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Violists,nesting cups under 30 dollars by Richard McGowan

(C)1994 Richard McGowan
San Jose, California
January 22, 1994

TEXTUAL NOTE: In this edition words of French origin in the text arespelled without their customary accent marks, due to the limitations ofthe ASCII medium. It is the author's intent that they be spelled withaccents whenever possible (e.g., gateau, tête-à-tête).

PREFACE TO THE FIRST EDITION

"Violists" began to germinate early in December last, as Christmasapproached. I originally intended that it be ready before the newyear, but alas, it came in behind schedule, and was not completed untilJanuary. It is still winter in some places—the right season for suchmorsels—so rather than let the work languish upon the shelf foranother year...

Somewhere out there on The Net, I hope there is a solitary readersettled comfortably in a warm study with a nice cup of tea. Perhapsthe lights are out, and the amber glow of the terminal spreads faintwarmth through the room; overstuffed bookshelves loom behind in thedarkness. If the evening air is crisp and a soft snow is fallingoutside the window, so much the better—a view of icicles would be amagical touch.

— Richard McGowan
     San Jose, California
     January 22, 1994

VIOLISTS

by Richard McGowan
(Opus 22)

1. Gretchen in the Library
2. The Hungarian Lightbulb
3. Christmas Concert

GRETCHEN IN THE LIBRARY

In winter the interior of the university library was hardly warmer thanthe outside, and it was terribly drafty. The sole difference betweenthe interior and exterior, Gretchen often remarked to herself, was thatthe latter received an occasional snow. The library at least was dry.On most days in the unfrequented areas—the closed stacks on the secondand third floors—one could see one's breath in the middle of theafternoon. Gretchen thought it hardly the sort of climate she wouldhave chosen for her own books. But the cost of heating such anenormous building—well, she decided she could hardly imagine soextravagant a sum. On the coldest days, she often wore two petticoats.She found the best method of staying warm, though, was to bustle asquickly as she could. Primarily, she worked in the stacks, extractingbooks for the library's patrons and reshelving books that hadreturned—and keeping the shelves in good order.

Gretchen's twenty-ninth birthday had arrived—quite too quickly—theday before, and she bustled with an excess of alacrity to relieve hermind from the brooding that had occupied her for several days. She hadspent the evening alone, though she knew it did her no good to seeksolitude. To accept being past her prime of life would be simplerperhaps, and productive of less anguish, than fretting over what couldnot be changed. She was nearly thirty, though—and she knew what layin store for her a few years hence. She had only to look at theassistant reference librarian, Miss Sadie, to see how she herself wouldbe in but a few more years. The thought nearly made her shudder, andif she allowed herself to think too deeply upon the matter, might havebrought her to tears. Thankfully, Gretchen told herself, she couldgrow old among the books, where at least she had the company of greatminds—or their legacy—rather than spend a life straining in afactory—or under the yoke of an old-fashioned man.

She had been estranged from her family for six years and rarely giventhem serious thought since fleeing Connecticut. A simple enough row ithad been to start—what should she do now that she had finisheduniversity? Of course her father recommended marriage and settlinginto the domestic life—a pretty girl like her. Him and his antiquatedideals—a pretty girl in the kitchen, indeed! At twenty-three she hadfinally come to her senses and refused to marry the young man to whomshe had been betrothed, no matter how well matched her father thoughtthey were.

Her mother had frequently confided to Gretchen her views on the variedpleasures—and trials—inherent in marriage, admitting that as theyears passed she found the pleasures perhaps not worth the otherhardships—the outward subjugation of her own feelings and the constantdeference she was required to display within the confines of thatmarriage, as if she had no independent mind. Gretchen had long sincedetermined that would not be her fate. She had come to believe that nosuitable man could be found, yet she remained unsatisfied. The onlytrue regret she had about casting off her family ties was that she haddisappointed her mother. It was her mother who had worked so hard,really, to see that Gretchen had an education; her father onlybegrudgingly went along for the sake of domestic tranquility when allefforts to dissuade her had failed.

At university Gretchen had imbibed the rarefied intellectual atmospherewith increasing eagerness and found herself drawn irresistibly up theslopes of Parnassus. She had always intended to work after completinguniversity—and work she did, though she had difficulty making due withwhat employment she could find. Even a superlative education, she hadlearned in six years, did not buy one certain rights or reasonablewages. She hoped that she would yet see the flowering of an age thatshe could call an enlightened one. She might have been bitter had shehigher material aspirations, but she was content with little in the wayof physical comforts. Why the privilege of spending nearly all herdays in the library would have been worth almost any sacrifice—whatneed had she of wages!

It was lamentable, she decided, that she should have to forgo maritalcompanionship if she were to retain her individuality—for the price ofher freedom was a monumental sort of loneliness that only the severestmental discipline could overcome. She had seen so many of her schoolfriends smothered in the clutches of bad marriages, worn out beneaththeir husbands' heels—almost like doormats. To be truthful there werethose who seemed to prosper in the state of matrimony, but she thoughtthem few. Yet, she still had an abiding fear that she would grow oldalone—and soon enough become as obdurate as Miss Sadie—a pitiablespinster with none of the finer sensibilities left to her. Was thereno man, Gretchen wondered, with whom she could share her life andinterests—a man with progressive ideas? Not a man that she, like atiny moon, would orbit eternally, but one with whom she could find astate of mutual orbit. Well, she thought, something of that natureanyway. Her knowledge of astronomy was not up to the task of finding abetter analogy, and she resolved to remedy that as soon as she wasable. She added another volume—'something concerning the heavens' shecalled it—to the list of books she thought she really must read.

Gretchen bustled, thinking these thoughts, dreading her next birthday.She blew softly on a wisp of auburn hair that had somehow escaped fromthe green ribbon with which she tied it back that morning. Severalstrands had somehow got into her mouth but her arms were too full ofbooks—heavy tomes, all—to pull them away with her fingers. She wason the verge of setting down the burden and tending to her hair for amoment when, as she turned a corner into the next row, a shadow fellacross the topmost book in her arms. She glanced up in surprise. Aman stood mere inches in front of her—and looked up to find herbearing down upon him with a full head of steam—even as he steppedtoward her.

"Oh!" she cried, attempting to stop herself. The books slidirretrievably from her grasp, their pages flying open with a flutter.

The man's arms shot out. "The books!" came his cry of astonishment asthey tumbled about him. He tried to catch a few, left and then right,but alas they fell—all but one—to the floor with a dull clatter.

"Oh dear," Gretchen whispered, looking down. She feared she had bent afew pages, and putting a hand to her mouth knelt immediately to gatherthem all. "I'm terribly sorry, sir," she continued in a rush as shepiled books one after the other. "My clumsiness..."

"Think nothing of it, Miss," the man replied lightly. "It's my fault.I do hope _you_ were not harmed by _my_ clumsiness..." He knelt then,and began to place books upon her stack, starting with the volume hehad saved from falling. The lucky book was one of the late Mr.Darwin's, and when he glanced momentarily at the spine she blusheddeeply despite herself—for she had that day finished reading it, andwas returning it to its rightful place. She knew that he had seen hercheeks color.

Gretchen looked around, and seeing there were no more stray books,prepared to pick up the stack again. She stood up to catch her breathand smooth her wool skirt, arching back her shoulders. Looking down atthe man, she finally remembered to blow the wisp of hair from her face.He was looking up at her and positively beaming—clean-shaven and lightcomplected, she noted—but the smile faded almost instantly to a faintcurling about the corners of his lips.

"Please accept my apologies," he stated, still kneeling upon the floor."I will have to be more careful." His hair was dishevelled—greatcurly locks of jet black, and he laughed nervously as he brushed itfrom his eyes. He peered at her with eyes so black, yet so kindly,that Gretchen found herself blushing again and put a hand to her chest.The man stopped for a moment to adjust his shirt and coat, then stoodslowly, and with the hint of a bow, swept past her and away.Unaccountably, she felt suddenly light-headed and sat down upon thefloor by her books. His eyes! she exclaimed to herself with an outrushof breath. She felt that in an instant they had devoured her; hadknown all about her. She could not recall ever having seen such livelyand intelligent eyes—so deep and black they seemed like windowsopening onto a starlit sky. And his hand! when he placed the last bookupon the stack—the nails so trim. His hands were almost feminine, andfinely wrought. Gretchen gradually composed herself, then picked upher books and continued about her work.

Several times thereafter in the course of a fortnight Gretchen saw thesame young man about the library, and they developed an acquaintancethat began and ended with nodding pleasantly and wishing each other"good day". She thought him quite the most interesting patron she hadseen in the library for... she knew not how long—perhaps never in thetwo years she had been there. He was flamboyant, certainly, Gretchendecided, but he had not that rakishness or arrogance that so oftenaccompanies one who is as smart a dresser as he seemed. Her thoughtschanced to light upon him sometimes, and within the fortnight, shedecided he must be attached to the university. Perhaps aprofessor—well certainly not a full professor, he was far too youngand had not grown into that masculine stuffiness that comes with longtenure—and his physique was trim. No, she decided, he was probably afresh young assistant to an elder professor.

"Gretchen, dear." Miss Sadie's voice crackled behind her in a verystrange manner and Gretchen looked around. "I do fear I'm catchingsome contagion, dear," Miss Sadie continued in a whisper, "can youpossibly mind the desk until closing?"

Gretchen hesitated for a moment. She had worked long enough in thelibrary to feel at ease, and with classes already in recess for theChristmas holidays, there were few patrons. "Of course, Miss Sadie,"she answered. "I do hope you're feeling better tomorrow."

"If not, I shan't be in," Miss Sadie replied in a very weak tone."I'll—I'll try to send word."

"I'll see to everything, Miss Sadie—just take care of yourself." Shepaused. "And I'll inform Mr. Johnson—it's no trouble at all." With asmile and a pitying wag of her head, she added, "Take good care ofyourself."

Miss Sadie thanked her, and took her leave. Gretchen was alone, atlast, if only for an evening, as temporary queen of the reference desk.Well, it was about time she was asked to do something besides fetchbooks, she thought airily, and took a seat at Miss Sadie's desk. MissSadie was not very neat for a librarian, she thought, wiping a fingeracross the desk, so she began to tidy a few things up. She put down afresh blotter and arranged the papers in a more orderly manner, thenopened a drawer in search of a cloth. Really, Miss Sadie is theepitome of disorganization, she muttered, seeing the jumble. It's awonder that a woman like her can retain such a position.

Bing-bing! Gretchen looked up suddenly when the bell upon the frontcounter sounded. Standing there with his hand poised above the bellwas the young man.

"May I be of assistance?" Gretchen asked, in her most librarian-liketone.

The young man smiled. "I sincerely hope you can. I wonder if youmight be able to help me find this book?" He held out a small slip ofpaper between two fingers. "It doesn't appear to be in the openstacks."

Gretchen glided to the desk and took the slip of paper from him. Aglance at the number was sufficient. "You're correct," she told him,handing the paper back. "It's in one of the special collections."

"I wonder, then, Miss..." He paused, drawing out the word into asilence, until Gretchen felt obliged to fill the audible gap.

"Haviland," she offered in a whisper.

"Miss Haviland. Could you help me locate it?" He smiled with theslightly curling lips he always wore. Not condescending, shedecided—perhaps amused, or even flirtatious.

Gretchen stood flustered for a moment. Patrons were not allowed intothe special collections—they were under lock and key. Should sheleave the reference desk unattended while she fetched it for him? Inthe interim, what if another patron had pressing business? Apreposterous quandary, Gretchen then told herself. "Of course,Professor," she replied crisply. "Let me bring the key."

The young man laughed then, with a toss of his head so that his blackcurls flopped into his eyes. He suddenly sighed, with an exaggeratedlook of defeat, brushing back his hair. "Do I appear so like aprofessor, Miss Haviland? How did you know?"

It was Gretchen's turn to be amused, and she smiled as she went to MissSadie's desk drawer to bring the key. "You have not the air of astudent, Professor..." she drew out the word in a manner imitative ofhis previous query, until he had to break into a wondrous smile.

"Bridwell!" he exclaimed, and rapped four fingernails once upon thedesk. "Employed only this year—in the English department."

"Professor Bridwell," she continued, imparting a certain air ofcoquetry to her words, "your dress is frankly too punctilious for astudent; and if I might be so tactless, you seem... more evolved, shallwe say."

Having drawn out the key, she beckoned him to follow. They ascendedthe back staircase—likewise taboo for patrons. All the while Gretchenthought how to exonerate herself should she be caught by one of hersuperiors while leading a patron—alone—into the inner sanctum. Shedecided the best approach would be to plead ignorance—"Oh," she couldsay, "I had no idea that professors were considered ordinary patrons."Would that be sufficient excuse?

The book was easy to find, and Gretchen put herself to no particulardifficulty—but nevertheless, Professor Bridwell's thanks were profuse.He consulted the book—which could not leave the library—for an houror more. On departing he returned the book to the counter. Heinclined his head, with the now-familiar flop of his curly hair, andsaid, "I do hope to have the pleasure again, Miss Haviland."

Gretchen watched from Miss Sadie's desk as he departed through thefoyer and down the steps leading out. She closed her eyes for a momentand sat quietly after he had left—simply savoring the moment. A faintscent lingered behind him: a distinctive cologne that left quite afavorable impression on her.

Gretchen attended a short afternoon concert on campus. It was the laststudent recital of the season, and she had heard tell of the program:the afternoon was to open with mazurkas by Chopin and a selection ofthose divine "Transcendental Etudes" by Liszt—she could not stay away.Chopin was an aperitif, followed by a few mildly diverting piano worksby students. Then, she sat breathless and transported—utterlytransported, halfway to tears upon a bed of clouds—through the etudesof Liszt. In particular she had never heard the "Harmonies du Soir"more beautifully rendered.

After an intermission, which she spent simply sitting quietly,pondering the exquisite delicacies of Liszt's piano writing, the secondpart of the concert opened with Vivaldi's "The Four Seasons", performedby an intimate ensemble rather than with the full complement ofstrings. The performers were students, to be sure, but she found itdelightful nonetheless. When the "Autumn" season opened, she even felta sudden chill in the air—the performance was so wonderfullyeffective—and she pulled her shawl more tightly around her shoulders.She chanced then to look across the audience, and thought that severalrows down, in front of her, she saw Professor Bridwell. She had noidea he liked concerts; in fact, she realized that she knew nothingwhatever about him. She was positive it was the professor—even fromthe back, there was no mistaking his curly hair. At once she realizedthat he rather resembled portraits of Hector Berlioz. He sat upright,almost leaning forward in a posture that seemed ready to rise in aninstant. She fancied that could she but see his handsome face, hiseyes would be closed, as he was carried away by the music, blown uponVivaldi's autumn wind. Why she was looking at the audience rather thanat the orchestra she really did not know—she forced her gaze away fromthe professor's back and tried to concentrate again upon the music.But her effort was unsuccessful.

When the concert was ended, Gretchen fairly ran to the exit, and stoodthere at the door, looking back across the auditorium. Yes, it was he,she saw finally. He was coming up the aisle and she glimpsed his faceamong the swarm of bodies. He appeared to be alone; he spoke tonobody. She stepped out of the way and kept looking across theaudience, as if seeking someone else. He soon arrived, and when hewalked past, she turned and looked at him, as if suddenly noticing himfor the first time.

His smile was as delightful as always. "Good evening, Miss Haviland,"he said, with a tone of warmth.

"Good evening, Professor." Gretchen thought that he slowed for asecond or two, but she felt acutely embarrassed to be observing him tooclosely, and looked away toward the crowd again. He continued walking.

When the professor had passed, Gretchen let out her breath slowly.Into the thick of the crowd she plunged, and went out through thelobby. Evening had come on and it was dark outside. Vast hordes weredispersing across the plaza, pouring from the auditorium. As shestepped into the bitterly chill air and started down the stairs, avoice hailed her from behind.

"Are you alone, then, Miss Haviland?"

Gretchen whirled around at the sound of the professor's voice, in timeto see him laugh briefly. He was standing just outside the doors,facing outward, his greatcoat pulled tightly around himself.

Gretchen went to stand on the step below. "Actually, yes," shereplied, looking up. "I am alone. I came by myself on a whim."

"It's quite chilly this evening," he said, stepping down once. Theystarted down the stairs beside each other. "Would you fancy a cup ofcoffee, by chance, before making your way home?"

Gretchen smiled. He certainly had a forward manner; but she found itrefreshing, and—after all, she had really been seeking him, had shenot? "Why, that sounds like a delightful diversion, Professor. Ibelieve I shall."

With that, they set off together across the plaza. Gretchen startedimmediately upon a likely topic of conversation: the concert they hadjust attended. It was instantly evident that Professor Bridwell hadfound the Liszt etudes as breathtaking as she had. And during theVivaldi, as well, he agreed that he had felt a sudden chill atprecisely the same time as she.

"The ensemble did well," she concluded. "I suppose that is the wayVivaldi would have heard the work too—none of these large, modernorchestras quite out of proportion to the delicacy of the music."

"The modern orchestra," stated the professor, "is well enough suitedfor modern works, but really, the intimacy required for performingearlier works—as Vivaldi for instance—is really lost in the greatcrowd of strings."

"Agreed."

Presently they came to the campus gates and found their way to a smallcafé. Seated at a tiny marble table, they had a delightfultête-à-tête, and found much to agree upon regarding both theperformance, and the subject of music in general. Though he had notquite her madness for Liszt, he agreed with Gretchen's assessment ofthe "Transcendental Etudes"—divinely inspired, and, like much ofLiszt's work, nearly beyond the reach of mortals.

Gretchen was on her second coffee and feeling rather giddy. She couldhardly hold her cup steady, and she finally set it down with a laugh.

"Do you play an instrument, Professor?" she asked, pushing her cup awaywith one hand.

"Well, I would not so much call it playing the instrument," heanswered, "as playing _at_ the instrument."

"I see," she laughed. "Rather the way I play _at_ the viola—though Idaresay you speak of Liszt's writing as if you have some experiencewith it."

The professor seemed rather at a loss for an instant. He glanced awayover Gretchen's shoulder, but recalled himself quickly and lifted hiscup to his lips, meeting her eyes again. "I do admit I have _tried_."He set his cup down while reaching into his vest pocket, as ifsearching for something. "But really," he continued, "I haven't thetechnique. How about yourself, Miss Haviland? I take it you do ratherwell yourself, upon the viola."

Gretchen blushed, realizing that she must have sounded boastful justthen. The professor seemed not to have taken it in stride—sherealized that this must have accounted for his momentary loss forwords. "Well," she said then, settling herself forward upon her chair."At one time—when I was quite young, you understand—I fancied I wouldperform upon the instrument. But..."

"Ah." Professor Bridwell smiled. "Then, other interests swept youaway, no doubt. But still you play?" He had pulled a silver cigarettecase from his vest pocket, and he turned it over in his fingers.

"Oh, indeed." Gretchen sighed deeply. "I suppose, with all modestyset aside, I was adequate on the instrument—but adequacy in aperformer is hardly to be tolerated..." Before he could reply, sherushed onward, feeling her face flush. "I certainly do not practicewith any regularity of late!"

Professor Bridwell laughed. "I daresay—at our time of life—leisurehours seem so unobtainable..." He looked at his cigarette case,polishing it with a thumb. Seeming to think better of smoking justthen, however, he returned the case to his vest pocket.

Gretchen's smile was thin. She inclined her head, acknowledging thetruth of what he said—they were indeed probably of an age. Certainly,she thought he could be no more than thirty-three or thereabouts."Then, too, music, while an engaging diversion, and the source of muchhappiness, is better shared, wouldn't you say Professor?" He noddedslightly, and Gretchen clarified her statement. "That is tosay—practicing is all very well, but...the joy of music is in sharingit with one's friends—musical soirées and evenings in the parlor witha roaring fire. Old friends gathered around the piano—andchampagne!—"

Professor Bridwell warmed to her words, and rubbed his hands togetheras if before the very fire she had mentioned. "You have hit itprecisely," he replied with enthusiasm. "Why—it's no wonder thatliving, as I do, alone in a house that I fear is far too large for..."

Gretchen thought she detected the professor falter just then, and therewas the slightest of pauses in his speech.

"... For myself alone, you see," he finished. He laughed at himself,tossing the black mop of hair to one side. "But I needed some placeinstantly when I arrived here. I will probably find smaller digs in ayear or so, when I've come to know the city more intimately."

"Indeed," Gretchen answered, returning his smile. "I quite understandhow one needs permanent lodgings—the more quickly one can find them ina strange city, why, the quicker one is able to settle into life, getone's bearings in a foreign port."

"So true," he replied with a firm nod.

A few moments later, a juncture seemed to have been reached in theirconversation. Their coffees were at an end, and neither of them hadtouched their cups for what seemed ages, so engaged had they become intheir conversation.

"But now," Professor Bridwell exclaimed, with a glance to his pocketwatch, "I should not be keeping you away from your supper or—or yourother duties any longer. Please allow me to escort you home, MissHaviland—or where you may be going."

"Thank you, Professor—but really there is no need," she declared. Shethought that sounded too firm, and she smiled easily, to show that shemeant it only literally, not as a rebuff. "My rooms are close by, andthe evening air will do me good, you see. It shan't take me more thanten minutes at a brisk pace."

"Yes," he agreed. "I believe I shall walk myself. The air is good forthe circulation, as long as one's pace is brisk."

Gretchen rose, and took a curtsey. The Professor held her coat andstood attentively while she donned her gloves. "I do thank you mostkindly for the enchanting evening, Professor Bridwell. It—it has beenmarvelous."

"Likewise, Miss Haviland. I sincerely hope we shall have the pleasureagain soon."

With a few more words of parting, Gretchen stepped into the street,followed by Professor Bridwell, and they went their separate ways. Shefancied that he stood in the street and gazed at her until she turnedthe next corner, but she dared not glance back. The evening wasextremely cold, though not overcast, and her wool coat, even with ashawl wrapped beneath, did not keep the chill from seeping into herbones. She rarely wore hats, but that evening she wished she hadone—one of those large fur hats so favored in Russia, shethought—that would be most appropriate, since she could pull it downaround her ears. By the time she arrived at her rooming house a fewminutes later, she was shivering. She undressed and went straight tobed beneath layers of feather comforters with a hot water bottlepressed against her chest. She had no appetite for supper, andresolved to arise early and eat a hearty breakfast to compensate.

Sleep was elusive in the extreme, but Gretchen found herself strangelydelighted that she could not sleep, for she had the leisure to thinkover in detail all that had happened that day. And especially, she hadtime to ponder her interlude with Professor Bridwell. He was a mostintriguing man. He was a professor of English Literature—well, thatcould mean almost anything, she supposed—yet he did not have that_way_ about him. Nearly every professor of English she had evermet—and a good many students of literature as well—were continuallyspouting clever quotes gleaned from the works of obscure authors,living and dead—they were not particular about that. It often seemedto her that the more obscure the quotation, the more it was admiredamongst their cronies. She had always found such practices revolting.But Professor Bridwell was not at all like that. Why, the entireevening—and it had been two hours in fact that they had sat over cupslukewarm coffee—he had never quoted an author, famous or otherwise.Yet, his choice of words, his demeanor, the hint of some foreigninfluence in his accent—the way he talked of Liszt—all pointed to anintimacy with the most literate form of the English language. Throughclear thoughts and meticulous expression—rather than throughhaphazardly quoting other men—he exuded what she believed was a realprofessorial air, built upon a solid foundation without pretense. Shefound him refreshingly attractive, both for his own sake and as achange from the pompous professors she encountered so often in thelibrary. As she drifted into sleep, the hot water bottle pressedagainst herself, she hoped she would have the opportunity for anothersuch conversation with Professor Bridwell.

Gretchen's cart of books was extraordinarily loaded. Rather than pushit slowly between the stacks as she reshelved books, she stopped thecart at the end of each row and carried a few books at a time to theirproper places. The library was more quiet than usual, and despite theoverwhelming number of books she had to replace that day she workedrather slowly. Lost in thought, she hummed to herself, not so loudlythat any patron who happened to be about could hear, but loud enoughfor her own amusement. She had just returned to the cart and pushed itto the next row. She lifted another armful of books, choosing thosewhose home was in that particular row, and turned to walk slowly,watching the numbers. She glanced at each book when she shelved it,lamenting that she had too little time that day—there could be nostolen moments of reading, even briefly. She stood on her toes toreach an upper shelf and stopped humming for a moment. The sound of afootfall reached her at that instant, and she gave the book a quickshove.

"Good day, Miss Haviland."

Gretchen looked around to see a fine pair of wool trousers, as shereturned her weight fully to her feet. Following upward with her eyes,she felt a pleasant blush. "Professor Bridwell, you startled me!" sheexclaimed.

"Careful," he returned, reaching his hand above her head. Gretchenlooked up to see that he pushed the book further onto the shelf; shehad left it precariously tottering on the edge. "You almost lost one,Miss Haviland."

"Oh dear," she laughed, and grasped the rest of the books more securelyto her chest. She continued to walk easily down the row, with her woolskirt swinging about her ankles. "Is there a book I can help youfind?" she asked, whirling toward him like a schoolgirl.

"Actually," the professor said, nervously drawing out the word. "I'venot come in a—a professional capacity at all today."

"Oh?" Gretchen turned to look at him, but kept walking. With her freehand, she extracted a strand of hair from her mouth.

"The other evening—at coffee," he said, taking up the pace beside her."Well, really, I found the conversation most delightful and..."

"Yes?" Gretchen stopped, then knelt to shelve another book, lower down.

"And I was wondering," he continued rather quickly, as if he dare notspeak of it, "whether you might consent to dine with me this evening."

Gretchen stood up, rather slowly. "I—well..."

"Yes," the professor stammered, "of course—such short notice. Iunderstand. It's hardly proper, and I'm sure you're quite busy.Perhaps another time." He stepped backward as if to take his leave.

"Not at all," Gretchen said with a faint smile. She clutched the heavybooks more tightly in her arms. "I should be delighted, really." Shecaught his eye then, and saw it twinkle. The sight of his smile couldnot but make her return it fully. "The other evening, it did seemthere was ever so much more to say." She continued down the row, withProfessor Bridwell beside her.

"Is that an acceptance?"

She laughed and stopped to face him squarely, as if astonished. "Why,I believe it is, Professor." She blinked her eyes. The sudden blushin his cheeks was profound, and she composed herself to keep fromlaughing.

"Would six o'clock be too late? Or too early?"

"Neither, Professor." Gretchen thought he looked as if he had beenhanded a Christmas goose. "I'll meet you at the main entrance."

"Stupendous! I'll..." He still sounded incredulous, and seemed nearto bursting. He pushed his black locks from his eye, and twisted alock on one finger. "I'll meet you at six then?"

They took their leaves of each other, and Gretchen thought she heard afaint whistling in the main stairwell as the sound of his boots on thestone steps receded. She flew to her cart immediately the sound diedaway in the distance. Her unflagging concentration would be requiredif she were to be finished by six—she had seven more cartloads ofbooks, and less than five hours in which to reshelve them all. She didnot stop or rest until five forty-five, when she bid Miss Sadie goodevening, and made her way to the main entrance. She stood inside thegreat oak doors, under stone arches where she could see the professorthrough the glass when he approached. With a few moments to ponder andcatch her breath while she waited, a sudden flutter filled her bosom.Good Lord, she thought to herself—it's a wonder he did not think mescandalously forward. She felt a faint tingling in her cheeks as ifshe had begun to color. What sort of woman would join a stranger fordinner with five hours notice? Part of her dared not even answer herown question, but another part of her replied that he was not a perfectstranger by any means—she had met him any number of times—and hadjoined him for coffee with no notice at all. It was hardly the time tostart worrying about propriety. She pulled the ribbon from her hairand brushed it before retying the ribbon carefully and flinging herhair behind her back. The least I can do, she thought, is to makemyself halfway presentable, though it's a pity I haven't time to changemy coat. A hat might have been welcome for its warmth—the evening wassure to be cold—and for fashion as well. But then what is the use ofseeming fashionable, she thought, if fashionable I am not?

With his arms wrapped closely around him and his ungloved hands tuckedbeneath his arms, Professor Bridwell trotted up the stairs. Uponseeing him, Gretchen pushed open the doors and stepped outside.

"Why it's cooler than I had thought," she remarked.

The professor's smile fairly warmed her heart. "Let's hurry alongthen," he said between chattering teeth, "I know just the place thisevening. They'll even have a fire, and if we're quick about it, wemight find a table close enough to feel its warmth."

Side by side, they walked out through the plaza. The clouds haddescended, muffling the sounds of the city beyond. They continuedthrough the campus gates into the nearby streets. The neighborhood wasuncrowded, since so many students had left for their holidays, andthough there were a few groups of people walking to and fro, dressedwarmly against the weather, only the occasional carriage rattled by.Professor Bridwell led the way into a side street, where they weregreeted by a brightly lit café.

"I had no idea...," Gretchen began.

"Of a French café so near campus?" the professor finished for her."It's quite new." He pulled open the door and the sounds of bustlingcrowds and gay voices greeted them. "I say," he continued, "the placeappears to have been discovered." Gretchen followed him in while heheld the door, and stood by removing her gloves while he conferred withthe head waiter. She glanced up as she folded her gloves in time tosee the man wisk a bill into his apron pocket.

"Follow me, monsieur."

The professor took Gretchen's arm and led her along. Their table wasin the back and, as Professor Bridwell had hoped, it was close by anopen brick fireplace filled with a roaring blaze of crackling oak logs.She sat in silent attendance while their waiter recited, in heavilyaccented English, a seemingly unending speech upon the specialities ofthe house.

Gretchen lost the particulars mid-way, and her eyes strayed beyond himto the fire. "I'm quite overwhelmed," she exclaimed when he hadfinished and stood poised before them. "Please—do what you thinkbest, Professor."

Professor Bridwell surprised her then, by leaning back with the casualair of one who knows what he is about, and held forth in what seemed,to Gretchen's ear, flawless French.

"Bravo, Professor," she chimed when he had finished. "Your French isbeautiful."

The professor seemed somewhat embarrassed then, and smoothly turned theconversation to the decor. The room was hardly what Gretchen shouldhave expected of a French café—it was done in stark white, with highrafters of carved wood, but upon the walls hung gorgeously workedPersian carpets which served to bring the ceiling down and lendintimacy to the room; and to muffle the sound of so many conversingguests. Their entrees arrived in due course—a delightful poachedwhite fish in delicate sauce, which they ate practically in silence,but for the occasional comment upon the food. He asked after herhealth, and heard the small-talk of the day, then listened withinterest to an abridged account of her life, interjecting onlyoccasional questions to clarify certain points. She stopped short ofrevealing the estrangement of her family, but dwelt upon her years atuniversity.

Gretchen at length noticed the emptiness of her plate and declared thatthe fish positively melted in one's mouth. Professor Bridwell repliedthat he would send compliments to the chef. His smile grew graduallyas he said this, with a hint of something further he wished to add, buthe stopped.

"Was there something else?" she asked, setting her silver carefullyatop her empty plate.

"No, nothing," he laughed, putting down his own silver.

Presently, their plates were cleared away and the professor ordered aliqueur with coffee. Gretchen declined a liqueur, having drunk enoughwine already to raise her color slightly—she settled for coffee and asmall gateau.

"You mentioned that you play the viola," he said, taking up his liqueurwith one hand. "Have you been playing long?"

"Since I was sixteen," she replied, stirring cream into her coffee. "Ibegan with the violin as a child—I really can't recall at what age.When I was sixteen I went away for a summer, and..." she stopped tolook at him for an instant, tapping upon her gateau with her fork."Well, I met a young man who played the viola, and I was quite—quitetaken with his instrument. It seemed to suit me, really."

"I would say it does," the professor agreed. "Unusual, especially fora woman—mildly exotic even...and intriguing..."

They continued conversing about the viola and the piano, telling eachother about their favorite pieces, comparing composers. Gretchen hadnever played the piano seriously herself—she found it frustrating andwas amazed that anyone could master such an instrument.

"It requires such independence of the hands," she said. "I've tried,but I could never play anything worth mentioning. Oh, the organ isanother one that I simply cannot fathom. Beautiful to hear, it's quitecomical to watch—and seems so awkward to play."

"Neither is really any more complicated than the viola, I shouldthink," the professor replied. He had been twirling his glass for sometime, but he stopped and removed his hand from the table. "Think ofthe dexterity required to control your bow, and the simultaneousimparting of vibrato while retaining correct intonation. It's quite asremarkable."

"I see what you mean, certainly. It all seems easy with long practice."

"Do you sing alto as well?"

She laughed. "Very poor alto, Professor."

"But alto nonetheless. I was certain you would sing alto." He sippedhis liqueur again and twirled the glass slowly. "What about opera? Idespise Wagner myself."

"Really?" Gretchen replied, reaching for her coffee. "I can't say Itruly enjoy Wagner's work, the little I have heard. But Verdi—isluscious."

"Yes, Verdi. I quite agree with your assessment. And Mozart, ofcourse, is beyond reproach."

"Positively. But I generally prefer the intimacy of lieder myself."

"German?"

She laughed and pointed her fork at him. "Not only German—chansons aswell."

"I'm relieved to hear it." Professor Bridwell then put one hand intohis pocket, and withdrew his silver cigarette case. "Would you mind,Miss Haviland, if I smoke?"

"Of course not," she replied.

"Some ladies find it offensive," he said, opening the case slowly, "butI find it the perfect finish to a delightful meal."

"I couldn't agree more." Gretchen pushed away her plate—the gateauthough small, was simply too rich—and sat back upon her chair.Cigarettes had always appealed to her, and she indulged on occasionherself—in private. Cigars she could not abide, however, for theyreminded her too much of her father's odious acquaintances—men whocame to play cards each week throughout her childhood. "If I mightask," she said quietly, folding her hands the table, "how do you feelabout women smoking, Professor?"

He paused, with the open case upon the table before him and lookedsteadily into her eyes. "Miss Haviland," he answered, "we are livingin an enlightened age, are we not? Women's suffrage—and frankly, itwill happen soon, I'm sure. University educations—such as your own."

She nodded, but let him continue. He studied the top of the cigarettecase with some care. From the side, a hovering waiter produced ashallow ashtray of white china and set it near his elbow.

"I have no objection," he continued, "to a woman pursuing whatevertakes her fancy, provided she's reached majority. The same as anyman." He fingered the cigarette case, closing and then opening itagain. "A strong and independent mind is an asset in anyone, male orfemale." He looked up hesitantly. "You seem to have such a mind.You've read Mr. Darwin, I believe—and I suspect other progressivethinkers as well."

Gretchen smiled at him, but tilted her head with some puzzlement.

"You once called me more evolved," he replied answering her unspokenquestion. "That's hardly the sort of phrase an unread woman would use.I presumed you have read Mr. Darwin, among others." He curled his lipsupon seeing her amusement and continued speaking. "It is the mind, Ibelieve—and the soul, if one is religiously inclined—that reallydistinguishes man from the lesser animals. Female no less thanmale—we all possess that most human of traits."

His extensive reply was more favorable and pointed than she would havethought possible. It pleased her, and confirmed a great deal that shehad sensed about him. "Then you won't mind at all if I join you?"

"By all means," he returned without hesitation, holding the silver casetoward her. She deftly removed a cigarette, and tamping it upon herfingernail twice, held it out for him to light. She bent back herwrist and let it dangle between her long fingers while he lit his owncigarette.

"Now that we've learned all about me," she said, blowing a thin streamof smoke away, "perhaps you'll tell me about yourself, Professor."

"Please," he said, setting the ashtray in the middle of the table, "docall me Antoine. We needn't be so formal, I think."

She laughed quietly. "Antoine."

"My mother was French," he stated quietly.

Gretchen caught his use of the past tense, but did not inquire further."No doubt she is the source of your excellent French."

"Maman did speak French to me as a child—but my French is quite poorfor anything but domestic conversation."

"From what little I speak," she replied, drawing on her cigarette, "yousounded quite fluent." She let the smoke linger on her lips, then blewit away softly.

"Why thank you for the compliment...Miss Haviland."

"Oh, dear," she said, realizing what she had neglected. "My Christianname is Gretchen."

"Gretchen Haviland," he repeated slowly. "That has quite asatisfactory ring to it."

She complimented him on the quality of the tobacco when they werefinished smoking. The hour was past nine o'clock, so they left thecafé and walked into the street. The fog had descended, lower andthicker than before. Occasional carriages appeared, rumbling quietlyalong. Tatters of mist blew sluggishly past the gaslights.

"I hope you shall allow me the pleasure of escorting you home thisevening?" he asked as they walked.

"I should be honored."

He held out his elbow, and she slipped her gloved hand over hisforearm. They walked in silence toward her rooming house, bothenjoying the quiet of the evening. It seemed much warmer than before,and Gretchen thought a snow was about to fall. The air had the crispscent of impending snow.

"I am delighted," Professor Bridwell said after a while, "that you werenot busy this evening. Surely you must have so many friends. Otherengagements."

"No," she answered, "I have very few friends. Butsurely—Antoine—there must be any number of ladies who would be farbetter company..."

"I'm too involved with my books, I fear. Studying all the time;preparing lectures—while the ladies run off with younger rakes." Heglanced at her with a teasing half-smile. "I'll be thirty-five comeFebruary."

Gretchen laughed to hear him say such things. But she was pleased thatshe had guessed his age so nearly.

"I fear," he continued, "it is my fate to attend concerts alone, andremain unwed all my life."

"Well," Gretchen replied, "there's something sad in that then, is therenot? Two studious people nearly of an age, with no otherattachments." She looked sidelong at him. "And with Christmas sonear..."

"Yes," he agreed, "there is a bit of sadness in that. Have you nofamily nearby, Gretchen?"

"No, they're ALL in Connecticut—too far to visit this year, and myrooming house would hardly be suitable for inviting them to visit me."

He laughed pleasantly at this. Yet she did not tell him that she wasestranged from her parents.

"Besides my family being far away—at twenty-nine, one cannot beforever running home to one's parents, can one?" she asked.

"I do understand that," he said. "Fancy the two of us then, alone forChristmas—it seems rather a shame."

"It does indeed," Gretchen answered looking away. Snow had begun tofall, silently and hesitantly. The flakes, drifting between the emptybranches of trees along the avenue, seemed as large as walnuts; asfluffy as eider down.

The professor laid his hand across Gretchen's gloved hand, suddenlyholding her fingers delicately beneath his. She smiled at him, lookingat his eyes; his mop of black hair, now bedecked with great whitesnowflakes. They stopped walking for an instant, and she could see thewisps of mist curling away from his mouth as he opened his lips. Thestreet was silent. He took a step toward her and she realized that shewas not looking far up into his eyes—he was not so much taller thanherself as she had imagined. She thought—suddenly aware of thepalpitation of her heart—she found herself hoping he would kiss her.She believed he would kiss her, just then, and she let out her hotbreath. Mist escaped her expectant lips on the faintest of breezes.

They stood for a long moment, facing each other until he turned slowlyand stepped forward. Gretchen continued walking beside him with herhand upon his arm. They crossed the street and at last were near herrooming house. She looked up at the falling snow against a gray sky;the tangle of branches above them; the misty pools of light beneath thegaslights. She glanced at his serene face, turning, though shecontinued to walk.

"I believe you almost kissed me back there, did you not Professor?"

"So, it's 'Professor' again, is it?" He smiled the faintest of smilesand looked away down the street. "Miss Haviland, you did not ask to bekissed—back there." She turned quickly in front of him to catch hisgaze, so that he had to stop. "Not in so many words," he added, "Imean—you hesitated as much as I."

"Fancy that," she replied with a laugh, and began walking again,swinging her legs gaily, letting her skirt billow.

He touched her hand, draped over his forearm, and she felt the warmthof his fingers through her glove. They walked on beneath bare branchesand quietly falling snow. It seemed far too warm for snow—tropicalalmost, as if the gaslights were warming the whole scene—the wholeworld. Winter was about to melt—the sun might even rise the nextinstant and spring would return in a blaze of gold and green with softrain, the scent of flowers.

"In future, perhaps I _shall_ ask, Professor." She leaned to grip hisarm more tightly and whispered. "Perhaps I shall."

THE HUNGARIAN LIGHTBULB

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

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

In River Street, on the wrong side of the tracks, after hours spentwalking from the fashionable districts gradually down the economicladder into a grimy, dilapidated neighborhood, Jurgen found theCharleston Residence Hotel. Brownstone, four stories tall, it had twowindows boarded up on the third floor and unmistakable blackened marksfrom a conflagration that had never been cleaned away. There was asign in the window advertising a weekly fee he thought he couldmanage—if the sign was not out of date. It was yellow, curling at theedges, and could hardly be read behind a smudged window laced withyears of accumulated cobwebs. It did not seem like a wholesomeplace—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 onearm and his cracked leather valise dangling from the other hand.

A short, bearded and balding man in a brown, pinstriped suit that mightonce have been new, stood at the front desk. The stub of a stale cigarnot two inches long was stuffed between his lips. He cupped a hairyhand to his ear.

"I asked," Jurgen stated in a much louder voice, "whether you have aroom 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 oneweek's rent on the counter. "This is a week in advance." The mancupped his hand to his ear, and Jurgen was compelled to repeat himselfloudly.

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

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

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

Relieved at last to be in some lodging—his last few nights had beenspent in damp freight cars, cowering with one or another group ofindigents—Jurgen ascended the stairs quietly to the third floor. Roomthirteen 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 provedto be the one with boards on the windows. Only one window, on theleft, was not boarded. The inside had been freshly painted, with whitepaint. The floor was painted a deep gray and partly covered with athreadbare carpet patterned mostly in shades of brown.

Jurgen fumbled for the light switch and pushed it with a loud click. Asingle bulb glowed dimly, suspended from a long wire in the center ofthe room. He thought that was par for the course. At these rates, hecould not have expected much more. Setting down his valise, he thoughthe would be in better lodgings uptown, as soon as he found work. Helaid his viola case reverently across the raw, wooden arms of theroom's single chair. In the far left corner was a single bed. It hadno sheets, but a few worn blankets folded neatly at the foot of themattress. Along the opposite wall stood a sink with a cracked mirrorhanging above it, a flush toilet with a broken ceramic handle, and acloset door—again with a broken handle. No towels. Putting hisvalise upon the bed, Jurgen went back down the stairs to see aboutsheets and towels.

"This is a residence hotel," the proprietor told him, pushing back thefew hairs on his head with one hand. "Sheets in the hall closet at thefar end—towels too. Maid comes once a week. Toss your sheets andtowels down the chute on Tuesday morning. Don't use too many."

"Thank you," Jurgen replied, making a sincere effort at politeness. Hewent 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. Itcontained underwear, a well-used black suit with tails, a silk shirt, asilk hat, soap and shaving kit, and sheaf after sheaf of printed music.Everything else he had sold as necessary; his cash was securelyfastened around his waist in a money-belt. He wondered if there were atrustworthy bank in the neighborhood. Tomorrow, he decided, he wouldhave to go look.

Jurgen surveyed the room carefully before turning in. On the back ofthe door a relatively new calendar was posted with two thumb tacks. Itfeatured a blonde woman with exquisite, long legs and a coquettishsmile—advertising a well-known brand of chewing tobacco. It was thefourteenth of November, he noted. Fifty-seven years ago to the day,his grandmother had arrived in New York harbor from Hungary, draggingtwo young children behind her—with less money in her pocket than hehad. He pondered her memory for a moment—she had been his firstmusical mentor—then went to switch off the light. He laid down on thebed beneath fresh cotton sheets and listened to the far-off sounds ofthe city—automobiles and trains, mostly—until he fell asleep.

Early in the morning, just after sunrise, Jurgen practiced the violaquietly for an hour or so. He had no clock, but when he judged, by thesounds in the street that the time was past ten, he left the hotel withhis viola case under his arm. He spent the day wandering fromstreet-corner to street-corner in a nearby business district along theriver-front and by late afternoon had earned enough money for two fullmeals. He played mostly Stephen Foster songs—everyone knew them andthey never failed to bring smiles. Occasionally a nice old lady wouldstop, and blushing, ask whether he knew one or another of the favoritetunes of some prior season. As often as not, he had never heard of thetune, but when he did know it, he laid into the instrument with suchvigor 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 onboth arms, Jurgen ate breakfast. The waitress wore silk stockingsbeneath a soiled uniform with pink and white stripes—and kept a pencilbehind each ear, both of them dull with their ends chewed. Jurgenreflected with some amusement that his description could fit the peopleas 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, Jurgenpreferred to try all of the nearby places in the hope of finding themost comfortable of the lot. On Thursday evening he saw a small signhe had never noticed before, though he had walked down the same streetseveral times. Neatly lettered by hand in blue upon a white ground—itsaid simply "Calcutta", with a downward pointing arrow. Jurgendescended the dark stairwell, passed one steel door tightly closed witha padlock, and found the next door unlocked. The same name was paintedon the door at eye level. He pushed it open and walked in, thinking hemight have found a restaurant a bit more exotic than the typical run ofcafés in the neighborhood. The lighting was dim, the decor dark andspare. The place was lined with booths near the door, but opened intoa space taken over by a checkerboard tiled floor.

He could see there were only a few customers—not more than five or sixpeople, all told. He looked around slowly, holding his viola caseunder one arm, the other hand laid across the top of it. He was theonly white person in the establishment.

Nobody turned to look at him, but kept right on with what they weredoing—drinking and smoking, talking quietly. It seemed comfortableenough—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 doublebass sat on its side near the wall as if it were the subject of thespotlights' illumination—it might jump up and break into song anymoment. An upright piano stood on the left, lurking warily in theshadows, its top opened like a gaping jaw. Jurgen knew this all meantmusic, and he made his way between the tables to sit at the one nearestthe instruments. It was partially shadowed; an unlit candle stood inthe middle of the round table—a square table-cloth in white and redchecks draped haphazardly, held in place by the candle. Jurgen satslowly on the nearest wooden chair, facing the music; it creaked whenhe put his weight on it. He set his viola case on the table and slidit over so he could rest his left elbow on it.

He felt something stir, and looked behind him. A young woman in asleeveless sky-blue dress approached out of the shadows. Her hair waspulled back tightly against her head, white teeth gleamed in her darkface. She put one hand on the back of the nearest booth, and leaningupon it, spoke to him.

"What'll it be?" she asked with quiet confidence. Her chin rose whenshe finished asking, and she tilted her head to one side, smiling.

Jurgen gazed at her—she had a pretty face with a narrow chin andstrikingly high cheekbones; her black eyes sparkled in the spotlight.He did not really feel like drinking anything intoxicating. "Somethingsoft," 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 tothe stage, gliding in stealthily, creeping from a door to one side.Without a word, they sat down and took up their instruments. The bassplayer heaved his double bass upright, then sat upon a high stool andplucked a few notes. The third man carried a clarinet, and standing inthe center, whipped his fingers through a few scales without making anysound. They stole a few glances at each other—then brokesimultaneously into a molten jazz number, hot as a blast furnace.Jurgen sat back slowly in his chair. The blazing tune crackled andsparked, then settled into a long, burning ember; he could feel thethin layer of ash building up around the coals until it graduallysettled into a warm mound of slow heat.

The young woman appeared with a Coca-Cola in a tall glass—Jurgen onlyglanced at her when she set it down, and returned his attention to themusicians. She slid past his table and strode under the centerspotlight—the clarinetist moved to one side without missing a note,nodding at her. She whirled around, snapped her fingers to pick up theslow beat—and launched into song, so softly at first, he was not sureshe was singing.

Her voice soon rose in a solo, weaving in and out of the clarinet'smelody. Flames rushed up to greet her voice—Jurgen felt the hairsrising on the back of his neck and across his scalp. She sang withoutwords; low tones with all the plaintiveness of an English horn,blending into the ensemble; and at times her voice rose like awhispering flute and broke into autumn leaves, tumbling in a lightbreeze—the fire crackled behind her.

The splendor of it entranced Jurgen and he forgot his drink, puttingboth elbows on the table to watch the woman sing. Her voice was sorich, so well-trained and supple—he could have imagined her on theopera stage, singing mezzo-soprano.

The ensemble rushed to a climax that shattered like a glass againststone, and was silent. There were applause from the dark café behind.Jurgen could make out each individual in the audience—pitifully fewcustomers to hear such a singer! He applauded firmly, with authority,and continued until the last clap had died behind him; three moredecisive claps and he stopped.

The band played a few more numbers, standard blues fare and a popularshow-tune or two—the young woman sang, standing perfectly still withher eyes closed, alone beneath a spotlight. She bowed at last, armsoutstretched with a beautiful smile, and strode into the back. Themusicians followed her out to take another break.

The pianist lagged behind, following the others to the door, thenturned around and sat down at Jurgen's table, pulling his chair close.The man had a few days' growth of beard. He was completelybald—perhaps shaved, Jurgen decided—and his smile revealed onemissing tooth and two silver teeth. When he spoke, his voice was deepand bubbly, like a slow pot of soup, simmering. "Don't get many o' yerkind here," he began.

Jurgen flushed suddenly and swallowed, feeling a sense of impendingpanic. He gaped momentarily, unable to think of a reply. Might it beprudent to withdraw?

The man sat back and laughed loudly, thrusting his thumbs into hisbelt. He thrust his head forward suddenly, grinning. "I mean—youplay that fiddle or jes set yer elbow on it?"

Jurgen felt instantly relieved, and regained his composure. "CertainlyI 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, byprofession."

"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 muchtrouble?"

"Alright." Jurgen pulled his viola case toward himself, and scooted hischair back to give himself some room. He opened the case, strummed thestrings once to check the instrument's tuning—close enough, hedecided. While he rosined his bow he tried to decide where he shouldstart. He settled on a Hungarian folk tune his grandmother used toplay for him. It had a homey, intimate quality; rather simple andeasily manipulated. He readied himself and then poured his heart intoplaying that tune—he worked it around, swished it a few times, triedsome variations, caught the fever, and finished off with a fastspiccato variation.

"Sounds like gypsy music," the man said when he had finished. "Hotblood."

Jurgen smiled. "My grandmother—was Hungarian."

"Say," the man said, laying his hand atop the viola case, "why don' youjoin us awhile? Play anything you like—jes name it. We know 'boutmost 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 heras Mabel—sat at the table Jurgen had vacated. He took one chair andjoined the clarinetist under the spotlight.

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

"Mmm. George & Ira...," the clarinetist intoned reverently with a widegrin. "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 topeer into his eyes, undulating while they ran on in imitativecounterpoint, two fish in a creek spilling down a mountainside. Thepiano and clarinet stopped while they took the tune up on their own,turning it over, peeking into all the hidden motives, each musicallyentwined in the other. Mabel was breathless when they finished, andlet Plain Al take a solo before leading them all back into themelody—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 othermusicians around a table. They each coddled a tall Coca-Cola mixedwith bourbon, and talked and talked, shooting answers and questions ateach other like they were playing hot-potato. They were allsemi-professional—none of them were paid for playing at Calcutta.Mabel and her brother ran the place, under the eye of a kindly landlordwho never bothered them; he came in once or twice a month, sat througha few songs, and left. Mabel and her brother provided free food foranyone 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 todraw any clientele. The musicians all held regular jobs, off andon—mostly off, they admitted—and Calcutta was like their own privateparadise, where they were real musicians, where people came to hearthem play. They were a comfortable bunch, wiling away their eveningswith music, going home with full stomachs.

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

Al laughed. "That's Mabel's idea of jokin' I guess. Mabel, she readsa lot—got some fine schoolin' too." Jurgen did not comprehendimmediately. 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 hehad no hat. He smiled and walked out.

Jurgen returned to his room long after midnight, turned on the singlelight, and sat upon the bed to look through his sheaf of music. Hetossed the music aside after a few minutes and laid down to think backover the evening. It had been a long time since he had had as muchfun—sheer enjoyment—as that evening with Plain Al and Mabel. She wasremarkable—sophisticated and graceful—they had played together as ifthey knew each other intimately.

Something fluttered and fluttered against his eyelids—he opened hiseyes and looked up. A moth had somehow got into the room, andfluttered around and around the lightbulb, casting shadows thatflitted. Annoyed to be cast from his reverie, he took his towel andbegan flicking at the moth as it circled and circled. Something aboutthe lightbulb caught his attention then—it was unusually shaped. Hepulled the chair over beneath it and standing carefully on the chair,looked at the slowly swinging bulb before reaching out to grab thesocket. Stamped upon the end of the bulb in rough, smeared letterswere three words: Made in Hungary. He almost lost his balance for aninstant, and jumped to the floor with a thump. There was an immediateanswering thump from the room below, and Jurgen mentally apologized tohis lower neighbor.

* * * * *

Two days later, on a Saturday evening, after what had become hisaccustomed daily rounds of playing on street-corners—Jurgen foundhimself again descending the stairs into Calcutta. The place wasnoisier than it had been before. There might have been thirty peopleinside. He found a seat at the booth closest to the spotlights—theopen tables were full. A young waitress in a slinky white dress cameover to serve him. He decided to have dinner there—a repayment toMabel. The last time, he had only ordered one drink, and when hethought back over the evening, decided that he had in fact never paidfor it or any of the drinks he had with Al and the others. At least hecould 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 ahand 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 tablesthough." She leaned on the table with one hand. "Can I get yousomething to drink first?"

"I'll have a Coca-Cola."

The waitress left and came back with his drink. She set it lightly onthe table, with a battered cork coaster beneath, and slid it in frontof him. He ordered a few side dishes—words spilling willy-nilly fromhis mouth while he glanced over the menu. He was uncertain how much heshould order and ended up ordering far too much food to eat alone—buthe felt that he really owed Mabel something. Plain Al showed up later;Jurgen walked over to say hello, and to thank him for so kindlyallowing him to play the other evening. Remembering that he had platesof untouched food, he invited Al over to his table. They ate togetherand 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 workingover tunes they all knew. Mabel came out and sang with them, and theyrounded out the evening with a few long numbers just for the enjoymentof listening to each other. The crowd seemed more appreciative than ithad been before—Jurgen believed that anything would have been animprovement. There were simply more people present, so he felt theywere more appreciative, but he guessed it was all part of the samething they heard every Saturday night in Calcutta. There were a coupleof other musicians—a hot young sax player with a large belly and alow-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 hisbeat-up guitar—he had a hole the size of a silver dollar in one shoeand he wore no socks. It was far from the symphony, but Jurgenthoroughly enjoyed his second evening in Calcutta.

* * * * *

Dropping into the Calcutta to play the evening away quickly became apleasant habit over the next few weeks. Jurgen came to consider hisprevious life as having been sheltered from some of the finesthome-spun music he had ever heard, and he decided there was much to belearned here. Whether they worked in factories or restaurants, ortended stores in the neighborhood, the people who congregated aroundMabel all seemed to have one thing in common: concentrated musicaltalent. They were all masters of jazz melody. He looked forward tohis regular visits—an especially welcome diversion after playing allday in the cold, hanging around employment lines looking for symphonywork. The pennies he earned during the day mostly ended up in Mabel'scoffers—where Jurgen thought they should be. His own savings began todwindle. He increased the hours he spent searching for good employment.

It seemed to Jurgen that every time he descended the dark stairwell toCalcutta and opened the door, there were more customers than had beenthere the last time. On the last Saturday night before Christmas—itwas Christmas Eve, in fact—Jurgen arrived, thinking he would havedinner there. He threw open the door and found the whole café crowdedfar beyond capacity. Every booth was full, and there were two newtables plunked down in the corner nearest the spotlights. Every tablehad an extra person or two squeezed in. The place was like a morningtrain, but the atmosphere of celebration swirled through the room withthe blue haze of cigarette smoke. Jurgen went slowly forward towardthe lights—but could not find a seat anywhere. The musicians were outon a break, so the customers all talked among themselves, laughing andcheering. He was about to ask someone at one of the tables if theywould mind him crowding in to watch, but Al spotted him from the backdoorway.

"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 violacase over his head with both hands. He made it to the door, and Alpulled 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 themusicians were gathered. Seated on one side was Mabel, dressed in afine long gown that sparkled with red sequins, her hair tied up in abright green turban; long dangling earrings. She was the picture ofChristmas, with a tipsy smile. A chef and two young men in soiledaprons worked the kitchen stove and oven, clanking pans and mixingbowls 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 thisevening. I have something for you." She slid her hand into the bosomof her low-cut gown, sending a ripple of laughter among the musicians."It's a Christmas present," she whispered, fishing deeper anddeeper—her shoulders wiggled in mirth. "If I can find it..." Shedrove her hand deeper to keep them all laughing.

Jurgen pulled his chair closer and held his viola case upright betweenhis legs. Al pushed a tumbler of bourbon in front of him—and Mabelslapped five dollars onto the table with both hands. "Now you go onand take this," she insisted. "Ever since you showed up here, businesshas been getting better and better. I want you to know how much weappreciate it."

Jurgen looked at the bill—it was a crisp, fresh five-dollar note thathad been folded, only once, in quarters. "Thank you, Mabel," Jurgensaid, 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 ofyou go on out and play for a while. I want to talk to Mr. Jurgen inprivate." A low murmuring sound swept them, and they backed away.When Jurgen and Mabel were alone, she raised her glass. "Here's togood business," she said.

"To good business," Jurgen replied, raising his own glass and clinkingit delicately against hers. "And a Merry Christmas to all..."

"Now that," Mabel said, "is what I wanted to talk about." She spokequickly, with clarity—as if she had a speech memorized, and wasdelivering it for an audience. She punctuated her sentences with wispymotions of her long-nailed fingers. "I've been wondering to myselfjust what kind of man you are. And I've concluded that you're a prettypoor man." When Jurgen's smile suddenly dripped away she stopped andclosed her eyes theatrically. "Oh, that was unfortunately phrased. Imean... you're not a wealthy man."

Jurgen sat up straight, and Mabel laughed—then set her glass down onthe table. "It takes no Sherlock Holmes," she continued, "to see that.Why, you've been in here nearly every evening coming on six weeks—andin all that time, I don't believe I've seen you in any clothes but therags you have on now. You must wash 'em, cause you don't smell like mygrandpa's barnyard—but I'd guess you don't have any other clothes."

Jurgen felt himself redden, and looked down, swirling the bourbon inhis 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 hismusic 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. Buthe's right. And Sherlock Holmes is one of my favorites."

"Well," he answered slowly, "I must admit I'm rather between full-timeengagements 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 whereyou live. I've seen you on street-corners a few times, too. Maybethat'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 anyworth lives at the Charleston. It's full of winos and whores."

"It's inexpensive," Jurgen replied. "The decor leaves much to bedesired. But I'm afraid that I'll have to be moving along to evencheaper 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'tstand for one of my friends hanging his hat in a place like that, orworse. Do you need a place to stay?"

He knew she was sincere, but the situation felt uncomfortably close tocharity. His grandmother had always warned against even seeming to bein need of charity—let alone actually needing help. "Really, Mabel, Icouldn't presume to burden you with..."

"Now, stop it Jurgen," she said with a shake of her head. She scootedher hips forward, cupping both hands around her bourbon carefully as ifshe were settling in for a serious talk. "Business here has never beenbetter—and I think you've had a lot to do with that. You bring a newsound, and people are paying to hear it, and drink a few, and they'reeating 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 higherpitch, "Mabel, honey, I hear deyz a strange waat boy down atCalcutta—plays jazz on de fiddle."

Jurgen laughed at her feigned accent.

Mabel let her voice drop to its normal pitch. "Are you looking forregular 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. Sothat leaves work."

"I really could not allow you to do that..."

"Well, hear me out, first, before you say that," she answered. "I'mnot 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 youunderstand—when we were children, anyway. Now, Dotty works for MissEdna. And Miss Edna thinks the world of her because she's so neat andorganized. Miss Edna herself is a flighty thing—she can hardly painther own lips with both hands."

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

"Now Edna's lover-boy is a man named Lamonte. I don't know what hesees in Edna—to look at her you wouldn't think she can do anythingright." 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 quicksip of bourbon and rolled the glass again between his palms, wonderingwhere she was leading; almost seeing it.

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

"Why not?"

"Oh," she replied, moving closer with narrowed eyes. "I know hissecret—Dotty told me. Our Mr. Lamonte enjoys slipping off discretelyon 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 feelparticularly surprised; she probably sang all of Schubert's liederbeautifully. She sat regarding him with a half-smile, and appeared tobe finished with her speech. He thoughtfully tapped on his glass a fewtimes, mulling over the proposal, gazing at his fingers. Finally, helooked up to meet her eyes. "You know just what to say."

Mabel smiled and reached out to pat his hand. "Be here tomorrow," shereplied, "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 thelightest 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 herglass down and stood up, adjusting her sequined gown around her hips,then leaned over confidently. "I'll soon have you joining my secretmusical soirées, too." She pointed at the table. "Now, don't forgetyour five dollars. Let's go make some Christmas music." Jurgenslipped the bill into his shirt pocket, then followed her out the doorand into the spotlights.

* * * * *

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

CHRISTMAS CONCERT

It was several nights before Christmas, and all along the freeway, carswere lined up like a vast herd of red-nosed reindeer being led off toslaughter. I glanced away from the sight and reached out to snap offthe radio. I'd had far too much of the Messiah since Thanksgiving.You'd think a respectable classical station could think of somethingmore original to saturate the airwaves with. But I knew that even if Ichanged the station, I'd get White Christmas, or Blue Christmas, orDixie Christmas, or some other form of musical blasphemy. Trafficmoved along sluggishly, inching up a long, curving hill. It wasraining heavily—one of those sudden tropical storms, only it washappening in a refrigerator. I had the windshield wipers on full, butstill I could hardly see the vehicle in front of me.

Along with every other irate father, uncle, brother, and son who waslate for some engagement or another, I was in the fast lane. I hadgotten caught in a last-minute sales meeting, and I was going to belate for my daughter's concert if the idiot in front of me didn't hurryup. The offending car was a Jeep, jacked up on all fours with tiresbig enough to dwarf a road-grader, and had struts and shock absorbersand what-not sticking out all over the undercarriage—a real usefulpiece of machinery for navigating the treacherous Silicon Valleyfreeways: when you see a car you don't like, you just roll right overit. The Jeep had one of those typical California vanity plates, heldin place by a brass frame which, had I been able to read it in thedark, would have said "My other truck is a Mack." The driver waspumping on his brakes continually, no doubt keeping time to someCountry Christmas Hit Classic. Lounging on top of this pinnacle ofwestern automotive engineering was a Christmas tree, lashed with acouple pieces of thin twine—probably on its way to a living room hungwith paintings of nudes on black velvet, and soon to be littered withtacky country decorations and strings of popcorn. The tree listed toone side, bobbing over the edge of the Jeep's roof in time with theblinking brake lights. The driver's girlfriend was smooching up to himin the front seat—I could see her outline through the back window,practically sitting in his lap... maybe she _was_ in his lap. Istarted thinking they probably deserved to lose the whole tree. They'dhave a real nice surprise when they got home without it.

I reached over to turn on the radio again, thinking the hourly excerptfrom the Messiah might be over by then. I should have brought a tapefrom home, but I'd barely had time to change my suit. Just when myeyes were averted for an instant, the Christmas-tree bedecked vehiclein front of me decided to drop its load. I felt my car go bump, bump,and slammed on my brakes before I even looked up. The car behind meskidded and swerved to one side, then leaned on his horn as if he'd runinto an iceberg. I just hit the emergency lights and leaned on my ownhorn. The guy in front, perhaps hearing the tooting chorus behind him,stopped just down the road, and like an idiot, put his Jeep intoreverse and came hurtling back toward me. He skidded to a stop and puton his emergency lights.

What kind of jerk ties down a Christmas tree so loosely that it flopsoff in the middle of a freeway? We were only doing twenty miles anhour—in the rain, no less. I thought I would have to get out andcheck the extent of the damage, and I wasn't happy about slogging inthe rain with my dress shoes on. Hallelujah, the jerk stopped, anyway,so I could at least get the name of his insurance company—I'd alreadymemorized his personal license number (which doesn't bearrepeating—I'd always thought the DMV had standards of decency).

I hopped out, trying to pull up the collar of my overcoat even thoughit wouldn't quite cover my head, and started walking forward to have afew choice words with Mister Country Jamboree in the over-endowedautomobile. Of course, CJ (as I then dubbed the driver) bounded out ofthe Jeep and headed my way, tucking in his shirt as he walked. Onelook at him, and I almost turned around and left—CJ could have beenPaul Bunyan's twin brother. He had the shirt to prove it, too: redand black lumberjack style checks, with the top three buttons undone,and chest hair that was thicker than my beard. He also wore cowboyboots and wide red suspenders.

"Holy moley, mister!" he yelled with a tone of real concern. "Youalright?"

I was about to lay into him when his gum-chewing girlfriend appearedfrom behind, tucking herself into his armpit. "Oh!" she squealed,"Ah'm so sorry! Looks like our tree smashed up your brand new car!"

My car wasn't exactly brand new, but I looked around to where shepointed. Sure enough, the front grill was bent in and one headlighthad gone out, the glass completely smashed. The tree itself wasnestled cozily under the car, nuzzling up against the oil pan.

The look of childish helplessness on both their faces—and frankly whatI considered might be a moderate dose of dull wittedness—somehow gotto me just then, and I couldn't quite bring myself to swear at them.Besides, the fastest thing to do would be to shrug it off with a happyface, extract their battered shrubbery from beneath my car, and be onmy way. I decided that silliness would carry the day. "MerryChristmas!" I called, throwing out my arms. "Sorry about your tree!"Both of them lit up in grins.

"Look—he ain't even mad," the guy said to his girlfriend.

She batted her lashes in astonishment. "We're awfully sorry aboutthis," she chimed, wagging her head.

It only took a minute to get the tree out from under the car. All thewhile, I was thinking of how to explain it to the patrolman who wouldundoubtedly appear in a moment: it's just another roadkill, officer,nothing to be alarmed about; I'm sure it happens all the time, whatwith all these trees swooping down on unsuspecting holiday merrymakers.

The tree was pretty battered up around the lower branches, but itreally could have sufficed to cheer someone's holiday—if one cut off acouple feet from the bottom and turned the bad side toward the wall soit couldn't be seen. You only decorate half the tree anyway, right? Istarted trying to explain this to my countrified acquaintances, butthey would have none of it.

"Look, mister," CJ drawled, propping up the tree with one hand. "Webusted out yer headlight. Hell, the least I can do is give ya thetree."

The woman tilted her head and shot out a hand to touch my arm. She hada horrified look in her wide eyes that I could see even through herdripping mascara. "You ain't already got one do ya, mister?"

I glanced at my watch and tried to weasel out of it. I'd already nixedthe idea of a Christmas tree—told my family (meaning my daughter,Jenny) we weren't having one that year, and that was final. They justshed all over the carpets and had to be tossed out at precisely theright moment in January or the city garbage folks wouldn't pick themup. We'd had a tree one year that sat around well into Februarybecause we missed the magic pick-up date. I finally chopped it intolittle bits and threw it out a piece at a time over the next six weeks.I had no use whatever for a Christmas tree.

In the end, I didn't want to argue with them—it was cold, exceedinglywet, and I was already going to be late for the concert. So CJ helpedme load the mortally wounded conifer into my trunk. We groped aroundfor the twine, but couldn't find it, so he battened down the lid withhis girlfriend's belt. She had high-tailed it back into the Jeep towait for him out of the rain. He whispered into my ear while hecinched up the belt. "She don't really need her belt," he said. "I'dhave it off her in another couple o' miles anyways." He gave me a winkand wished me a Merry Christmas.

By the time I arrived at the hall, the concert had long since begun andit was almost intermission. I detest arriving late for these things,and I had to wait around the lobby until the first part was over. Iwas thankful I'd not been any later. Jenny would have been sorelydisappointed if I'd missed her big debut: about twenty minutes fromthe time I arrived in the lobby, she was scheduled to begin her firstpublic performance as a featured soloist—playing "Harold in Italy".If you don't know it, it's a fine piece of music, but it's not in thefrequently-performed repertoire, because it's sort of a half-fledgedconcerto for viola. Not the violin or the cello—the viola: underdogof all orchestral instruments.

My daughter Jenny wasn't always a violist. We started her out right onthe violin—something I considered a respectable instrument for a younglady. My ex-wife and I had faint hopes that someday she'd be a concertviolinist—Jenny was that good from the time she picked up her firstquarter-sized fiddle. We spent a fortune on expensive teachers, and assoon as she was ready, we started her on the long track: youthsymphony. But just after her fourteenth birthday, something happenedto her brain. I don't mean a pre-mature stroke or some kind of lesion.She came home one day with this hideous dreamy look in her eyes, andshe puttered around the kitchen nervously helping me cook. She wasn'ttalking very much.

I didn't want to probe, figuring she'd tell me what was on her mindwhen she was ready. "I have to go to Milan next month," I said, tryingto be cheerful.

She was tearing lettuce leaves into microscopic fragments, and shelooked up. "Will you see Grandma?"

Jenny meant my mother—fountainhead of all family quirks. As abright-eyed Italian girl of seventeen she married her Americansweetheart and came to the States. It turned out to be a terriblemarriage, and years later, after dutifully raising four kids, shedivorced my father, American style, and went home to the Old Country.Jenny had only met her a few times, but when they did meet you couldn'tpry them apart.

"Uh-huh. I thought I might take you along, if you can stand it," Iteased. I pulled the salad bowl away from her and tossed in the tomatoI had been cutting. "We'll leave the day before spring-break."

She brightened a bit at that, and with a very limp wrist, laid a wholeleaf of lettuce on top of the chopped tomato. "Can we stop in Vienna?"

"Oh, I don't know, Jenny... Maybe for a day or two."

She put on a weak smile. "Can we go to the opera?" she asked softly.Jenny's enthusiasm for opera was phenomenal. She must have inheritedthat from my mother, too—I always thought half the reason she wentback to Milan was because they did too many German operas in SanFrancisco.

"Only if you can drag Grandma along." I picked up the salad and twobowls, then waltzed away toward the dining room.

Over dinner she made her momentous announcement. I had just put a bigbite of steak into my mouth and was chewing thoughtfully. I evenrecall we were listening to something by Prokofiev.

"Daddy, I'm going to switch," she said quickly with an air ofnon-chalance.

I paused, finished chewing, and then fell right into the pit. "That'sfine, honey..." Another pause. She wasn't looking right at me, and Ileaned over to try to catch her eye. "You're going to switch what?"

She stabbed at her steak, fork delicately held in her left hand justlike we'd taught her all her life. "To viola." She slid a small pieceof steak into her mouth and started chewing.

I gagged, and put down my fork, but she kept on chattering with hermouth full, trying to convince me before I could even voice thebeginning of an objection. Finally she appealed to my conceit. "Youwant me to be a great musician, right Daddy?"

I tried to agree that had been our hope, but I was still trying tocatch my breath.

"Well, I'm sitting third-desk right now. Do you know what that_means_?" she whined. "I'll never get anywhere in a concert career.You have to sit first-desk—or be the concert mistress."

I coughed a couple more times. "But you're doing fine," I insisted."You're the best."

She gave me her old half-frown, pulling down one side of her mouth andscrewing up her eyes, then rolling them away toward the ceiling."Daddy," she said, "I'm not the best. Mary is the best." She pushedanother piece of steak onto her fork. "I'm sitting third desk withDeadpan Wang." She got that dreamy look again, and balanced her forkon two fingers. "But if I switch to viola—they're always in greaterdemand you know, because fewer people play viola, Daddy—I could besitting first desk."

"Look," I told her, "you've already won a couple of competitions, areyou going to throw all that effort away, and take up... the _viola_?"I actually gulped.

"_You_ might call it winning," she shot back, "but I've never takenbetter than second place."

"What about the cello?"

"Daddy," she whined again, putting down her knife and picking up hermilk. "The technique is too different—you should have started me oncello ten years ago."

"Does your mother know about this?"

She twirled her fork among her green beans and wouldn't meet my eyes."No." She looked up with knotted eyebrows. "She doesn't care."

"Jenny, she does too..." I let that trail off lamely and we ate insilence for a while.

Now, I had nothing particular against the viola, as an instrument.Frankly speaking, I've known a couple of violists prettyintimately—and I've always found violists to be warm and tenderpeople. Much less high-strung, so to speak, than violinists. Notquite as passionate as cellists. But I would hardly have consideredthe viola to be a prestigious solo instrument. How many famousviolists can you name? How many great viola concertos? "Therepertoire is too limited," I said, speaking what was on my mind. Thisfact did not deter her determination.

"Mr. Rossi thinks I'd make a great violist," she replied. There wasthat look again, right in her light brown eyes. Just like her mother.

I had a sudden insight: my teenage daughter had a crush on theconductor. He needed a violist, and apparently he was astute enough totake advantage of a young girl's infatuation to get one. Maybe I'dhave a word about cradle robbing with Mr. Rossi. Well, no that was abit much, I decided. Jenny would have given me the silent treatmentfor a week. I'd have to stay calm. I told her to think about it for awhile, and after a couple weeks, if she still wanted to descend tobeing a violist, we'd see.

Half an hour later, while I did the dishes, she was on the phone tosomeone, and jabbered away for a couple of hours to her friends whileshe dragged the phone all over the living room. I decided again I'dhave to join the modern age and get a cordless phone. She probably wasabout ready for her own private line. I thought maybe I ought to makeher pay for it, too.

Jenny worked her way up to first desk within a year of taking up herbeloved viola, and despite myself I was beginning to be slightly proudof her. She really was in higher demand, and was constantly soinvolved with chamber ensembles, youth symphony, flitting here andthere, that a lot of her schoolwork was suffering noticeably. Hergrade-point average dropped until she was barely maintaining a "B". Wehad a little talk about that, and decided mutually (or at least I liketo think it was mutual) that she needed to pull it up, or I'd pull theplug on all her extra-curricular activities.

So there I was, three years later, pacing the lobby, waiting. I heardapplause in the auditorium, so I snuck in the door. The hall waspacked solid. At least it seemed packed solid for a moment. I found apretty lousy seat near the back and plopped myself down while I lookedaround for something closer. I spotted an aisle seat near the middle,so I moved down and slid into it. I need not have rushed—it wasintermission, so I sat there for ten minutes contemplating. Soon, theorchestra filed back in and the audience bustled around to reclaimtheir seats. The conductor, the notorious Mr. Rossi, re-appeared onstage, and the orchestra stood for him. I waited through the nexttorturous work on the menu, hoping it would be over quickly. When itended, I clapped a couple of times and hoped the rest of the audiencedidn't go wild.

When the applause died out, I found I was holding my breath. Then,Jenny appeared in the wings, and strolled forward, her instrumentdangling easily from one hand. I could see her scan the crowd andsmile—she was really just looking for me. I felt like waving, butthat would have been gauche, so I kept my hands to myself. There shewas, her black skirt billowing from a waist and hips that resembled hermother's gorgeous figure more each time I noticed it. Her starchedwhite blouse almost crackled. She had spent half an hour fussing overit with the iron, then spent another half an hour getting every speckof lint off her silk skirt. I noticed that her shoe-laces were untied,as usual, and broke out in a smile. At that instant, she tripped overthe foot of a music stand—an intense foreboding chill shot through myspine and flashed along every nerve in my body when I saw her sailingheadlong toward the floor. A gasp went up from the crowd, and theapplause stopped immediately.

Her reflexes, I must admit, were those of a well-bred cat, and herinstinct for self-preservation must never have been stronger: herviola never hit the floor. The conductor, wheeling around when heheard the clattering sound, stepped from his podium to assist her instanding again. One of the violinists, whose improperly placed musicstand had done the damage, put down his violin to pick up the debris.The conductor had a few words with Jenny, and then he escorted her offthe stage. She limped, and would put no weight on one leg. Rossi'sarm seemed to be practically fondling her chest and I felt a surge offatherly irritation. I was already on my feet when they started off,and was trotting down the aisle toward the front of the auditorium.

"I'm her father," I shouted at the old ladies who tried to stop me fromascending the side stairs. By then, some numbskull appeared from thewings to make an announcement that there would be a slight delay, andask the audience to please wait a few moments. "Tell 'em a few jokes,"I suggested as I dashed past. I didn't wait to hear what he said next,but ran into the back, looking for the green room. I was certainthat's where she would have gone. I hoped they had a doctor handy.

In another minute or two, I was with Jenny and the infamous Mr. Rossi,who had his arm around her waist and was consoling her in oilywhispers. She sat with her priceless viola set across her lap—well,it was priceless enough to me, as I couldn't afford to buy another onelike it even if I sold both of my cars. Her bow had been snapped intwo and was draped across the viola, two pieces of splintered wooddangling from white horsehair. She wept into the palm of one hand.

"Darling, are you OK?" I asked, rushing up to her. Mr. Rossi wiselyremoved his roaming hand and stood back a few steps.

"I think I just sprained my ankle," she replied, but that was not theuppermost thing on her mind. "Oh, Daddy—look at my bow!"

"Hey, we can get a new one," I told her, lifting it up. "I saw the wayyou saved your viola," I said, trying to sound cheerful. "It was agreat maneuver!"

She didn't smile. "But... how am I going to _play_?"

I turned to Mr. Rossi. "Look, I'll take her to see a doctor, and..."

"NO!" Jenny screamed. "I have to go on! There are people waiting outthere!"

"Honey," I replied, "you have to see a doctor right away."

"Daddy—people paid _money_ to see me play tonight..." She startedcrying again. "If I don't go on I'll be humiliated forever!"

Under his breath, Rossi was making ecstatic noises in a thick, andquite ineffable, European accent. He sounded like a bad Italian winewith a French label—bottled in Austria and shipped via theTrans-Siberian Railway to Alaska where it was smuggled south on aCanadian ship. "She eez a true artiste..."

Try as I might, I could not convince her to come away with me. She wasstubborn in that way—more stubborn than her mother had ever been. Mr.Rossi was no help at all in the matter either: he seemed to agree withher!

"But you can't stand up," I added, still trying to convince her.

"I'll sit," she replied curtly. Her tears had all dried up by then.

"Oh yais, eets no problaim," Mr. Rossi interjected, "we'll seemply yoosainuther baow." I shot him a look that shut him up immediately.

Jenny insisted on performing. She always carried another bow, and nowthe wisdom of that practice was proven. Unfortunately, it would haveto suffice, though she had repeatedly decried it as being "quite aninferior stick" for playing anything serious. She got her elitism fromher mother, too.

Mr. Rossi clapped his hands, entirely relieved. "Ah, but ZEES awdienseweel nevair hear souch subtle deefferense!" I knew what he meanttoo—the auditorium was filled with hundreds of glassy eyed parents,siblings, and tiny tots; half of them probably could not even spell"viola". Mr. Rossi practically pranced away—off to see the numbskulland make another announcement: the soloist was unharmed; the show wouldgo on.

Jenny had only one further thought: she'd had enough time to stopshaking, but she was so unnerved by the experience that she decided shecould never trust herself to play from memory. "I really must have thescore, Daddy. I should."

The ladies of the green room were bustling around, trying to fawn overher, but keeping a respectful distance from her father, whom theycorrectly perceived to be an ape in a touchy mood. Oh, yes, they allagreed whole-heartedly that it would be no disgrace at all. Plenty ofsoloists had played before with the music in front of them. Andconsidering the state of her nerves, the audience would be sorelieved—and honored—to have her play at all, that they would forgivethe minor irregularity of playing from the music. By all means, shemust have the score.

Reluctantly, I finally gave in and knelt down to tie her shoe-laces.She could not stand unassisted—we tried a few experimental steps andshe collapsed immediately under her own weight. One of the ladiesproduced an ace bandage, so we tied up her ankle, which had swollen somuch it looked like a baked yam. A chair was taken onto the stage forher to sit. And of course, since she would be playing from the score,she needed a page turner.

It was the hand of fate: I knew the music, and I was wearing a blacksuit. "Honey—I'll turn the pages," I offered boldly before anyoneelse could volunteer. "Just like we used to do."

She gave me that little-girl smile—I'd hardly seen it in ten years,but it made me feel like a real father again. "Oh, Daddy, would you?"

"Come on," I said, putting my arm around her. "I'll escort my princessto her throne." She laughed, and we left the green room with herlimping along beside me.

Now, I'm not much of a theatre person. I never attend plays, and thelast time I was on stage I was in the third grade. By the time wereached the wings, I knew my face had already turned the color of aripe tomato and I was sweating. I should have let one of the bustlingladies turn pages for her. How I could face an audience, I had noidea. I concentrated on keeping my daughter's weight off her sprainedankle.

As we sat down, I had a brief moment to look out and feel terrified.The auditorium was dark, so I could only see the first few rows. And Icould sense the breathing masses beyond the lights, hoveringexpectantly in the shadows, ready to slash me to ribbons. A hot windwas blowing in over the bobbing heads in the front; their forkedtongues wagged angrily as they coiled slowly. I could almost see thesand whipping across the dunes. They were pretty damp dunes, though,since it was a rainy night. I could feel the intense humidity in thebreeze. The conductor gave a nod, with a broad smile in our direction,and the orchestra struck up with the soft introduction.

I panicked at first, shooting my eyes across the page of music, tryingto remember what I was supposed to be doing. Where was the first pageturn? I couldn't even remember how to read the little black dots. Thepage took on the look of an obscure foreign document splayed out acrossthe music stand, filled with incomprehensible ink blots. It was aRorschach test for the incurably insane. The whole scene was backed bythe restless, peering faces of the audience. I closed my eyes briefly,trying to calm myself. I snapped them open immediately, however. If Ihad my eyes closed, I would miss Jenny's signal. If that happened, Iknew all would be lost for certain. I'd be laughed off the stage, andshe would be ruined before she had even begun.

Only an eccentric maniac like Rossi the Terrible would have picked"Harold in Italy" for the finale of a Christmas concert. It's notseasonal in the least—what was wrong with something seasonal thatdidn't require a viola solo? But I guess, the orchestra was ready,Jenny was ready—maybe under his mop of stringy and vaguely Europeanhair he thought it would be an exquisitely quirky touch to perform itfor Christmas instead of waiting until spring.

The first few page turns passed without incident, and my heart-ratesteadily decreased toward normal. She nodded knowingly at just theright instants, and I managed to turn the pages without spillingeverything all over the floor or uttering a primal scream. After that,each page turn became easier, and I found that by the time we were wellinto the piece, I was breathing again, and I could follow the score. Ibegan to get cocky too, and took a few glances at the audience out ofthe corner of my eye. I could feel the rapture, starting up out theresomewhere like a wisp of cool air. She was playing beautifully,passionately. Mr. Rossi was conducting as brilliantly as he could—atleast his expansive gesticulations looked fervent. I had heard thepiece so many times—the solo passages anyway—that I knew it by heart.But hearing it then, pouring from Jenny's viola backed by theshimmering of Berlioz' orchestration, it took on a sublime quality thatI had completely forgotten. It had been a long time since I had reallylistened to "Harold in Italy", and all the old memories started to comeback.

The second movement has a quality like a caravan painted in broad,colorful strokes. It starts out very softly, and builds up as thecaravan approaches, passes by the listener, and then eventually recedesinto the distance. It's a striking section, and personally I thinkit's the best part of the whole work. By that time, I was alert again,and was trying to gauge the audience reaction. I had started torecognize individual faces, and remember where they were—I had beenturning pages for more than fifteen minutes. I kept track of wherepeople were looking, whether they folded their hands, how they tiltedtheir heads at certain points. I didn't hear a lot of coughing andshuffling either. As my eyes grew accustomed to looking at them, Icould see further, beyond the first few rows. They really were—Isuppose a Victorian might have said "transported"—by the music. Iflipped the page again at Jenny's nod.

I had noticed previously one rather large woman near the front row.She was all dressed up with several long strings of pearls and a longdress of medium golden-brown shades with lacy white frills and a highcollar. She had pale, white skin, and her brunette hair was tied up ina hideous bun and topped with a white flower. The whole outfit madeher look like an overdressed turkey dinner with all the trimmings andthose little white caps on the drumsticks. She seemed for a long whileto be even more "transported" than anyone else. I could see the rougeon her cheeks; her lips were parted and she bent forward. The nexttime I chanced to look her way, near the end of the second movement,she was crying into her handkerchief.

At that moment, as the caravan was fading into the distance, I had akind of revelation that I'll never forget. This is what it's allabout, really, I told myself. This is Jenny's life, and the kind ofemotions she can evoke in an audience are her special gift. Maybe Ihad never really come to terms with the direction she had chosen. Istarted to feel tingly and blurry eyed. If she, with her playing,could bring tears to even one large woman in a worse-than-averageaudience, she must also be bringing joy to another, and at least somefeeling to someone else; maybe everyone else. If she really wanted todo that with a viola instead of a violin—bringing a new kind of lifeto a little regarded solo instrument—I felt I could finally accept it.Somehow, over the past three years, my opposition to her taking up theviola had completely blinded me to the fact that she was actuallysucceeding. It felt like her destiny beginning to unfold. I wassitting on stage with my seventeen year-old daughter, actuallyparticipating in her debut as a soloist. How many fathers have thatopportunity, I wondered. I felt a growing sense of privilege attendingthe event, and I was elated by the time the third movement was over.Jenny would fly away from me, of course, into some concert career,climbing ever higher—the inevitable result of a child growing into anindependent woman with a great art to unleash on the world. Whethershe ever became a famous soloist or not, I thought at that moment, wasirrelevant. It was really the ambience that she lived for; not onlythe brief moments of performing, but also the people around her—thefriends with whom she played and passed her time, the practicing, thededication; even Mr. Rossi, whether I really liked him or not. I couldhardly keep tears out of my eyes long enough to turn pages through theend of the fourth movement.

When the music finished and the last blast faded into the walls, therewas fully ten seconds of absolute silence in the auditorium. Whathappened to all the tiny tots? I almost wondered if the audience hadgone to sleep! The applause began from the front—the large woman heldher handkerchief between two fat fingers, and was applauding wildly,ecstatically, leading the crowd. I had never seen such fervor in aspectator. She was shaking her head, back and forth—I could see thetears glistening on her cheeks—she threw kisses. In an instant, theapplause grew to a tremendous roar that crashed against the front ofthe stage... and then the audience, en masse, were on their feet. Icould almost not believe it—a standing ovation for "Harold in Italy"?No, it was all for Jenny.

The reception afterwards was gorgeous. I stood back, still hoveringclose to Jenny while she took the greetings of her friends and randommembers of the audience, including the large woman with thehandkerchief. I sipped a California white wine that was far too youngand sassy, and let her bask for nearly an hour. She still could notstand up, of course, so they had brought her a padded chair fromsomewhere, and she sat straight-backed like a little monarch, with abig bouquet of pink roses nestled in the crook of one arm, nodding andsmiling. The other hand was perpetually extended to receive otherhands—and on a few occasions to receive a kiss from some lecherousold geezer.

It ended all too soon for Jenny, I could see. But when I glanced ather face as the last of the stragglers were leaving the room, I couldtell she was dead tired. The pain in her ankle could not be masked anylonger either. She winced and stretched out her legs when I approached.

"Daddy, let's stop by the hospital on the way home, OK? Just to makesure it's not broken or anything."

I laughed. "Sure thing, Jenny." She had always been small, like hermother, and had never grown too big to carry. I lifted her up, andholding her viola case in one hand, carried her out to the parking lot.The rain had stopped, and half the clouds had dispersed. The moon litup the remaining clouds like big silver scoops over the far hills—anda few stars twinkled overhead in the cold air.

I whirled around, and around as I walked. "Let's see," I kept saying,"was it this way?" And I would whirl her one way. "Or was it thatway?" She was in giggles, with her arms clasped behind my neck.

We found the car—I knew where it was all along, but I was having fun.When we reached the car, I set her down on her feet for a moment tofish my keys out of my pocket. Meanwhile, I handed her the viola case,and she took it absently. She turned around then, and seeing the frontof the car for the first time, burst out in a squeal. "What the hellhappened to your car?" She limped to follow me to the door.

"Little mishap on the freeway," I replied, unlocking the passengerdoor. Her eyes went from the front grill back along the side of thecar. I couldn't help smiling when her eyes stopped at the trunk. Itwas half open, with big sprigs of fir tree bulging out all over.

"Oh, Daddy..." she whispered, clutching my shoulder. I heard that warmtone come back into her voice and she embraced me. "You said weweren't going to have a tree this year..."

"Changed my mind, honey," I replied. "Besides—it was too cheap topass up." I grabbed her viola case out of her hand. "Got it from mahol' frenn CJ," I drawled.

She looked at me like I was made of goat cheese. "What?"

"Get in, I'll tell you about it on the way," I answered, holding thedoor for her. "Poor thing had an accident on the freeway, but it ain'tnothin' a little amputation won't fix."

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