“Damn these crazy fountains!” the man snarled, groping for his handkerchief. Swearing eloquently he strode angrily away.
Tink closed his eyes and a dreamy smile touched his lips.
“Love is the most glorious thing in the world,” he said.
Nastee looked at him exasperatedly.
“Stop saying that over and over again,” he said. “Anyway, how do you know?”
Nastee’s sharp eyes caught the sudden flush in Tink’s cheeks.
“I just know, that’s all,” Tink said defensively.
“So that’s it,” Nastee said with a sly grin. “You’ve fallen in love yourself.”
Tink reddened in confusion.
“Of course not. You’re being absolutely silly. How could I be in love? I’ve only seen her once.”
“Oho!” chortled Nastee. “Who is she?”
Tink sat up and put his chin in his hand. A worried frown was on his face.
“That’s just it,” he said, “I don’t know her name or anything about her. I just got a glimpse of her through a window while she was working.” He sighed tragically. “She’s glorious.”
Nastee’s curiosity got the better of him.
“What’s she like?” he asked. “What does she do?”
“Well,” Tink said eagerly, “she’s pretty as a rose and she works for a composer.”
“She must be smart,” Nastee said grudgingly.
“Naturally, she’s smart,” Tink said. “I could tell at a glance that she was the only one in the bunch with brains and beauty.”
“Bunch?” Nastee said in surprise. “Was it a harem?”
“Don’t be vulgar,” Tink said frostily. “She is the end girl in a chord. There are three other girls assigned to this particular composition, but none of them compare with mine.”
“Mine!” Nastee jeered. “Do you think she’ll bother with you?”
“I suppose you’re right,” Tink said gloomily. “Anyway I’m going to see her again and try to talk with her.”
“When?” Nastee demanded.
“Right away,” he said.
“I think I’ll go along,” Nastee said. Tink stopped. “Oh, no you don’t.”
“You can’t stop me,” Nastee said. “There’s no wall safe here to lock me in like you did the last time. Anyway I’ll be good.”[9]
“Is that a promise?” Tink demanded. Nastee smiled slyly.
“Of course,” he said.
The young man at the piano was concentrating on his work with almost fierce intentness. A shock of unruly black hair fell over his pale forehead as his fingers pounded out dramatic, thunderous chords, but he only shook it from his eyes impatiently and continued playing.
Occasionally he stopped long enough to pencil in a few notes on the unfinished score before him, then his fingers returned to the keyboard to draw forth harmony and melody that swelled through the small, plainly furnished room with magic beauty.
Finally he stopped and ran both hands wearily through his untidy hair. His face was drawn with tiny lines of fatigue, but an unquenchable flame of inspiration burned in his eyes.
He was about to return to his work when a slim girl appeared in the doorway that led to the apartment’s tiny kitchen. She wore a brightly colored apron and there was a smudge of flour on her nose. Her smile was gay.
“Would New York’s finest composer care to stop for a cup of coffee?” she asked.
The young man at the piano grinned at her and stretched luxuriously.
“Sounds like a good idea,” he said. “I’m getting a bit tired. Will the wife of New York’s finest composer join me?”
“I certainly will,” the girl answered. “Come on.”
The young man sighed and his face became serious.
“Ann,” he said suddenly, “how do we know this music is any good? How do we know Mr. Hummert will use it for his revue even if I do finish it by Friday?”
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.[10]
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.
9
See “Tink Takes a Hand,” October ’41
In this story, Tink and Nastee make a wager, selecting a bystander, and proceed to discover which of them is most capable — Tink in making the victim happy; Nastee in making him miserable. Tink finally won the bet by locking Nastee in a wall safe, where Nastee had gone to steal a jewel in a rather underhanded trick.
10
Of the many legends that abound in Irish mythology, one of the most charming is the folktale of the little people who are believed to be spirit or soul of music. These creatures, usually feminine in gender, are reputedly embodied in all great works of music, and it is their presence that lends magnificence to the compositions.