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 

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