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."