A MUSE FOR MR. KALISH.

by Leslie Alan Horvitz

I.

When it became clear that Kalish was never going to get the script done in time if he remained any longer among the fleshpots of New York City the three of us laid down the law and told him that he would have no choice but to come along with us. We gave him no notice because we feared with good reason (the drinking, the women, etc.) that he'd bolt and we'd waste God knows how much time searching high and low for him. And it was time we couldn't afford, not with the dead-line for production looming so close. We simply walked into his room at the Wyndham unannounced and told him he had half an hour to pack, and the hell with him if he didn't like it. He was ours-anindentured servant if you will-at least until he finished the damn script.

Kalish was a incandescent writer, a masterful stylist. More importantly, he was bankable. It was his track record that had convinced my partners and me to hire him in the first place. I admit that his best work was probably behind him and that his personal life was a catastrophe. But he under-stood what we needed, he caught on quickly, I must say that for him. The idea that Kalish, after so many years churning out scripts in Burbank and Century City (many of them un-credited), would finally agree to sit down and write a play inspired excitement even among some top Hollywood stars who held his work, if not him personally, in high regard. Top Hollywood agents wrote us letters of intent, assuring us of their clients' interest. There followed some very serious ne-gotiations and a line of credit from the First Boston Bank.

Kalish, however, was an alcoholic and inclined to medi-cate himself with alarming amounts of chemicals. Worse, he was also a manic-depressive (a condition which the alcohol didn't help, of course) with suicidal tendencies. In those lucid intervals when he wasn't in the throes of despair, he really turned into a terror, making such impossible demands that we were in danger of becoming just as unhinged as he was.

While he'd plunged right into the script, knocking off twenty-five pages in the first few days, he soon became un-able to keep up the momentum. We weren't worried; even if he turned out a few good pages a day we'd be happy.

But then he ground to a halt entirely. We still weren't worried, we'd factored in some down time, assuming there'd be un-foreseen periods of paralysis, days when he needed to revi-talize his juices. But the block persisted, the bottle beckoned, and soon our worst fears were being realized. We talked of bringing in a new writer but that would force us to start from scratch. Certainly nobody could run with the pages Kalish had completed; even the most brilliant playwright would be hard put to discern where he was taking his story, much less attempt to duplicate his ineluctable style or his unique vision.

So we were stuck with him. But it was clear that we had to get him away from New York; there was no way we could control or watch over him in a city where he had so many friends and connections. Even behind the innocently boyish faces of bellboys I was seeing dopedealers and pimps.

It was Paul's idea to spirit him away to Greystone Bay. Paul Dresser is-was-the money man, the financial wizard, a multimillionaire in his own right. He had the enviable knack of coaxing money out of the nooks and crannies where it had gone into hiding. He was in his early fifties, a few years older than Marty and myself, but like us, this was his first big commercial venture. It was important to all our careers.

"Listen, Jack," he said to me over coffee one early sum-mer day at Wolf's, "Kalish's always saying how he loves the sea, how it inspires and relaxes him. I've got just the place for him to finish the script."

"Where is this place?" I asked dubiously.

"It's called Greystone Bay. I used to summer there when I was a kid. But what I like about it is that it hasn't been discovered yet. Not like the Vineyard and the Hamptons, overrun with tourists. There's no big scene happening there is what I'm saying, Jack. It'll take us only a couple of hours to get there. One of us can always keep an eye on him- maybe we can work out some kind of rotation-and the rest of us can just lay back, take it easy. Hell, we could all use the break."

I was unsure whether a forced relocation would accomplish what we wanted but I was willing to go along with Paul and see what developed. We'd just have to okay it with Marty, who was acting as our producer. "You have any idea about accommodations?" I asked Paul.

"I'll have to check and see if it's still in business but I remember this big hotel, one of those wonderful Victorian places, called the SeaHarp. I know you're going to love it."

Not only did the SeaHarp still exist but even though it was the height of summer Paul had no trouble securing reserva-tions.

Dealing with Kalish went better than we could have ever imagined. True, Kalish protested, his gray eyes flashing with anger at the thought of being taken away from the seductive pleasures of Manhattan. But I'd witnessed him in rages far worse and in the end he capitulated. He knew on which side his bread was buttered. "You're going to love it, Sam," Paul told him, echoing his words to me. "Some of that fresh sea air will do you-and the script-a world of good."

We didn't arrive until after dark. Greystone Bay appeared to be sound asleep. Even along what I took to be the main road few lights were burning. It was difficult to get a sense of what the town might look like. Not that it mattered; I would have plenty of time to explore it in the days that fol-lowed.But I didn't doubt that the SeaHarp had to be one of the more imposing buildings in town. The gables and turrets that composed the top of it, and the colonnaded porch that wrapped itself around the structure, gave it a look of impor-tance and solidity. Not that it had mattered to Kalish, who surveyed our surroundings with a melancholy expression on his face. "I don't know why you dragged me here, Paul," he muttered. "It's not going to do a damn bit of good."

"Come on, Kalish, cheer up, it'll work out, you'll see."

But, like Kalish, I wondered.

Walking through the glass-paneled doors we found our-selves in a lobby that was almost entirely empty save for an intriguing, if somewhat incongruous, couple-a man of about seventy with thin matted gray hair, dressed somberly in suit and tie, and a lovely young woman, decked out almost en-tirely in black: black wide-brim hat with a complicated veil, black dress scooped low in front to reveal an enticing view of her breasts, and ankle-length black boots. They were sit-ting on a sofa with ample distance between them, sipping from snifters of brandy, staring straight ahead, as if transfixed. Our appearance elicited little interest from them; they scarcely raised their eyes to us.

We continued up a fan-shaped staircase to the main lobby where we located the registration desk. A man materialized from behind the desk, smiling broadly, saying, "Welcome, welcome to the SeaHarp." He was a trim little middle-aged man with a fine gray moustache. Stray hair, untended, grew conspicuously from his ears, the same color as his mous-tache. "You must be the Dresser party," he said.

Paul introduced us and signed all our names in a volumi-nous registration book that gave off a smell of must.

The clerk assigned us our rooms-Kalish in 210, Paul and Marty next door in 208, while I was installed in 309. My room, it turned out, was located directly above Kalish's.

I had expected the invigorating ocean air to narcotize me into a deep untroubled sleep. This didn't happen. It may have had something to do with the bed, although it was certainly comfortable enough, and grander than any I was accustomed to in other hotels I'd stayed at. Whatever the reason, sleep didn't come for hours.

Gradually I became aware of a rhythmic clacking sound that I realized must be coming from Kalish's battered Royal.

Lucky for us Kalish was oldfashioned; contemptuous of word processors and even suspicious of electric typewriters, he stuck resolutely to the same manual he'd used for decades. I say lucky because we could always tell when he was working.

So he's already begun, I thought; if the sea air wasn't help-ing him sleep any more than it was me, at least he might be drawing inspiration from it. For the first time it struck me that we'd made a good move by bringing him there.

The next morning the three of us-Paul, Marty and my-self-met for breakfast. Kalish was still asleep. In the vast-ness of the dining room we were nearly lost. There were only half a dozen other people, mostly solitary diners whose at-tention was concentrated entirely on their eggs and toast. It was a dazzling day; the sun spilling in through the windows made everything lustrous and gold with its promiscuous light. Expecting to find Paul in good spirits I was surprised to see him looking so low. "What's wrong? I heard our friend working until four or five this morning, whenever it was that I finally dropped off. He must have gotten out half a dozen pages at least."

"That's what I thought too but when I checked in with him this morning, just before he went to bed, he told me he'd thrown everything away. He says that he can't make it work, he says he can't do shit in this place and if we want him to produce anything at all we'd better get him back to New York today."

Marty looked nearly as gloomy as Paul. "Of course he promised us that if we did take him back he'd reform, cut out the drinking and the wenching. But we know what would happen. It'd be back to the same old tricks."

"Well, I think it would be a mistake to give up now," Paul said. "Once he sees that we're serious and that we're not about to release him until he finishes then I think he'll come around."

"But we have to keep in mind that he might not come around," I pointed out. "If three or four days go by and he's still unhappy we might have to reconsider."

"Just give it a chance, Jack," Paul said. "What do you think, Marty?"

"Jesus, I don't know, Paul. Sure, let's give it a chance. Sounds good to me."

That first day in Greystone Bay turned out to be the last one where the weather obliged us. I spent it seeing thesights, what sights there were to see, getting as far as the North Hill area, stumbling on it almost by accident. Beyond neatly clipped hedges and ancient oaks I spied immaculately kept lawns and rambling white Victorian houses, summer homes for those with wealth and probably the pedigree to go along with it. But aside from a caretaker or two I saw no one.

When I walked into the SeaHarp late in the afternoon I was astonished to see Kalish sitting in the lobby holding an animated conversation with the young woman in black I'd noticed the previous evening. Today she was in white, wear-ing no hat. Her neckline, however, was just as. dangerous.

"Sally Porter, please meet Jack Stowe," Kalish said expansively on seeing me. "Jack is my keeper and slave-master."

He laughed mirthlessly. "I was just telling Sally all about your diabolical plan to keep me chained to my type-writer."

Without pausing to take a breath he said, "Sally is fascinated by artists and exotic places."

Keeping her eyes locked on Kalish she just smiled.

"Is Greystone Bay considered an exotic place, Miss Por-ter?" I asked.

"Oh it was my husband's choice to come here, not that I mind it. It's really quite an interesting little town if you take the time to get to know it."

"And where is your husband now, Mrs. Porter?" It was my job to see that Kalish didn't become too distracted, after all.

"Oh, I'm afraid that Charles is indisposed. And please call me Sally."

"Nothing serious, I hope?"

"It's just something that comes and goes," she replied evasively.

"Sally has been all around the world with him," Kalish said. "Her husband is an archaeologist, he's constantly on the move."

She smiled her agreement.

"That's very interesting," I said. "Do you go everywhere your husband goes?"

"Everywhere." Then she looked up at me. There was a wild light in her eyes. "Except of course to where he's going."

"And where would that be?"

"The grave," she said calmly.

That night, listening for the reassuring clacking of Kalish's Royal, I heard instead laughter and the throb of music that I couldn't quite identify but which sounded vaguely Middle Eastern. A monotonous rhythmic chanting went on all night long, seeming to penetrate into my dreams. It was just what I was afraid of: Kalish was seizing upon any distraction he could to escape work. In this case the distraction was very likely a woman. And not just any woman at that, I was cer-tain, but a woman with the beauty and wiles of Sally Porter.

The following morning over breakfast I asked Paul if he'd heard the music and he said no, he'd heard nothing at all, having sacked out early. "What about Marty?"

"Ask him when he comes down."

But Marty evidently had slept as soundly as Paul.

When I began to voice my apprehensions both my partners looked at me with bafflement. "I think you must be imag-ining things," Paul said.

"You didn't have a chance to sit and talk with her like I did. She has considerable charm and what's worse, knows how to exercise it-to diabolical effect."

"Look, all I know is that this morning, when I spoke to him, Kalish said he was beginning to enjoy Greystone Bay and that maybe we had the right idea after all," Paul said. He and Marty exchanged a glance as if to suggest that they were both in on some little secret."But what about the work?" I said.

"He says it's coming along fine now, that maybe the first night he had trouble getting into his rhythm but now it's ter-rific-better than anything he'd done in New York."

I looked at him in astonishment. "You of all people should know better than to believe that shit, Paul."

His eyebrows shot up. "Tell him, Marty."

"It's true, Jack. He showed us what he's written just in the last twelve hours. It's amazing stuff."

"Believe me, it's extraordinary, Jack, you'll have to ask him to show it to you when he gets up. As far as I'm con-cerned, it's equal to anything Kalish ever wrote in his salad days."

"Better really," Marty said.

"If this woman's to account for this then so much the bet-ter," Paul added. Then he directed his gaze back at me.

"Why looked so worried, Jack? Everything's going to be fine."

That second day the skies were low, the air close, and with the novelty of Greystone Bay fading, I fell into a funk deep enough that there was little chance of drinking mitigating it. Yet I began to drink anyway-and at an earlier hour than was advisable. Other guests of the hotel were gathering in the lobby, driven inside by gusts of wind off the water, apparently with the same idea in mind. The waiters, however, exhibited no hurry in carrying out their chores; it was some while be-fore one got around to me.

"Pardon me, sir, but would you mind if I join you?"

Lifting my eyes, I took in an older grayhaired man with high color in his face. It wasn't a waiter.

Noting the puzzlement in my expression he said, extending his hand, "We haven't met, my name is Charles Porter."

Now I recognized him. "Jack Stowe."

"Yes, I know who you are," he said, seating himself. "You are in the company of Mr. Kalish."

"You could put it that way."

He signaled the waiter, who seemed more responsive to him than he had been to me, and ordered a Corvoisier. "You have met my wife?"

' 'We spoke briefly.''

"She's a remarkable woman," he said.

I had a feeling, though, that this wasn't necessarily meant as a compliment.

"Your friend Mr. Kalish is a writer, is he not?"

I confirmed this.

"What I am about to ask you, Mr. Stowe, may strike you as an unusual request and if you refuse I will certainly understand. However, I don't believe it would be wise to refuse.''

My curiosity was naturally piqued. "What is it, Mr. Por-ter?"

"I would be greatly appreciative if you could spend some time with me tonight. You see, I have been watching you- from afar. And instinctively I have the feeling that you would understand."

"Understand?"

Refusing to elaborate he went on, "Also, I thought that since my wife has taken such a pronounced interest in your friend you might benefit from what I have to tell you."

I was more mystified-and intrigued. "What would that be?""Be patient, Mr. Stowe, be patient. You have a great deal more time remaining than I do."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean that by tomorrow morning I may well be dead."

Looking at him, still vigorous and showing no sign of ill-ness, I found it difficult to take his dire prognostication any more seriously than I did his wife's. Unless of course he was contemplating suicide. It occurred to me that the two were engaged in an obscure game which required the coopting of outsiders for its success.

He read my thoughts. "Please wait to hear me out before you jump to any conclusions." And then he told me his story.

On the face of it, his tale was preposterous. Sober, I should never have sat and listened to it. But with drink to sustain me I didn't move.

Many years ago, he said, he was an indifferent student of archaeology. Even after obtaining his doctorate he still could find no work in his field. He'd always burned with the desire to be Heinrich Schliemann and discover a legendary city like Troy or be Howard Carter and be the first to open up a tomb as fabulous as King Tut's. But even after acquiring a teaching position at a college-one so obscure and inconsequential that he was embarrassed to name it-his future looked bleak. "I was in such despair that I even considered forgetting ar-chaeology and going into business," he said. "I had an offer from a friend to join his radio parts business. If I'd done that it would have been death."

One summer, in his fortieth year, he managed to scrape together the money to go abroad. Since he'd written his thesis on the ancient Near East he could think of no better desti-nation. He stayed in cheap, decrepit hotels or in the homes of people good enough to put him up. As his journey was drawing to an end he still felt dissatisfied; it seemed to him that he'd missed something essential, that what he was searching for was right there in front of his eyes, only that he lacked the ability to perceive it.

It was in the middle of that summer while he was staying in a Turkish village that he met Sally. She was travelling alone. While it seemed that she was married her husband was nowhere in evidence. She told Porter that they were used to taking separate vacations and that she had no idea when she'd see him again.

When he asked her what she was doing in such a remote region in Turkey, where it wasn't very safe for a man to travel by himself, let alone a beautiful woman, she said that she was hunting for antiquities. She was convinced that there were few finds worth buying in places where safety could be guaranteed. But that wasn't what he found so intriguing. "She claimed to have learned the whereabouts of Elaeus which once stood on the heights above Morto Bay, beyond Sedd-el-Bahr."

I had no idea where these places might be but for fear of interrupting him I let him continue.

"It may be difficult for a layman to imagine it but for me her words were a revelation. Elaeus was a vanished city, its discovery would be of enormous importance. Perhaps not on the order of Troy or Macchu Picchu but important enough. I asked her if she could use her contacts to take us to the site. She agreed immediately. It seemed to me that she was thor-oughly delighted to find someone who shared her enthusiasm for the ancient world.