Philip Dick - Mary And The Giant

"This song," Tweany intoned, "is called, 'Where We Sat Down,' and tells the story of a young woman walking through the countryside in autumn, remembering and visiting the places where she and her lover-now dead, killed in foreign lands-had been together. It is a simple song." And, taking a deep, meaningful breath, he sang the simple song.

"He doesn't usually do that," Nitz murmured as the song came to a finish. Beth began rippling out arpeggios and Tweany meditated over the enigma of existence. "It's hard to get him to do stuff on sight ... he likes to give it the once-over."

Beth was saying to the man standing beside her: "You felt it, didn't you?" Her playing took on volume and emotion. "You felt what I meant, in that."

"Yes," Tweany agreed, eyes half-shut, swaying with the music.

"And you brought it over. You realized it."

"It was a beautiful song," Tweany said, in a trance.

"Yes," Beth murmured, "it takes on a beauty. An almost terrifying beauty."

"'White Christmas,'" Nitz said, "that's the end of you. You're finished."

For the briefest interval Tweany wrestled with his composure. Then passion overcame him, and he turned from the piano. "Paul," he said, "a casual cruelty can do great harm."

"Only to a, sensitive soul," Nitz reminded him.

"This is my house. You're a guest in my house, at my invitation."

"Only the top floor." Nitz was pale and tense; he was no longer joking.

The strained silence grew until Mary Anne at last went over to Tweany and said: "We all should go."

"No," Tweany answered, his geniality returning.

"Paul," Mary Anne said to Nitz, "let's get out of here."

"Whatever you want," Nitz said.

At the piano, Beth played a series of runs. "Don't you want to wait for us? We'll give you a ride back."

"I meant," Mary Anne said to her, realizing that it was hopeless, "if we all left. All five of us together."

"That would be nice," Beth agreed. "Gosh, I can't imagine anything nicer." She made no move to get up, and her playing continued. In the corner, his legs drawn under him, Chad Lemming sorrowfully picked at his guitar, ignored by the rest of the group. His sounds, drowned out by the overpowering piano, dissolved and were lost.

"You won't get her to go," Danny Coombs said to Mary Anne in a fit of excitement. "She's got herself planted; she's set."

"Shut up, Danny," Beth said good-naturedly, beginning a progression that formed into a Faure ballade. "Listen to this," she said to Tweany. "Ever heard it? It's one of my favorites."

"I've never heard it," Tweany said. "Is it one of yours?"

Beth created a great shower of musical sparks: a Chopin prelude, followed at once by the opening of the Liszt B-flat sonata. Tweany, caught in the wind blazing around him, stood fast and survived, even managing to smile as the piece ended.

"I love good music," he declared, and Mary Anne, embarrassed, looked away. "I wish I had more time for it."

"Do you know Schubert's 'Erlkonig'?" Beth asked, playing furiously. "How wonderfully you could render it."

Lifting his camera, Coombs snapped a shot of the two of them at the piano. Tweany seemed not even to notice; he continued breathing in the music, eyes shut now, hands clasped together before him. Laughing, Coombs popped the exhausted bulb onto the floor and fitted in a fresh one from the leather pouch at his waist.

"Jesus," he said to Nitz, "he's completely left us."

"He does that," Nitz said, standing by Mary Anne, his hand on her shoulder. The friendly pressure made her feel a little better, but not much. "I'm afraid that's his way."

Suddenly Beth leaped from the piano. In ecstasy she seized Lemming by the hand and dragged him to his feet. "You too," she cried in his astonished ear. "All of us; join in!"

Gratified to find himself noticed, Lemming began playing wildly. Beth hurried back to the piano and struck up the opening chords of a Chopin "Polonaise." Lemming, over-powered, danced around the room; throwing his guitar onto the couch, he jumped high in the air, whacked the ceiling with the palms of his hands, descended, caught hold of Mary Anne, and spun her about. At the piano, rocking back and forth, Tweany roared out the lyrics:

"... Til the end of time ..."

Miserable and ashamed, Mary Anne struggled out of Lemining's embrace. She reached the safety of the corner and again stood beside Paul Nitz, collecting herself and smoothing down her coat.

"They're nuts," Nitz said. "They're hopped in another dimension."

Giggling, Coombs crept past them with his camera and stole a covert shot of Beth's emotion-contorted face. The dead bulb disappeared under Tweany's foot; Coombs crept on, past the Negro, over to the spot where Lemming was sprinting through his dance. Again a flash of light blinded them all; when Mary Anne could see again she found Coombs climbing up onto the piano to photograph the group from above.

"God," she said, shivering. "There's something wrong with him.

Nitz, withdrawn and bitter, said: "This is bad stuff, Mary. I should take you home. You don't deserve it."

"No," she said. "I'm not going."

"Why not? What do you want here?" His gaunt frame trembled; nauseated, he bent his head. "Him, still?"

"It's not his fault."

"You never give up, do you?" Nitz's voice cracked apart and he swallowed creakily. "I can't stand any more of this jumping; I'm leaving."

"Don't," Mary Anne said quickly. "Please, Paul, don't leave."

"Christ," Nitz implored, "I'm sick." He handed her his glass and, crouching over, hobbled out of the room and down the hall. Coombs, like some bony spider, gleefully took a picture of him as he passed.

"Look at me!" Lemming shouted, waving his arms and panting for breath. "What am I? Tell me what I am!"

Beth began to play "Poor Butterfly."

"No!" Lemming shrieked. "You're wrong!" He threw himself onto the floor and rolled under the piano; only his twitching legs were visible. "What am I now?"

Scuttling from the corner, Coombs squatted down and took a photograph of him. Eyes distorted, Coombs popped dead bulbs from his camera and fumbled new ones from his pouch. His skin had turned from white to a mottled red; his hair, disarranged and shiny, oozed down his temples.

Feeling ill herself, Mary Anne retreated into the kitchen, her hands over her ears, trying to shut out the noise. But it forced itself through the walls and floor; transmitted as vibration, it hammered around her. She could hear Nitz being sick in the bathroom, a tearing sound as if his body were being dragged apart.

Poor Nitz, she thought. Uncovering her ears, she stood listening to his agony and wondering what she could do. Nothing, apparently. And he was suffering for her, too. Behind her, in the living room, the delirium went on; Lemming appeared in the doorway, his face flooded with joy, held out his arms to her, and then vanished. The bull rumble of Carleton Tweany never abated, rising and falling, but contained within the frenzy of the little old piano.

To her, the sound of the piano was a friendly and familiar noise gone wrong. Sometimes, sitting alone in the apartment waiting for Tweany to appear-he seldom did-she had pecked out a few weak themes, jukebox melodies from her meager years. Now, the din of the piano was terrific; played by professionals, the racket grew in volume until the cups and plates in the cupboard above her vibrated.

At the moment they were playing "John Henry." Tweany was going into a routine: he stood beating his hands on the piano, eyes shut, head thrown back, body agitated with ecstasy. Coombs, sneaking around, took a picture of him and then one of Lemming, who was huddled over Beth, reaching past her to join with her on the keys of the piano. Four hands pounding ... the enormous passion shook the house.