Mary And The Giant

When they had finished eating breakfast the two of them sat listening to the closing minutes of the Philharmonic. The apartment. still smelled of warm coffee and bacon. Outside in the driveway, a neighbor in a sports shirt and dungarees was washing his car.

"It's nice," Mary Anne said, profoundly peaceful.

Schilling felt the amount of their understanding. Not much-almost nothing-had been said, but it was there. It was there, and both of them were aware of it.

"What's that?" Mary Anne asked. "That music."

"A Chopin piano concerto."

"Isn't it good?"

"It's somewhat cheap."

"Oh." She nodded. "Will you tell me which ones are cheap?"

"Gladly; that's half the fun. Anybody can enjoy music; it's disliking it that takes training."

"I have some records," she said, "but they're all pops and jump tunes. Cal Tjader and Oscar Peterson. My roommate listens to mambo records."

"Why don't you get rid of her?" He had nothing in mind, only an awareness of the quiet of the apartment. "Find a place of your own."

"I can't afford it."

On the radio, the music had reached an end. Now the audience was clapping and the announcer was describing next week's program.

"Who is Bruno Walter?" Mary Anne asked.

"One of the great conductors of our day. He left Austria in '38 ... about three weeks before he recorded the Mahler Ninth."

"Ninth what?"

"Symphony."

"Oh." She nodded. "I heard his name; somebody asked what we had by him."

"We have plenty. One of these days I'm going to play you the recording of Mahler's Song of the Earth that he made with Kathleen Ferrier."

Mary Anne leaped up from the table. "Play it for me now."

"Now? This instant?"

"Why not? Don't we have it at the store?" She skipped over to the radio and turned it off. "Let's do something."

"You want to go out somewhere?"

"No more walking-I want to lie around listening to music." Eyes sparkling, she ran and got her red jacket. "Could we? Not here-the blimp will be back. Where are all your records, your collection? Home?"

"Home," he said, rising from the table.

She had never seen his apartment. Impressed, she gazed around at the carpets and furnishings. "Gee," she said in a small voice as she entered ahead of him. "How nice it all is ... are those real pictures?"

"They're prints," he said. "They're not originals, if that's what you mean."

"I guess that's what I mean." She began peeling off her jacket; he helped her with it and hung it up in the closet. Wandering about, she came to Schilling's giant oak desk and stopped there. "Is this where you sit when you write your radio program?"

"Right in that spot. There's my typewriter and reference books."

She inspected the typewriter. "It's a foreign typewriter, isn't it!"

"It's German. I picked it up when I was with Schirmer's. I represented them in Germany."

Awed, she ran her fingers over the type bars. "Does it make that funny mark?"

"The umlaut?" He typed an umlaut for her. "See?"

He put on his big Magnavox phonograph, set the record changer for seventy-eight speed, and then, while it was warming up, entered the pantry and looked over his wine. Without consulting her he selected a bottle of Mackenzie's Fino Perla sherry, found two small wineglasses, and returned to the living room. Presently they were sprawled out listening to Heinrich Schlusnus singing "Der Nussbaum."

"I've heard that," Mary Anne said when the record ended. "It's cute." She was seated on the rug, her back against the side of the couch, wineglass beside her. Absorbed in the music, Schilling barely heard her; he put on another record and returned to his chair. She listened attentively until it was over and he was turning the record.

"What was that?" she asked.

"Aksel Schitotz." Then he added the title of the work.

"You're more interested in who sings it. Who is he? Is he still alive?"

"Schiotz is alive," Schilling said, "but he's not singing much anymore. Most of his highs are gone ... all he has left now is his lower range. But he's still one of the really unique voices of this century. In some ways, the finest of all."

"How old is he?"

"In his late fifties."

"I wish," Mary Anne said energetically, "that I could get rid of my darn roommate. Do you have any ideas? Maybe I could find a smaller place somewhere that wouldn't cost too much."

Schilling lifted the needle from the record; it had not yet reached the grooves. "Well," he said, "the only solution is to search. Read the ads in the paper, go around town finding out what exists."

"Will you help me? You have a car ... and you know about these things."

"When do you want to look?"

"Right away. As soon as possible."

"You mean now? Today?"

"Could we?"

A little amused, he said: "Finish your wine first."

She drank it down without tasting it. Resting the glass on the arm of the couch, she scrambled to her feet and stood waiting. "It's seeing your place," she told him as they left the apartment. "I can't go on living with that fool-her and her Oregon apples and her mambo records."