Richard McGowan

The Hungarian Lightbulb

 

 

When the symphony orchestra collapsed in ruin after years spent floating, half-dead near bankruptcy, all the musicians were thrown out of work. At that time nearly everyone was out of work anyway—many of them discovered soup-kitchens and soon found employment at menial tasks. A few—the lucky or the talented, but mostly those with both luck and talent—found other musical work well below stevedore's wages.

 

Jurgen had tremendous talent but no luck, yet he could not imagine any other life than being a violist. He would not look for non-musical work—everything was unsuitable, and certainly unattractive. He took the little savings he had and went West thinking to find a place less crowded with hungry musicians. Rather than spend his money on transportation he settled on a romantic adventure: he made friends around the freight yards and rode the rails west until he arrived on the outskirts of a comfortably large city with a clean look—and there he decided to make his home. The city was familiar to him, as a professional musician: it boasted a fine orchestra whose conductor, one Laurence Lamonte, frequently found shockingly intimate details of his flamboyant life splashed across the pages of the tabloids.

 

In River Street, on the wrong side of the tracks, after hours spent walking from the fashionable districts gradually down the economic ladder into a grimy, dilapidated neighborhood, Jurgen found the Charleston Residence Hotel. Brownstone, four stories tall, it had two windows boarded up on the third floor and unmistakable blackened marks from a conflagration that had never been cleaned away. There was a sign in the window advertising a weekly fee he thought he could manage—if the sign was not out of date. It was yellow, curling at the edges, and could hardly be read behind a smudged window laced with years of accumulated cobwebs. It did not seem like a wholesome place—but the price was right so he walked into the tiny lobby.

 

"Have you any rooms?" he asked. He had his viola case tucked under one arm and his cracked leather valise dangling from the other hand.

 

A short, bearded and balding man in a brown, pinstriped suit that might once have been new, stood at the front desk. The stub of a stale cigar not two inches long was stuffed between his lips. He cupped a hairy hand to his ear.

 

"I asked," Jurgen stated in a much louder voice, "whether you have a room to let."

 

"Yeah, we got a lot of rooms." The man grinned. "How many you want?"

 

"One will be sufficient, thank you." Jurgen carefully laid out one week's rent on the counter. "This is a week in advance." The man cupped his hand to his ear, and Jurgen was compelled to repeat himself loudly.

 

The man swept the money away—into a vest pocket—and handed his new resident a rusty key attached to a length of twine. Scrawled on a paper tag attached to the twine were numbers: a three, separated by a dash from the number thirteen.

 

"By the way," Jurgen inquired loudly, leaning forward, "you don't mind if I PRACTICE the VIOLA during the DAY?"

 

"Violin?" the man yelled back, with a dismissing wave. "Just so I don't get no complaints, you do what you want."

 

Relieved at last to be in some lodging—his last few nights had been spent in damp freight cars, cowering with one or another group of indigents—Jurgen ascended the stairs quietly to the third floor. Room thirteen was the last door on the right at the front of the building. He opened the door after some fumbling with 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 money in her pocket than he had. He pondered her memory for a moment—she had been his first musical mentor—then went to switch off the light. He laid down on the bed beneath fresh cotton sheets and listened to the far-off sounds of the city—automobiles and trains, mostly—until he fell asleep.

 

Early in the morning, just after sunrise, Jurgen practiced the viola quietly for an hour or so. He had no clock, but when he judged, by the sounds in the street 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?"

 

"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 clarinetist under the spotlight.

 

"Do you know—uh..." Jurgen paused. "How about 'Nice Work if You Can Get It'?"

 

"Mmm. George & Ira...," the clarinetist intoned reverently with a wide grin. "Ever'body knows that one..."

 

They played a seething rendition that soon had Mabel on her feet, improvising alongside Jurgen. She stood facing him, doubling over to peer into his eyes, undulating while they ran on in imitative counterpoint, two fish in a creek spilling down a mountainside. The piano and clarinet stopped while they took the tune up on their own, turning it over, peeking into all the hidden motives, each musically entwined in the other. Mabel was breathless when they finished, and let Plain Al take a solo before leading them all back into the melody—Mabel broke into the last verse and belted it through the room. There were pitifully few customers to applaud.

 

The place was closing up, and Al sat with Jurgen and the other musicians around a table. They each coddled a tall Coca-Cola mixed with bourbon, and talked and talked, shooting answers and questions at each other like they were playing hot-potato. They were all semi-professional—none of them were paid for playing at Calcutta. Mabel and her brother ran the place, under the eye of a kindly landlord who never bothered them; he came in once or twice a month, sat through a few songs, and left. Mabel and her brother provided free food for anyone who wanted to play for the evening. Times being what they were, they could not afford to hire anyone to play—and had nothing else to draw any clientele. The musicians all held regular jobs, off and on—mostly off, they admitted—and Calcutta was like their own private paradise, where they were real musicians, where people came to hear them play. They were a comfortable bunch, wiling away their evenings with music, going home with full stomachs.

 

Jurgen felt exhausted—he had been up since dawn—and when he had finished his drink, begged to take his leave. He cradled his viola case under one arm. "I'm wondering, Al," he said as he stood up. "How this place came to be called 'Calcutta'?"

 

Al laughed. "That's Mabel's idea of jokin' I guess. Mabel, she reads a lot—got some fine schoolin' too." Jurgen did not comprehend immediately.

Al flashed his silver teeth and leaned forward with wide, laughing eyes. "Black Hole o' Calcutta?"

 

Jurgen chuckled. "I think I understand. Good night, Al."

 

"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."

 

Jurgen put up a hand to acquiesce. "I'll hear you out."

 

"My old friend Dotty," she began. "We went to school together you understand—when we were children, anyway. Now, Dotty works for Miss Edna. And Miss Edna thinks the world of her because she's so neat and organized. Miss Edna herself is a flighty thing—she can hardly paint her own lips with both hands."

 

Jurgen laughed, then bent forward and cupped his glass the way Mabel cupped hers, rolling it between his palms. Mabel had such a way of expressing herself.

 

"Now Edna's lover-boy is a man named Lamonte. I don't know what he sees in Edna—to look at her you wouldn't think she can do anything right." She winked. "Miss Edna's got something softer than brains; and it's not in her head."

 

Only the first part of what she said really caught his attention. "You're speaking of Laurence Lamonte, the conductor?" He took a quick sip of bourbon and rolled the glass again between his palms, wondering where she was leading; almost seeing it.

 

"That's the man," Mabel replied with a firm nod of her head. "With a little help from Edna—getting Lamonte in to hear you play—you'll have something decent in no time." She sipped her bourbon slowly, regarding him. "It won't be difficult."

 

"Why not?"

 

"Oh," she replied, moving closer with narrowed eyes. "I know his secret—Dotty told me. Our Mr. Lamonte enjoys slipping off discretely on occasion to hear some... jazz..." Putting both palms on the table, she whispered. "The way I sometimes slip off to sing... Schubert."

 

Jurgen laughed and sat back in his chair. "Schubert." He did not feel particularly surprised; she probably sang all of Schubert's lieder beautifully. She sat regarding him with a half-smile, and appeared to be finished with her speech. He thoughtfully tapped on his glass a few times, mulling over the proposal, gazing at his fingers. Finally, he looked up to meet her eyes. "You know just what to say."

 

Mabel smiled and reached out to pat his hand. "Be here tomorrow," she replied, "with your luggage, and I'll take you to meet my brother." She raised her glass, and met his in the middle of the table with the lightest of taps.

 

He sipped. "I couldn't have asked for a nicer Christmas."

 

"I could say the same about you." She sipped once, then slapped her glass down and stood up, adjusting her sequined gown around her hips, then leaned over confidently. "I'll soon have you joining my secret musical soirées, too." She pointed at the table. "Now, don't forget your five dollars. Let's go make some Christmas music." Jurgen slipped the bill into his shirt pocket, then followed her out the door and into the spotlights.

 

* * * * *

 

On Christmas Day at eleven, Jurgen checked out of the Charleston Residence Hotel. Packing took only a few minutes, as he had little in the way of possessions. When he finished packing, he switched off the light and set his valise and viola case down outside the door. Leaving the door open, he went back into the room and, holding a hand kerchief in his palm, stood on the chair to carefully unscrew the hot bulb from its socket. He closed the door behind him, then crouched in the hallway and put the Hungarian lightbulb into his valise, carefully wrapped inside his silk shirt.