Before the great upheaval Andres Mednis, a Latvian musician, used to play first violin in a certain symphonic orchestra in Riga and had made a good name in his native country as a composer. Upon his arrival in Australia, he was directed to work in a big motorcar factory.

There he became a "trimmer", whose task was to put "piping", i.e. a braid-like cord around motorcar doors on the production line. While doing that work, he had to sit, with his mate, inside a "job", i.e. a motorcar body, slowly moving in a long row of similar bodies along the production line. He had to put "piping" around one door and his mate around the other, whereby their task in each successive body had to be completed while it was covering a certain fraction of the production line. After having finished their work in one car, they had to go, carrying their tool boxes, up the line, past a number of "jobs" in which other pairs of trimmers were still working, and get inside the first empty motorcar body ready for "piping".

In the enormous hall of the assembly department, where a few production lines ran parallel to each other and a great variety of works was being done by hundreds of men, reigned a nervous atmosphere of strain and hurry, and was also extremely noisy.

The knocking of hammers, whining and rattling of electric drills, swishing of welding machines, roaring, whistling, crackling and humming of numerous other instruments, apparatuses and appliances, shouting of fore-men and leading-hands, and loud voices of workers calling out to their bosses at the top of their voices, — all these and many other sounds contributed to a noise, which was bad enough in itself, but which was made even worse by the sounds of immoderately loud music coming from loudspeakers on the walls during certain hours of the day.

So the worst side of his new employment was, for Andres Mednis, not so much the primitiveness and unsuitability of the work he had to do, or its monotony and tedium, not even as much the rough manner by which he was treated by his foremen and leading-hands, but the noise which was hard for his musical ears to bear.

There was, however, nothing he could do for the time being, so that he had to put up even with noise. It was still quite a decent job in comparison with work which many of his friends and acquaintances had to do while starting their new life in this country.

Now, every time he and his mate, a more experienced migrant worker, who was a former officer of the Royal Yugoslavian Army, entered a motorcar body and began working there, a tall, cheerful and good-looking man, whom all called "Nutty" and whose real name nobody bothered to find out, used to emerge on the outside of that car to inspect whether certain previous works on the outer side of the car had been done properly, and to repair any fault he could observe.

One day, while Nutty was doing his work on the outside of the car in which Andres Mednis and his mate were putting "piping", he suddenly burst out singing in a full voice. He sang like a real operatic singer, making impressive gestures with his hands and none the less impressive movements with his head and body. While so singing, he skillfully handled his hammer in time with the tune. However, he finished his performance as suddenly as he started it, for workers around began to laugh and shout out jokes about his operatic performance and many a leading-hand rushed from the distance towards him to stop that diversion.

It would have been a pleasant intermezzo on the day-to-day tedium of factory life, if he sung well. But the trouble was that his performance was more like a parody of singing than anything else.

The Yugoslav officer did not hide his opinion of Nutty's ability as a soloist; he covered his ears with his hands and stayed so until the performance was over. As to Andres Mednis, he wished to be polite and did not show his real reaction.

"O, you are almost a second Caruso," he said when Nutty finished his vocal diversion.

He meant it ironically, but his words sounded sincere, and Nutty took them at their face value.

These were the words Andres Mednis wished he had never said, for they were to lead to a very disturbing development of affairs. It was, however, not possible to retract them, as it was not possible to change the course of events following them.

"Thank you!" said Nutty. "If you like it, I will sing more for you."

He glanced around to make sure whether the air was clear, but as it was not, he had to postpone his performance for a more suitable time. So he quickly finished his work and hurried to the next car.

"I will see you at lunch time for more singing!" he said to Andres Mednis before leaving.

At lunch time he appeared, as lie promised, before Andres Mednis and sang in a low voice many a song for him.

"I have heard that you are a musician," said Nutty in order to explain why he chose him as his audience. "So I felt sure that you, unlike most of our unmusical chaps here, who understand nothing in vocal art, would be able to appreciate my singing."

It was a start of a kind of martyrdom for Andres Mednis, as from that day Nutty began to seek his company at every lunchtime break, and to sing to him, in a subdued voice, his favourite songs and arias. To escape these daily performances, Mednis made attempts to hide himself at lunch breaks in other parts of the assembly hall, or in the yard among big boxes which lay there in hundreds, but all in vain. No matter where he tried to hide himself, Nutty would immediately come straight to him, as if being led by some kind of extra-sensory perception, and cheerfully join his company. Then, without wasting much time, he would commence his solos. In order not to draw the attention of other workers to what he was doing, he would sing with a subdued voice, holding his mouth as near to his listener's ear as was possible.

This was hard to bear and Mednis was gradually almost driven to a nervous breakdown. He lost his sleep and appetite, and finally his peace of mind. Even in the depth of the nights, when he would, after hours of wakefulness, at last fall asleep, he would see Nutty in his dreams and hear his voice, waking up in horror not to fall asleep any more.

However, Mednis was unable to say in plain words to Nutty that he was sick of his singing, for he didn't wish to hurt him. Besides, he realized that Nutty, in his simplicity, thought that he was giving a great pleasure to his listener. He tried on many occasions to give Nutty hints to the effect that it was not so, but Nutty would not understand him.

The worst thing in all this trial was the endless repetition of Nutty's songs. It was bad enough to listen to Nutty's solos once or twice, but to be forced to listen to the same songs dozens of times, was too much, indeed.

To find some solution to the unbearable situation, Mednis went to the Commonwealth Employment Office and asked to be transferred to some other factory. His request was bluntly refused and he was coldly reminded that as a contract worker he had to stay where he had been directed to work.

So he was forced to continue his association with the Second Caruso. The latter was so absorbed by his singing sessions at lunch breaks, that he would often even forget to eat the sandwiches which his wife had given him for lunch.

As lunch-time singing did not appear to offer Nutty a sufficient opportunity for vocal self-expression, which he was eager to have to a greater extent in the presence of an expert musician, he began to insist that Mednis should visit him in his home for a Sunday musical session. He promised to sing to him then not in a subdued voice, as he used to do in the factory, but with all his vocal might.

Andres Mednis, of course, tried to turn down all such invitations, using all possible excuses, but Nutty would not give up so easily. He would repeat his invitation every day, from week to week.

Finally Andres Mednis gave in and unwillingly accepted Nutty's invitation.

His main reason, in doing so, was that he hoped to have a friendly, but straightforward chat with Nutty, in the course of which he might be able to explain to him, in some delicate, inoffensive way, that his singing was not as good as he thought, and that it was no particular pleasure for other people to listen to his excessive singing, at least until he improved his ability to sing through study and exercise.

So one Sunday evening he visited Nutty, who lived with his wife, dog and white cockatoo, in an old, sombre cottage, he had inherited from his father, in a slum area near the centre of the city. After having shown Mednis his family albums and without wasting much time on further trivialities, Nutty went over to the main point of the programme and gave his guest a generous performance. In his own house with thick brick walls he was at liberty to sing as loudly as he deemed suitable, so he gave his voice an unrestricted go.

It was a real trial for Andres Mednis. And not only to him, but obviously for the dog and cockatoo also. The dog began to howl in a plaintive manner as soon as the performance began, and the cockatoo, otherwise a bold and sociable bird, covered its head with its wings as if protecting its ears, and stayed so until the end of the performance. Nutty's wife was the only listener, who seemed to enjoy the performance.

This trial was, however, quite a mild thing in comparison to what Mednis had to experience when Nutty's wife, who turned out to be an enthusiastic soloist, too, took over from her husband and sang, in her turn, a few songs for their guest in a squealing, unmusical contralto. Andres Mednis was by then regretting not merely that he had come to Nutty's place, but even that he had been born at all.

It was a terrible evening for a man, who used to play first violin in one of the best symphonic orchestra in the Baltic; no wonder then that he, in all sincerety, felt that he couldn't wish such a torture even to his worst enemy, except, of course, the clique of terrorists in Kremlin. It was a wasted evening, too, for there was no opportunity to talk things over.

A few days later, Andres Mednis, all of a sudden, learned on the way home that he was facing a real catastrophe. They were walking towards the railway station after knock-off time, when Nutty unexpectedly declared that next day he was going to ask his foreman for a transfer to the trimming section as his mate.

"Then I will be able to sing for you all the time, my friend Andrew," said Nutty gleefully. "And as we will be sitting, while we work, together inside the motorcar body, it will be possible for me to sing to you much louder than during the lunch time. Aren't you glad, Andrew, that you will be able to combine the tedium of work with listening to good singing?"

It was a shocking news, and Andres Mednis realized that he had to do or to say something to prevent the catastrophe. It was a question of whether now or never.

"Nutty," he said. "Let us sit down on this bench (and he pointed to a bench under a tree) and talk the matter over."

"Allright," said Nutty and they sat down on the bench.

"Nutty," said Mednis. "Tell me why you don't give your own public concert here in Adelaide or either Melbourne or Sydney? Why do you sing only to me?"

"Nobody is a prophet in his own country," replied Nutty. "People are envious of my voice and they wouldn't give me a fair go, as you, Andrew, might have noticed yourself in the factory, where they all laugh at me and abuse me because of my talent."

"Then go abroad, Nutty," suggested Mednis. "Go to Europe and try there. Italy, for example, is the classic land of vocal art and it is the best place to make oneself a name. Go there and give a concert. Perhaps you will achieve in such a way worldwide fame."

"I haven't enough money," said Nutty. "I could, perhaps, scrub together sufficient money for a one way ticket, but not for a return fare."

"O, you don't need a return fare ticket, Nutty. You only need single one. The Italians will supply you with a return ticket free of charge."

"Free of charge?" couldn't believe Nutty. "How so?"

"Well, you will understand it, if I tell you what happened once upon a time, to the wife of a rich businessman in my native country. Listen to how it happened. The wife of one of the richest self-made men in Riga once came upon the idea that she had a very promising voice and a brilliant gift as an operatic actor as well. She went to Milano and began to take lessons from one of the best local musical teachers or professors, as they are called there. This professor, of course, saw that she was actually a complete no-hoper, but for good pay he was ready to teach even a deaf-mute. Perhaps he had a sense of humour as well, and was amused by playing comedy with her. Anyway, she took lessons from him for a couple of years. Then she returned to Riga and, before long, she made arrangements there for a public concert in the best hall of the city. Her husband was very much against her idea, as he was not of a high opinion of her abilities as a singer. But he was unable to talk her out of her plan, for she was very determined in her intention. She went on with her arrangements, hired the hall and advertised the concert in newspapers. In her advertisements she described herself as a famous singer from Italy. To avoid further disgrace, her embarrassed husband bought all the entrance tickets as soon as the booking office was opened. There was no need to say that his wife was very happy to know that the demand for tickets was so high that all of them were sold within a day. She was, however, less happy when, upon the rise of the curtain, she beheld the empty hall with her husband sitting alone in the first row.

She became very angry, left the hall and lost no time in returning to Italy to be away from that ignoramus of a husband. In Milano she really gave a concert, At the beginning of it the audience sat in bewildered silence. Then people jumped to their feet, rushed towards the scene, seized her without any explanations or apologies, carried her on their shoulders to the railway station, bought her a ticket to her homeland, put her in a train, bound to the eastern frontier, and saw her off with cries: "Addio! Addio! Never come back! If you come, we will drown or hang you!"

"What does your story mean?" asked Nutty in a queer manner.

"Well, it means, Nutty, that if you try to follow this woman's example and give a concert in Milano or in some other great city of Europe, you, too, might be given a free return ticket by your ungrateful audience with an order not to return or else face the consequences."

Nutty understood and took a great offence. He walked away alone and never sang to Mednis any more. He never sought his company any more either.

Andres Mednis felt great relief in having got rid of Nutty's singing sessions, but at the same time he felt sharp remorses for having offended Nutty, for although he was an impossible singer, he was a good fellow.

These remorses haunted him for a long time, depriving him of peace of mind.

He vainly tried to comfort himself by reasoning that in this imperfect world, where homo homini lupus est, you cannot fail to be resolute and rough when your vital interest or your mental balance is at stake, and that he would have been either in a coffin or a lunatic asylum long ago, if he had been unable to get rid of Nutty's singing. His remorses continued to haunt him in spite of his reasoning, or, may be, even by the very virtue of it, for they whispered to him day and night that he could extend his reasoning by admitting that instead of treating Nutty in a heartless manner, as he had done, he could have tried to solve the problem in some more human way. For example, he could have volunteered to train Nutty's voice on the condition that there would be no singing during lunch breaks.