’s a little unnerving. The staff locker rooms are here, as well as laundry, a staff training room, the various housekeeping and maintenance departments, and storage.
There is also a section for the building infrastructure, like the HVAC systems, electrical, plumbing, that sort of thing.
That’s where I am now. I move through the systems, consulting the blueprints, going back and forth, and double-checking on my phone when needed.
“Excuse me, Paul?”
Paul Brzezicka, it says on his name tag, is a friendly, family-minded man.
I’m assuming that’s a Polish name, and I’m glad I don’t have to pronounce it.
Upstairs in the ballroom, he showed me his phone’s entire photo library, including snaps of seven cute grandkids, a frazzled-looking wife, and two tiny dogs.
Now he is in the subbasement doing something with the plumbing.
I’m glad he’s here, because he seems to know a lot about what’s going on.
“Yes?” He glances over his shoulder. “How can I help?”
“What are all these crates, do you know? They all say Montey Series Industries.” I gesture toward a stack of sturdy three-by-three wooden crates, all of them wrapped and shoved against the wall. Other than the company’s name, a large stamp on one side says HARDWARE, but that’s all.
“New supplier. They arrived a couple of days ago, but they’re not on my orders, so I haven’t checked inside.”
My Google search of Montey Series Industries turns up nothing, which is weird. I study the crates with suspicion, then doubt. I need to get to the wall they’re blocking and check a vent, but this is a big stack. I can’t envision putting my shoulder behind them and shoving.
“I don’t suppose we could move them, could we?”
“Not my department.”