Mary And The Giant

"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."