"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.