When the symphony orchestra collapsed in ruin after years spent
floating, half-dead near bankruptcy, all the musicians were thrown out
of work. At that time nearly everyone was out of work anyway--many of
them discovered soup-kitchens and soon found employment at menial
tasks. A few--the lucky or the talented, but mostly those with both
luck and talent--found other musical work well below stevedore's wages.
Jurgen had tremendous talent but no luck, yet he could not imagine any
other life than being a violist. He would not look for non-musical
work--everything was unsuitable, and certainly unattractive. He took
the little savings he had and went West thinking to find a place less
crowded with hungry musicians. Rather than spend his money on
transportation he settled on a romantic adventure: he made friends
around the freight yards and rode the rails west until he arrived on
the outskirts of a comfortably large city with a clean look--and there
he decided to make his home. The city was familiar to him, as a
professional musician: it boasted a fine orchestra whose conductor,
one Laurence Lamonte, frequently found shockingly intimate details of
his flamboyant life splashed across the pages of the tabloids.
In River Street, on the wrong side of the tracks, after hours spent
walking from the fashionable districts gradually down the economic
ladder into a grimy, dilapidated neighborhood, Jurgen found the
Charleston Residence Hotel. Brownstone, four stories tall, it had two
windows boarded up on the third floor and unmistakable blackened marks
from a conflagration that had never been cleaned away. There was a
sign in the window advertising a weekly fee he thought he could
manage--if the sign was not out of date. It was yellow, curling at the
edges, and could hardly be read behind a smudged window laced with
years of accumulated cobwebs. It did not seem like a wholesome
place--but the price was right so he walked into the tiny lobby.
"Have you any rooms?" he asked. He had his viola case tucked under one
arm and his cracked leather valise dangling from the other hand.
A short, bearded and balding man in a brown, pinstriped suit that might
once have been new, stood at the front desk. The stub of a stale cigar
not two inches long was stuffed between his lips. He cupped a hairy
hand to his ear.
"I asked," Jurgen stated in a much louder voice, "whether you have a
room to let."
"Yeah, we got a lot of rooms." The man grinned. "How many you want?"
"One will be sufficient, thank you." Jurgen carefully laid out one
week's rent on the counter. "This is a week in advance." The man
cupped his hand to his ear, and Jurgen was compelled to repeat himself
loudly.
The man swept the money away--into a vest pocket--and handed his new
resident a rusty key attached to a length of twine. Scrawled on a
paper tag attached to the twine were numbers: a three, separated by a
dash from the number thirteen.
"By the way," Jurgen inquired loudly, leaning forward, "you don't mind
if I PRACTICE the VIOLA during the DAY?"
"Violin?" the man yelled back, with a dismissing wave. "Just so I
don't get no complaints, you do what you want."
Relieved at last to be in some lodging--his last few nights had been
spent in damp freight cars, cowering with one or another group of
indigents--Jurgen ascended the stairs quietly to the third floor. Room
thirteen was the last door on the right at the front of the building.
He opened the door after some fumbling with the key. His room proved
to be the one with boards on the windows. Only one window, on the
left, was not boarded. The inside had been freshly painted, with white
paint. The floor was painted a deep gray and partly covered with a
threadbare carpet patterned mostly in shades of brown.
Jurgen fumbled for the light switch and pushed it with a loud click. A
single bulb glowed dimly, suspended from a long wire in the center of
the room. He thought that was par for the course. At these rates, he
could not have expected much more. Setting down his valise, he thought
he would be in better lodgings uptown, as soon as he found work. He
laid his viola case reverently across the raw, wooden arms of the
room's single chair. In the far left corner was a single bed. It had
no sheets, but a few worn blankets folded neatly at the foot of the
mattress. Along the opposite wall stood a sink with a cracked mirror
hanging above it, a flush toilet with a broken ceramic handle, and a
closet door--again with a broken handle. No towels. Putting his
valise upon the bed, Jurgen went back down the stairs to see about
sheets and towels.
"This is a residence hotel," the proprietor told him, pushing back the
few hairs on his head with one hand. "Sheets in the hall closet at the
far end--towels too. Maid comes once a week. Toss your sheets and
towels down the chute on Tuesday morning. Don't use too many."
"Thank you," Jurgen replied, making a sincere effort at politeness. He
went back up and got a set of sheets and a towel, then made his bed.
Afterwards, he sat on the edge of the bed and opened his valise. It
contained underwear, a well-used black suit with tails, a silk shirt, a
silk hat, soap and shaving kit, and sheaf after sheaf of printed music.
Everything else he had sold as necessary; his cash was securely
fastened around his waist in a money-belt. He wondered if there were a
trustworthy bank in the neighborhood. Tomorrow, he decided, he would
have to go look.
Jurgen surveyed the room carefully before turning in. On the back of
the door a relatively new calendar was posted with two thumb tacks. It
featured a blonde woman with exquisite, long legs and a coquettish
smile--advertising a well-known brand of chewing tobacco. It was the
fourteenth of November, he noted. Fifty-seven years ago to the day,
his grandmother had arrived in New York harbor from Hungary, dragging
two young children behind her--with less money in her pocket than he
had. He pondered her memory for a moment--she had been his first
musical mentor--then went to switch off the light. He laid down on the
bed beneath fresh cotton sheets and listened to the far-off sounds of
the city--automobiles and trains, mostly--until he fell asleep.
Early in the morning, just after sunrise, Jurgen practiced the viola
quietly for an hour or so. He had no clock, but when he judged, by the
sounds in the street that the time was past ten, he left the hotel with
his viola case under his arm. He spent the day wandering from
street-corner to street-corner in a nearby business district along the
river-front and by late afternoon had earned enough money for two full
meals. He played mostly Stephen Foster songs--everyone knew them and
they never failed to bring smiles. Occasionally a nice old lady would
stop, and blushing, ask whether he knew one or another of the favorite
tunes of some prior season. As often as not, he had never heard of the
tune, but when he did know it, he laid into the instrument with such
vigor that they always left a good fistful of coins in his open case.
At a nearby hash-slinging café where the cook had anchors tattooed on
both arms, Jurgen ate breakfast. The waitress wore silk stockings
beneath a soiled uniform with pink and white stripes--and kept a pencil
behind each ear, both of them dull with their ends chewed. Jurgen
reflected with some amusement that his description could fit the people
as well as the pencils.
The next several days passed in much the same manner. Each evening,
rather than hastily becoming a regular at any one café, Jurgen
preferred to try all of the nearby places in the hope of finding the
most comfortable of the lot. On Thursday evening he saw a small sign
he had never noticed before, though he had walked down the same street
several times. Neatly lettered by hand in blue upon a white ground--it
said simply "Calcutta", with a downward pointing arrow. Jurgen
descended the dark stairwell, passed one steel door tightly closed with
a padlock, and found the next door unlocked. The same name was painted
on the door at eye level. He pushed it open and walked in, thinking he
might have found a restaurant a bit more exotic than the typical run of
cafés in the neighborhood. The lighting was dim, the decor dark and
spare. The place was lined with booths near the door, but opened into
a space taken over by a checkerboard tiled floor.
He could see there were only a few customers--not more than five or six
people, all told. He looked around slowly, holding his viola case
under one arm, the other hand laid across the top of it. He was the
only white person in the establishment.
Nobody turned to look at him, but kept right on with what they were
doing--drinking and smoking, talking quietly. It seemed comfortable
enough--and he saw some things of interest at the far end of the room.
There were four tables at that end, under dim spotlights.
Jurgen walked slowly past the booths toward the spotlights. A double
bass sat on its side near the wall as if it were the subject of the
spotlights' illumination--it might jump up and break into song any
moment. An upright piano stood on the left, lurking warily in the
shadows, its top opened like a gaping jaw. Jurgen knew this all meant
music, and he made his way between the tables to sit at the one nearest
the instruments. It was partially shadowed; an unlit candle stood in
the middle of the round table--a square table-cloth in white and red
checks draped haphazardly, held in place by the candle. Jurgen sat
slowly on the nearest wooden chair, facing the music; it creaked when
he put his weight on it. He set his viola case on the table and slid
it over so he could rest his left elbow on it.
He felt something stir, and looked behind him. A young woman in a
sleeveless sky-blue dress approached out of the shadows. Her hair was
pulled back tightly against her head, white teeth gleamed in her dark
face. She put one hand on the back of the nearest booth, and leaning
upon it, spoke to him.
"What'll it be?" she asked with quiet confidence. Her chin rose when
she finished asking, and she tilted her head to one side, smiling.
Jurgen gazed at her--she had a pretty face with a narrow chin and
strikingly high cheekbones; her black eyes sparkled in the spotlight.
He did not really feel like drinking anything intoxicating. "Something
soft," he answered. "Something quite soft and preferably cool."
She nodded and shoved herself off gracefully, trailing one hand.
Jurgen waited in silence, staring at the back wall. In a few moments,
the musicians--three black men in baggy workmen's clothing--returned to
the stage, gliding in stealthily, creeping from a door to one side.
Without a word, they sat down and took up their instruments. The bass
player heaved his double bass upright, then sat upon a high stool and
plucked a few notes. The third man carried a clarinet, and standing in
the center, whipped his fingers through a few scales without making any
sound. They stole a few glances at each other--then broke
simultaneously into a molten jazz number, hot as a blast furnace.
Jurgen sat back slowly in his chair. The blazing tune crackled and
sparked, then settled into a long, burning ember; he could feel the
thin layer of ash building up around the coals until it gradually
settled into a warm mound of slow heat.
The young woman appeared with a Coca-Cola in a tall glass--Jurgen only
glanced at her when she set it down, and returned his attention to the
musicians. She slid past his table and strode under the center
spotlight--the clarinetist moved to one side without missing a note,
nodding at her. She whirled around, snapped her fingers to pick up the
slow beat--and launched into song, so softly at first, he was not sure
she was singing.
Her voice soon rose in a solo, weaving in and out of the clarinet's
melody. Flames rushed up to greet her voice--Jurgen felt the hairs
rising on the back of his neck and across his scalp. She sang without
words; low tones with all the plaintiveness of an English horn,
blending into the ensemble; and at times her voice rose like a
whispering flute and broke into autumn leaves, tumbling in a light
breeze--the fire crackled behind her.
The splendor of it entranced Jurgen and he forgot his drink, putting
both elbows on the table to watch the woman sing. Her voice was so
rich, so well-trained and supple--he could have imagined her on the
opera stage, singing mezzo-soprano.
The ensemble rushed to a climax that shattered like a glass against
stone, and was silent. There were applause from the dark café behind.
Jurgen could make out each individual in the audience--pitifully few
customers to hear such a singer! He applauded firmly, with authority,
and continued until the last clap had died behind him; three more
decisive claps and he stopped.
The band played a few more numbers, standard blues fare and a popular
show-tune or two--the young woman sang, standing perfectly still with
her eyes closed, alone beneath a spotlight. She bowed at last, arms
outstretched with a beautiful smile, and strode into the back. The
musicians followed her out to take another break.
The pianist lagged behind, following the others to the door, then
turned around and sat down at Jurgen's table, pulling his chair close.
The man had a few days' growth of beard. He was completely
bald--perhaps shaved, Jurgen decided--and his smile revealed one
missing tooth and two silver teeth. When he spoke, his voice was deep
and bubbly, like a slow pot of soup, simmering. "Don't get many o' yer
kind here," he began.
Jurgen flushed suddenly and swallowed, feeling a sense of impending
panic. He gaped momentarily, unable to think of a reply. Might it be
prudent to withdraw?
The man sat back and laughed loudly, thrusting his thumbs into his
belt. He thrust his head forward suddenly, grinning. "I mean--you
play that fiddle or jes set yer elbow on it?"
Jurgen felt instantly relieved, and regained his composure. "Certainly
I play it," he said, returning the man's smile with some hesitation.
"Maybe you'll play somethin' for me? Maybe I'll buy yer drink, too."
"Well--I--I've never played much--any--jazz," Jurgen said slowly.
"Folk tunes, show-tunes--on rare occasions. I'm a symphony violist, by
profession."
"Oh," the man answered, wrinkling his brow. "I see. Well, it don'
have to be blue--jes wanna see what you got... If it ain't much
trouble?"
"Alright." Jurgen pulled his viola case toward himself, and scooted his
chair back to give himself some room. He opened the case, strummed the
strings once to check the instrument's tuning--close enough, he
decided. While he rosined his bow he tried to decide where he should
start. He settled on a Hungarian folk tune his grandmother used to
play for him. It had a homey, intimate quality; rather simple and
easily manipulated. He readied himself and then poured his heart into
playing that tune--he worked it around, swished it a few times, tried
some variations, caught the fever, and finished off with a fast
spiccato variation.
"Sounds like gypsy music," the man said when he had finished. "Hot
blood."