"_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?"