The girl placed her hands on her hips in a comically belligerent pose and one small foot tapped the floor impatiently.
“Peter Hardwicke,” she said, “if you don’t stop doubting your own ability I’ll—well, I don’t know what I will do, but it will be something drastic. Of course your overture is good. Even though it isn’t finished yet I know that. And if Mr. Hummert doesn’t take it,” she added defiantly, “why someone else will.”
“Hummert has to take it,” the young composer said, almost savagely. “Don’t you realize honey, this is our big chance. If I muff it I may never get another.”
“You are not going to muff it,” his wife said crisply, “so stop thinking about it. Now come into the kitchen and have a cup of coffee. The rest will do you good.”
The young man stood up and put his arms around her.
“I don’t know what I’d do without you,” he said huskily.
“I do,” she said. “You’d never get a decent cup of coffee.
He smiled at her and rumpled her short auburn hair.
“Don’t get fresh with New York’s finest composer.”
They both laughed then and walked into the kitchen, arm-in-arm.
WHEN Peter Hardwicke returned to his work a few moments later he noticed that a draft of air was blowing through the room. Glancing about he saw that the window facing Central Park was open about an inch at the bottom.
He was sure that it had been closed when he left the room, but it was definitely open now. Frowning over this minor mystery he stepped to the window and closed it, unaware that his action almost occasioned a major disaster in the plans of Tink and Nastee.
“Whew!” Tink cried. “That was close. He almost caught the seat of my pants when he slammed the window.”
“It would have served you right,” Nastee said, “for being so poky.”
Tink climbed to his feet and dusted himself off. His merry face was beaming with expectancy.
“Anyway we’re inside,” he said.
Peter Hardwicke had returned to his piano and again his flying fingers were scattering brilliant melody about the room. His back was to the window, concealing the keyboard from Tink and Nastee.
“All right,” Nastee said sourly, “we’re inside. Now, where’s this girl you’re mooning about?”
Tink executed a little jig.
“Follow me,” he said.
Leaping from the sill he caught a lamp cord and swung himself up to the piano. Nastee joined him an instant later.
From this point of view they had a clear view of the piano keyboard. Tink stretched himself on his stomach with a contented sigh and cupped his chin in his hand, but Nastee’s mouth fell open in surprise.
For visible to him on the keyboard were four beautiful, gracefully moulded girls, dancing with elfin delicacy over the piano keys and leaping lightly as feathers over the flashing fingers of the composer.[2]
They were clad in wisps of flowered material that billowed and floated around them as they soared from key to key with lithe abandon. Their every movement, every gesture was synchronized to the tempo of the music, and the gay festive mood of their dance was attuned to the spirited rhythm of the composition.
“Holy gee!” Nastee gasped. For once his surly sarcasm was forgotten. His metropolitan sophistication was staggered.
Tink grinned at him.
“They’re pretty keen, aren’t they? But notice the one on this end. She’s in a class by herself.”
Nastee glanced at the girl whose charms had captivated Tink and shook his head slowly and sadly.
“Red hair,” he said succinctly. “That’s bad.”
“What’s bad about that?” Tink demanded. “I like red hair.”
Nastee sat down and swung his legs over the side of the piano. Now that his first interest in the dancing girls had worn away, his normally irascible attitude was returning.
“Too much temper,” he said. “She’s probably the type who’d throw acorns at you when she got mad.”
“You’re crazy,” Tink said with heat. With injured dignity he turned away from Nastee and then his cheeks flamed with humiliation. For evidently the sound of the altercation had carried to the dancing girls on the keyboard.
All four of them were regarding him with wide startled eyes. In their surprised consternation they lost the tempo of the music and huddled together whispering animatedly and peeking occasionally at Tink and Nastee.
THE melody pouring from the piano became perceptively ragged. Peter Hardwicke brought his hand down in a desperate savage chord and then ran his fingers distractedly through his hair.
“Damn!” he muttered. “That doesn’t sound right at all.” He wiped his hands on the legs of his trousers and began playing again, repeating the passage that had broken down.
The elfin girls had recovered from their shock by this time. Responding to the music they came to life in a brilliantly spirited dance that was as lilting as a leaf in a breeze.
Once again the music was sweet and melodious and graceful.
The red haired girl flitted down the keyboard and twirled about in perfect time before Tink.
“It isn’t at all polite to stare at people,” she said over her shoulder.
“It’s not polite, but it’s fun,” Tink said. “What’s your name?”
The girl tossed her head saucily.
“What difference does it make to you?” She started to dance away.
“Wait a minute!” Tink cried. “I’ve got to know your name if you’re going to spend the afternoon in the park with me.”
Twirling, the girl danced slowly back to Tink. Her delicately chiseled chin was grimly firm.
“Who said I was going to the park with you?” she demanded.
“It was just an idea,” Tink said uneasily.
“It wasn’t a good one,” the girl said.
“All right,” Tink shrugged resignedly, “we’ll stay here and get acquainted. It won’t hurt to tell me your name, will it?”
The girl glanced up into Tink’s cheerfully smiling face and she missed a beat.
“No, I guess not,” she said, a little breathlessly. “I’m Jingle.”
“Then I’ll call you Jing,” Tink said promptly.
The red haired girl dropped her eyes and smiled. Then she wheeled away and twirled toward the opposite end of the keyboard, but in her excited confusion her feet skipped another beat.
The music stopped with a heavy discouraged crash. The young composer stood up and clenched his fists nervously.
“Something’s off,” he muttered. “What a time to get snagged. I’ve got to get this thing right.”
His wife came into the room then and saw him standing drumming his fingers on the top of the piano. “What’s the matter, Peter?” she asked anxiously.
“I’ll be darned if I know,” he answered, with a weary shake of his head. “Everything was going beautifully until I stopped to have that coffee. Now I’m missing something. I should have worked straight through.”
His wife turned away. “I’m sorry I bothered you,” she said in a small voice.
“Oh, honey, it’s not your fault. It’s just a case of nerves. When I think of how important this thing is, I can’t concentrate on anything.”
“I shouldn’t have bothered you,” Ann said. She held a handkerchief to her nose.
Peter crossed the room in two quick strides and took her in his arms. With one finger he lifted her chin until he was able to smile into her eyes. “Smile,” he said. “Please,”
She smiled tremulously.
“That’s better. Please don’t pay any attention to what I say, honey, when I’m all worked up like this. It’s my fault, I know, but I get tied up in a knot when the music isn’t coming right. Am I forgiven?”
With a sob, Ann buried her face against his tweed jacket.
“It was all my fault, Peter,” she cried, the words coming through his coat in an indistinct murmur.
Peter patted her shoulders awkwardly.
“Well, let’s don’t argue about that,” he said with a grin. “The big thing that Mr. and Mrs. Hardwicke have to do is get this overture set right. I’m going to knock off for ten or fifteen minutes and maybe I’ll have an inspiration when I get back to work.”
TINK took advantage of the interruption to make strides.
“Listen, Jing,” he said urgently, “you’ve no idea how beautiful the park is at this time of day. I can’t describe it to you, you’ve got to see it for yourself.”
“But I can’t,” Jing said, for the fifth time. She glanced apprehensively down the keyboard where her three companions were gossiping together in a tight little circle.
“They’re shocked enough as it is,” she said, “and besides I have to go to work when the music starts. There’s no one to take my place.”
Tink frowned and rested his chin in his hand. For fully a minute he remained thinking, then he leaped to his feet with a shout.
“I’ve got it,” he cried. “Nastee can take your place for a half hour or so. He catches on to things in a hurry.” Nastee who had been listening glumly to the discussion raised his head and stared at Tink with cynical amusement.
“What makes you think I will?” he sneered.
“Oh, he couldn’t,” Jing said hastily. “We’ve already caused enough trouble with the music this afternoon. We can’t mix things up anymore.”
“Nastee wouldn’t mix things up,” Tink said with fine assurance. “He has a very musical nature. Anyway, it will only be for a few minutes. Please.”
“Well—” Jing glanced timidly at her companions, “if it’s only for a few minutes—”
“Fine,” Tink cried. “Come on, Nastee, be a good sport.”
Nastee’s face was thoughtful, but sly lights lurked in his little eyes.
“I’ll do it,” he said. “I’m not such a bad guy, after all.”
“Wonderful!” Tink said gleefully. “You see, Jing, it’s all set.”
“Maybe I shouldn’t,” Jing said, “it really isn’t right.” She glanced doubtfully at Nastee. “Will you do your best to follow the music? It isn’t terribly difficult.”
“Sure,” Nastee said. “I’ll do my best.”
After another second of hesitation, Jing flung her streaming hair back with a toss of her head and sprang lightly to the top of the piano beside Tink.
“All right,” she said, “but only for a little while.”
Hand-in-hand they leaped to the window cord and swung to the window. With a tinkling laugh they were gone.
WHEN Peter returned to the piano a half hour later he noticed that the window facing the Park was open again. He closed it automatically, too absorbed with his musical problems to worry about trifles.
He flexed his fingers nervously and drew a deep breath. Then he struck the opening chord of the overture. As the sound swelled up from the piano he jerked his hands away as if the keys were suddenly red-hot.
Shaken, he listened in horror to the hideously sour chord that lingered in the room like a bad odor. A feverish light of desperation gleamed in his eye.
Never had he produced music like this.
Summoning his courage he attacked the piano again, striving mightily to infuse his composition with melody and harmony, but each succeeding chord was more objectionable than the last.
Everything was wrong! The melody was sour, the rhythm was jerky, the harmony was a travesty, and the complete score seemed suddenly an uninspired hodge-podge of din, discord and dissonance.
“What’s got into it!” Peter cried, burying his face in his hands. “It’s horrible, it’s sour, it’s all wrong!”
In desperation he leaped to his feet and scooped up the sheets of music in his hands. Trembling in every muscle he glared at them as if they were directly responsible for his predicament.
“Damn it!” he shouted. “What’s the matter?”
Ann appeared in the doorway, her face white.
“Darling, what’s wrong? Is anything the matter?”
Peter clasped his fist to his forehead with a moan.
“Is anything the matter?” he shouted. “No, everything’s dandy! Everything’s fine!”
Waving the crumpled sheets of music over his head he strode to the middle of the room, his face flushed with helpless rage.
“It isn’t necessary to shout at me,” Ann said quietly. “Maybe you’d better lie down awhile. You’re upset.”
“That’s it,” Peter said breathing heavily, “I’m just upset. The whole damned score is a stinking mess and Hummert would have to be a mad man to think of using it, so I’m upset. That’s all, upset. I discover after eight years of work that I can’t write music that makes sense, so I’m upset. I’m not irritated, I’m not angry, I’m not going stark raving mad, I’m just a little bit upset. You’ve got it all figured out, haven’t you?”
“Please, Peter,” Ann said. Her lower lip trembled. “You’ve never talked like this to me before.”
“That,” Peter said in a strangled voice, “was because I was never upset before. Now, as you have pointed out so brilliantly, I’m upset. I’m liable to say anything.”
Ann stared at him wordlessly for an instant, then with a muffled sob she turned and ran into the tiny bedroom. She returned a moment later with her hat and coat on.
Peter looked at her and the color suddenly drained from his face.
“So you’re walking out,” he said bitterly. “All right, go ahead. You’re doing the smartest thing in the world. I’m not worth sticking to.”
With a sudden vicious gesture he tore the sheets of music in two and flung them into the air.
“There goes nothing,” he said. “Just the remains of the final flop effort of my illustrious career as a composer of rotten music.”
Ann looked at him steadily for an instant as if she were trying to memorize his features. Then she turned and left the room.
Peter glared helplessly after her and viciously kicked a torn sheet of music into the air. It settled quietly, forlornly to the carpet.
With an oath he grabbed a bottle of Scotch from a table and strode into the bedroom, kicking the door shut with an angry bang.
AFTER an idyllic hour in the park, sunning themselves on a toadstool and chummily discussing life and its problems, Tink and Jing returned to the apartment.
The appalling scene that met their eyes completely shocked them from their complacently contented mood.
Torn sheets of music were strewn about the floor and over the entire apartment brooded a dismal silence.
The three chord girls were crouched in terror on top of the mantel clock, their eyes wide with fright. Nastee was stretched comfortably on the keys of the piano, his impish face adorned with a sly, mischievous smile.
“Oh!” Jing gasped faintly. “Something terrible has happened.”
Tink stared apprehensively at Nastee’s recumbent figure. There was something in his smirking, triumphant smile that caused him considerable uneasiness.
“Oh,” Jing wailed, “I knew I shouldn’t have left.”
Her three companions crouched together on top of the clock, and in fearful, drama-charged whispers, related all that had occurred while Tink and Jing had been away.
Jing turned white.
“Oh, this is terrible,” she whispered. Turning impulsively to Tink, she cried, “You must do something. You simply must!”
Tink patted her shoulder and glared accusingly at Nastee.
“You see the trouble you’ve caused,” he said.
“Sure,” Nastee said smugly. “I haven’t enjoyed myself so much in years. Boy!”
“Oh!” Jing cried. “Did you cause all this trouble on purpose?”
Nastee stretched luxuriously. He was enjoying himself thoroughly.
“Certainly,” he replied. “It wasn’t hard either. All I had to do was trip the girls when they’d dance past me. It sure played the devil with the music.”
“Oh,” Jing said faintly. The magnitude and callousne
ss of Nastee’s prank left her breathless. She turned imploringly to Tink.
“What are you going to do?”
Tink scratched his head. What a fine mess!
“I’ll think of something,” he promised. But his voice was lacking its customary cheery assurance.
“You’ve got to,” Jing said frantically. “If this work isn’t finished on time it’ll be all my fault. I’ll never be given another chance.”
She buried her face in her hands and began to cry.
Tink shifted uneasily from one foot to another, appalled by this emotional outburst.
“All right, I’ll do something,” he said.
He sat down and screwed his forehead into a frown. This situation was a lulu. He racked his brain for several minutes before he reached two conclusions. The composition would never be finished unless the composer was prompted to return to work. The composer would never return to work unless his wife returned to him, and domestic harmony was restored. Those two things were obvious. Therefore it only remained to get the composer and his wife back together.
That was all, but that was plenty!
HE STOOD up and nervously chewed on a piece of thread. The first thing that had to be done was to prevent the composer’s wife from leaving the apartment house and disappearing into the trackless maze of Manhattan. If she got out of the immediate vicinity they might never be able to get her back on time.
He turned grimly to Nastee and pointed a determined finger at him.
“You’re going to stop the girl from leaving this building. She can’t have gotten out of the lobby yet. You’re responsible for this entire mess and I intend to see that you help undo some of the damage.”
Nastee grinned wickedly at him. “I’ll stop her,” he said, “but that don’t do any good. I’ve got things scrambled to the point where you can never straighten them out.”
With a satisfied chortle he swung himself down from the keyboard and scampered across the floor to the door.
“That’s the first step,” Tink said. He turned to Jing. “You get your girls together and pick up these torn sheets of music. Then find some glue and put it all back into shape.”
Collected Fiction (1940-1963) Page 107