"Come on back soon, Yoorgin," Al replied. "Play some more with us."
"I'll do that." Jurgen put his hand to his head, then remembered he
had no hat. He smiled and walked out.
Jurgen returned to his room long after midnight, turned on the single
light, and sat upon the bed to look through his sheaf of music. He
tossed the music aside after a few minutes and laid down to think back
over the evening. It had been a long time since he had had as much
fun--sheer enjoyment--as that evening with Plain Al and Mabel. She was
remarkable--sophisticated and graceful--they had played together as if
they knew each other intimately.
Something fluttered and fluttered against his eyelids--he opened his
eyes and looked up. A moth had somehow got into the room, and
fluttered around and around the lightbulb, casting shadows that
flitted. Annoyed to be cast from his reverie, he took his towel and
began flicking at the moth as it circled and circled. Something about
the lightbulb caught his attention then--it was unusually shaped. He
pulled the chair over beneath it and standing carefully on the chair,
looked at the slowly swinging bulb before reaching out to grab the
socket. Stamped upon the end of the bulb in rough, smeared letters
were three words: Made in Hungary. He almost lost his balance for an
instant, and jumped to the floor with a thump. There was an immediate
answering thump from the room below, and Jurgen mentally apologized to
his lower neighbor.
* * * * *
Two days later, on a Saturday evening, after what had become his
accustomed daily rounds of playing on street-corners--Jurgen found
himself again descending the stairs into Calcutta. The place was
noisier than it had been before. There might have been thirty people
inside. He found a seat at the booth closest to the spotlights--the
open tables were full. A young waitress in a slinky white dress came
over to serve him. He decided to have dinner there--a repayment to
Mabel. The last time, he had only ordered one drink, and when he
thought back over the evening, decided that he had in fact never paid
for it or any of the drinks he had with Al and the others. At least he
could give her some business by ordering dinner.
"Where's Mabel this evening?" he asked.
"Huh?" The waitress seemed confused. She let one knee bend, and ran a
hand quickly along the strap of her dress.
"Oh," he stammered, "I thought Mabel would be here."
"Oh, she's here," the waitress said, puzzled. "She don' work tables
though." She leaned on the table with one hand. "Can I get you
something to drink first?"
"I'll have a Coca-Cola."
The waitress left and came back with his drink. She set it lightly on
the table, with a battered cork coaster beneath, and slid it in front
of him. He ordered a few side dishes--words spilling willy-nilly from
his mouth while he glanced over the menu. He was uncertain how much he
should order and ended up ordering far too much food to eat alone--but
he felt that he really owed Mabel something. Plain Al showed up later;
Jurgen walked over to say hello, and to thank him for so kindly
allowing him to play the other evening. Remembering that he had plates
of untouched food, he invited Al over to his table. They ate together
and talked about the late George Gershwin.
"Pity how he passed away so suddenly, ain't it?" Al observed quietly.
"I'm sure he'll be counted among the greatest," Jurgen replied.
Jurgen joined the band and they spent the rest of the evening working
over tunes they all knew. Mabel came out and sang with them, and they
rounded out the evening with a few long numbers just for the enjoyment
of listening to each other. The crowd seemed more appreciative than it
had been before--Jurgen believed that anything would have been an
improvement. There were simply more people present, so he felt they
were more appreciative, but he guessed it was all part of the same
thing they heard every Saturday night in Calcutta. There were a couple
of other musicians--a hot young sax player with a large belly and a
low-hung belt that barely held up a pair of wool pants with worn knees.
There was a wrinkled old man, half blind, who played blues with his
beat-up guitar--he had a hole the size of a silver dollar in one shoe
and he wore no socks. It was far from the symphony, but Jurgen
thoroughly enjoyed his second evening in Calcutta.
* * * * *
Dropping into the Calcutta to play the evening away quickly became a
pleasant habit over the next few weeks. Jurgen came to consider his
previous life as having been sheltered from some of the finest
home-spun music he had ever heard, and he decided there was much to be
learned here. Whether they worked in factories or restaurants, or
tended stores in the neighborhood, the people who congregated around
Mabel all seemed to have one thing in common: concentrated musical
talent. They were all masters of jazz melody. He looked forward to
his regular visits--an especially welcome diversion after playing all
day in the cold, hanging around employment lines looking for symphony
work. The pennies he earned during the day mostly ended up in Mabel's
coffers--where Jurgen thought they should be. His own savings began to
dwindle. He increased the hours he spent searching for good employment.
It seemed to Jurgen that every time he descended the dark stairwell to
Calcutta and opened the door, there were more customers than had been
there the last time. On the last Saturday night before Christmas--it
was Christmas Eve, in fact--Jurgen arrived, thinking he would have
dinner there. He threw open the door and found the whole café crowded
far beyond capacity. Every booth was full, and there were two new
tables plunked down in the corner nearest the spotlights. Every table
had an extra person or two squeezed in. The place was like a morning
train, but the atmosphere of celebration swirled through the room with
the blue haze of cigarette smoke. Jurgen went slowly forward toward
the lights--but could not find a seat anywhere. The musicians were out
on a break, so the customers all talked among themselves, laughing and
cheering. He was about to ask someone at one of the tables if they
would mind him crowding in to watch, but Al spotted him from the back
doorway.
"Yoorgin! Come in back a while," he yelled, flailing his arm.
Jurgen waved back and pushed his way between the tables. "Excuse me.
I'm very sorry," he said as he squeezed through, carrying his viola
case over his head with both hands. He made it to the door, and Al
pulled him into the back.
"Here, have a glass of bourbon," Al said with his silver-toothed grin.
"Christmas Eve's time for a little celebratin'!"
Al brought another rickety wooden chair over to a small table where the
musicians were gathered. Seated on one side was Mabel, dressed in a
fine long gown that sparkled with red sequins, her hair tied up in a
bright green turban; long dangling earrings. She was the picture of
Christmas, with a tipsy smile. A chef and two young men in soiled
aprons worked the kitchen stove and oven, clanking pans and mixing
bowls at the far end of the room; the lights were bright.
"Jurgen," Mabel said as he sat down, "I was hoping you'd be here this
evening. I have something for you." She slid her hand into the bosom
of her low-cut gown, sending a ripple of laughter among the musicians.
"It's a Christmas present," she whispered, fishing deeper and
deeper--her shoulders wiggled in mirth. "If I can find it..." She
drove her hand deeper to keep them all laughing.
Jurgen pulled his chair closer and held his viola case upright between
his legs. Al pushed a tumbler of bourbon in front of him--and Mabel
slapped five dollars onto the table with both hands. "Now you go on
and take this," she insisted. "Ever since you showed up here, business
has been getting better and better. I want you to know how much we
appreciate it."
Jurgen looked at the bill--it was a crisp, fresh five-dollar note that
had been folded, only once, in quarters. "Thank you, Mabel," Jurgen
said, then paused to fumble with his glass. He did not touch the bill,
but left it sitting on the table in front of him. "I'm speechless."
Everyone laughed.
"Now you just sit here a while with me," she continued. "The rest of
you go on out and play for a while. I want to talk to Mr. Jurgen in
private." A low murmuring sound swept them, and they backed away.
When Jurgen and Mabel were alone, she raised her glass. "Here's to
good business," she said.
"To good business," Jurgen replied, raising his own glass and clinking
it delicately against hers. "And a Merry Christmas to all..."
"Now that," Mabel said, "is what I wanted to talk about." She spoke
quickly, with clarity--as if she had a speech memorized, and was
delivering it for an audience. She punctuated her sentences with wispy
motions of her long-nailed fingers. "I've been wondering to myself
just what kind of man you are. And I've concluded that you're a pretty
poor man." When Jurgen's smile suddenly dripped away she stopped and
closed her eyes theatrically. "Oh, that was unfortunately phrased. I
mean... you're not a wealthy man."
Jurgen sat up straight, and Mabel laughed--then set her glass down on
the table. "It takes no Sherlock Holmes," she continued, "to see that.
Why, you've been in here nearly every evening coming on six weeks--and
in all that time, I don't believe I've seen you in any clothes but the
rags you have on now. You must wash 'em, cause you don't smell like my
grandpa's barnyard--but I'd guess you don't have any other clothes."
Jurgen felt himself redden, and looked down, swirling the bourbon in
his glass until it ran up along the edge, almost flowing over the rim.
He should have packed a much larger wardrobe, and left most of his
music behind.
"I'm right, aren't I?"
"Al once told me you read voraciously."
Mabel tossed her head and laughed. "Not in those words, I expect. But
he's right. And Sherlock Holmes is one of my favorites."
"Well," he answered slowly, "I must admit I'm rather between full-time
engagements at this time...and my wardrobe is minimal at the moment...
I do own a suit, and a top hat..."
"So I've been asking myself," she interrupted, "how you live, and where
you live. I've seen you on street-corners a few times, too. Maybe
that's all you do--play your viola--I know well enough it's not just a
'fiddle'. So, where are you living now?" She hung her wrist limply.
"Are you on the street?"
"I'm presently lodging at the Charleston."
"Hew!" she exclaimed, waving her fingers. "That place? Nobody of any
worth lives at the Charleston. It's full of winos and whores."
"It's inexpensive," Jurgen replied. "The decor leaves much to be
desired. But I'm afraid that I'll have to be moving along to even
cheaper lodgings by the new year."
"That bad?"
Jurgen nodded. He could probably hold out for another month or two,
but by then, he would have to close his new bank account.
"Well," she continued, "the Charleston is bad enough. I just won't
stand for one of my friends hanging his hat in a place like that, or
worse. Do you need a place to stay?"
He knew she was sincere, but the situation felt uncomfortably close to
charity. His grandmother had always warned against even seeming to be
in need of charity--let alone actually needing help. "Really, Mabel, I
couldn't presume to burden you with..."
"Now, stop it Jurgen," she said with a shake of her head. She scooted
her hips forward, cupping both hands around her bourbon carefully as if
she were settling in for a serious talk. "Business here has never been
better--and I think you've had a lot to do with that. You bring a new
sound, and people are paying to hear it, and drink a few, and they're
eating food, too... My friend Dotty, just the other day said to me..."
Mabel pressed her hand to her breast and forced her voice to a higher
pitch, "Mabel, honey, I hear deyz a strange waat boy down at
Calcutta--plays jazz on de fiddle."
Jurgen laughed at her feigned accent.
Mabel let her voice drop to its normal pitch. "Are you looking for
regular work?"
"Nothing seems to be available in my line."
"Listen. First thing, we have to get you out of the Charleston. Now,
my brother's got an extra room--and he's already said he'll put you up,
cause I've asked him--any friend of his sister is always welcome. So
that leaves work."
"I really could not allow you to do that..."
"Well, hear me out, first, before you say that," she answered. "I'm
not half finished."