Mary and the Giant Read online

  “He has to go to work,” Mary Anne explained, hurrying back inside. “He plays bop piano over at the Wren.”

  “You cost me a sale,” Schilling said, feeling still a little bewildered.

  “Look…if he bought that record he would have just gone home and sat looking at it. I know him; take my word. He never would have bought any more records; now he’ll go get a phonograph and then he’ll buy records all the time.”

  “Either you’re very far sighted,” he said, “or you’re an exceptionally fast talker. Which is it?”

  They faced each other.

  “Don’t you trust me?” she inquired.

  He smiled grudgingly. “Some. But you’re too intricate for me.”

  That seemed to intrigue her. “Intricate? In what way?”

  “You’re partly very young, very inexperienced and naive.” He studied her intently. “And at the same time you’re completely practiced. Even somewhat unscrupulous.”

  “Oh,” she said, nodding.

  “Why did you change your mind? Why did you decide to come back and work for me?”

  “Because,” she said, “I got tired of working at the phone company.”

  “Is that all?” He didn’t believe it.

  “No. I—” She floundered. “A lot of things happened to me. Somebody I depended on let me down. Now I don’t feel the same way about him, or about anything.”

  “You were afraid of me, weren’t you?”

  “Yes,” she admitted, “very much.”

  “But not now?”

  She pondered. “No. I see you differently, and I see myself differently.”

  Schilling hoped it was true. “What did you do with the ten dollars?” he asked.

  “Gave it to Paul Nitz.”

  “Then you’re broke?”

  She smiled. “Yes, broke.”

  “So I suppose you’re going to borrow another ten dollars tomorrow.”

  “Can I?”

  “We’ll see.”

  Her eyebrows went up. “We will, will we?”

  The store was empty. Outside, the late afternoon sun sent up a glare from the sidewalk. Schilling walked over to the window and stood with his hands in his pockets. Finally, to quiet his various emotions, he lit a cigar.

  “Put that stinky thing out,” Mary Anne ordered. “How do you suppose that smells to customers?”

  He turned around. “If I invited you to dinner, what would you say?”

  “It depends where.” She seemed, instantly, to fold up in wariness; he was aware of her change in mood.

  “What’s a good place?” he asked.

  She reflected. “La Poblana, up along the highway.”

  “All right, we’ll go there.”

  “I’ll have to change to go there. I’ll have to get my heels and suit again.”

  He demolished her anxieties with the hand of quiet reasonability. “When we close the store, I’ll drive you over to your apartment and you can change.”

  With relief he heard her say: “Fine.” Pleased and gratified, he put out his cigar and, going into the back office, began preparing the Columbia order sheet.

  It was a routine job he did not usually enjoy, but he enjoyed it this time; he enjoyed it very much.

  14

  • • • • • • • •

  That night he took her to dinner. And four nights later, on Saturday, he took her with him to a wholesaler’s party in San Francisco.

  As the two of them drove up the peninsula, Mary Anne asked: “Does this car belong to you?”

  “I bought this Dodge back in ’48. A package deal; it came along with Max.” He added: “I gave up heavy driving.” His eyes had become bad and he had, one night, hit a parked milk truck. He didn’t tell the girl that.

  “It’s a nice car. It’s so big and quiet…” She watched the dark fields passing on either side of the highway. “What will this party be like?”

  “You’re not scared, are you?”

  “No,” she said, sitting very upright beside him, her hands around her purse. She had put on what looked to him like a pair of black silk pajamas; the trousers were tied around her bare ankles and the shirt flared out into a great pointed collar. On her feet were little flat slippers, and her hair was tied back in a foreshortened ponytail.

  As she had skipped out of her apartment house and into the car he had observed: “Your hair is too short for a ponytail.”

  Breathlessly, she had settled beside him and slammed the car door. “Is this too arty? Am I dressed wrong?”

  “You look wonderful,” he had said in all honesty as he started up the car.

  But she was, in spite of what she said, a little frightened. In the gloom of the car her eyes were large and serious, and she had almost nothing to say. Once, she got her cigarettes from her purse and bent toward the dashboard lighter.

  “This may be fun,” he said, to cheer her up.

  “That’s what you told me.”

  “Leland Partridge is a fanatic, what we call an ‘audiophile.’ There’ll be speakers as large as houses, diamond cartridges, hi-fi recordings of freight trains and glockenspiels.”

  “Will there be very many people there?” she asked again, for the third time.

  “People from retail, plus some of the San Francisco musical crowd. There’ll be drinks and plenty of talk. You may hear some good arguments when the sound boys and the legitimate musicians tangle.”

  “I love San Francisco,” Mary Anne said with ardor. “All those tiny bars and restaurants. Once I went to a place out in North Beach, with Tweany. Something called The Paper Doll. We heard a Dixieland pianist…he was cool.”

  “Cool,” Schilling echoed, grimacing.

  “He was quite good.” She tapped her cigarette with her finger; sparks swept out the window into the darkness. From the car radio filtered the sounds of a Haydn symphony.

  “I like that,” she said, inclining her head.

  “Do you recognize it?”

  She meditated. “Beethoven.”

  “It’s the Haydn Drumroll Symphony.”

  “Do you think I’ll ever learn to tell what a piece is? Will I be as old as you?”

  “You’re learning,” he said, as lightly as possible. “It’s a question of experience; nothing more.”

  “You really love that music. I’ve watched you…you’re not pretending. It’s the same way Paul is about his music. You sort of—drink it up. You try to get all of it.”

  “I like your friend Nitz,” he said, although, in some ways, he was disturbed by the man.

  “Yes, he’s a lovely person. I don’t believe he could ever do anybody harm.”

  “You admire that.”

  “Yes,” she said, “don’t you?”

  “I admire it in the abstract.”

  “Oh, you and your abstract.” She settled in a heap against the door, her legs drawn up under her, one arm resting on the windowsill. “What are those lights up there?” She sounded apprehensive. “Are we almost there?”

  “Almost. Pull your courage together.”

  “It’s together. Don’t make fun of me.”

  “I’m not making fun of you,” he said gently. “Why should I make fun of you?”

  “Will they all laugh at what I say?”

  “Of course not.” He couldn’t help adding: “They’ll be making so much racket with their sound effects records they won’t hear what you say.”

  “I don’t feel good.”

  “You’ll feel better when we get there,” he assured her with fatherly sympathy, speeding up the car.

  The party was already in progress when they arrived. Schilling noted the transformation in the girl as she climbed the steps to Partridge’s house. Her fear vanished below the surface; face impassive, she lounged against the iron railing of the porch, purse in one hand, the other hand draped over her trousered knee. As soon as the door opened she slipped to her feet and passed by the man at the entrance. She had already gone into the hall and was approaching
the living room full of noise and laughter when Schilling stubbed out his cigar and stepped inside.

  “Hello, Leland,” he said to his host, shaking hands. “What became of my girl?”

  “There she goes,” Partridge said, closing the door. He was a tall, middle-aged man with glasses. “Wife? Mistress?”

  “Counter girl.” Schilling removed his overcoat. “How’s the family?”

  “About the same.” Arm on Schilling’s shoulder, he led him into the living room. “Earl has a cold, again; it’s the same flu we all got last year. How’s the store?”

  “Can’t complain.”

  They both stopped to watch Mary Anne. She had picked out Edith Partridge and was accepting a drink from her hostess’s tray. Apparently at ease, Mary Anne turned to meet a band of young record clerks grouped around a table. On the table was a display of sound components: turntables, cartridges, tone arms. Elements of the Diotronic binaural system.

  “She’s got savoir faire,” Partridge said. “For a girl that young it’s unusual. My oldest is about her age.”

  “Mary,” Schilling said, “stroll over and meet your host.”

  She did so, and the introductions were made.

  “Who’s that terribly fat man?” she asked Partridge. “Over in the corner there, sprawled on the couch.”

  “That?” Partridge smiled at Schilling. “That’s a terribly fat composer named Sid Hethel. Go over and listen to him wheeze…he’s worth hearing.”

  “That’s the first I’ve heard you admit that about Sid,” Schilling said. He always found Partridge a shade offensive.

  “His conversation is exquisite,” Partridge said drily. “It’s a pity he didn’t decide to go into literature.”

  “Do you want to meet him?” Schilling asked Mary Anne. “He’s an experience, even if you don’t care for his music.”

  Accompanied by Partridge, they made their way over. “What’s his music like?” Mary Anne asked nervously.

  “Very sentimental,” Partridge declared, his beaked face rising above her as he steered the two of them between the groups of People. “Somewhat like a breakfast of maraschino cherries.” Over the mutter of voices roared the titanic Mahler Symphony No. 1, amplified by the network of horns and speakers mounted throughout the large, well-furnished living room.

  “What Leland means,” Schilling said, “is that Hethel hasn’t run out of melody, as his compatriots have.”

  “Ah,” Partridge said. “How it takes me back to hear you talk, Joe. The good old days, when a little man used to run out at the beginning of each record and shout the name of the selection.”

  Sid Hethel was involved in conversation. Legs stuck out, cane resting against his fleshy groin, he was jabbing a ponderous finger at his circle of listeners. Hethel was a continent of tissue; from deep fat his eyes, black and sharp, peered out. It was the Hethel that Schilling remembered; he had, to accommodate his belly, unsnapped the two top buttons of his fly.

  “…oh, no,” Hethel was sputtering, wiping his mouth with a wad of white handkerchief, which he held in his hand, close to his chin. “You’ve got me wrong; I never said anything like that. Frankenstein’s a good reviewer, a good music reviewer; the best in the area. But he’s a chauvinist; if you’re local talent, you’re the cream of the crop; if you’re Lilly Lombino from Wheeling, West Virginia, however, you can play the violin like Sarasate and Alf won’t give you a tumble.”

  “I hear music and art reviewing don’t keep him occupied,” a member of Hethel’s circle supplied. “He’s going to kick out Koltanowski and do the chess column.”

  “Chess,” Hethel said. “This is possible; with Alf Frankenstein it could be everything but cooking.” He caught sight of Partridge, and a wicked gleam sparkled in his eyes. “Now, this binaural business. If only Mahler were alive today…”

  “With binaural,” Partridge broke in gravely, “Mahler would have been able to listen to his music as it really sounded.”

  “You have a point,” Hethel conceded, turning his attention to his host. “Of course, we must remember that to Mahler his music sounded good. Is there a knob or dial on your system that makes Mahler sound good? Because if there is—”

  “Sid,” Schilling said, feeling the potency of their years of friendship, “you realize you’re drinking Leland’s liquor and you’re insulting him at the same time.”

  “If I wasn’t drinking his liquor,” Hethel said rapidly, “I wouldn’t be insulting anybody. What brings you up here, Josh? Still trying to put Maurice Ravel under contract?” His vast pulpy hands, both of them, snaked out; Schilling accepted them and the two men gripped each other warmly. “It’s good to see you,” Hethel said, equally moved. “Still carry a box of contraceptives around in your briefcase?”

  “What you call a briefcase,” Schilling said, “is a large, leather, custom-appointed douche bag.”

  “Once,” Hethel confided to his group, “I saw Josh Schilling sitting in a bar…” His voice trailed off. “Good God, Schilling! I want to see the woman who goes with that douche bag!”

  A little embarrassed, Schilling glanced at Mary Anne. How was she weathering the spectacle of Sid Hethel, the great contemporary composer?

  Standing with her arms folded, she listened and did not seem amused nor offended. It was impossible to tell what she thought; her face was expressionless. In her black silk trousers she was remarkably slender…there was balance in her straight back and elongated neck, and above her folded arms her breasts were very small, very sharp, quite visibly uptilted.

  “Sid,” Schilling said, bringing the girl forward, “I’ve opened a little new record shop down in Pacific Park. Remember, I always wanted to? One day when I pried up the lid of a shipping carton this elf popped out.”

  “My dear,” Hethel said to her, the banter all at once gone from his voice, “step over here and tell me why you’re working in that old man’s record shop.” He put his hand out and closed his fingers around hers. “What’s your name?”

  She told him, quietly, with the innate dignity Schilling had come to expect of her.

  “Don’t be elusive,” Hethel said, smiling around at the circle of people. “Doesn’t she look elusive to you?”

  “What’s that mean?” Mary Anne asked him.

  Hethel scowled. “Mean?” He sounded baffled. “Well,” he said, in a cross, overly loud voice, “it means—” He turned to Schilling. “Tell her what it means.”

  “He means you’re a very pretty little girl,” Edith Partridge said, appearing with a tray of drinks. “Who’s run dry?”

  “Here,” Hethel muttered, groping at the tray for a glass. “Thanks, Edith.” He focused his attention on her, letting go of Mary Anne’s hand. “How’re the kids?”

  “How does he strike you?” Schilling asked the girl as he maneuvered her back through the ring of people, away from Hethel. “He didn’t upset you, did he?”

  “No,” she said, shaking her head.

  “He’s had too much to drink, as usual. You find him repulsive?”

  “No,” she said. “He’s like Nitz, isn’t he? I mean, he’s not like most people…whatever it is about them. The hard part. The part I’m afraid of. I wasn’t afraid of him.”

  “Sid Hethel is the gentlest man in the world.” He was gratified by her reaction. “Can I get you anything?”

  “No, thanks.” Suddenly, with a rush of pessimism, she said; “They all can tell how old I am, can’t they?”

  “How old are you?”

  “I’m young”

  “That’s good. Think of yourself and then think of us—Partridge and Hethel and Schilling, three old dodderers, reminiscing about the days of the cylinder record.”

  “I wish I could talk about that,” Mary Anne said fervently. “What have I got to say? All I can do is tell people my name…isn’t that wonderful?”

  “It’s good enough for me,” he said, and meant it.

  “Do you know who Milhaud is?”

  “Yes,” he admitted.r />
  She wandered away from him and, after some hesitation, he followed. Now she had halted at the edge of a group of audio engineers and was listening to their conversation. Her face was drawn up in the troubled frown he was beginning to know.

  “Mary Anne,” he said, “they’re comparing the roll-off of the new Bogen and Fisher amplifiers. What do you care about that?”

  “I don’t even understand what it is!”

  “It’s sound. And sometimes I wonder if they understand.” He led her over to a window seat in the deserted corner of the room and sat her down. She held onto her glass—Edith Partridge had taken her purse—and stared at the floor.

  “Cheer up,” he said.

  “What’s that awful racket?”

  He listened. All he could hear was the noise of human voices; and, of course, the torrent of Mahler’s symphonic texture. “That must be it. There’s a speaker horn mounted near here.” He felt around with his hands until he located a grille set in the wall be hind a print. “See? It’s emerging from that.”

  “Does it have a name?”

  “Yes, it’s the Mahler First Symphony.”

  Mary Anne brooded. “You even know the name. Would you teach me that?”

  “Of course.” He felt sad and touched.

  “Because,” Mary Anne went on earnestly, “I want to talk to that man and I can’t. That fat man.” She shook her head. “I guess I’m tired…all those people coming in and out of the store today. What time is it?”

  It was only nine-thirty. “Want to leave?” he asked.

  “No, that wouldn’t be right.”

  “It’s up to you,” he said, meaning it.

  “Where would we go? Back?”

  “If you want.”

  “I don’t want.”

  “Well,” he said softly, “then we won’t. We could go to a bar; we could go get something to eat; we could simply walk around San Francisco. We could do any number of things.”

  “Could we ride on a cable car!” she asked in a wan, discouraged whisper.

  At the far end of the room an argument had broken out. Angry voices burst through the curtain of symphonic sound; it was Partridge and Hethel.