Building materials in Ali's city told a story. Mosques and churches were always made of limestone, so were some old stock Arab homes; the old city hall was coralstone; new money bought multistoreys of patterned concrete block; a good brick house, like the one Ali's family owned, was admirable; if you were poor you built with mud; but wood was filth. Wood didn't come from Ali's city on the coast, it came from the rural interior. That hot, humid, thicketed place of red dirt cow paths. It smelled. It stained with the sweat of unskilled labour. It splintered. It bloated. It was fastened together, pulled apart, had to be fastened together again. It rotted. It burned. "Whole bloody house went up." Ali's father said, shaking his head, looking over from behind a newspaper, glasses on the tip of his nose "Camphorwood. Treated and all. What to say. Four dead. Mother and three children."

The floors were never level, you could not sit on those floors, walk on them barefoot and be hobbled by blisters. Wood rotted. You could touch a wall one day and it could feel soft, and you would lean on it and fall through it. Where planks louvered the wind and wet came in, dust followed, insects arrived. Where planks parted you could see the sin of brothels and taverns: the wretched in their rags, bare, scarred backs, turbaned heads of matted hair, babies with swollen bellies playing with dry leaves on wooden floors, exposed breasts, sagging and flat, sinew and loose fat and hair, fine in places, coarse in others, a hole in the floor, a flickering lightbulb. You could hear children bawling, grunting of pleasure and pain, sickly moaning, the bereaved, the downtrodden. And where Drajani street met Market lane, you could hear a trumpet.

Ali had known no other jazz club. Gaulter's was made of four uneven wooden walls that louvred horizontally. There was sawdust on the floors. Gaulter would sweep it out of those louvres, and wind would bring it back in. Rodents navigated those spaces. So did the club's tomcat: a svelte, piebald thing with a stripe running down its back. There was a roof of galvanized steel that sat askew on those walls. It dented in places and had holes, where the rain came in. With wind, the roof rattled. The drumming of rain on that roof drowned out music. A mango tree canopied that roof and when fruit fell, it startled, rattled, and rolled. Even during the day, the club was dusky, dull, and ochre. There was one high cutout window on the right wall, facing north east. Men smoked under it, as Gaulter preferred. It grew hot in the afternoon. A portable fan was plugged into an extension cable and faced the stage, where it fluttered a calendar of red and black lettering on beige-grey paper, nailed on the far wall. The floor tilted down, towards the stage.That stage was made of apple crates, stacked two high. There were no steps. "Stepladder there." Gaulter would point with his pinky, whenever someone complained. At night, Gaulter lit oil lamps at the foot of the stage. "Watch that fire, boy." he'd say, lighting a cigarette with the flame. A trombone player's flared trousers once caught.

Gaulter's sounded better at night. Percussion over soft chatter, horns fighting insect buzz. White dress shirts looked crisper at night, shoes shined brighter, flambeau-lit sweaty faces of closed eyes and pursed lips and arched eyebrows looked painted in oil. But Ali had missed last night. He arrived for the next day's matinee.

Gualter sat on a stool outside, the door ajar behind him. He was reading from a note book, rubbing his bald head with his free hand. 

"Ah!" he smiled. He closed the book and crossed his arms high on his chest. "Missed last night?"

Ali pulled his lips in and shook his head "Good show?"

"Full house."

Ali shook his head again and looked off and kicked at nothing.

"How is your dad?"

Ali shrugged. He held out money.

"Keep it." Gaulter got off his stool and held his book up. "Look over this with me after?"

"Sure."

There were three rows of folding chairs. In the back row, a red faced Australian named Don Chisholm smoked a cigar. He was talking to a girl and a small boy who sat in the second row. In the front row, nearest to the door, a man in a bowler hat and glasses did the crossword. He looked up and smiled at Ali and returned to his crossword.

"There he is!" Don Chisholm laughed.

Ali waved and moved speedily to the middle chair.

"Your seat is free today."

Ali sat down and nodded at the girl and the boy.

"This here is Ali."

"Hi." Ali said to the girl.

"Hi." 

Don coughed. "She's visiting."

"Just for the show." the girl said "This is my brother. Our dad plays trumpet."

Ali looked at the girl in dim daylight: she had downturned eyes, and a long nose. She smiled a toothy smile.

"With Umiliani?"

The girl nodded, still smiling. 

"What's your name?"

"Padma." She wore a gingham bow in her hair.

"I was just telling her you would be here." Don again "You wouldn't miss this, I was saying."

"I love Umiliani."

"He keeps a great beat, my father says."

"Where are you from?" the boy asked Don.

"Me?" Don blew a smoke ring "From a land down under." He did a jig in his chair and the boy laughed "From Tasmania."

The boy stood up quickly "Oh! Do you know the Tasmanian Tiger?"

Don threw his great head back and laughed. He set his face and looked at the boy "You're looking at him."

"Ha!" the man in the front row looked up from his crossword and turned around "Ha! Tiger. Fat tiger, maybe."

"You're a beaver, you..." Don remembered the child "You numpty."

"You're fat."

"Look at all the teeth in your mouth. You look like a beaver."

"Have you ever seen a beaver?"

"Have you?"

"Yes."

"Okay then." Don bit into his cigar. "I bet it's ugly." His eyes lit up "I bet she'd kiss a beaver over you." He laughed alone.

The man clicked his pen and returned to his crossword.

"Sorry." Don said to Padma.

"He's a necrophiliac."

"What?"

"You sleep whenever someone plays music."

"I'm a narcoleptic, you wombat."

"Yeah. Whatever." the man returned to his crossword again. 

"I have musical narcolepsy." Don scratched his chin. "I sleep when I hear music." 

Padma nodded.

The door opened and one man hoisted a stand up bass, another brought in cymbals. They clashed.

"I should go to the toilet." Padma said.

The boy stood up.

"It's just outside." Ali said.

Padma smiled. The boy held her hand and pulled her off her chair with some force. Upright, she put her arm around his shoulder. They moved together. She dragged her right foot.

Ali looked at Don, who raised his eyebrows in a flash.

Padma returned halfway through the first song, at the saxophone solo. Ali watched her. The man in the front row bobbed his head, his eyes closed. In the last row, Don Chisholm's eyes were closed too. His head fell back, his mouth was agape, and he snored. Padma's brother helped her sit and ran back to the front row. Ali moved over a seat to be close to her.

"Which one is your father?"

"The one with the glasses."

"He looks like a nice man." 

Padma smiled, said nothing, and closed her eyes. Just then, her father joined, the trumpet now dueting with the saxophone.

"You know." The words caught and Ali forced them out again "You know." They came out squeaky, louder than he wanted.

Shusssh. It was the man in the front row. Padma's brother turned with him and smiled.

Ali dipped his voice "When this is done, I can walk you to the beach."

Padma smiled, sweat on her brow and upper lip. "I'll be slow."

"Better for us to get to know each other."

"Will you shut up!" the man in the front row hissed.