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+*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SMALL VOICE, BIG MAN ***

+

+

+

+

+

+                         small voice, BIG MAN

+

+                        By STEWART PIERCE BROWN

+

+                       Illustrated by SCHELLING

+

+              _No one had heard of Van Richie for years.

+              Now his songs whispered ghostly through the

+              air, and did their work of love and hate._

+

+           [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from

+                    Amazing Stories December 1962.

+         Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that

+         the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]

+

+

+Car 43 cruised slowly up Eighth Avenue. At the wheel, Patrolman Vince

+Ferraro thought mixed thoughts about Patricia Ann Burke. Beside him,

+Sergeant Gus Kleiber watched the city in a bored and automatic way,

+his mind on Augustus Junior, about to take his bar exams. The radio

+crackled in a low key. The evening traffic was light, few people were

+on the streets.

+

+The Sergeant turned heavily in his seat. "You hear that?"

+

+"What?"

+

+"A guy singing. Over the radio."

+

+       *       *       *       *       *

+

+Ferraro shook his head. He pulled over and they listened. Routine

+police calls squawked from the speaker. Kleiber frowned. "No, this was

+singing. It--there!" Faintly behind the official monotone they heard

+a man's voice singing. "You know who that sounds like? Van Richie."

+

+"Van Richie? Come on. He's dead."

+

+"Could be a record. Anyway, he ain't dead. He made a movie here a while

+back."

+

+"Ten years ago."

+

+"Yeah, but he ain't dead."

+

+"He isn't singing on the radio, either."

+

+Kleiber stared at the radio. The singing had faded out. Ferraro eased

+the car back into the stream of traffic and his thoughts back to

+Patricia Ann. They were interrupted again as he drove past the Garden.

+"I tell you," Kleiber said, "that was _Van Richie_."

+

+Oh, great, Ferraro thought. Now he won't be able to let up on _that_

+for a week.

+

+       *       *       *       *       *

+

+"It's cold in here," the girl said. The man at the easel didn't answer.

+She hugged herself and tucked her feet under her, frowning petulantly.

+"Alex?"

+

+"Put a sweater on," the man said without looking away from his

+painting. His voice echoed in the huge loft.

+

+"I've _got_ one on."

+

+"There's a blanket there."

+

+With a sigh, the girl lay back on the bed, pulling the blanket around

+her. She draped one arm over her eyes, shielding them from the banks

+of fluorescent lights. Under her ear, on the not-very-clean pillow, she

+tucked a tiny pocket radio.

+

+In the corner, water dripped from a tap into the chipped basin. Dimly

+the sounds of the traffic on Tenth Avenue floated up to them. Almost an

+hour passed. When she looked up, the man was standing back, frowning at

+the canvas.

+

+"That's enough for now," she said gently.

+

+He dropped the brushes on the taboret and wiped his hands absently, his

+eyes on the half-finished painting.

+

+"Alex?"

+

+"Hmm?"

+

+"Keep me warm."

+

+Only then did he look at her. He came and stood over the bed, faintly

+smiling. She lifted a corner of the blanket like a tent flap.

+

+They lay watching the lopsided moon inching over the edge of the

+streaked and gritty skylight. In the dark, she giggled.

+

+"What's so funny?"

+

+"I just heard Van Richie. Right in the middle of the news."

+

+"Get that thing out of here."

+

+"He just came right in while the man was talking."

+

+"Give it to--"

+

+"Listen." She held the radio to his ear. He listened briefly, then

+turned the radio off and put it on the table.

+

+Later, when he got up for a cigarette, he saw it in the light of the

+match. "How did you know that was him? You weren't even born then."

+

+But she was asleep.

+

+       *       *       *       *       *

+

+Harry Freed locked up on the dot of nine. He left a night light over

+the rear counter, connected the alarm, and walked wearily to the car.

+

+The traffic was lighter tonight. Thank God. He was exhausted. Waiting

+for the light at Seventh Avenue, he leaned his head back against the

+seat and closed his eyes. It would be nice if Edith had a cup of hot

+cocoa ready for him. But tonight was Perry Como. She'd be glued to the

+set.

+

+A horn honked behind him. He started, jerked forward and stalled the

+car. The light changed back to red before he could get it started

+again. People at the crosswalk stared at him. He felt himself blushing.

+Edith was right. They should have bought her brother's car last spring

+and got rid of this one.

+

+The pavements were still wet, repeating the lights of Times Square in

+blurred patches of color. The rain had killed the day's receipts. He

+dreaded telling Edith. They said tomorrow would be better. He switched

+on the radio to get the news and weather.

+

+The traffic moved slower now. He looked nervously at his watch. Even

+with Perry Como, she didn't like it when he was late.

+

+Why hadn't Saul made both deliveries today? Why only one? Reminder: see

+Hodges at the bank tomorrow. And write Ruth; ask about his nephew's

+broken arm.

+

+Horns again. A cop waving him on. God, he was tired. His eyes. Edith

+wanted him to get glasses.

+

+"... clearing, with some cloudiness. Wind from the north ..." Van

+Richie singing.

+

+Why are they always digging up Ninth Avenue? Maybe Eleventh would be

+better. Crazy taxis. Look at that nut, cutting in and out.

+

+_Van Richie?_

+

+He twisted the dial. "Wheat was off but cotton was higher...." "Our

+love came much too soo-oo-oon!" "Next news at 10:30...." "Real,

+unfiltered tobacco flavor...."

+

+He had heard him, though. He was sure of it. He told Edith about it

+when he got home. She said he was crazy. Van Richie had retired long

+ago.

+

+       *       *       *       *       *

+

+The book had pictures of things he knew, with the English names beneath

+them. Each word was spelled the way it was pronounced. With the rug

+wrapped around him and the book spread on top of the radiator, Gabriel

+Sangre said the word aloud, slowly, trying to remember what Miss

+Alvirez had said: where the mark was, was louder.

+

+He was hungry. But he did not eat. What was left in the window-sill box

+had to last until Friday.

+

+"_Chay_-r." "_Tay_-bel." "_Kow_-ch." He shivered, forcing his knees

+between the uprights of the radiator. In bed, he knew, he would be

+warmer. But also he would fall asleep. He wanted to finish the lesson.

+He did not want to disappoint Miss Alvirez.

+

+Tomorrow would be hard again. A long day, with the stacks of trays and

+the heavy dishes and the miles of running around the big kitchen, with

+the old Italian barking at him and the waiters pushing him and cursing

+him. But he could not go to bed.

+

+He rested his forehead on the book. The heat bathed his face. It felt

+good. It made him forget the cold wind outside and the grey and gritty

+buildings. It felt like the sun. The island sun that warmed him as he

+worked with his father in the fields. Down the long rows side by side,

+with the sound of the sea far away and the shrill voices of his sisters

+coming faintly across the valley.

+

+The tears came again. He could not stop them. But this time as they

+came, he heard music. Singing. A man singing. Faintly, like the sound

+of his sisters far away. It was in English. It was not a song he had

+ever heard on the Sebastiano's radio. It was not one from the juke box

+at El Puerto, uptown. It was a small voice, a gentle voice, and he

+liked it. Once or twice he caught a word he knew.

+

+He sat there with his head bowed forward, the rug wrapped around him,

+crying for the sun and listening to the singing in his head.

+

+       *       *       *       *       *

+

+The secretary was nice to him. He could tell she had heard of him. Not

+_heard_ him. She was too young. But heard _of_ him. Well, small favors.

+She called him Mr. Richie, which nobody in Hollywood would have done.

+

+Feldt was nice, too. Up from his chair, hand out. Some of them just sat

+there and let you come to them. But he had that same quick, searching

+look as they shook hands.

+

+"Sixty-three," Van Richie said.

+

+Feldt smiled but did not quite blush. "I figured it had to be around

+that. For what it's worth, you don't look it."

+

+"Thanks." Richie sat down. Feldt returned to his chair behind the desk.

+

+"I talked to Marvin on the coast last night. You're it for us, he says."

+

+"Good. I hope so."

+

+"Yeah, we do, too. It's been a while." Feldt looked at the paper in

+front of him. "1941."

+

+"I did some stock out there after the war."

+

+"Yeah. But the last feature was '41. And you were still a, you know...."

+

+"A crooner." Richie smiled with one corner of his mouth.

+

+Feldt smiled, too. "Yeah, a crooner. This one's only got two songs,

+y'know."

+

+"I know."

+

+"It's mostly light comedy."

+

+"Marv explained all that."

+

+"Yeah, well...." Feldt carefully squared the paper with the corner of

+his blotter. "1941, y'know that's sort of a while ago."

+

+"Yes, it is," Richie said evenly. "Look, Mr. Feldt, if you're trying to

+tell me I'll have to read for it, just say so."

+

+"Okay, I just said so."

+

+Richie fitted a cigarette into his holder. His lighter failed and Feldt

+held a match for him. "Thanks." He exhaled a cloud of smoke. "Who for?"

+

+"Oh, Abe. Me. Probably the producing team."

+

+"It's always a team today, they just don't have a producer any more, do

+they?"

+

+"Just a few of us. Six people, maybe. Seven."

+

+"Just lines?"

+

+"Well, mostly, yeah. We may have a piano there."

+

+The corner of Richie's mouth turned up again. "I _can_ carry a tune,

+you know."

+

+Feldt laughed. "Sure, sure. But just to see how it sounds and all."

+Richie stared at him, not smiling. Feldt turned off his own laughter.

+He shrugged. "What the hell, Van, 1941. We got a bundle in this one.

+We're taking no chances. None."

+

+Outside, the secretary's typewriter chattered unevenly. Richie blew a

+smoke ring. "Okay," he said, feeling suddenly tired, "Any time you say."

+

+Feldt walked to the elevators with him. "Incidentally, Van, I hate to

+ask, but what's with the sauce problem these days?"

+

+Richie shook his head. "Seven years. Eight now, in fact."

+

+"Oh, great. That's great."

+

+"And for your information, it never was what you'd call a problem."

+

+"Well, the papers and all, y'know. We couldn't tell." The elevator

+doors hissed open. "Thanks for coming up, fella. See you tomorrow."

+

+Halfway down, the only other man in the car looked up, startled.

+"Pardon?"

+

+"I said 'son of a bitch'," Van Richie said. "With feeling."

+

+       *       *       *       *       *

+

+"Good God, you can't even _hear_ him!" one of the men whispered.

+

+Someone else in the darkened theatre called, "Hold it! Can you give it

+a little more, Van? We can't hear it out here."

+

+Van Richie squinted toward the seats. "Are the mikes up?"

+

+"All the way. You're going to have to push it."

+

+The piano resumed. Richie's voice was true but small. The whisperer

+groaned. "He could use that old megaphone right about now."

+

+When the number was over, Richie came down from the stage and joined

+them. "You need help, Van," Feldt said bluntly.

+

+"What about it, Ben?" They all turned to a man sitting alone, several

+rows back.

+

+"You don't want a lapel mike?" Ben asked, coming slowly down the aisle.

+

+"Too much cable trailing around. There'll be dancers all over that

+stage."

+

+"Lavalier the same thing?"

+

+"The same thing."

+

+"Look, why hide it?" asked the man who'd mentioned the megaphone. "Just

+fly a pencil mike. When he's ready, drop it down."

+

+"It breaks the mood," one of the writers said.

+

+"Nuts, the mood. You can't _hear_ him."

+

+"There's one thing we can do...."

+

+"A microphone out of the sky?" the writer groaned.

+

+"Awright, a floor mike, then."

+

+"There is one thing," the electrician began again.

+

+"What's that, Ben?"

+

+"Well, it isn't cheap."

+

+"Of course not," the senior member of the producing team said.

+

+"You mind if you look a little fat, Mr. Richie?"

+

+"Not if they can hear me, Ben. What's the gimmick?"

+

+They listened grimly to the electrician's plan. Feldt glanced at

+Richie. He looked old and tired and small. God, Feldt thought, I hope

+we haven't pulled a rock.

+

+       *       *       *       *       *

+

+"For your information," Sergeant Kleiber said, "Van Richie hasn't made

+a record in 26 years. 1936."

+

+"Fine. Great," Ferraro answered. Inwardly, he groaned. It was _weeks_

+now.

+

+"And he sure ain't dead."

+

+"Okay, you looked it up and he's alive." Ferraro moved the car

+skillfully through the traffic. "Fine. I'm glad to hear it."

+

+"Looked it up nothing. He just opened in a show right here on 46th!

+That's him in person we been hearing. I told you. I know that voice."

+

+"Yeah, you told me."

+

+"Look, why don't you admit you were wrong for once?"

+

+"The hell do you mean? I heard the singing. I said that."

+

+"All you said was he was dead or it was a record or something."

+

+"All I said was I never heard him sing those songs. Where'd you get

+all this about he's in a show?"

+

+"Drive by! Turn in 46th! It's right on the sign! Turn in!"

+

+Oh, nuts, thought Ferraro, what do I care if the guy _is_ in a show?

+

+"There. See? Slow down."

+

+"I can see it."

+

+They moved on down the block, past the other theatres. Ferraro

+shrugged. "Okay, he's still around."

+

+"Sure is. And that's him we hear singing."

+

+"But at night. How can he be on the radio if he's in a show? They

+wouldn't be doing a broadcast from the stage every night."

+

+Typical, thought Kleiber. In the wrong, so now he attacks. He couldn't

+say I was wrong or you were right or sorry or anything. "Okay, he's

+still around." Big deal. And now boring in about the broadcasting.

+Well, the hell with him. They were getting too many of his kind from

+the Academy nowadays. The know-it-all, you-heard-it-here-first type. He

+was coming up for an advance in pay-grade on the first of the month. He

+had big plans to get married. Well, let him stay in the barrel a while

+longer. It wouldn't hurt him. Pat or Peg or whatever her name was could

+wait. He made a mental note to get Ferraro's fitness report form from

+the clerk when they got back to the precinct house.

+

+       *       *       *       *       *

+

+"Can you turn that down a little?"

+

+The girl shrugged and turned the volume control on the tiny radio. A

+sudden blare of sound crashed and echoed in the quiet studio. "Sorry,"

+she called, hastily twisting the knob the other way.

+

+"Damn it, Nell, you do that every time. You've had that thing a year

+now."

+

+"Every time! You always exaggerate when you're mad. The other one was

+just the opposite, is all."

+

+He didn't answer. He turned back to the canvas and worked silently for

+several minutes. It was not going well but he kept at it doggedly,

+frowning in concentration, his lower lip trapped between his teeth.

+

+Suddenly he whirled. "Nell, turn that thing down or get it out of here!"

+

+"It _is_ down! I can't get it any softer."

+

+"Then shut it off."

+

+"Why should I? I want to--"

+

+"I said shut it off!"

+

+"I want to hear if Van Richie comes on with the news again."

+

+"What kind of foolishness--?"

+

+"Ye Gods, can't a person even breathe around here any more? You're so

+mad about that lousy painting--"

+

+"Nell." His voice was taut but he didn't shout.

+

+"It _is_. It's lousy and you know it. That's what makes you so--"

+

+"Nell." He started across the room toward her.

+

+"You're not going to take it out on me. It's not my fault if you can't

+paint. I don't think--_Alex!_"

+

+She only partially blocked the blow. Holding his wrist, she tried to

+bite his arm. He flung her off, sending her reeling against the bed.

+"Lousy painting!" she screamed. She threw the radio at the canvas. "It

+stinks! It's so bad it makes me sick! It's awful!" Her face was twisted

+and flushed and her body jerked with the violence of her shouting.

+

+She tried to run then but he caught her and spun her around. He hit her

+with his fist and knocked her down. He stood above her, breathing in

+great gulps, his eyes blazing.

+

+She didn't cry. She got to her feet slowly, stumbling once when she

+was erect. She walked behind him and he heard the water running in the

+basin. He didn't turn around. Her footsteps crossed the room. "That's

+the last time, Alex," she said in a small, lifeless voice. He heard the

+door close.

+

+       *       *       *       *       *

+

+It was a miracle, Gabriel decided. The singing was a miracle. It was to

+tell him to go on, to keep studying, to stay in New York and make Miss

+Alvirez proud of him. And when he could speak and read English well,

+then he would get a better job. A job in an office, maybe, where it was

+quiet and people were kind and he could go home at five o'clock. He

+would have enough money to go to the movies every night.

+

+And so he worked hard at the words and the sentences, while the

+radiator and the singing in his head kept him warm. Every night at the

+same time he heard the singing. He understood more and more of the

+words.

+

+But it was not the words that helped him through the cold and

+loneliness. It was the voice. It seemed to be singing just for him. It

+was inside _his_ head. Nobody else heard it. It was like a friend, a

+friend he didn't have to share with anyone.

+

+When the tests came, he got the second highest mark in the class. Only

+one girl scored better. Miss Alvirez shook his hand and was glad for

+him.

+

+Later, he told her about the singing. She looked at him curiously but

+she didn't laugh. He even sang the parts he could remember. She did not

+know the songs.

+

+It wasn't until he'd been working in the travel office almost six

+months that she came by and told him they were from one of the big

+plays downtown. She had seen it and had come all the way to his office

+to tell him. That made him feel very good.

+

+       *       *       *       *       *

+

+"Listen, if you don't get a clerk in there. You're all jumpy. That's why

+you keep hearing that singing."

+

+"Edie, I told you--that's got nothing to do with it," Harry Freed said.

+

+"The man said there was absolutely nothing wrong with the radio. Nobody

+else hears any singing. I never get it on the set upstairs."

+

+"I know what I heard, that's all. Four times now."

+

+"You're just getting sicker, that's all that proves."

+

+"Honey, I don't think you should say things like that."

+

+"Yeah? Well, I don't think you should hear voices either. Why don't you

+see a doctor? My God, consider somebody else's feelings for a change.

+How do you think it would make _me_ feel, having a husband everybody

+knew was mentally ill? Around _this_ town? That never occurred to you,

+did it? You're too busy thinking of yourself. _I_ try to get you to go

+to a doctor. _I_ worry about it until I'm practically sick myself. But,

+oh no, you're all right. You just hear voices, that's all. So you don't

+care what anybody else is going through. Not you."

+

+Harry sat very still. Then slowly he stood up. "Put your coat on," he

+said.

+

+"What do you mean, put--?"

+

+"Just what I said. Put your _coat_ on."

+

+"Oh, Harry, stop. I don't like to be talked to like that and you know

+it."

+

+"Edith." He walked across the room until he was standing very close to

+her. "Edith, put your coat on and get in the car. We're going into New

+York and you're going to hear Van Richie on that radio if I have to tie

+you to the seat."

+

+"You're out of your mind. You must be out of your mind! Have you been

+drinking or something?"

+

+He stepped closer. Instinctively she stepped back. They stared at each

+other. After a moment, she went over to the closet. "Well, if that's

+the way you're going to be," she said, taking down her hat and coat. "I

+still say it's the silliest thing...."

+

+He found the corners of his mouth were dry. His knees felt watery.

+But he drove steadily and surely through the heavy traffic. She kept

+repeating how silly it was.

+

+He showed her the theatre with Van Richie's name out front. They drove

+back and forth along his homeward route. Three times they heard Van

+Richie sing.

+

+On the way back, she began talking again. "Shut up," he said, without

+raising his voice, without looking at her. She gasped. But she knew

+enough to remain silent.

+

+The critics called it the best musical since _My Fair Lady_. They had

+special praise for Van Richie: "He has made the transition from crooner

+to comedian with grace and style ... the years have left the familiar

+voice intact."

+

+"Bless our boy Ben," Feldt said. He sat on the bed, the newspapers

+strewn on the floor at his feet. The cast party crashed and roared in

+the next room.

+

+"Van Richie and His Electric Voice," Richie said, dropping the phone

+back in the cradle. He'd been trying to call California since midnight.

+

+"Now, listen," Feldt said.

+

+"I know, I know. It's a hit. Sure." Richie was looking out the window.

+The senior producer's apartment commanded a view of two-thirds of

+Manhattan. The blinking signals of a plane headed for Idlewild. A set

+of lights far downtown told him it was 1:57. Seconds later it told him

+the temperature was 39 degrees.

+

+"What now?" Feldt asked.

+

+"What?"

+

+"The big sigh."

+

+"Oh, I was just thinking. How it's all different this time."

+

+"We're all thirty years older, dad."

+

+"No. Something else, too. The--what would you call it--the immediacy?"

+

+"You want to call it that, you call it that. Only what the hell are

+you talking about?"

+

+"Well, back with the band in the old days, you were right there. _They_

+were right there. Swaying there right in front of the stand and you

+were singing right to them. I _saw_ kids falling in love right in front

+of me. Maybe they got married after that. Maybe they _didn't_ get

+married. But I was reaching them, I was communicating."

+

+"When I hear an actor use the word 'communicate', I leave the room."

+

+"This time around I can't get any feeling that I'm reaching anybody,

+that it makes any difference."

+

+The party sounds burst in on them. The producer stood in the doorway.

+"What, are you memorizing those reviews? Come on, everybody's asking

+where you are."

+

+"Here we are."

+

+"Yeah, but come on. They want you, Van. Sibi's at the piano. You're on."

+

+"Sing _Melancholy Baby_," Van Richie said. But, he went out into the

+bright, crowded room and over to the piano.

+

+In a corner of the room, Ben listened, smiling and tapping his foot to

+the rhythm of the song. The room had quieted down while Van Richie was

+singing. There was a crash of applause when he finished.

+

+"Such a _little_ voice," a woman said to Ben. He recognized her as one

+of the writers' wives. "What did you do for it, Ben? Arthur said you

+did something perfectly amazing."

+

+Ben shrugged. "Not so amazing. We had a little belt made. About--" he

+stretched the thumb and middle finger of one hand "--six inches high,

+maybe an inch-and-a-half thick. It was a transmitter, actually--a

+miniature radio station."

+

+"But I never saw any wires. What did he have, batteries?"

+

+"Transistors. Like the astronauts in the space capsules. He wore the

+whole thing under his clothes. We had an amplifier in the wings to pick

+up the signal and beam it out to the house speakers." Ben laughed. "It

+probably loused up a few radios in the neighborhood but it worked."

+

+"I think it's just incredible. That _little_ voice!"

+

+       *       *       *       *       *

+

+Years later, when the New York dentist replaced Gabriel's old steel

+fillings, he explained to him about the music. Gabriel had been

+receiving radio signals in the bits of metal in his head, he said. He

+was very scientific about it, even drawing a little diagram to show him

+how the radiator had helped ground him. Gabriel listened politely and

+smiled but said nothing. To him it was still a miracle.

+

+

+                                THE END

+

+

+

+*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SMALL VOICE, BIG MAN ***
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+<div style='text-align:center'>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SMALL VOICE, BIG MAN ***</div>

+

+<div class="titlepage">

+

+<h1>small voice, BIG MAN</h1>

+

+<p class="ph1">By STEWART PIERCE BROWN</p>

+

+<p>Illustrated by SCHELLING</p>

+

+<p><i>No one had heard of Van Richie for years.<br>

+Now his songs whispered ghostly through the<br>

+air, and did their work of love and hate.</i></p>

+

+<p>[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from<br>

+Amazing Stories December 1962.<br>

+Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that<br>

+the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]</p>

+

+</div>

+

+<hr class="chap">

+

+<figure class="figcenter illowp37" id="illus" style="max-width: 15.75em;">

+  <img class="w100" src="images/illus.jpg" alt="">

+</figure>

+

+<hr class="chap">

+

+

+<p>Car 43 cruised slowly up Eighth Avenue. At the wheel, Patrolman Vince

+Ferraro thought mixed thoughts about Patricia Ann Burke. Beside him,

+Sergeant Gus Kleiber watched the city in a bored and automatic way,

+his mind on Augustus Junior, about to take his bar exams. The radio

+crackled in a low key. The evening traffic was light, few people were

+on the streets.</p>

+

+<p>The Sergeant turned heavily in his seat. "You hear that?"</p>

+

+<p>"What?"</p>

+

+<p>"A guy singing. Over the radio."</p>

+

+<hr class="tb">

+

+<p>Ferraro shook his head. He pulled over and they listened. Routine

+police calls squawked from the speaker. Kleiber frowned. "No, this was

+singing. It—there!" Faintly behind the official monotone they heard

+a man's voice singing. "You know who that sounds like? Van Richie."</p>

+

+<p>"Van Richie? Come on. He's dead."</p>

+

+<p>"Could be a record. Anyway, he ain't dead. He made a movie here a while

+back."</p>

+

+<p>"Ten years ago."</p>

+

+<p>"Yeah, but he ain't dead."</p>

+

+<p>"He isn't singing on the radio, either."</p>

+

+<p>Kleiber stared at the radio. The singing had faded out. Ferraro eased

+the car back into the stream of traffic and his thoughts back to

+Patricia Ann. They were interrupted again as he drove past the Garden.

+"I tell you," Kleiber said, "that was <i>Van Richie</i>."</p>

+

+<p>Oh, great, Ferraro thought. Now he won't be able to let up on <i>that</i>

+for a week.</p>

+

+<hr class="tb">

+

+<p>"It's cold in here," the girl said. The man at the easel didn't answer.

+She hugged herself and tucked her feet under her, frowning petulantly.

+"Alex?"</p>

+

+<p>"Put a sweater on," the man said without looking away from his

+painting. His voice echoed in the huge loft.</p>

+

+<p>"I've <i>got</i> one on."</p>

+

+<p>"There's a blanket there."</p>

+

+<p>With a sigh, the girl lay back on the bed, pulling the blanket around

+her. She draped one arm over her eyes, shielding them from the banks

+of fluorescent lights. Under her ear, on the not-very-clean pillow, she

+tucked a tiny pocket radio.</p>

+

+<p>In the corner, water dripped from a tap into the chipped basin. Dimly

+the sounds of the traffic on Tenth Avenue floated up to them. Almost an

+hour passed. When she looked up, the man was standing back, frowning at

+the canvas.</p>

+

+<p>"That's enough for now," she said gently.</p>

+

+<p>He dropped the brushes on the taboret and wiped his hands absently, his

+eyes on the half-finished painting.</p>

+

+<p>"Alex?"</p>

+

+<p>"Hmm?"</p>

+

+<p>"Keep me warm."</p>

+

+<p>Only then did he look at her. He came and stood over the bed, faintly

+smiling. She lifted a corner of the blanket like a tent flap.</p>

+

+<p>They lay watching the lopsided moon inching over the edge of the

+streaked and gritty skylight. In the dark, she giggled.</p>

+

+<p>"What's so funny?"</p>

+

+<p>"I just heard Van Richie. Right in the middle of the news."</p>

+

+<p>"Get that thing out of here."</p>

+

+<p>"He just came right in while the man was talking."</p>

+

+<p>"Give it to—"</p>

+

+<p>"Listen." She held the radio to his ear. He listened briefly, then

+turned the radio off and put it on the table.</p>

+

+<p>Later, when he got up for a cigarette, he saw it in the light of the

+match. "How did you know that was him? You weren't even born then."</p>

+

+<p>But she was asleep.</p>

+

+<hr class="tb">

+

+<p>Harry Freed locked up on the dot of nine. He left a night light over

+the rear counter, connected the alarm, and walked wearily to the car.</p>

+

+<p>The traffic was lighter tonight. Thank God. He was exhausted. Waiting

+for the light at Seventh Avenue, he leaned his head back against the

+seat and closed his eyes. It would be nice if Edith had a cup of hot

+cocoa ready for him. But tonight was Perry Como. She'd be glued to the

+set.</p>

+

+<p>A horn honked behind him. He started, jerked forward and stalled the

+car. The light changed back to red before he could get it started

+again. People at the crosswalk stared at him. He felt himself blushing.

+Edith was right. They should have bought her brother's car last spring

+and got rid of this one.</p>

+

+<p>The pavements were still wet, repeating the lights of Times Square in

+blurred patches of color. The rain had killed the day's receipts. He

+dreaded telling Edith. They said tomorrow would be better. He switched

+on the radio to get the news and weather.</p>

+

+<p>The traffic moved slower now. He looked nervously at his watch. Even

+with Perry Como, she didn't like it when he was late.</p>

+

+<p>Why hadn't Saul made both deliveries today? Why only one? Reminder: see

+Hodges at the bank tomorrow. And write Ruth; ask about his nephew's

+broken arm.</p>

+

+<p>Horns again. A cop waving him on. God, he was tired. His eyes. Edith

+wanted him to get glasses.</p>

+

+<p>"... clearing, with some cloudiness. Wind from the north ..." Van

+Richie singing.</p>

+

+<p>Why are they always digging up Ninth Avenue? Maybe Eleventh would be

+better. Crazy taxis. Look at that nut, cutting in and out.</p>

+

+<p><i>Van Richie?</i></p>

+

+<p>He twisted the dial. "Wheat was off but cotton was higher...." "Our

+love came much too soo-oo-oon!" "Next news at 10:30...." "Real,

+unfiltered tobacco flavor...."</p>

+

+<p>He had heard him, though. He was sure of it. He told Edith about it

+when he got home. She said he was crazy. Van Richie had retired long

+ago.</p>

+

+<hr class="tb">

+

+<p>The book had pictures of things he knew, with the English names beneath

+them. Each word was spelled the way it was pronounced. With the rug

+wrapped around him and the book spread on top of the radiator, Gabriel

+Sangre said the word aloud, slowly, trying to remember what Miss

+Alvirez had said: where the mark was, was louder.</p>

+

+<p>He was hungry. But he did not eat. What was left in the window-sill box

+had to last until Friday.</p>

+

+<p>"<i>Chay</i>-r." "<i>Tay</i>-bel." "<i>Kow</i>-ch." He shivered, forcing his knees

+between the uprights of the radiator. In bed, he knew, he would be

+warmer. But also he would fall asleep. He wanted to finish the lesson.

+He did not want to disappoint Miss Alvirez.</p>

+

+<p>Tomorrow would be hard again. A long day, with the stacks of trays and

+the heavy dishes and the miles of running around the big kitchen, with

+the old Italian barking at him and the waiters pushing him and cursing

+him. But he could not go to bed.</p>

+

+<p>He rested his forehead on the book. The heat bathed his face. It felt

+good. It made him forget the cold wind outside and the grey and gritty

+buildings. It felt like the sun. The island sun that warmed him as he

+worked with his father in the fields. Down the long rows side by side,

+with the sound of the sea far away and the shrill voices of his sisters

+coming faintly across the valley.</p>

+

+<p>The tears came again. He could not stop them. But this time as they

+came, he heard music. Singing. A man singing. Faintly, like the sound

+of his sisters far away. It was in English. It was not a song he had

+ever heard on the Sebastiano's radio. It was not one from the juke box

+at El Puerto, uptown. It was a small voice, a gentle voice, and he

+liked it. Once or twice he caught a word he knew.</p>

+

+<p>He sat there with his head bowed forward, the rug wrapped around him,

+crying for the sun and listening to the singing in his head.</p>

+

+<hr class="tb">

+

+<p>The secretary was nice to him. He could tell she had heard of him. Not

+<i>heard</i> him. She was too young. But heard <i>of</i> him. Well, small favors.

+She called him Mr. Richie, which nobody in Hollywood would have done.</p>

+

+<p>Feldt was nice, too. Up from his chair, hand out. Some of them just sat

+there and let you come to them. But he had that same quick, searching

+look as they shook hands.</p>

+

+<p>"Sixty-three," Van Richie said.</p>

+

+<p>Feldt smiled but did not quite blush. "I figured it had to be around

+that. For what it's worth, you don't look it."</p>

+

+<p>"Thanks." Richie sat down. Feldt returned to his chair behind the desk.</p>

+

+<p>"I talked to Marvin on the coast last night. You're it for us, he says."</p>

+

+<p>"Good. I hope so."</p>

+

+<p>"Yeah, we do, too. It's been a while." Feldt looked at the paper in

+front of him. "1941."</p>

+

+<p>"I did some stock out there after the war."</p>

+

+<p>"Yeah. But the last feature was '41. And you were still a, you know...."</p>

+

+<p>"A crooner." Richie smiled with one corner of his mouth.</p>

+

+<p>Feldt smiled, too. "Yeah, a crooner. This one's only got two songs,

+y'know."</p>

+

+<p>"I know."</p>

+

+<p>"It's mostly light comedy."</p>

+

+<p>"Marv explained all that."</p>

+

+<p>"Yeah, well...." Feldt carefully squared the paper with the corner of

+his blotter. "1941, y'know that's sort of a while ago."</p>

+

+<p>"Yes, it is," Richie said evenly. "Look, Mr. Feldt, if you're trying to

+tell me I'll have to read for it, just say so."</p>

+

+<p>"Okay, I just said so."</p>

+

+<p>Richie fitted a cigarette into his holder. His lighter failed and Feldt

+held a match for him. "Thanks." He exhaled a cloud of smoke. "Who for?"</p>

+

+<p>"Oh, Abe. Me. Probably the producing team."</p>

+

+<p>"It's always a team today, they just don't have a producer any more, do

+they?"</p>

+

+<p>"Just a few of us. Six people, maybe. Seven."</p>

+

+<p>"Just lines?"</p>

+

+<p>"Well, mostly, yeah. We may have a piano there."</p>

+

+<p>The corner of Richie's mouth turned up again. "I <i>can</i> carry a tune,

+you know."</p>

+

+<p>Feldt laughed. "Sure, sure. But just to see how it sounds and all."

+Richie stared at him, not smiling. Feldt turned off his own laughter.

+He shrugged. "What the hell, Van, 1941. We got a bundle in this one.

+We're taking no chances. None."</p>

+

+<p>Outside, the secretary's typewriter chattered unevenly. Richie blew a

+smoke ring. "Okay," he said, feeling suddenly tired, "Any time you say."</p>

+

+<p>Feldt walked to the elevators with him. "Incidentally, Van, I hate to

+ask, but what's with the sauce problem these days?"</p>

+

+<p>Richie shook his head. "Seven years. Eight now, in fact."</p>

+

+<p>"Oh, great. That's great."</p>

+

+<p>"And for your information, it never was what you'd call a problem."</p>

+

+<p>"Well, the papers and all, y'know. We couldn't tell." The elevator

+doors hissed open. "Thanks for coming up, fella. See you tomorrow."</p>

+

+<p>Halfway down, the only other man in the car looked up, startled.

+"Pardon?"</p>

+

+<p>"I said 'son of a bitch'," Van Richie said. "With feeling."</p>

+

+<hr class="tb">

+

+<p>"Good God, you can't even <i>hear</i> him!" one of the men whispered.</p>

+

+<p>Someone else in the darkened theatre called, "Hold it! Can you give it

+a little more, Van? We can't hear it out here."</p>

+

+<p>Van Richie squinted toward the seats. "Are the mikes up?"</p>

+

+<p>"All the way. You're going to have to push it."</p>

+

+<p>The piano resumed. Richie's voice was true but small. The whisperer

+groaned. "He could use that old megaphone right about now."</p>

+

+<p>When the number was over, Richie came down from the stage and joined

+them. "You need help, Van," Feldt said bluntly.</p>

+

+<p>"What about it, Ben?" They all turned to a man sitting alone, several

+rows back.</p>

+

+<p>"You don't want a lapel mike?" Ben asked, coming slowly down the aisle.</p>

+

+<p>"Too much cable trailing around. There'll be dancers all over that

+stage."</p>

+

+<p>"Lavalier the same thing?"</p>

+

+<p>"The same thing."</p>

+

+<p>"Look, why hide it?" asked the man who'd mentioned the megaphone. "Just

+fly a pencil mike. When he's ready, drop it down."</p>

+

+<p>"It breaks the mood," one of the writers said.</p>

+

+<p>"Nuts, the mood. You can't <i>hear</i> him."</p>

+

+<p>"There's one thing we can do...."</p>

+

+<p>"A microphone out of the sky?" the writer groaned.</p>

+

+<p>"Awright, a floor mike, then."</p>

+

+<p>"There is one thing," the electrician began again.</p>

+

+<p>"What's that, Ben?"</p>

+

+<p>"Well, it isn't cheap."</p>

+

+<p>"Of course not," the senior member of the producing team said.</p>

+

+<p>"You mind if you look a little fat, Mr. Richie?"</p>

+

+<p>"Not if they can hear me, Ben. What's the gimmick?"</p>

+

+<p>They listened grimly to the electrician's plan. Feldt glanced at

+Richie. He looked old and tired and small. God, Feldt thought, I hope

+we haven't pulled a rock.</p>

+

+<hr class="tb">

+

+<p>"For your information," Sergeant Kleiber said, "Van Richie hasn't made

+a record in 26 years. 1936."</p>

+

+<p>"Fine. Great," Ferraro answered. Inwardly, he groaned. It was <i>weeks</i>

+now.</p>

+

+<p>"And he sure ain't dead."</p>

+

+<p>"Okay, you looked it up and he's alive." Ferraro moved the car

+skillfully through the traffic. "Fine. I'm glad to hear it."</p>

+

+<p>"Looked it up nothing. He just opened in a show right here on 46th!

+That's him in person we been hearing. I told you. I know that voice."</p>

+

+<p>"Yeah, you told me."</p>

+

+<p>"Look, why don't you admit you were wrong for once?"</p>

+

+<p>"The hell do you mean? I heard the singing. I said that."</p>

+

+<p>"All you said was he was dead or it was a record or something."</p>

+

+<p>"All I said was I never heard him sing those songs. Where'd you get

+all this about he's in a show?"</p>

+

+<p>"Drive by! Turn in 46th! It's right on the sign! Turn in!"</p>

+

+<p>Oh, nuts, thought Ferraro, what do I care if the guy <i>is</i> in a show?</p>

+

+<p>"There. See? Slow down."</p>

+

+<p>"I can see it."</p>

+

+<p>They moved on down the block, past the other theatres. Ferraro

+shrugged. "Okay, he's still around."</p>

+

+<p>"Sure is. And that's him we hear singing."</p>

+

+<p>"But at night. How can he be on the radio if he's in a show? They

+wouldn't be doing a broadcast from the stage every night."</p>

+

+<p>Typical, thought Kleiber. In the wrong, so now he attacks. He couldn't

+say I was wrong or you were right or sorry or anything. "Okay, he's

+still around." Big deal. And now boring in about the broadcasting.

+Well, the hell with him. They were getting too many of his kind from

+the Academy nowadays. The know-it-all, you-heard-it-here-first type. He

+was coming up for an advance in pay-grade on the first of the month. He

+had big plans to get married. Well, let him stay in the barrel a while

+longer. It wouldn't hurt him. Pat or Peg or whatever her name was could

+wait. He made a mental note to get Ferraro's fitness report form from

+the clerk when they got back to the precinct house.</p>

+

+<hr class="tb">

+

+<p>"Can you turn that down a little?"</p>

+

+<p>The girl shrugged and turned the volume control on the tiny radio. A

+sudden blare of sound crashed and echoed in the quiet studio. "Sorry,"

+she called, hastily twisting the knob the other way.</p>

+

+<p>"Damn it, Nell, you do that every time. You've had that thing a year

+now."</p>

+

+<p>"Every time! You always exaggerate when you're mad. The other one was

+just the opposite, is all."</p>

+

+<p>He didn't answer. He turned back to the canvas and worked silently for

+several minutes. It was not going well but he kept at it doggedly,

+frowning in concentration, his lower lip trapped between his teeth.</p>

+

+<p>Suddenly he whirled. "Nell, turn that thing down or get it out of here!"</p>

+

+<p>"It <i>is</i> down! I can't get it any softer."</p>

+

+<p>"Then shut it off."</p>

+

+<p>"Why should I? I want to—"</p>

+

+<p>"I said shut it off!"</p>

+

+<p>"I want to hear if Van Richie comes on with the news again."</p>

+

+<p>"What kind of foolishness—?"</p>

+

+<p>"Ye Gods, can't a person even breathe around here any more? You're so

+mad about that lousy painting—"</p>

+

+<p>"Nell." His voice was taut but he didn't shout.</p>

+

+<p>"It <i>is</i>. It's lousy and you know it. That's what makes you so—"</p>

+

+<p>"Nell." He started across the room toward her.</p>

+

+<p>"You're not going to take it out on me. It's not my fault if you can't

+paint. I don't think—<i>Alex!</i>"</p>

+

+<p>She only partially blocked the blow. Holding his wrist, she tried to

+bite his arm. He flung her off, sending her reeling against the bed.

+"Lousy painting!" she screamed. She threw the radio at the canvas. "It

+stinks! It's so bad it makes me sick! It's awful!" Her face was twisted

+and flushed and her body jerked with the violence of her shouting.</p>

+

+<p>She tried to run then but he caught her and spun her around. He hit her

+with his fist and knocked her down. He stood above her, breathing in

+great gulps, his eyes blazing.</p>

+

+<p>She didn't cry. She got to her feet slowly, stumbling once when she

+was erect. She walked behind him and he heard the water running in the

+basin. He didn't turn around. Her footsteps crossed the room. "That's

+the last time, Alex," she said in a small, lifeless voice. He heard the

+door close.</p>

+

+<hr class="tb">

+

+<p>It was a miracle, Gabriel decided. The singing was a miracle. It was to

+tell him to go on, to keep studying, to stay in New York and make Miss

+Alvirez proud of him. And when he could speak and read English well,

+then he would get a better job. A job in an office, maybe, where it was

+quiet and people were kind and he could go home at five o'clock. He

+would have enough money to go to the movies every night.</p>

+

+<p>And so he worked hard at the words and the sentences, while the

+radiator and the singing in his head kept him warm. Every night at the

+same time he heard the singing. He understood more and more of the

+words.</p>

+

+<p>But it was not the words that helped him through the cold and

+loneliness. It was the voice. It seemed to be singing just for him. It

+was inside <i>his</i> head. Nobody else heard it. It was like a friend, a

+friend he didn't have to share with anyone.</p>

+

+<p>When the tests came, he got the second highest mark in the class. Only

+one girl scored better. Miss Alvirez shook his hand and was glad for

+him.</p>

+

+<p>Later, he told her about the singing. She looked at him curiously but

+she didn't laugh. He even sang the parts he could remember. She did not

+know the songs.</p>

+

+<p>It wasn't until he'd been working in the travel office almost six

+months that she came by and told him they were from one of the big

+plays downtown. She had seen it and had come all the way to his office

+to tell him. That made him feel very good.</p>

+

+<hr class="tb">

+

+<p>"Listen, if you don't get a clerk in there. You're all jumpy. That's why

+you keep hearing that singing."</p>

+

+<p>"Edie, I told you—that's got nothing to do with it," Harry Freed said.</p>

+

+<p>"The man said there was absolutely nothing wrong with the radio. Nobody

+else hears any singing. I never get it on the set upstairs."</p>

+

+<p>"I know what I heard, that's all. Four times now."</p>

+

+<p>"You're just getting sicker, that's all that proves."</p>

+

+<p>"Honey, I don't think you should say things like that."</p>

+

+<p>"Yeah? Well, I don't think you should hear voices either. Why don't you

+see a doctor? My God, consider somebody else's feelings for a change.

+How do you think it would make <i>me</i> feel, having a husband everybody

+knew was mentally ill? Around <i>this</i> town? That never occurred to you,

+did it? You're too busy thinking of yourself. <i>I</i> try to get you to go

+to a doctor. <i>I</i> worry about it until I'm practically sick myself. But,

+oh no, you're all right. You just hear voices, that's all. So you don't

+care what anybody else is going through. Not you."</p>

+

+<p>Harry sat very still. Then slowly he stood up. "Put your coat on," he

+said.</p>

+

+<p>"What do you mean, put—?"</p>

+

+<p>"Just what I said. Put your <i>coat</i> on."</p>

+

+<p>"Oh, Harry, stop. I don't like to be talked to like that and you know

+it."</p>

+

+<p>"Edith." He walked across the room until he was standing very close to

+her. "Edith, put your coat on and get in the car. We're going into New

+York and you're going to hear Van Richie on that radio if I have to tie

+you to the seat."</p>

+

+<p>"You're out of your mind. You must be out of your mind! Have you been

+drinking or something?"</p>

+

+<p>He stepped closer. Instinctively she stepped back. They stared at each

+other. After a moment, she went over to the closet. "Well, if that's

+the way you're going to be," she said, taking down her hat and coat. "I

+still say it's the silliest thing...."</p>

+

+<p>He found the corners of his mouth were dry. His knees felt watery.

+But he drove steadily and surely through the heavy traffic. She kept

+repeating how silly it was.</p>

+

+<p>He showed her the theatre with Van Richie's name out front. They drove

+back and forth along his homeward route. Three times they heard Van

+Richie sing.</p>

+

+<p>On the way back, she began talking again. "Shut up," he said, without

+raising his voice, without looking at her. She gasped. But she knew

+enough to remain silent.</p>

+

+<p>The critics called it the best musical since <i>My Fair Lady</i>. They had

+special praise for Van Richie: "He has made the transition from crooner

+to comedian with grace and style ... the years have left the familiar

+voice intact."</p>

+

+<p>"Bless our boy Ben," Feldt said. He sat on the bed, the newspapers

+strewn on the floor at his feet. The cast party crashed and roared in

+the next room.</p>

+

+<p>"Van Richie and His Electric Voice," Richie said, dropping the phone

+back in the cradle. He'd been trying to call California since midnight.</p>

+

+<p>"Now, listen," Feldt said.</p>

+

+<p>"I know, I know. It's a hit. Sure." Richie was looking out the window.

+The senior producer's apartment commanded a view of two-thirds of

+Manhattan. The blinking signals of a plane headed for Idlewild. A set

+of lights far downtown told him it was 1:57. Seconds later it told him

+the temperature was 39 degrees.</p>

+

+<p>"What now?" Feldt asked.</p>

+

+<p>"What?"</p>

+

+<p>"The big sigh."</p>

+

+<p>"Oh, I was just thinking. How it's all different this time."</p>

+

+<p>"We're all thirty years older, dad."</p>

+

+<p>"No. Something else, too. The—what would you call it—the immediacy?"</p>

+

+<p>"You want to call it that, you call it that. Only what the hell are

+you talking about?"</p>

+

+<p>"Well, back with the band in the old days, you were right there. <i>They</i>

+were right there. Swaying there right in front of the stand and you

+were singing right to them. I <i>saw</i> kids falling in love right in front

+of me. Maybe they got married after that. Maybe they <i>didn't</i> get

+married. But I was reaching them, I was communicating."</p>

+

+<p>"When I hear an actor use the word 'communicate', I leave the room."</p>

+

+<p>"This time around I can't get any feeling that I'm reaching anybody,

+that it makes any difference."</p>

+

+<p>The party sounds burst in on them. The producer stood in the doorway.

+"What, are you memorizing those reviews? Come on, everybody's asking

+where you are."</p>

+

+<p>"Here we are."</p>

+

+<p>"Yeah, but come on. They want you, Van. Sibi's at the piano. You're on."</p>

+

+<p>"Sing <i>Melancholy Baby</i>," Van Richie said. But, he went out into the

+bright, crowded room and over to the piano.</p>

+

+<p>In a corner of the room, Ben listened, smiling and tapping his foot to

+the rhythm of the song. The room had quieted down while Van Richie was

+singing. There was a crash of applause when he finished.</p>

+

+<p>"Such a <i>little</i> voice," a woman said to Ben. He recognized her as one

+of the writers' wives. "What did you do for it, Ben? Arthur said you

+did something perfectly amazing."</p>

+

+<p>Ben shrugged. "Not so amazing. We had a little belt made. About—" he

+stretched the thumb and middle finger of one hand "—six inches high,

+maybe an inch-and-a-half thick. It was a transmitter, actually—a

+miniature radio station."</p>

+

+<p>"But I never saw any wires. What did he have, batteries?"</p>

+

+<p>"Transistors. Like the astronauts in the space capsules. He wore the

+whole thing under his clothes. We had an amplifier in the wings to pick

+up the signal and beam it out to the house speakers." Ben laughed. "It

+probably loused up a few radios in the neighborhood but it worked."</p>

+

+<p>"I think it's just incredible. That <i>little</i> voice!"</p>

+

+<hr class="tb">

+

+<p>Years later, when the New York dentist replaced Gabriel's old steel

+fillings, he explained to him about the music. Gabriel had been

+receiving radio signals in the bits of metal in his head, he said. He

+was very scientific about it, even drawing a little diagram to show him

+how the radiator had helped ground him. Gabriel listened politely and

+smiled but said nothing. To him it was still a miracle.</p>

+

+

+<p class="ph2">THE END</p>

+

+<div style='text-align:center'>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SMALL VOICE, BIG MAN ***</div>

+</body>

+</html>

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