“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?”
Over in the corner Sid Hethel sat gasping, his face mottled and dark. He hardly glanced up as Schilling and Mary Anne appeared in front of him.
“Thanks,” Schilling said to the man.
“Why?” Hethel wheezed. But he seemed to understand. “Well, at least I interfered with the future of binaural sound.”
“It was worth coming,” Mary Anne said to him quickly. “I never heard anybody play like that.”
“What sort of store is this?” Hethel demanded, coughing into his handkerchief. “You used to be in publishing, Josh; you were with Schirmer.”
“I left them a long time ago,” Schilling said. “For a while I was in wholesale records. I prefer this…in my own store I can talk to people as much as I want.”
“Yes, you always loved to waste time. I suppose you still have your damn record collection…all those Deutsche Grammophons and Polydors. And that girl we liked to listen to back in the old days. What was her name?”
“Elisabeth Schumann,” Schilling said, remembering.
“Yes, the one who sang like a child. I never forgot her.”
“I wish,” Schilling said, “I could get you down to see my place.”
“A store? We’ve got stores up here.”
“I’ve been trying to stir some sort of interest in music down there. Every Sunday I have open house—records and coffee.”
“You desire me to die?” Hethel demanded. “I’d travel down there and expire. You remember what happened that time in Washington when I fell getting off the train. You remember how long I was laid up.”
“I’ve got a car; I’ll drive you both ways. You can sleep the whole trip.”
Hethel reflected. “You’ll hit bumps,” he decided. “You’ll pick out bumps and run over them; I know you.”
“On my word of honor.”
“Really? Let’s have that good old Boy Scout oath. In these times of shifting moral values there’s got to be something stable we can count on.” Hethel’s eyes gleamed with nostalgia. “Remember the time you and I got lost in that Chinese whorehouse on Grant Avenue? And you got drunk and tried to—”
“Seriously,” Schilling said, not wishing such topics discussed before Mary Anne.
“Seriously, I’ll have to mull it over. I want to get out of the Bay Area; this parochial climate is murder. I could come and dazzle people. Maybe between us we could lick the sound boys.” He patted Schilling on the arm. “I’ll call you, Josh. It depends on how I feel.”
“Good-bye,” Mary Anne said as she and Schilling started away.
Hethel opened his tired eyes. “Good-bye, little Miss Elf. Josh Schilling’s elusive elf… I remember you.”
The party was breaking up. A few scattered people were gathered around Partridge’s hi-fi, examining the Diotronic Binaural Sound System, but the majority had drifted off.
“You want to go?” Schilling said to the girl.
“Maybe so.”
“You feel better, don’t you?”
“Yes,” she said, and shivered.
“Cold?”
“Just tired. Maybe you could get me my purse… I think she put it in the bedroom.”
He went to get her purse and his own overcoat. In a moment they had said good evening to the Partridges and were starting down the front steps onto the sidewalk.
“Brrrr,” Mary Anne said, jumping into the car. “I’m freezing.”
He started the motor and clicked on the heater. “You want to go back? Tomorrow’s Sunday; you don’t have to get up early.”
Restlessly, Mary Anne said: “I don’t want to go back. Maybe we could go somewhere.” But she looked tired and drawn; a scrawny, almost gaunt quality had crept up into the hollows of her face.
“I’ll take you home,” Schilling decided. “It’s time you were in bed.”
Without protest, she sank down against the seat, brought up her knees, and pressed her chin into the fabric. Arms folded, she stared at the steering column.
Once, as they drove along the peninsula highway between towns, Mary Anne lifted her head and murmured: “If he does come down, Paul could hear him.”
“Absolutely,” he agreed.
“Did he write some of the music Paul listened to in the booth that day?”
“I gave Paul one of Hethel’s pieces, yes. A sonata for small chamber orchestra. His ‘Rustic’ Sonata.”
“You told me sonatas were for piano.”
“Most of them…but not with Sid Hethel.”
“Jesus,” Mary Anne sighed. “It’s so darn confusing… I’ll never get it.”
“Don’t worry about it.”
The girl lapsed into silence.
“Still cold?” he asked presently.
“No, but I should have worn a coat. Only I wanted you to see my outfit. Do you like it?”
“It’s fine,” he said, as he had said before. “It’s just right.”
/> She became despondent again. “Wednesday is the inquest, or whatever they call it.”
“What inquest?”
“For Danny Coombs. I have to go down and explain what happened, so they’ll know if they want to arrest anybody.”
“Will they want to?”
“No, because it was an accident. Coombs ran out and fell. There was a laundry delivery man who saw him. It seems so remote…but it was only a couple of weeks ago. Now it sounds like something I made up. Except that if we don’t say the right thing, Tweany will go to the flea-bee.” Her voice trailed off.
“You don’t want him to be tried.”
“Of course not. Well, they won’t. He’s strutting around; he got rid of Coombs. Now he has a free field with Beth. Good for him.” With a sigh, she rolled herself up in a ball and lay back against the seat; in a few moments she had drifted off into a troubled doze.
When he brought the car to a halt in front of her apartment building she was still asleep. She didn’t stir as he shut off the motor and pushed open the door; he had already begun to gather her up before she blinked and opened her eyes.
“What are you doing?” she asked warily. “Going to carry me inside?”
“Do you mind?”
“I guess not.” She yawned. “But be careful…don’t kill yourself.”
She weighed, he discovered, about as much as four cartons of records, probably not much more than a hundred pounds. Without difficulty, he pushed open the front door of the building and carried her upstairs. Here and there light showed under doors, but her own apartment was dark. And the door, when he tried the knob, was locked.
“I have the key,” she murmured. “In my purse. Set me down and I’ll get it.”
He set her down; stumbling a little, she leaned against the door, eyes half-shut. Presently she smiled, opened her purse, and groped inside it.
“Thank you for the nice time,” she said.
“That’s perfectly all right.”
“We went out together, didn’t we?”
“I suppose so. Did you have fun?”
“I wish—” Again she yawned, showing her small white teeth and pink cat’s tongue. “I wish I could have understood more. Will we ever see that fat man again… Sid Hethel? Will he come down here?”
“Maybe. I hope so.” Putting his hands on her shoulders, his fingers touching her neck, he bent over her and kissed her close to the mouth. She gave a little soundless cry of surprise and wonder; one hand came up in a gesture of defense, as if she intended to scratch him. Whatever it was, she changed her mind. For an interval she leaned drowsily against him, clinging to him in her half-sleep; then, all at once, she was awake. She had reached some kind of decision; her body stiffened and she pulled back.
“No,” she said, slipping away from him, out from under his hands, becoming shadowy and insubstantial in the gloom of the hall.
“No what?” he echoed, not understanding.
“We can’t go in there; she’s in there.” Taking hold of his hand, Mary Anne led him back along the hall, away from the locked door of her apartment.
15
• • • • • • • •
Still clutching his hand, she hurried down the stairs of the apartment building and outside to the darkness of the street. Schilling started toward his parked car, but she led him away from it and down the sidewalk.
“Not the car,” she gasped, veering away from the misty black-metal hull. “It isn’t far; we’ll walk.”
“Where are we going?”
Her answer was lost; he couldn’t make it out. In the night silence her breathing was labored. Not letting go of him, she led him across the street and around the corner. Ahead of them glowed the lights of the downtown business section, stores and bars and gas stations.
She was taking him to the record shop. Rushing through the darkness, she was carrying him closer and closer to his own store. What she had said, he realized, was stockroom. They were going there, to the converted basement under the street level. Already she was struggling with her purse, getting out her store key.
“Let me take you home,” he protested. “To my place.”
“Please, Joseph-I don’t want to go there.”
“But why the store?”
She slowed a little, her face very pale in the glare of the streetlight. “I’m afraid,” she said, as if that explained everything. And it did, for him. She was becoming panic-stricken, as she had been that first day. But this time he was ready for it: it was no surprise.
“Look,” he told her reasonably, pulling her to a halt. “Go on back to your apartment. I’ll leave you…there’s nothing to worry about.” He untangled her fingers until his own hand was free. “See? It’s as simple as that.”
“Don’t leave,” she said instantly. “Can’t we go to the store? I’ll be all right there; I want to be downstairs, where it’s safe.” And then she was hurrying on again, the silk of her clothes shining and rustling ahead of him.
He followed. When he caught up with her she had crossed the street to the far side; the record shop was visible now, its window lights glaring.
“Here,” she said. “You unlock the door.” She jabbed her key at him; accepting it, he turned the lock, and swung the door aside.
The store was cold. Except for the window display everything lay in darkness. An acrid haze of cigarette smoke hung in the listening booths, a stale smell mixed with the presence of onions and human perspiration: reminders of customers. To his left was the counter, laden with records. As he reached for a light switch, the corner of a display table caught him against the knee; snorting, he stopped to reach painfully down.
In the back of the store the hall light came on. Mary Anne disappeared into the office and then emerged almost at once, a wool jacket around her shoulders. “Where are you?” she asked.
“Here.” He located the overhead light and pulled it on. Grunting, he limped to the door, pulled down the shade, and released the lock. The heavy bolt jumped into place.
“Yes,” she agreed. “Lock it. I forgot. Can I turn on the heater in the office?”
“Certainly.” Sitting down on the window ledge, he rested and rubbed his knee. Mary Anne had already vanished into the office; the soft blue shimmer of the fluorescent lamp above his desk became visible. He could hear her stirring around, lifting out the electric heater, lowering the window shade.
“Find it?” he asked, when she reappeared.
“It’s on; it’s getting warm.” She came up and dropped beside him, crouched against the counter, half-kneeling, half-leaning against the upright surface behind her. “Joseph,” she said, “why did you kiss me?”
“Why?” he echoed. “Because I love you.”
“Do you? I wondered if that was why.” She settled down and sat gazing at him with a worried, preoccupied frown. “Are you sure that’s it?” Then she had scrambled up to her feet. “Let’s go in the office where it’s warm.”
The little electric heater beamed and radiated, creating a nimbus of heat around itself. “Look at it,” Mary Anne said. “Getting itself warm…nothing else.”
“Are you afraid of me?” he asked her.
“No.” Harassed, she paced around the office. “I don’t think so, at least. Why should I be afraid of you?”
Outside the store a car rushed along the empty street, its headlights spilling across the display tables and racks, the shelves of records behind the counter. Then the car was gone; the store returned to darkness.
“I’m going downstairs,” she announced, already starting out into the hall.
“What for?”
There was no response; she had turned on the basement light and was hurrying down the stairwell.
“Come on back up here,” he ordered.
“Please don’t shout at me,” she said in a clipped voice. But she had paused on the stairs. “I can’t stand being shouted at.”
“Look at me,” he said.
“No.”
“Stop
this damn neurotic business and look at me.”
“You can’t order me around,” she said. But gradually her head turned. Eyes dark, lips pressed tight, she faced him.
“Mary Anne,” he said, “what’s the matter?”
The darkness in her eyes blurred. “I’m afraid something will happen to me.” One small hand came up; frail and trembling, she was holding onto the banister. “Oh, hell,” she said, her lips twitching. “It goes back a long way. I’m sorry, Joseph.”
“Why?” he repeated. “Why do you want to go downstairs?”
“To get the coffeepot. Didn’t I say?”
“No, you didn’t say.”
“It’s still down there… I was washing it out today. It’s drying on the packing table by the gummed tape. On some pieces of cardboard.”
“Do you want coffee?”
“Yes,” she said eagerly. “Then maybe I wouldn’t be so cold.”
“All right,” he said. “Go on and get it.”
Gratefully, she let go of the banister and hurried down into the stockroom. Schilling followed after her. When he reached the basement he found her sitting on the edge of the rickety packing table, fitting the Silex coffeepot together. A few drops of water shone on her wrist; she had filled the coffeepot up and it was sloshing over.
For a moment he thought of getting the tin of Folger’s coffee down for her; she was starting to search the shelves behind her, reaching up and pushing aside the boxes of twine and Scotch tape. He went over, half-intending that and half-intending something else, something that remained diffused in his mind until he had almost reached her and she was lifting the Silex up for him to take. He took it and then, without hesitation, set it down again, this time on the edge of the table, and put his arms around the girl’s shoulders.
“How thin,” he said aloud.
“I told you.” She shifted until more of her weight rested on the table. “What is it they call it when you want to run? Panic? That sounds like the word. But I always wanted a place I could run to, a place I could hide…but when I got there, nobody would let me in, or it wasn’t where I wanted to be after all. It never worked out; there was always something wrong. And I gave up trying.”