gh stool and
plucked a few notes. The third man carried a clarinet, and standing in
the center, whipped his fingers through a few scales without making any
sound. They stole a few glances at each other--then broke
simultaneously into a molten jazz number, hot as a blast furnace.
Jurgen sat back slowly in his chair. The blazing tune crackled and
sparked, then settled into a long, burning ember; he could feel the
thin layer of ash building up around the coals until it gradually
settled into a warm mound of slow heat.

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

Her voice soon rose in a solo, weaving in and out of the clarinet's
melody. Flames rushed up to greet her voice--Jurgen felt the hairs
rising on the back of his neck and across his scalp. She sang without
words; low tones with all the plaintiveness of an English horn,
blending into the ensemble; and at times her voice rose like a
whispering flute and broke into autumn leaves, tumbling in a light
breeze--the fire crackled behind her.

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

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

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

The pianist lagged behind, following the others to the door, then
turned around and sat down at Jurgen's ta