J R

— Twirlingafter!… he don’t even understand plain English.

— That bulletin about your costumes. Did you read it?

— We couldn’t hardly. You know? Like there were all those words in it which we didn’t have them yet.

— What grade English are you in? What year?

— English?

— Like he means Communications Skills only we didn’t get those words yet, we maybe won’t get them till Language Arts even.

— All right, all right, you can… take your places, Bast said, drawing both hands down his face in imitation of sepulchrous calm which promptly provoked — Uh, say there… from behind, and swung him round dropping his hands to face an elderly figure being weighed unsteadily forward by the saxophone strung to his neck.

— Where do I sit?

— Sit?

— Up on the stage? or down here with you.

— Sit? You’ve… come to watch?

— Not today, no, today I’ll play right along, said his guest eagerly, fingers quivering over the keys of the saxophone. — Keep at it the doc told me last night, just keep at it and you’ll have the old muscular coordination back like a well-oiled machine in no time. You’re loosening up the old fingers yourself, eh? Your hand there? That’s a nasty one, he said with solicitous relish, drawing a folding chair nearer the piano.

But Bast had escaped to the edge of the stage where he called in a choked tone — all right! the dwarf now, who is Alberich, the dwarf?

— That’s supposed to be that boy J R, said Wotan sidling up, wiping both hands on a fox tail. — He’s only being it to get out of gym anyway, this here little dwarf. He don’t even have a costume yet.

— Well… where is he! Find him!

— He was reading the paper over at that window.

— He was in the front office, I seen him when I went to the girls’ room playing with the telephone in there.

— I got a cold, that’s why my eyes look like this, said Wotan with a rheumy stare that sent Bast up the aisle and out the pastel hall, looking in doors till he reached the last one: there in a swivel chair a boy sat, back to the door, his cheerless patterned sweater of black diamonds on gray hunched over the desk, and a hand with a pencil stub rose over one narrow shoulder to scratch where his hair stood out in a rough tag at the nape.

— What are you doing in here! Playing with the…

— Playing? The chair lurched, then swung round slowly as the boy recovered the wad of a soiled handkerchief from the telephone mouthpiece as he hung it up. — Boy you scared me.

— Scared you! What are you doing in here, aren’t you in this rehearsal? What are you doing here playing with the telephone…

— Playing? But no I was just… it rang. He reached for it.

— Give me that!

— But it’s probably…

— Here!… What? hello?… Miss Flesch here? now? No, I haven’t seen her all morning, she… Me? Bast, Edward Bast, I’m… What do you mean are we ready? Ready for what… The telephone pressed at his ear, Bast stared blankly at the boy’s foot twisting under the chair’s pedestal, the seam split up the back of the sneaker, and abruptly put out his hand to stop the repetition of the chair tipping forth, and back, and the boy shrugged, recovered a grimy envelope with figures penciled on its back to stuff it, with his pencil stub and wadded handkerchief, into a pocket, looped a knee over the chair arm and began to wedge the toe of his sneaker into a desk-drawer handle. — You mean right now? today? Of course it’s not ready today, no. No, and listen. An old man just showed up here with a saxophone, he… what? What class in music therapy, where? Hello? Hello? He banged down the telephone, swerved the chair round to face the door saying — Come along, and was almost out when it rang again. — Give me that! he said catching his balance. — Hello? Who? No… No he’s not and what’s more this telephone is not… what? He banged it down again.

— Why’d you want to do that? the boy came hurrying out ahead of him. — It was just…

— Come along! Bast pressed him down the hall, eyes on the shoulders narrowed in a shrug and held there by the sweater, which was too small. — You’re supposed to be up on that pile of chairs in back, Bast pursued him down the aisle — while the Rhinemaidens swim around down in front, do you know your part?

— He don’t even have a costume yet grumbled Wotan, drooping in the lee of the piano like some lost sport sulking in a corridor of prehistory.

— And hunch down up there, Bast called after him. — You’re supposed to look small, like a dwarf.

— He’s already littler than us, Wotan obliged, swelling. — He’s only in sixth grade which that’s why he could be in it to be this here little dwarf which he’s only being it anyway to…

— Get up on the stage, out of sight. Now, we… Bast halted. Behind him the saxophone wavered tentatively around C-flat. — Wait a minute! Where is it! That paper bag that was here on the piano.

— You always carry your money like that?

— It’s not mine, that money. It belongs to Mrs Joubert’s class. Where is it!

— Hey, see? here? a Rhinemaiden giggled from the stage. — See? Like for the Rhinegold, with real money so we can really pretend, see?