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?"