usical
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 cafe 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 h