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 

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