ble, 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."

Jurgen smiled. "My grandmother--was Hungarian."

"Say," the man said, laying his hand atop the viola case, "why don' you
join us awhile? Play anything you like--jes name it. We know 'bout
most anything." He stood up and thrust out his hand. "My name's Al,"
he concluded.

Jurgen clasped his hand. "Jurgen. A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Al."

Al chuckled. "Nah, jes Plain Al. Come on over here..."

When the other musicians returned, the young woman--Al introduced her
as Mabel--sat at the table Jurgen had vacated. He took one chair and
joined the cl