Mary And The Giant

"It's good enough for me," he said, and meant it. "Do you know who Milhaud is?"

"Yes," he admitted.

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.

"Let's try to be rational about this," Partridge was complaining in his scolding voice. "I agree that we have to keep means and ends clear. But sound is not a means and music the end; music is a value term applied to recognized patterns of sound. What you call sound is simply music you don't like. And furthermore-"

"And furthermore," Hethel's response boomed out, "if I kick over a stack of bottles twice in succession I'm entitled to claim I've composed something called 'A Study in Glass'-is that it? Isn't that what you're saying?"

"There's no need to make a personal attack out of this." Turning his back on Hethel, Partridge flounced off, smiling in a set, mechanical fashion, going from group to group, saying hello and greeting people. The talk and music gradually resumed; Hethel, surrounded by his ring of neophytes, ceased to be audible.

"God," Partridge breathed, approaching Schilling and Mary Anne. "He's drunk, of course; I should have known better."

Schilling said: "Known better than to invite him?"

The characteristic sound of a piano rose up; somebody was starting to play. Partridge's exasperation boiled up anew. "Damn him. That's Hethel-he finally found the piano. I told Edith to get it completely out of the house."

"That's pretty hard to do," Schilling said, feeling scant sympathy for the man, "unless you have plenty of notice."

"I'll have to stop him; he's ruining the entire thing."

"What entire thing?"

"The demonstration, of course. We're here to inaugurate a new dimension in sound; I don't intend to permit his infantile-"

"Sid Hethel," Schilling said, "plays the piano, in public, on the average of once a year. I can name a few students in composition who would give their right eyes to be here."

"That's my point. He's picked this time on purpose; of course he doesn't play in public. How did he get over to the piano? The man's so obese he can scarcely stagger."

"Come on," Schilling said, bending over Mary Anne. "This is unique ... you won't have this opportunity again."

"I wish Paul was here," she said, as they pushed over. An eagerness had set in among the guests; men and women, forgetting their talk, strained close to see. Standing on tiptoe, those in back succeeded in catching a glimpse of the great mound of flesh slouched at the keyboard.

"Here," Schilling said. "I'll boost you up." He caught hold of the girl around her waist; she was slim, very slim and firm. His hands passed almost around her as he lifted her up against him, raising her until she could see over the ring of heads.

"Oh," she said. "Oh, Joseph ... look at him."

When the playing had finished-Hethel soon ran out of breath-the crowd dispersed and flowed off. Her face flushed, Mary Anne trailed after Schilling.

"Paul should have seen this," she said wistfully. "I wish we could have brought him. Wasn't he wonderful? And he looked as if he was asleep ... his eyes were shut, weren't they? And those big fingers-how did he manage it? How could he play the keys?"