by Robin Ray
CHAPTER 31
Tony’s heart sped up as he wondered what Painters Heaven would look like. Just the idea of throwing back a few with Leonardo DaVinci or MC Escher made him swoon; not that he was a painter himself, but just the idea of running into these legends could definitely top the ‘Guess What I Did Last Summer’ trope. When he exited from the transfer room there, it felt like only three seconds had passed. This waiting room, he noticed, was much higher tech than the one he’d just left. Instead of shimmering chandeliers, the lighting in the suite emanated from symmetrically-placed, plate-sized elements from the ceiling. In addition to holographic TV’s, there were life-sized holograms of people, speaking to individuals standing in front of them, scattered throughout the winding lobby. To the young detective’s surprise, legless tables, couches, chairs and other bits of wooden furniture, half of which were occupied, floated off the wood and marble floor. Disbelieving what his eyes were telling him, he approached an unoccupied table and crouched under it, emerging on the opposite side stunned beyond belief.
“How is…?” he started asking his friend.
“Don’t ask,” Eddie interrupted him. “You’ll just give yourself a permanent migraine. If you think the angels will let you in on their matter manipulation secrets, think again. Ain’t gonna happen.”
As ultra-modernistic as the transfer suite was, Tony did take note of the fact that the designers went out of their way in making sure it wouldn’t be too futuristic and disorienting by installing classically traditional items such as potted plants, brick walls and figurative stone fountains throughout the lobby.
“How are you doing?” Eddie asked his friend as they strolled by the floating semi-circular concierge’s desk and headed for the exit.
“Wake me up when this dream is over,” he answered.
“Wait till you see what it looks like outside,” Eddie said devilishly.
Tony gulped. “I’m not sure I want to know.”
The young detective need not worry because, when they exited the one-story building, everything seemed low tech. Very, very low tech, as in Milan, circa 1480 low tech. It was drizzling out, but not so hard that immediate shelter was required. People were milling about here and there, some riding bicycles or electric scooters, and none seeming to mind the small puddles being created on the stone-paved ground.
Architecture-wise, gone were the earth-toned houses from Rock & Roll Heaven. This city looked like it had been modded for a Renaissance festival but someone forgot to bring it up to date. All around were gothic and Romanesque cathedrals encircling a massive piazza. Just for good measure, the powers that be in Painters found the passionate grace in their hearts to create prime examples of 14th century art such as life-sized alabaster sculptures of Medieval saints and Roman emperors in columns, abbeys and frescoes as far as the eye could see. Like the other heavens, the main mode of transport here was also a trolley, albeit one that looked like Michelangelo himself carved it out of Red Verona marble with its stylized lion and dragon reliefs adorning its chassis. At least the cobble stone roads, intermittent palms, ornate street lamps and soft gray sky seemed familiar enough so as not to cause Tony to feel too homesick. The citizens ambling about in their loose robes and slippers gave the appearance that theirs was a world of utter peace and tranquility. Those other guys staggering around drunk or fast asleep in the moist piazza, Tony thought, were probably the types the 3D folks castigated.
“Did one architect design this city?” the young PI asked his friend as they surveyed the surroundings.
“Why do you say that?” Eddie asked.
“I don’t know,” the novice detective said. “The feel here is kinda homogenous, like one person built it. You ever saw that episode of Star Trek where the Greek god captured the Enterprise?”
“You mean Apollo?”
Tony shrugged. “I guess, but I’m not too sure.”
“To answer your question, “Eddie explained, “I’d say they went for a Medieval-Renaissance motif. And that would make sense, no doubt, to appease some of the famous artists living here.”
“Who lives here?” Tony asked, turning to his friend.
“Manet, Monet, van Gogh, Escher, Picasso, Dali, Rockwell, many, many others,” Eddie responded. “Most, if not all, of the older legends like Michelangelo, DaVinci, Titian, Rembrandt, Donatello and Raphael may have already graduated to the upper heavens.”
Tony’s eyes lit up in agony. “They did? Dammit!”
“What’s the matter?” Eddie asked.
“Eh,” the young D pouted, “I was hoping to get art lessons from Rembrandt or DaVinci.”
“Maybe in the next heaven,” Eddie guessed. “At least all those guys kept on painting for years after coming up here. You should see the Rembrandt museum. Pretty impressive. Too bad all this new stuff could never be exhibited in the Louvre, though. C’est la guerre.”
“You want to get something to eat?” Tony asked, rubbing his grumbling belly.
“Yeah,” Eddie answered. “You’ll like these restaurants, too. Their well-known focus is on Medieval dining.”
“What’s that?” the PI joked. “If you don’t pay the bill for your brontosaurus burger you get beheaded or thrown in a dungeon?”
“You know,” Eddie mused, brushing aside his friend’s lackadaisical comment, “I’ve always wondered if the Middle Ages was really like that – burnings at the stake every day, torture and castrations at every turn…could be exaggerated.”
“I know, right?” Tony wondered. “Can you imagine living in a world where everything is like Witchfinder General?”
“What’s that?”
“Some medieval movie with Vincent Price,” the young detective replied. “The director died when he was 25…overdosed. The flick’s gory as hell. Had to be censored a lot. Speaking of gory, let’s go get fed.”
“If gore makes you hungry,” Eddie moaned, “I feel sorry for your kids.”
Minutes later, the boys had chosen Midgard Inn near the piazza to quench their thirst and satiate their hunger, but not necessarily in that order. Entering the spacious restaurant, they immediately noticed that, instead of individual private tables, everyone had to dine at the huge, ornately legged, beautifully carved, rectangular maple table in the middle of the inn which looked like it could easily seat 40 people. Approximately 30 people were already dining there, some quietly drinking their soups, others making so much noise they had to be told by their companions to simmer down frequently. As was expected, the dinnerware around the table was made from brass, but not the large bowls containing bread and fruit. Those were bamboo baskets. To the right of the table was the kitchen where six chefs worked preparing the fixings. Not to be forgotten was the healthy collection of original art displayed in modern and Classical frames along each wall. And, to the left, next to the stained-glass windows, a quartet of musicians was playing Renaissance tunes utilizing a lute, flute, violin, and tambor drum. A male and female couple in their 30’s, attired as Robin Hood and Maid Marian, was in front of the group dancing to their music. A server holding a brass pitcher of wine, noticing Eddie and Tony had entered, strolled over to them.
“Welcome, gentlemen,” the closely-cropped server said. “I’m Filippo, your host. You may have a seat anywhere.”
“Thanks,” the visitors nodded, then went and sat themselves on the left side of the table between two men so large they could easily pass as axe-wielding executioners.
“Excuse me,” Tony asked, interrupting the black-bearded man on his left who was busy chatting up a woman clearly half his age, “is everyone in here an artist?”
“Voisitko toistaa, kiitos?” the burly man turned to him and asked in return.
“I don’t understand you,” the PI admitted.
“He only speaks Finnish,” the man on Eddie’s right informed the young investigator. “That’s Vilho Lampi from Oulu, Finland.”
Tony turned to Vilho and waved hi; the Finnish returned the wave.
“Just got into town, did ye?” t
he man next to Eddie asked the boys.
“Yes,” the Cumby’s clerk answered. “I’m Eddie. My friend here is Tony. We’re from Rock & Roll Heaven. Pleased to meet you.”
The stranger offered them his hand. “I’m Stanhope Forbes from Dublin, Ireland, the Emerald Isle,” he exhorted proudly.
“Sweet,” Tony nodded. “I’m from the Emerald City.”
“Where’s that?” the Irish artist asked.
“Seattle, Washington,” the PI-in-training replied.
“Mind you,” Stanhope said, thrusting out his chest and banging on it like King Kong, “I never used to be this fairsing…large. Neither did me boyo, Vilho. We became gluttons; probably gonna be stuck on this level forever.” Picking up the chalice in front of him, he took a big swig of the red wine therein. Filippo came over with a white towel draped over his left forearm and a stein of water and filled the brass grails in front of all three men.
“Have you decided yet?” he asked the visitors.
“We never got menus,” Tony replied.
“Everyone gets the same dish,” the waiter informed him. “The difference is small, medium or large portions.”
“Of what?” the PI asked.
“Pottage,” Filippo told him.
“What’s pottage?”
“Mixed vegetables in a broth with herbs and spices,” he answered.
“What does the small portion look like?” Tony asked.
Filippo, quickly looking around the table, saw a near-empty brass punch bowl a few chairs down, retrieved it and brought it back to the curious visitor. “This is a small,” he said.
Tony’s eyes widened so large he resembled a lemur from Madagascar. “This is small?”
“Uh, huh,” the server nodded.
“No wonder people turn into giants here,” the shocked PI blurted. “I could feed a family of six with that.”
“We’ll just take a small and share it between us,” Eddie told Filippo. “And a flagon of mead.”
“There is no true mead here,” the waiter warned them. “Mead’s made with honey which exists nowhere because Heaven has no bees.”
“…Heaven has no bees,” Eddie stated at exactly the same time Filippo did.
“We use light corn syrup,” the waiter informed them. “The taste is very similar.”
“One flagon then,” Eddie requested.
“Certainly,” the server said then exited for the nourishment.
The blond guitarist retrieved the piece of paper Kilmister had given to him at the beach and handed it to Stanhope. “Do you know this guy?” he asked the Irishman.
Stanhope read it. “Masaccio, 221 Ordinance Road.” He turned to Eddie. “Masaccio’s one of the early Renaissance painters. He would’ve went to Level II by now.”
“Really?” the clerk asked, taking his paper back. “Lemmy Kilmister just gave this address to me this week. He said he was here.”
“Maybe,” Stanhope said, “but that would mean he’d be in the same town for about 600 years. Pretty long time, don’t you think so, mate?”
“I guess,” Eddie answered, dejected.
“I do know where the place is, though,” the Irishman said. “When you leave here, just follow the tracks east for…” He started counting numbers on his fingers, but using sequential letters instead of numbers. “…A, C, E, G, I, K, M, O…1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8…eight blocks. It’s easy to find. This piazza is in the middle of Caprese…”
“Caprese?” Tony asked Stanhope. “Is that the name of this town?”
“Aye,” the Irishman answered. “The roads east of here are “odd” letters, if you will – A, C, E and so on. The west side are all even, beginning with B. Blandus, Dominance, Flavia and all the rest. Just go down Main Street. Easy as pie.”
“Thanks, Stanhope,” Eddie commented, pocketing the address paper. Just as he did, Filippo and another waiter arrived – Filippo carrying the punch bowl of steaming pottage with a wooden ladle in it, and the young woman wearing a green dirndl behind him toting the flagon of corn syrup mead and stone mugs on an oval bamboo platter.
“Enjoy,” the waiter said after the food and drinks were dropped off.
Tony eyed the huge bowl. “My goodness,” he remarked. “Look at all this food. This could last me a week.”
“Less talking, more slurping, that’s what I say,” Eddie stated, smiling as he ladled out some of the hot Medieval soup into his bowl for, hopefully, his first helping.
“Have you fellas toured the flax fields yet?” Stanhope asked them.
“No,” Tony replied. “What is it with flax anyway? Over in R&R they use it a lot.”
The Irishman looked surprised. “So do we. All the heavens do. We just happen to have one of the biggest, maybe the largest flax field.”
“Why is that?” the budding detective inquired.
“You’re in Painters Heaven, me lad,” Stanhope said. “Flax oil in the ochre dyes is what makes the paints stick. Oil painting is standard here, as you can see,” he boasted, motioning to the enviable walls of art. “We also need something to paint on, so flax leaves are milled into fibers for cloth, paper and canvas. And since ochre stones are mainly browns, reds and yellows, we get the blues from the flax flowers, which is sometimes added to irises and orchids for different shades. The husks are valuable, too. I’m sure you’ve already discovered that in personal products, but some artists like to fine-crush ‘em and add it to their paints so they will achieve additional texture. Mainly, the people doing that are the abstract and surrealist artists like Joan Miro and Max Ernst. Of course, there’d be no painting if we can’t see what we’re doing so…” he reached for one of the candles burning in a glass jar and placed it front of the slurping duo, “…flax wax candle.” He then knocked on the polished table. “This wood was stained and preserved with flax oil, too.”
“Nice,” Tony said. Laying his spoon down, he picked up the cream-colored candle and sniffed it. “Mmm,” he mumbled, “Fragrant aroma. I didn’t think flax would smell like this.”
“Not by itself,” the Irish painter told him. “The chandlers flavor the wax with different things – fir needles, tangerine, pine oil, lavender, chamomile…this you’re smelling is patchouli.”
“Chandlers would be candle makers?” Eddie asked him.
“Aye,” Stanhope answered. “And therein lies the rub. When the sculptors left, that included the architects, masons and chandlers. There’s still a generous store of candles in the city, so we’re fortunate that way. Some of us tried our hand at chandling, but of course, weren’t as good as the master craftsmen.”
“It’s odd there’d be so much animosity between the painters and sculptors,” Tony mused.
“Of course,” Stanhope barked. “They thought they were too good to do the dirty work; you know, working in the ochre mines, harvesting plants, churning the dyes, retting flax fibers in the ponds and marshes…wish we could’ve worked it out, though. We relied on them for practical things – candlelight, pots, pans, dishes, glassware, food baskets, chairs, tables and beds, the architecture you see around you, many different things. Did you see those lamps outside?”
“Yes,” the boys nodded.
“The sculptors designed all of them,” the Irishman explained, “but we were taxed with their maintenance. I think we did a good job of lighting them every dusk, but when a sculptor had to do that work to earn credits, he often neglected his duties and we got blamed for keeping the city unlit. They claim that, since we were link boys, street lighting was also our duty.”
“What’s a link boy?” Eddie asked.
“Torch boy,” Stanhope replied. “We lit the way for others to follow when it was dark. The torches were made from flax fibers, you see – our stock in trade.”
“What does link mean?” Tony asked.
“That’s what they call the wick in the torch,” the Irishman elucidated.
The young PI glanced up and down the table. “Are there any famous artists in here right now?” he asked
his new pal from Éire.
“Probably not,” Stanhope answered, drinking some of his wine. “Midgard Inn is really a tourist destination. There are smaller bistros around the city the artists prefer. They’re quieter and out of the way.” Then, glancing up and down the table himself, he saw a few people he recognized. “You’re in luck,” he told the budding detective. “See there?” he said, pointing to two men conversing with each other down at the far end to the right. “That’s Paul Cézanne and Claude Monet; funny seeing them in here. Do you see the little man with the glasses talking to that woman in the blue tunic down there?” he asked, motioning to the far end to the left. “That’s Toulouse-Lautrec and Mary Cassatt.” He then turned his attention to the kitchen area. “Two of those chefs are famous, too. See that white-haired gentleman with the baggy eyes?” he asked pointing to one of the workers. “That’s René Magritte. The man chopping carrots and lettuce in the rear is Jackson Pollock. Considering the kind of art he creates, I’d say he has the most appropriate job in the kitchen, boyo.”
“Fantastic,” Tony exclaimed. “I’m really starting to like this place. That Renaissance music, though,” he then added, referring to the performing quartet, “not so much.”
“Change it if you want,” Stanhope informed him. “It’s been this same thing for over two hours already.”
“What do you mean change it?” Tony asked.
The Irishman slid open a book-sized door in the table in the area right in front of him. In the square hole was a beige-colored pad. Placing his stretched-out palm in the hole, he directed his gaze at the four Renaissance musicians and the two dancers who, instantly, transformed into a string quintet performing classical music.
“Blood claat!” Tony exhorted, whipping around to see the unusual alteration.
Stanhope and the boys, still eyeing the musicians, watched as the group further transformed into a brass trio comprising of trumpet, trombone and tuba players, seconds later a flamenco guitar quartet complete with two flamenco dancers, then a pair of rappers with their two DJ’s behind them, a crooning Justin Beiber…”
“No!” the lads yelled in tandem.
…and, finally, Bruno Mars and his band on a 6” riser performing “24k Magic.”
“Hey!” the astonished Eddie chortled. “Tony, he looks like you!”
The young D groaned. “I wish I had his flow.”
“He is pretty good looking,” Gretsch boy remarked. “But, you know what? The first time I saw this live juke box I jumped out of my blue suede shoes.” He slid open both trapdoors in front of him and his friend which had been blended so well into the table top they were invisible. “All you have to do is think about what you want to hear,” he told his pal, “and the entertainment will change. You have to wait an hour, though, because the Irish laddy here went first,” pointing to Stanhope.
Getting off his chair, Tony danced over to the band and reached for Bruno’s mic stand. Like the Soul Watcher’s orbs, his hand passed right through the instrument without feeling a thing. Stepping into the stage, he watched as his hand jettisoned unhindered and unnoticed into the noncognizant singer’s black pompadour and other body parts.
“Unbelievable,” he muttered, returning to his seat. He then turned to Stanhope. “Most realistic thing I’ve ever seen.”
“Aye,” the Irishman answered. “Technology perfected.”
“Shouldn’t there be some kind of projector?” Tony wondered.
“It’s integrated into the floor beneath the musicians,” Stanhope explained.
Filippo returned just as the boys had resumed their pottage. “Everything okay here?” he asked the crew.
“You can bring another bottle of mead,” Tony requested. “Sweet, but I like it.”
“Okay,” he said. “Anything else?”
“No,” the three men said. The waiter bowed his head tactfully and left.
“Be careful with that mead,” Stanhope warned the PI. “It sneaks up on you.”
“This is nothing,” Tony bragged. “I’ve had way stronger.”
Famous. Last. Words.