Elkan Lubliner, American Part 29

"_Koosh!_" he bellowed and stamped his foot on the floor, whereat the music ceased and even the uptown revellers were startled into silence.

Only Marculescu remained unabashed.

"Say," he shouted as he rushed from behind his desk, "what do you think this joint is?--a joint!"

"I think what I please, Marculescu," Milton said, "and you should tell Volkovisk to play something decent. Also you should bring us two quarts from the best Tchampanyer wine--from French wine Tchampanyer, not _Amerikanischer_."

He waved his hand impatiently and three waiters--half of Marculescu's entire staff--came on the jump; so that, a moment later, Ja.s.sy and his guests were divested of their wraps and seated at one of the largest tables facing the piano. It was not until then that Milton descried Max Merech hovering round the door.

"Merech!" he called. "_Kommen sie 'r uber!_"

Max shook his head shyly and half-opened the door, but Elkan forestalled him. He fairly bounded from the table and caught his a.s.sistant cutter by the arm just as he was disappearing on to the sidewalk.

"Max," he said, "what's the matter with you? Ain't you coming in to meet my wife?"

Max shrugged in embarra.s.sment.

"You don't want me to b.u.t.t into your party, Mr. Lubliner!" he said.

"Listen, Max," Elkan almost pleaded; "not only do I want you to, but you would be doing me a big favour if you would come in and join us. Also, Max, I am going to introduce you as our designer. You ain't got no objections?"

"Not at all," Max replied, and he followed his employer into the cafe.

"Yetta," Elkan began, "I think you seen Mr. Merech before--ain't it?"

Mrs. Lubliner smiled and extended her hand.

"How do you do, Mr. Merech?" she said; and Max bowed awkwardly.

"Mr. Kammerman," Elkan continued, "this is our designer, Max Merech; and I could a.s.sure you, Mr. Kammerman, a very good one too. He's got a great eye for colour."

"And a good ear for music," Milton added as Kammerman shook the blushing dilettante by the hand.

"In fact, Mr. Kammerman, if he has got such taste in designing as he is showing in music," Milton went on, "he must be a wonder! Nothing suits him but the best. And now, if you will excuse me, I'll get Volkovisk he should play you his sonata."

He left the table with his leather portfolio under his arm, and for more than five minutes he held an earnest consultation with Volkovisk and the cellist, after which he returned smiling to his seat.

"First Volkovisk plays his sonata, 'Opus 30,'" he explained, "and then he would do a little thing of my own."

He nodded briskly to Volkovisk, and Kammerman settled himself resignedly to a hearing of what he antic.i.p.ated would be a commonplace piece of music. After the first six measures, however, he sat up straight in his chair and his face took on an expression of wonder and delight. Then, resting his elbow on the table, he nursed his cheek throughout the first movement in a posture of earnest attention.

"Why," he cried as the musician paused, "this man is a genius!"

Max Merech nodded. His face was flushed and his eyes were filled with tears.

"What did I told you, Mr. Lubliner?" he said; and Ja.s.sy raised his hand for silence while Volkovisk began the second movement. This and the succeeding movements fully sustained the promise of the earlier portions of the composition; and when at length Volkovisk rose from the piano stool and approached the table Kammerman jumped from his chair and wrung the composer's hand.

"Sit in my chair," he insisted, and snapped his fingers at Marculescu, who fumed impotently behind the cashier's desk.

"Here," he called; "more wine--and look sharp about it!"

Marculescu obeyed sulkily and again the gla.s.ses were filled.

"Gentlemen," Kammerman said, "and Mrs. Lubliner, I ask you to drink to a great career just beginning."

"Lots of people said that before," Max murmured after he had emptied his gla.s.s.

"They said it," Kammerman replied, "but I pledge it. You shall play no more in this place, Volkovisk--and here is my hand on it."

Max Merech beamed across the table at his employer.

"Well, Mr. Lubliner," he said, "you lost your chance."

Elkan shrugged and smiled.

"Might you could find another of them genius fellers for me maybe, Max?"

he said.

And therewith Kammerman slapped Milton Ja.s.sy on the back.

"By Jove! We forgot your trio," he said. "Play it, Volkovisk, as your valedictory here."

Again Volkovisk sought the piano, and after whispered instructions to his a.s.sistants he began a rendition of Ja.s.sy's "Opus 47," from the ma.n.u.script Milton had brought with him; but, allowing for the faulty technic of the 'cellist and the uncertainty that attends the first reading from ma.n.u.script of any composition, there was little to recommend Ja.s.sy's work.

"Very creditable!" Kammerman said at the end of the movement. "Perhaps we might hear the rest."

Max kept his eyes fixed on the table to avoid looking at Ja.s.sy, and even Volkovisk seemed embarra.s.sed as he swung round on the piano stool.

"Well?" he said inquiringly.

Ja.s.sy emitted a bitter laugh.

"That'll do, Volkovisk," he replied hoa.r.s.ely. "I guess it needs rehearsing."

At this point Max attempted to create a diversion.

"Look at that lady sitting there!" he said. "She puts on a yellow hat to an old-gold dress. She's committing murder and she don't know it!"

Kammerman seized on the incident as a way of escape from criticising Ja.s.sy's trio.

"That reminds me, Lubliner," he said. "Give me your business card if you have one with you. I must tell Mr. Dalzell, my cloak buyer, to look over your line. I'm sure, with a designer of Mr. Merech's artistic instincts working for you, you will be making up just the highgrade line of goods we need."

One year later, the usual crowd of first-nighters lounged in the lobby of the Siddons Theatre during the intermission between the second and third acts of M. Sidney Benson's newest musical comedy, "Marjory from Marguery's," and commented with enthusiasm on the song hit of the show--"My Bleriot Maid." A number of the more gifted even whistled the melody, skipping the hard part and proceeding by impromptu and conventional modulation to the refrain, which had been expressly designed by its composer, Milton Ja.s.sy, so as to present no technical difficulties to the most modest whistler.

Through this begemmed and piping throng, Kammerman and Volkovisk elbowed their way to the street for a breath of fresh air; and as they reached the sidewalk Kammerman heaved a sigh of relief.

"What a terrible melody!" he e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed.