Philip Dick - Mary And The Giant

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?"

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."