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art enough to stay out late enough to hear them.
I'm sorry, all the seats are taken; there's hardly enough room to

stand. The muffled rumble of conversation is broken only by occa-

sional bursts of laughter or shouts.
Look! He's opening the piano. They still won't play for another

half hour. It's 12:25. Albert isn't here yet-we can't start without
Albert. Albert Mengelsdorf; he's the best trombone player in Ger-
many. Yeah ... smooth. You'd think he had valves. And there's

Hans Kohler-what a sax. Now they'll be starting.

The brushes swish over the traps and the syncopated cymbals
lightly add their touch to the easy beat; one, two, three, four; Moon-
light In Vermont-sounds just like Mulligan. It's sweet, and it swings;
louder, faster, slower, quieter, faster, slower, hour after hour; swinging.

The music swings and the crowd changes. The faces across the
table have changed three times. The table hoppers make the rounds.
Look, here I am; see me everyone? I'm Bohemian; I'm at the Cellar.
Aw, siddown, will ya? Too many of those guys everywhere.

What's that old man doing here? He looks happy, anyway-swing
it, Pops. Yeah, he likes it. There's a group of older people over
there. They're out on the town for their night of the year; can't miss

this place, I guess.
What's that? I'm sorry, I can't speak German. Can you speak

English? Oh, you are English. Good. No, they close at about four.
What are you, a tourist? A studerit? Exchange student; that's a nice
set-up. Do you like it here? Yes, I'd be glad to; how do you do? Nor-
wegian? I met a fellow the other day, student at the University of
Copenhagen-Per Jacobsen. Well, I just thought you might know ...

Plenty of room to sit down now. That piano is nice. Could be
Garner. The rest have gone home, I guess; we can breathe in here

now; not so crowded. It's better on the week-nights.

The standbys are at the bar talking music, or politics, or painting,
or literature; or philosophizing with Johann, the bartender. The tapes
play Ellington. It's dark, quiet. The indirect lighting is cast upward
along the aging central pillar, accentuating only the crudeness of the
Gothic arch it seems to present. Brubeck swings through the dark
vaulted ceilings that give an almost church-like atmosphere, comple-
mented by the hushed patrons sitting in small groups around the bare
wooden tables, conversing in whispers, or simply thinking alone.
Johann wipes the tables and sweeps the floor, and in the background,

Chet Baker plays with strings. ... ,. .'

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