Authors: Garson Kanin
“I knew you would.”
We drank and talked and drank and talked and at times it seemed like a record player on repeat. Phrases, whole sentences came through again and again.
I was holding his hand between us on the banquette. When had I taken it? Or had he taken mine? Now at least we were in contact. What we had failed to achieve in words and looks we were—he was—accomplishing with touch. That hand. A man’s hand, alive and strong and eloquent and suddenly tender. And this, I considered, was his
left
hand. What would his
right
do to me?
I tried hard to project the next few hours. We leave here. To twenty-one. The same floor. Do I ask him in? No. Brazen. Does he ask me in to his? If so, I say no. Yes would be too chippie. No. A short, whispered chat outside my door? I open it in midsentence and move in, still talking as if to indicate that if we are going to finish the conversation it ought to be out of the hall? To make this point, I stop whispering and return to normal speech as I close the door. Then? Then, my girl, it is entirely up to him. Out of your hands completely. This is no time for a wrong move on your part. He is not an ordinary man. He is something special. A man who might easily run a mile if a pass were to be made at him. Another generation. One in which predatory women were thought to be either wanton or emasculating. Let him lead. You follow. And if he doesn’t? Then stand still…While we talked, I attempted to convey all this to his hand with my hand. The third drink finished. I could have used another, but it was gone. He, then, had had five. Of course. Eight all together. My arithmetic was exciting me. Not as much as that hand. I had never in all my time been turned on by a hand.
Through the lobby, slowly, “with deliberate speed”—good phrase. I felt unsteady and hoped against hope I did not look it or seem it. A hand—his right one—around my waist. Thank you.
In the elevator, I am troubled by the movement.
In the hallway, whispering.
“Thank you.”
“Good night.”
“Good night.”
Would it be? Was it about to be?
We move to the door of 2104. I continue to whisper. I am in. So is he. I close the door and raise my voice to normal.
“—and you could do it in an hour! Or even dictate it to me.”
“I hate dictating.”
“I’ll lend you my typewriter. Here it is. Look. A beauty. An IBM Selectric with a correction key.”
“Useless. I never make mistakes.”
A long pause. I look at him—soulfully, I hope; sickishly, I’m afraid.
“Never?” I ask.
“Well, hardly ever. And I’m never sick at sea…I’m going to leave you now,” he said. “I don’t want to, but I’m going to.”
“You don’t
have
to,” I ventured, making it sound vague. “We could talk some more.”
“No,” he said. “There’s been enough talk.”
Another long look. This time he seemed to be considering the purchase of my bosom. “What’re you getting for those melons today?” as Pop used to say.
He was still looking there, caught. I wished I could show him the rest of me. That would do it. But how?
His eyes came up and took mine. If he doesn’t come here and grab me, I thought, I’ll scream. My juices were flowing copiously, my vulva was not only sodden but hot. He moved to me at last. I braced myself for his embrace. He stopped, looked harder and said, “Maghakian.”
“Call me Midge.”
“Maghakian! Of course. The
San Francisco Chronicle.
Vartan Maghakian.”
“Right.”
“Your father?”
“No!” I said furiously. “My sister.”
“I know him,” he said. “I
know
your sister. A tremendous guy.”
“He just
thinks
he’s my sister,” I said, babbling along. “He’s really my brother.”
“Of course,” said Gene.
The discovery could not have come at a worse moment.
“Good Lord!” he said. “Vartan Maghakian’s sister.”
A pause as I tried to think of a way out of this wet blanket.
Finally, I said, “Are
you
going to say small world or shall I?”
“No,” he said. “I’m going to say good night. And thank you for an illuminating time.”
“Nothing at all.”
“Perhaps we can meet tomorrow,” he said.
“Perhaps.”
“And I’ll think about your proposal. It’s not without merit.”
Surely he was coming nearer. A handshake? A hug?
Something!
I was wrong. He looked at me for the longest time, said, “You have the most beautiful legs I have ever seen,” and was gone, leaving me in a state.
The cold shower did no good at all. Afterward, I got myself up as though I expected him to come back. Did I think he would, or was it mad hope? I brushed my hair and tied it back—hair can get in the way maddeningly during lovemaking. I put on that subtle skillful bedtime makeup of mine—the merest eye shadow, a suggestion of lips (with Sta-Kiss), tiny dabs of Joy (“The World’s Most Expensive Fragrance”) here and there—and between my breasts and on my inner thighs. Then my best beige fingertip-length nightgown. What for? Here I was—ready, hungry. And no one with whom to share my longing. What a waste! I got into bed and tried to assess the extent of my inebriation. Not much. The excitement had burned most of it off and I was left with no more than a pleasant, floating little buzz. What made me so sure that the phone was about to ring? I moved it closer to me on the night table. Relax, I kept telling myself. No use. The phone rang.
“Yes?”
“What happened? How’d you make out? Why didn’t you call me, for Chrissake?”
Art.
“I thought it could wait till morning,” I said. The fact is, I had forgotten him completely.
“Come on up. I wanna hear.”
“I’ve gone to bed.
“Slip something on.”
“I was asleep. You woke me up.”
“All right.
I’ll
come
down.”
“No!” I shouted, and it came out much louder than I had meant.
“Oh, I see,” he said—and if a voice can have a leer, his did.
“Like hell you do!” I said. “It’s late, Art. I’ll see you in the morning. I assure you I’ve got nothing to report that can’t wait.”
I hung up. Almost immediately, the phone rang again. I picked it up.
“Now cut it out!” I said. “I
mean
it!”
“What?” said a beautiful voice. Gene’s.
I sat up. “Oh my God,” I said.
“Not quite,” he said. “What on
earth
is going on?”
“Please,” I said. “I’m so sorry. He’s been at me on the phone—that damned nerve-tester.”
“I’m relieved. At least I didn’t wake you.”
“No.”
“I only wanted to tell you that I
have
thought it over and I
will
write it if you’ll lend me your IBM Selectric with the correcting key and keep persuading me—you are a most persuasive girl.”
I was being bathed in his voice. I did not want him to stop talking, to leave me.
“What made you decide?” I asked, stalling.
“Conscience,” he said. “You may not have intended it, but you made me feel a responsibility to the whole show—beyond the pettiness of the personalities involved.”
As he talked, I shifted the phone from my right hand to my left. My right hand went down and I was touching myself. I spread my thighs and raised my knees slightly. My hand was content in the warm and wet. He was talking. In a miraculous way,
he
was touching me. Truly. The vibrations of his voice were coming through the phone, affecting my body.
“I see. What else?” I said softly.
“Showing off, I suppose,” he said. “I’d like to impress you—among others. I’d like to impress myself. See if I can do it. It’s always a mystery. So far, my ideas are abstract. To make them real, alive—well, that’s another matter.”
“You can do it,” I whispered. “I know you can do it.”
What did I mean?
“You sound sleepy,” he said. “I’ll let you go.”
“No,” I said. Pleaded.
“Good night. Sleep well.”
He was gone. I lay there holding the phone, holding myself. I hung up and knew I had to finish. I put him in there—I imagined that fine head there—my hand became his face, my fingers became his tongue—he licked me, lapped me, nibbled me and possessed me. The convulsion came suddenly, unexpectedly and I burst into tears. It lasted—the spasm—infinitely longer than usual, but finally I was at peace.
I lay quietly, resting—and thought of my brother Vartan. Not so much because of Gene’s mention of him—but because I owed him so much for having educated and enlightened me in the matters of the body, its needs and its uses.
Next morning. Gene Bowman came in a few hours ago, looking cheerful and rested.
I had already prepared the bulletin for copying, so suggested that he stay and do his thing in my room to save the nuisance of moving the heavy machine and table and chair and paraphernalia.
“I don’t know,” he said. “A lady’s bedroom. I feel intrusive.”
“No reason to. I have to go to the theatre.”
“All right.”
“Will you want to go again tonight?” I asked.
“Probably not. But may I let you know later?”
“Of course.”
To my surprise, he was still working when I returned at three.
His jacket was off, so was his tie. There were scribblings and jottings and notes all over. He is one of those craftsmen to whom a properly structured sentence is a holy thing.
“Harder than I thought,” he said. “One thing to talk it—but when it’s down in black and white, there’s a danger it may sound didactic or pedantic or plain dumb. Not my field, after all, and I’m not sure of the lingo. Maybe you can help me.”
“I doubt that,” I said.
“Anyway, here it is.” He laughed. “I’m tempted to ask you to do something for me. Sainte-Beuve, the French critic, used to write his essays in longhand and when he’d finished, he would call his secretary in, hand it to him, lean back and say, 'Read it to me—like an enemy.’”
“How could
I
do
that?”
“Well, try.”
He handed me his typed pages and I began to read aloud:
“A few undigested thoughts on a presently half-baked but potentially extraordinary musical play entitled,
Shine On, Harvest Moon.”
SHINE ON, HARVEST MOON
Company Bulletin
Monday, November 19
WELCOME TO PHILADELPHIA
: Here we are at long last. You have worked diligently and efficiently and unselfishly, and I am most grateful. Moreover, I am confident that our efforts will bear the fruits of gratification. Godspeed.
L.G.
OUR STAR has cut four sides for Columbia Records:
“Falling Star”
“Shine On, Harvest Moon”
“Skiddoo”
“Merry-Go-Round”
She has also been chosen Entertainer of the Year by the editors of CUE Magazine, and a reception is being held in her honor Sunday night at the Gotham Hotel in New York at 10:30. Six hundred show business personalities will be present at the ceremonies.
THE COMPANY YOU KEEP: BUDDY RICE
(Assistant to Miss Flagg)
When I was five years old, in Sioux City, Iowa, I was Fred Astaire. Later, I became Bill Robinson for six months. After THE RED SHOES I was surprised to find I had metamorphosed into Moira Shearer and after HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN into Zizi Jeanmaire. I would have stayed there had it not been for the American debut of Rudolf Nureyev. I was Nureyev for quite a while. But I left him when I left classical and went Broadway…I had the usual gypsy life: audition, make it, rehearse, out-of-town, open New York, give notice, leave, audition, make it, rehearse, etc etc etc (as Yul Brynner says). Sick of it finally, so I decided to become a legitimate actor. Two years at The Neighborhood Playhouse did not help. Back to dance, this time as off-off-Broadway choreographer. Then off-Broadway. Now on as assistant to Jenny Flagg, who I hope someday to turn into.
CHRISTOPHER FELLER
returns from California on Wednesday and will be at The Forrest Theatre that evening at 6:00 P.M. for anyone who needs to see him about anything.
QUOTE TO REMEMBER
:
“We are a part of all that we have met and we’ve met them all.”
Ada Everleigh
Please be aware that additional props are being obtained daily. Check each day to see what props are available for your scenes.
THE COMPANY YOU KEEP: SKIP McCAFFERY
(Vocal Director)
I was earning over $100,000 a year as an art director for Young and Rubicam. Played the piano for fun. Popular at parties. I was a happy man. One party, I met Mary Martin and her husband, Richard Halliday. They introduced me to Richard Rodgers. I nearly fainted. He offered me a job on ME AND JULIET. Quit Young and Rubicam. Into the theatre. Since that time I have earned about a third of my old salary—and am miserable all the time. So why don’t I quit and go back to Y & R? Six therapists have failed to help me find the answer, so how can
I
tell?
I was born in New York City at The Gotham Hotel—believe it or not. (I don’t believe it myself.) Stuyvesant High. Hamilton College.
I drink (to excess); smoke (like an idiot); chase (slower and slower); and I own the world’s greatest collection of Billie Holiday recordings. Would you like to come up and hear them?
I am single and intend to remain so.
I thank you.
There are now 7 days until our Philadelphia opening.
There are now 32 days until our New York opening.
I have been working with Gene. Whatever else happens on this job, or has happened, or is going to happen—the experience with him makes it all not only worthwhile but eternally valuable.
He is the very definition of a professional. The work comes first—before any other consideration or responsibility to person, place, or thing. Before himself, even. I honestly believe if I were not around to arrange for food once in a while, he would not eat at all.
He attends every single performance, including matinees. I sit on his right and take his whispered notes in the dark. They are voluminous, often cryptic, always short.
Afterward, I type them up and bring them to him. He is usually already at work, typing steadily. He is a better typist than I am. I put the notes down beside him. He says, “Many thanks,” without looking up. I leave and wait for him to call me, which he does after two or three or four hours. He comes over and dictates what he has written. I transcribe it. Now his work begins in earnest. Five drafts, six—more. I note that most of his effort is aimed toward simplification: pruning, condensing, cleaning.
I make no comment about this singular method, but I wonder about it.
This afternoon, he startles me by saying, “Let me explain why I do this.”
Apparently, men of his sensitivity read or perceive thoughts.
“Words to be read are one thing, those to be spoken are another. I find I can’t dictate straight off, so I have to write it first, then talk it—revising for speech. Do you see?”
“Yes.”
“It’s a technique I learned when I was on Adlai Stevenson’s speechwriting team. Before you were born, I expect.”
“Not quite.”
“We all used to kill ourselves trying to out-brilliant one another. Then Stevenson would turn it all into his superlative talk.”
I remember what Larry once said about “rewriting” being not necessarily synonyms with “improving”—but in Gene’s case, it is. Each draft is better than the one before.
He sends me to the library for books of the period and Xeroxed pages from magazines and newspapers. His office sends him a microfilm viewer and three reels of microfilm of the complete
Chicago Tribune
for 1908.
When he is not writing, he is reading. “Looking for the flavor of the time,” he explains. And indeed, his stuff has a sound and a rhythm and a vocabulary different from today’s.
Chatting about this the other day, he said, “What I’m trying to discover is that foreign country L. P. Hartley wrote about. The past.”
“You did it in the book,” I said.
“Oh, yes—but that was narrative. I had the luxury of description and explanation and words, words, words. Now it all has to be done like a series of TV commercials, almost. Which, by the way, I admire enormously.”
Two women sitting directly in front of us this afternoon are members of that common theatre society, The Talkers. They talk right through the overture and do not stop when the curtain goes up. They comment on the sets, the costumes, the makeups, the hairdos, the shoes. They explain the jokes to one another.
Gene fidgets uncomfortably in his seat. They talk through one whole scene. He clenches and unclenches his fist.
After a while, when they fail to desist, he takes a long, deep breath and leans forward. I brace myself for the explosion. He taps one of the women on the shoulder. She turns to face him, angrily.
Gene smiles at her, sweetly, and whispers, “No one
else
is talking.”
He leans back in his seat. To my amazement, his ploy has succeeded in shutting them up.
The rest of the performance, by contrast, is a relief.
Last night, he finished giving me the new Scene 3, Act I at 2:15 a.m. I was greatly impressed, but said nothing—which is what I am supposed to say, according to Katharine Gibbs.
I looked up. He was studying me.
“Thank you,” he said modestly. “How about a bite and a beer?” He picked up the phone. “Room service, please…It is?…Why, what time is it?…Oh. Well, thanks.” To me: “Did you know it was after two?”
“Of course.”
“Why didn’t you say so? This is mad. Unhealthy. We need some food. Let’s go.”
“Where?”
“We’ll find somewhere.”
“In Philadelphia?”
“Oh, sure. There’s bound to be a joint or an all-night diner.”
He was right. A taxi driver took us to a place near the main post office. One shift of postal workers coming off was having dinner; the other, going on, was breakfasting.
We took a corner booth. He ordered corned-beef hash and beer. I asked for a chicken sandwich and a glass of milk.
I was astonished by the excellence of the food; he was not.
Away from work now, I felt relaxed enough to tell him how much I admired his discipline and organization. He seemed surprised.
“I don’t see how else it can be done—how
anything
can be done.”
“I wish you’d talk to our gang about it,” I said. “They specialize in chaos. They make schedules only to change them, I think. And as for communication, forget it.”
“As a cook,” he said quietly, “my wife was a nonesuch. One of my great joys was to see her in action in the kitchen. I used to perch up on a stool—out of her way—and watch. Usually with a couple of newspapers and magazines. She never paid any attention to me at all. Lord, the concentration. And the organization! Every ingredient, every utensil there before her. The measures, precise. The weights, exact. The timing, by stopwatch.” He looked away, saw her, I’m sure. He looked back, tears in his eyes, the tip of his nose suddenly red. “God damn, she was
some
creature.”
“Organized,” I said (like an idiot).
“Baking a soufflé, building a bridge, getting out the Sunday edition—it all comes down to the same thing, doesn’t it? Planning and executing—holding to the plan.”
“And someone in charge?” I asked.
“Certainly.”
“That’s what we don’t have. We have a cold war going on all the time.”
“Too bad,” he said. “Cold war reminds me of the time the paper sent me down to Houston to do a piece on the Doctor DeBakey/Doctor Cooley feud. No wonder they were at odds. You could hardly imagine two men more different. One, cool; the other, emotional. One, daring; the other, conservative. One, humorous; the other, stolid. But. But. In action—precisely the same. Organized, disciplined, no-nonsense. Martinets where their staffs were concerned. Tough. Uncompromising. Come to think of it—that’s what I’m involved in here, on the show. Isn’t that so? Surgery. And it’s delicate. There’s an existing show and it’s living, breathing—but it’s also sick. Surgery is indicated. Little tumors and growths to take out. Medicine and nutrients to put in. The heart made to beat at the proper tempo. But it’s tricky. A few wrong moves and it may expire.”
“I want to say this, though,” I said. “What I
do
like—all the way—with no reservations, is what
you’ve
done.” (Sorry, Katharine Gibbs.) “The book. The story. The words. If everybody respected
that
more it would be better. And I'm not saying that just because you’re paying the check. I swear to God—and I
believe
in God.”
“I’m glad about that. Not that you believe in God—but that you believe in the book…Finished?”
“Yes, thank you.”
No taxis. We walk back to the hotel. It does not seem dangerous because I am with him.
In the hallway of the twenty-first floor, I notice that he looks extremely fatigued.
“Please get some rest,” I said. “It’s all coming along fine. But you look tired.”
I touch his arm without meaning to. He is regarding me with an expression I have never before seen on his dear face.
“Don’t worry, Ellen,” he says. “I’ll be all right.”
He takes my hand, kisses it, and is gone.
Ellen? Did he say “Ellen”? Who is Ellen?
(Later. A few days after the foregoing, he said to me, “Were you startled when I called you 'Ellen’ the other night?”
“No.”
“I
was. It was the enervation, I expect. And that look of genuine concern on your fine face—so much like Ellen’s. Ellen was my wife.”
I could hardly contain my joy.)