The Sea Harp Hotel.

Charles L. Grant.

Introduction.

by Charles L. Grant

Greystone Bay 17 July 1862.

The SeaHarp Hotel.

My dear Jonathan, Born here, died here. If you would be so kind as to put that on my tombstone, son, I would be grateful. Anything else would no doubt be blasphemous. And I doubt God has any patience left for me, being busy enough putting fools in high office who will, I no longer fear but know, soon have us all bearing arms against our own kind. Children in the park play at war. Those who claim to understand such things, as I do not, claim that conflict is unthinkable, that no man, no state, no country would dare wage open warfare against itself. As usual, those who claim to know, know nothing.

Would you were here, you would be shocked to see that even the Bay is afflicted. Aside from the arguments which rage nightly in the Gentleman's Lounge here at the hotel, each night, on the sand, a madman who claims to have fought with General Harrison shrieks his anti-abolitionist message to anyone who will listen, including the gulls and the tide.

The guests are disturbed. There is little I can do. Perhaps God, or an armed drunk, will put this fool out of his misery. I lose rooms because of him.

But perhaps I am too much the cynic these days.

Perhaps I am bitter because, after all these years, I still miss your mother.

Only time and the Rail-splitter will tell.

On a more important subject, in this package you will find the key. Do not lose it. Show it to no one, not even your lovely Lucinda. It is time.

I know. I understand. You protest, you deny, you may find yourself moved to return to the Bay and examine my senses for signs of deterioration. Do not bother yourself. Stay where you are. I assure you, Jon, the only deterioration is in my soul, and my body. I cannot rid myself of this cough. It prevents my sleep, it disturbs my guests, it has kept me a virtual prisoner in my apartments in order that I do not cause more to flee to other houses along the shore.

I cannot eat.

I can barely drink without spilling.

The men who pass for physicians tell me it is the climate. They tell me my constitution is not suited to the dampness of the sea air, the chill of even the summer night. The fog. It makes no difference to any of them that I was born in this very place, not a hundred paces from where my dream now stands. They blame the air.

We know what it is, you and I.

And perhaps it will permit me to see you before I die.

It is much too hot here.

There is too much noise.

I think it is time, perhaps for the last time. I visit the room. I think of your mother often when I am there, which makes it all bearable. She was so lovely, so fragile, one would never have guessed her age when she was taken. I, now, am fully aged.

Damn this hotel! have changed my mind. Come home. Without your moth-strength I am too much afraid. Yours,Howard Bolgran Greystone Bay 19 February 1889 The SeaHarp Hotel Walter, Since you are determined to remain away from your home and your family, I have no choice but to inform you that I have made arrangements for the affairs of the SeaHarp to be administered by Graham Menzies after I am gone. He has already taken over most of the daily chores, sees to it that our guests are treated in the manner to which they have rightly become accustomed, and despite your no doubt drunken accusations, takes nothing out of it but the simplest of amen-ities.

I have also seen to it, through Mr. Thargood, that the sti-pend you now receive be terminated at my death. You will have no idea how much that pains me, but since you would rather enjoy the "entertainments" of New York than the comforts of your birthplace, I have no choice. You are now free to find other means by which to finance your debauch-eries.

I thank God your grandfather, the founder of this respite from the horrors of the world, is not alive to see this.

However, should you see your way clear to return for my funeral, do at least one thing for me. A deathbed request if you will-take the key I enclose here and go into the room. What you find there will no doubt answer all your questions. And I can assure you, it will solve whatever questions you have about your future as well.

Mr. Thargood knows nothing of this, nor does Mr. Men-zies.

You need not respond to this correspondence.

Either you come or you do not.

I do not care.

As far as I am concerned, you have died before me.

Your Father Greystone Bay 11 October 1900 The SeaHarp Hotel Dear Mr. Thargood, When I purchased the SeaHarp Hotel from Mr. Walter Bol-gran three days before his unfortunate passing, it was with the understanding, in writing both from him and your firm, that this was a thriving establishment, well thought of by the genteel and the wealthy. As you have seen by the abrupt decline in bookings, this is not the case now, nor has it been for the past several years, long before I took possession. Even the improvements I made-the doubling of capacity by cut-ting the rooms in half, the paint, the gardens, the rates-have had no effect. Nothing seems to work.

If I were not a businessman, I might even go so far as to say that this place, this fog-damned village, has deliberately attempted to put me out of business. And I am one of them, for God's sake!

If I am to maintain my reputation in commercial circles, I must divest myself of this albatross. It would please me, then, if you made all the necessary arrangements. You may reach me at my hotel in Boston, certainly a more civilized place than this. I shall be leaving in the morning, after I am positive nothing has been overlooked, or pilfered, by this laughable staff.

I have come to suspect, by the way, that much of which has been reported lost and stolen by the handful of guests who have stayed here-none, by the way, more than a week through the past five months-has been stored in that locked room in the corridor just before the so-called Gentleman's Lounge. I will check it myself. I would not be surprised if there is something there I will be able to report to the police.

Until I hear from you then, I remain, Yours truly, Lamont HewsGreystone Bay 1 November 1904 The SeaHarp Hotel Dearest Dorothy, Just a quick note, on this the first anniversary of our as-suming title to our dream, to tell you that I have, in the library, at last located the word "SeaHarp." It refers to an obscure form of oceanic life which used to thrive in our very own bay before the middle of the last century. It is so called because of its peculiar harp-like shape. Oddly, I can find no mention of whether it is fish or plant. I suspect the "scien-tists" of the day were, at least here, not much more than amateurs. No matter. There are times when I cannot be sure if this hotel is really a hotel, or a way-station for those fleeing from the law.

A jest, my love. Do not worry. We are on sound footing at last, and in only one year. I think we will make it.

Please give my best to your mother, and tell her that I trust she is recovering rapidly.

And do hurry home. I have a surprise for you. I cannot tell you what it is for that would spoil the surprise, but suffice to say, I have finally discovered which lock accepts that key you found in the attic last month.

You won't believe your eyes.

I love you.

Your loving husband, Peter Greystone Bay 26 Play 1955 SeaHarp Hotel Dear Father, The redecoration of your and Mother's apartments on the top floor is now done. Both Simon and I urge you come home. Simon's children miss you terribly. Frankly, how he manages those dreadful little children I'll never know. They are horrid, and the longer you two are away, the worse they get.

One of these days, I'm going to put them in the room.

The weather is beautiful.

Wish you were here.

Simon sends his best wishes.

Love and kisses, Elinor Greystone Bay 9 August 1988 The SeaHarp Hotel Dear Howard, Right now, while you're sweltering in the city, ducking from one air conditioned office to another and catching pneu-monia in the process, I am sitting quite comfortably at a small table on the front porch, watching a fishing boat on the bay, watching the shadow of the SeaHarp darken the water (the tide is coming in), and waiting for that famous Greystone fog to roll in. It's a little chilly for this time of year, but it beats 100 in New York any day.

Someone is playing Mozart on the lobby piano.To my left, in the garden, a young woman and her daughter are chasing a gull that seems to have the kid's pink rubber ball.

And if someone brings out the hotel's croquet set and asks me to play under the stars, damned if I won't do it.

That's the kind of place this is.

I'm sending along photocopies of those letters and personal reminiscences you asked for just so you can see that I'm really not exaggerating when I say that this building has been jinxed from the word go. The bizarre stuff that seems to go on here beats all hell out of me, and yet they keep on coming from all over with their suitcases and their families, on their honeymoons and on their retirement, just as if nothing's ever happened here and nothing ever will.

It's as if we're talking about lemmings in human form or something.

I've even sent a couple of things over to Wes Martin, the guy who took over for Abe in the Station, to see what he makes of it. Talking to the police here is a small-town joke- they have one of those it's-our-town-not-yours-so-what attitudes. You know: "This is the way we've always done things, and it's worked so far, so why bother to change?"

Right. If it ain't broke, don't fix it.

Damn. There's the fog. Write five words and the damned thing sneaks up on you. Pretty impressive, actually. It's just about at the boardwalk, and you can't even catch a glimpse of the people who were on the beach a moment ago.

Spooky as hell, if you want to know the truth.

Speaking of spooky, I've finally gotten Victor Montgom-ery, grandson of the people who reopened the joint, to admit that I have in fact discovered the mysterious "room" that keeps popping up in all this correspondence. The trouble is, he won't let me in. And you can forget that brilliant idea of kissing up, as it were, to sister Noreen. She reminds me of Mrs. Bates, after Norman took care of her. No thanks. I'll think of something else.

Meanwhile, the fog rolls in every night like clockwork, the bar is well-stocked, and there are, I suppose, worse places in the world to put your feet up and forget about deadlines and stuff.

I just wish I knew what was in that room.

The streetlamps are on.

It's almost like London, before they cleaned up the facto-ries.

But it's not so much the fog, not really.

It's the sounds in the fog.

Right now, I can barely see over the porch railing. But I can hear the water slapping at the pilings, I can hear someone in high heels walking on the sidewalk, I can hear what almost sounds like a carriage rattling over cobblestones in the street; someone is giggling in the garden; there are wings overhead, probably a large gull heading for home; the piano has stopped; the streetlamps are little more than blurs of lighter fog; a fish jumps, or something has been thrown into the water; a buoy rings unevenly, as if something has just passed it, tipping it in its wake; a match is struck, but I can't see the light; far down Harbor Road someone's whistling; someone kicks a pebble; a door opens, but I don't know where; footsteps on wood; wings; whistling; humming; a carriage; a woman laughs; and someone, out there, whispers my name.

Charles L. Grant

EX-LIBRARY

by Chet Williamson

It was not, Kendall Harris thought, the ideal place for a fam-ily vacation, and he would damn well let Riggs know it when he got back to Boston. The SeaHarp Hotel, despite Riggs's paeans of praise, struck Harris as little cheerier than a mau-soleum, and the town of Greystone Bay was not so much "charmingly caught in time," as Riggs had put it, as it was embalmed, like a long-dead insect trapped in amber.

Every face Harris had seen in the hotel, including his own in the mirror, had a pale, sickly cast that unerringly reflected the pallor of the sky. Was it ever blue over Greystone Bay? Harris wondered. And was there any haven in this great pile of a building where you could not hear that damned surf? The pounding of each wave on the strand seemed to mock the pounding of each worry, every concern that beat against the rickety seawall that was all that was left of his relationship with Maureen and David.

His wife. His son. He said those words to himself over and over, trying to find in them something that moved him, some saving grace that would make things the way they had been before Deborah had come into his life, Deborah with her heart-shaped face, her willowy form, and her heart of oak that would brook no rival, not even a wife. She had refused to be a mistress, and for that Harris loved her all the more.

But his family was too important to him to give up, even for Deborah, and he told her that, and told her that it had to end between them. She had understood and had walked away, leaving his life emptier than it had been before, the memories of his happiness with her creating an abyss in which the small amount of affection he still had left for Maureen was totally swallowed up.

Maureen had known that he was having an affair. She was neither dumb nor blind, and her pain had lashed out at him, and he had returned word for word, curse for curse, until there was nothing left but legalities to bind them together. They had gone to a counselor, and the counselor had said to get away, go on a vacation together, escape the petty pres-sures of everyday life.

And so they had come to Greystone Bay, where the petty pressures vanished, making room for the huge and deeper pres- sures that Harris carried inescapably within him, the pressures that now boiled inside his brain as the foam boiled on the rocky strand.

They had arrived only that morning, and already the large, second-floor suite they occupied seemed tight and claustro-phobic. Christ, Harris thought, the Superdome would have seemed claustrophobic if both he and Maureen had been in it. Her presence, smoldering with disgust toward him, filled the room, leaving him no air to breathe, and the way in which she sheltered David, as though his father were some brute who might devour him, both saddened and angered Harris. The worst of it was that the boy had begun to share his mother's aversion, and in the presence of his wife and child Harris now felt leprous, monstrous, murderous.

So much, he thought bitterly, for a fucking family vaca-tion. And this was only the first evening. Ten more days to go. Jesus God, he wondered, grimacing inwardly at the ab-surd melodrama of the thought, will I be able to get through this vacation without killing somebody?

He shook his head at the idea, wondered if a third drink would be too many, decided that it would not, and ordered another Glenfiddich. He drank it in less time than he had taken with its two predecessors, and after it was gone he decided that he would drain his bladder before adding any more fluid to its contents. It was a long way to the door of the bar, but he made the trip easily, and just as easily found his way to the men's room beneath the staircase. No, he thought, not drunk yet. He sighed. Not drunk enough. Never drunk enough.

He urinated, washed his hands, splashed some water on his cheeks, and ran a comb through his graying hair, trying not to look at the haggard face that suddenly seemed so old and sad. Forty-two, he thought. Only forty-fucking-two and everything is over? He slipped the comb back into his pocket and listened for a moment.

It was there. The sound of the breakers. He had heard it in the bar, and could even now hear it in here, in a room with no windows. Maybe through the pipes, he thought. Je-sus, was there any place you couldn't hear those goddamned waves crashing?

Harris went back into the hall and took a few steps toward the bar, but then stopped and looked to the right down the corridor. Was there someplace down there, he wondered, someplace quiet, where a man could stop thinking about those waves?He crossed the corridor only to find a locked meeting room on the right, a locked ballroom on the left, and, further down the hall and to the right, a room with a closed door marked Club. "Not a member," Harris muttered to himself, and went back the way he had come. At the cross-corridor, he turned left, and heard the sharp sound of billiard balls strik-ing one another. Not tonight, he thought. Not in the mood. Then he noticed the door with the words Reading Room let-tered on it. It was closed, but Harris could see a light beneath the door. He walked up to it, turned the knob slowly, and pushed it open.

An old man was sitting in a leather armchair against the far wall, the only light in the room coming from the brass floor lamp whose green shade hung over him like a censer. When the man looked up, Harris thought for a moment that he was staring at an egg, not so much for the shape of the man's head as for its color-or lack of it. His hair was a brilliant white, as was the well-trimmed beard that wreathed his chin, and the pallor of his flesh was almost equal to that of his hair and whiskers. Harris, frozen in the doorway, was relieved as the apparition's face split in a friendly smile, and blue eyes observed him from behind shining bifocals.

"Come in," the old man said warmly. "I had the door closed to keep out the sounds of the billiards, not fellow readers. Make yourself at home. The chairs are comfortable, the ambience is pleasant, and the silence is delightful."

Harris smiled back and closed the door behind him. Peace settled over the room like a shroud. He listened in pleased surprise. "You can't hear the surf," he said.

"You're glad of that?"

"Well . . . yes."

The old man nodded and quoted: " 'Sophocles long ago Heard it on the Aegean, and it brought Into his mind the turbid ebb and flow Of human misery . . .' "

"Dover Beach," Harris said, happy to recognize the al-lusion.

"Ah!" the man said, delighted. "You are a reader."

"I, uh, remembered it from college, that's ail."

"You agree with Matthew Arnold? The ebb and flow of human misery-the surf reminds you of it?"

"I . . . guess so. Sometimes."

"Well, you're safe from it for the little while you're here. But I'm being rude, I should introduce myself." He pushed himself to his feet with surprising agility, and thrust out a hand. "My name is Samuel. And you?"

Harris took the hand and shook it. It was warm and dry and gripped his own hand firmly and a bit longer than Harris thought necessary. "Harris," he said. "Kendall Harris."

"A pleasure, Mr. Harris. And to what tastes does your reading run? I know this room and its holdings quite well.

Perhaps I can help you select a suitable volume?"