The Cricket in Times Square (9 page)

During the early-morning rush hour Mario was especially eager in his shouts of “Paper, mister,” and “
Time or Life,
mister.” Papa was more active than usual too. But Mama sat glumly on the stool with a gray, determined look on her face. Despite the fact that the selling that morning went very well, she wouldn't change her mind. After the rush was over, Papa went out to buy a new lock.

Chester heard a soft scratching from behind the Kleenex box. A familiar face peeked out. “What's going on?” whispered Tucker Mouse.

“Are you crazy?” said Chester under his breath. “All they need is to catch you here.”

“I had to find out how you were doing,” said Tucker.

“They're going to throw me out,” sighed Chester.

“Oh oh oh,” Tucker moaned. “And it was me that did it. Supposing I give you the rest of my life's savings. Maybe we could buy them off.”

Chester leaned his black little head up against the bars of the cricket cage. “Not this time,” he said. “Mama's got her mind made up. I don't blame her either. I wish I'd never come to New York.”

“Oh, Chester,” wailed Tucker Mouse, “don't say that! You'll make me feel like a rat. And I'm only a mouse.”

“It's not your fault, Tucker,” said Chester. “But I've been nothing but bad luck to them since I came.”

Without knowing what he was doing, the cricket began to chirp to ease his feelings. He found that it helped somehow if you sang your sadness. He wasn't paying much attention and just by accident he played the first few notes of an Italian folksong he had heard the night before. It was so melancholy, and yet so sweet, that it fitted his mood exactly.

Mama Bellini was untying a bundle of
Herald Tribunes
when she heard the chirping. At first she didn't know what it was.
“Che cos' e questa?”
she said in Italian, which means, “What's that?”

Chester stopped playing.

“Chi cantava?”
said Mama. “Who was singing?”

Mario looked at his mother. Usually when she spoke in Italian it meant that she was in a good mood. But that couldn't be true today.

Now Tucker Mouse was a very good judge of character—both animal and human. He thought he heard a kind of softness in Mama Bellini's voice. “Play some more,” he whispered to Chester.

“She hates me,” said Chester. “It'll only make her more angry.”

“Do as I tell you!” commanded the mouse urgently.

So Chester started to chirp again. He was in such disgrace anyway, what difference could it make? The piece he was playing was called “Come Back to Sorrento,” and by the greatest good luck, it happened to be Mama Bellini's favorite song. Back in Naples, Italy, when Papa was courting her before they came to America, he used to come beneath her window on a moonlit night and sing this ballad to the plunking of an old guitar. As the cricket chirped, the whole scene came back to Mama: the still, warm night, the moon shining down on the velvety Bay of Naples, and Papa singing to her. Tears welled up in her eyes as she thought of the bygone times, and very softly she began to murmur the words to the song.

Chester Cricket had never played with so much skill before. When he heard Mama singing, he slowed his tempo so she could keep up without straining. When she was loud, he was too—and then softer when she got choked up with emotion and her voice dwindled. But always his chirping carried her along, keeping her on the right beat and the right tune. He was the perfect accompanist.

Mario was dumbfounded. He stared astonished at the cricket cage and then at his mother. It was just as marvelous for his mother to be singing as it was for a cricket to chirp familiar songs. Sometimes, when she was very happy, Mama Bellini whistled, and once or twice Mario had heard her hum. But now here she was crying and warbling like an Italian nightingale!

Chester finished “Come Back to Sorrento.”

“Keep it up! Keep it up!” squeaked Tucker Mouse. “She's a sucker for sad songs.”

Before Mama's mood had a chance to wear off, Chester began chirping the selections from opera that he had played during the party. Mama didn't know the words to the operas, but she hummed some of the tunes along with him. Mario was as still as stone.

Papa Bellini came back from the locksmith's. Coming down the stairs he was surprised not to hear his wife and Mario calling out the newspapers. But when he got nearer the newsstand, he was even more surprised to hear the strains of the Grand March from
Aida
coming from the cricket cage.

“He chirps
opera?!
” exclaimed Papa. His eyes looked as big and startled as two hard-boiled eggs.

“Shhh,” said Mama with a wave of her hand.

Chester's memory for music was perfect. He had to hear a piece only once to remember it forever. When he had finished all the operatic numbers, he stopped. “Should I go on with the pop tunes?” he whispered to Tucker Mouse, who was still hidden behind the Kleenex box.

“Wait a while,” said Tucker. “See what happens.”

Mama Bellini had a dreamy look in her eyes. She put her arm around her son and said, “Mario, no cricketer who sings
‘Torna a Surrento'
so beautifully could possibly start a fire. He can stay a while longer.”

Mario threw his arms around his mother's neck.

“You hear? You hear?” squealed Tucker Mouse. “You can stay! Oh boy oh boy oh boy! And this is only the beginning. I'll be your manager—okay?”

“Okay,” said Chester.

And so began the most remarkable week in Chester Cricket's—or any cricket's—life.

TWELVE

Mr. Smedley

It was two o'clock in the morning. Chester Cricket's new manager, Tucker Mouse, was pacing up and down in front of the cricket cage. Harry Cat was lying on the shelf with his tail drooping over the edge, and Chester himself was relaxing in the matchbox.

“I have been giving the new situation my serious consideration,” said Tucker Mouse solemnly. “As a matter of fact, I couldn't think of anything else all day. The first thing to understand is: Chester Cricket is a very talented person.”

“Hear! hear!” said Harry. Chester smiled at him. He was really an awfully nice person, Harry Cat was.

“The second thing is: talent is something rare and beautiful and precious, and it must not be allowed to go to waste.” Tucker cleared his throat. “And the third thing is: there might be—who could tell?—a little money in it, maybe.”

“I knew that was at the bottom of it,” said Harry.

“Now wait, please, Harry, please, just listen a minute before you begin calling me a greedy rodent,” said Tucker. He sat down beside Chester and Harry. “The newsstand is doing lousy business—right?
Right!
If the Bellinis were happy, Mama Bellini wouldn't be always wanting to get rid of him—right?
Right!
She likes him today because he played her favorite songs, but who can tell how she might like him tomorrow?”

“And also I'd like to help them because they've been so good to me,” put in Chester Cricket.

“But naturally!” said Tucker. “And if a little bit of the rewards of success should find its way into a drain pipe where lives an old and trusted friend of Chester—well, who is the worse for that?”

“I still don't see how we can make any money,” said Chester.

“I haven't worked out the details,” said Tucker. “But this I can tell you: New York is a place where the people are willing to pay for talent. So what's clear is, Chester has got to learn more music. I personally prefer his own compositions—no offense, Chester.”

“Oh no,” said the cricket. “I do myself.”

“But the human beings,” Tucker went on, “being what human beings are—and who can blame them?—would rather hear pieces written by themselves.”

“But how am I going to learn new songs?” asked Chester.

“Easy as pie,” said Tucker Mouse. He darted over to the radio, leaned all his weight on one of the dials, and snapped it on.

“Not too loud,” said Harry Cat. “The people outside will get suspicious.”

Tucker twisted the dial until a steady, soft stream of music was coming out. “Just play it by ear,” he said to Chester.

That was the beginning of Chester's formal musical education. On the night of the party he had just been playing for fun, but now he seriously set out to learn some human music. Before the night was over he had memorized three movements from different symphonies, half a dozen songs from musical comedies, the solo part for a violin concerto, and four hymns—which he picked up from a late religious service.

*   *   *

The next morning, which was the last Sunday in August, all three Bellinis came to open the newsstand. They could hardly believe what had happened yesterday and were anxious to see if Chester would continue to sing familiar songs. Mario gave the cricket his usual breakfast of mulberry leaves and water, which Chester took his time eating. He could see that everyone was very nervous and he sort of enjoyed making them wait. When breakfast was over, he had a good stretch and limbered his wings.

Since it was Sunday, Chester thought it would be nice to start with a hymn, so he chose to open his concert with “Rock of Ages.” At the sound of the first notes, the faces of Mama and Papa and Mario broke into smiles. They looked at each other and their eyes told how happy they were, but they didn't dare to speak a word.

During the pause after Chester had finished “Rock of Ages,” Mr. Smedley came up to the newsstand to buy his monthly copy of
Musical America.
His umbrella, neatly folded, was hanging over his arm as usual.

“Hey, Mr. Smedley—my cricket plays hymns!” Mario blurted out even before the music teacher had a chance to say good morning.

“And opera!” said Papa.

“And Italian songs!” said Mama.

“Well, well, well,” said Mr. Smedley, who didn't believe a word, of course. “I see we've all become very fond of our cricket. But aren't we letting our imagination run away with us a bit?”

“Oh no,” said Mario. “Just listen. He'll do it again.”

Chester took a sip of water and was ready to play some more. This time, however, instead of “Rock of Ages,” he launched into a stirring performance of “Onward Christian Soldiers.”

Mr. Smedley's eyes popped. His mouth hung open and the color drained from his face.

“Do you want to sit down, Mr. Smedley?” asked Papa. “You look a little pale.”

“I think perhaps I'd better,” said Mr. Smedley, wiping his forehead with a silk handkerchief. “It's rather a shock, you know.” He came inside the newsstand and sat on the stool so his face was just a few inches away from the cricket cage. Chester chirped the second verse of “Onward Christian Soldiers,” and finished with a soaring “Amen.”

“Why, the organist played that in church this morning,” exclaimed the music teacher breathlessly, “and it didn't sound
half
as good! Of course the cricket isn't as loud as an organ—but what he lacks in volume, he makes up for in sweetness.”