ith 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