Murder in Rock & Roll Heaven

by Robin Ray

CHAPTER 33

  ‘Round about midnight, Eddie awoke with a bladder that felt like it would rupture at any minute. Clutching his belly, he hurriedly scooted into the next room – the restroom – and gleefully relieved himself after haphazardly searching for, and finally flicking, the light on. His face, he noticed in the bathroom mirror, looked haggard, almost older than when he first awakened that morning. Never again, he thought, recollecting his careless indulgence of the heretofore unknown corn syrup mead he’d guzzled at Midgard that afternoon. After washing his face, he went downstairs to raid his host’s refrigerator. The lights in the dark drawing room were off, making his trek to the hard-to-locate kitchen that much more daunting. Turning its light on, he bee-lined straight to the fridge, rummaged through its contents, discovered an unopened bottle of peach tea, and helped himself to its contents.

  “Is anybody here?” he shouted, standing in the doorway between the kitchen and drawing room. Nothing, he thought. Now where could everyone be? Racing back upstairs, he checked the second bedroom. Nope, no one here. Hmm. No one in the closet, either. Returning downstairs, he went into the other room abutting the main space which, he soon found out, was empty. Going back to the kitchen, he jiggled the knob on the door just off to the side of the cooking suite. Geez, it’s dark in here, he thought as he groped for a switch. Unable to locate one, he treaded carefully through the darkness, occasionally accidentally kicking a box or framed canvas over. What is this? he asked himself, touching something that felt like a tall chair. Groping along it’s outline, bingo! – he finally found what he was looking for. One flick of a switch and the flexible, goose neck clip light on top of an easel came on. Grabbing its circular shade, he cast its light around the spacious art studio, finally illuminating a sight better left unseen – Maso and Eddie, wrapped up in each other’s arms, calmly sleeping beneath covers on a mattress against a wall.

  The young guitarist/saxophonist, stupefied to the core, was speechless, almost thoughtless. Barely unable to command his muscles to move, his eyes filled with tears at the agonizing sight. Noticing a portrait in a wooden picture frame the size of an automobile’s door against a case, he ran over, grabbed and lifted it over his head, and positioned himself to slam the work of art down on the sleeping duo. By then, his tears had been soaking well into the Friar Tuck robe he wore. The betrayal was so overwhelming, he felt like someone had just punched their way into his chest and forcefully yanked his heart out. Unable to assault the two, he threw the artwork against a wall. The commotion woke the sleeping duo.

  “Tony!” Eddie tried explaining, eyeing his bubbling boyfriend, “I…”

  Tony raised up his right hand, indicating ‘Stop talking!’, lowered his head in defeat, and walked out of the studio bothered, bewildered, beaten and broken.

  Damn it! he thought, exiting Masaccio’s home when he noticed the rain was coming down in sheets. Fuck it. I’m going back to Rock & Roll. Still feeling like his heart had been mangled by a wood shredder, he began trudging down Main Street back to the transfer station near the piazza. Not caring he was soaking wet, he neglected to shelter himself under the trees along the way. Too bad there aren’t any motor vehicles in Heaven, he thought. Just one leap into the middle of this road and an oncoming delivery truck could put me out of my misery. I could wait for a trolley, but with my luck, they’d see me from up ahead and slam on the brakes. It sure is dark out here. Quiet, too. Where’s everybody. Man, this is one quiet town. Probably rains all the time. I’m glad these street lights are on otherwise…

  ARRGGHH!

  Fuck! What did I just trip over? Damn it. Uneven sidewalk? Ow, my hand. Shit, my palms are bleeding. Hurts like hell. Oof. Look at all this rain. I hate rain!

  “This ain’t Heaven!” he yelled, finally getting back to his feet and pumping his fists in the air. “This is Hell!”

  Ow. My knees. Stopping to lift the bottom of his robe, he noticed the bleeding, crumbled bits of skin above each patella. This sucks. I’ve gotta…oh, wait. There’s the Chinese calligraphy studio up ahead. I’ll just chill on their bench for a while. Arriving at Deng Shiru’s a few moments later, he wiped some of the rain water off the seat of the bench in front of the studio and plopped himself down to rest. 12:30AM already, he thought, reading his watch. I can’t believe Eddie. What a traitor. Man, this hurts. I hope I never see him again. Who am I kidding? I miss the bastard already. Now I know why people become monks after a while. Love is torture.

  “Are you okay?” a voice projected towards him asked.

  Startled, he quickly looked for its point of origin – an older Asian man, standing in the now opened doorway of the calligraphy studio, had spoken.

  “You seem hurt,” the stranger added.

  “I’ll be okay,” Tony insisted. He displayed his bleeding hands. “Just had a little spill.”

  “I have some salve for that,” the man said. “Come in.”

  “Okay,” Tony nodded. Getting up, he followed his savior into his studio.

  “Have a seat anywhere,” the stranger told his guest, handing him a towel sitting draped across a wooden easel. “My salve is in the pantry.”

  “Thanks,” the visitor said, drying his face as the man left.

  Before taking a seat, he gazed around the lamp-lit room at the dense collection of calligraphic art and forestry landscapes on display in the spacious main room. Wow, he thought. If this guy did all this, he’s good. Some of the pieces were as small as chap books, others ginormous, like French movie posters. Unlike Maso’s place, he really couldn’t take a seat anywhere because, well, there were no seats. I see what he did here, the Latino-Korean thought. He’s going for a true Asian feel – no chairs nor tables, just mats on the polished wooden floor. I can do that. Choosing a soft, folded mat near a wall, he carefully sat lotus-styled on it.

  “I thought you might want hot tea,” his host said as he returned with a wooden, self-standing tray of green tea in a porcelain pot, matching porcelain, handle-less cups, a small collection of bandages and salves, and a white jump suit with red Chinese lettering on it. Sitting the whole enchilada in front of his soaked guest, he said, “you can change into this suit if you want,” and handed it to him.

  “Thanks,” Tony nodded. “How come everybody in this town keeps towels and robes so handy? I’m not complaining, but just, you know?”

  “It continually rains here,” he answered. “Just common courtesy for the frequent guests one gets from time to time.”

  “Pretty convenient,” the moist-haired visitor said as he stripped himself out of his wet Friar Tuck and handed it to his host.

  “I’ll hang this up for you at once,” the man said.

  “It’s not mine,” Tony acknowledged as he slipped into the jumpsuit. “I was at Masaccio’s just now. It’s his.”

  “In that case,” the Asian gentleman said, “I’ll just put it up and return it to him tomorrow, if you wish.”

  “I wish,” the youngster said as he finished buttoning up his suit.

  As the man left, Tony helped himself to a cup of hot tea. Almost immediately, the man returned. “May I sit here?” the proprietor asked his newly arrived, recently sopping wet guest, pointing to the spot on the floor on the other side of the self-standing tray.

  “Of course,” the surprised musician answered. “It’s your place.”

  “They say I’m over-courteous,” the stranger admitted. “Perhaps they’re right.”

  When he finally got on the floor, he asked the young man, “Would you like me to care for your hands now?”

  “Sure,” Tony answered. Putting his cup of tea aside, he held out both palms. At once, the stranger started dressing the abrasions with the salve and bandages.

  “Oh,” the healer said, “I forgot my manners. I’m Deng Shiru.”

  “Nice to meet you, Deng,” the musician said then, pointing to himself, “Tony Lopez.”

  “Where are you from, Tony Lopez?”

  “R&R,” he answered, then clarified himself, “Rock
& Roll Heaven.”

  “Have you been there a long time?”

  “One week,” he answered. “New kid on the block.”

  “Sorry to hear that,” Deng stated. “Such tragic events; still, catalysts for the soul.”

  “What about you?” Tony asked his host.

  “About 200 years,” he answered.

  “So, you must be ready to become a monk,” the guitarist wondered.

  “I’ve considered it many times,” the artist admitted, “but I’ve stuck around because I’m one of the few calligraphers in Caprese and, as you can see, I stay pretty busy.”

  “Is everything in here for sale?” Tony asked.

  “Some of it is for my own use, the other half’s been sold already,” he revealed. “Their owners just haven’t picked them up yet.”

  “I see,” Tony said, eyeing the artist as he artfully completed his bandage work.

  “You don’t have to answer this question,” Deng asked, “but I was just curious. You came to visit Masaccio today?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why are you leaving in the middle of the night?” he noticed. “You don’t appear to be in a rush to get back home.”

  “It’s a long story,” the young man lied.

  “Sorry for inquiring,” Deng apologized.

  “No, it’s okay,” Tony assured him. “I had come with my friend, but, well, things didn’t work out the way I would have preferred.”

  “I see.”

  “You know what, though?” the musician realized. “I feel…better, kind of relieved.”

  “So, you’re admitting you and your friend were bound to separate someday?” the curious Asian asked.

  “I guess so,” Tony shrugged. “My bad habit is I tend to get attracted to people too quickly. I mean, I just got to Heaven; I really should spend more time learning the lay of the land because this is what I get for diving in head first.”

  “Good advice,” Deng agreed. “Well, there you go,” he stated, wrapping up his work. “All done. How does it feel?”

  “Fine,” Tony said, examining the calligrapher’s dual dressings. “Are you getting ready to go to bed soon?”

  “No,” Deng answered. “Why?”

  “It’d be a shame for me to head back home so soon without at least acquiring one of your art pieces,” he replied.

  “Sure,” his host said, getting to his feet. “That set is available,” he stated, pointing to a grouping along one wall. “Choose what you want; I’ll be right back.” Collecting the salve and bandages, he left to his pantry. Tony got up and studied the art on the wall Deng had indicated.

  Impressive, the young man thought as he walked through the minor gallery. As expected from a Chinese studio, some of the artwork involved dragons and tigers, maidens with parasols at lakesides, soldiers on horseback in the forests – all complete with red Chinese lettering and small, coin-sized square artists’ identifying-stamps on them. Among the collection were cursive words in French, Italian, Swahili, Spanish and English – one word per painting. Some of the English sobriquets were “happy”, “determined”, “beautiful”, “musical”, “peaceful”, “ginseng” and “jewel.”

  “Do you like those?” Deng asked Tony. The young man, not knowing his host had come back, jumped from being startled.

  “You have feet like a cat,” the guitarist noticed. “I didn’t hear you.”

  “Forgive me,” the calligrapher said.

  “I like this style,” he stated, pointing to the multi-language collection. “Would it take you a long time to write ‘Tony?’”

  “It actually might,” Deng admitted, “because I didn’t create those.”

  “You didn’t?”

  “A few months ago, I had a visitor,” he explained. “Very determined person, but very foolish. Sought to challenge my skill, but there really was no purpose. I’ve been doing this kind of work for centuries. Do you know I can write your name on a strand of hair?”

  “What?” Tony shouted. “Really?”

  “Yes,” he answered. “Unfortunately, I can’t do it with the kinds of brushes in Heaven. No animal fur, you see. Now, if there were Siberian weasels around!”

  “That’s your favorite?”

  “Well,” Deng answered, “they’re what I prefer. There’s an old Chinese folklore – Siberian weasels are slippery devils who can steal your soul and replace it with someone else’s. A tale, no doubt, characteristic of the fine and exotic nature of their exemplary fur. Old wives’ tale if you ask me, but who am I to say? Um, if you wish, I can show you the basics of this particular style and you can work on the rest at home.”

  “Sure,” the guitarist said.

  “Have a seat,” Deng said, pointing to the folded mat. As Tony complied, the calligrapher opened a nearby cupboard, brought out a sketch pad, a brush and ink set, brought it over to his guest and sat opposite him in front of the self-standing tray after Tony had cleared it of the cups.

  “This requires a lot of skill,” Deng explained, laying the materials on the tray. “Let’s start at the beginning.” Sliding next to Tony, he opened the pad, removed one blank sheet for himself and returned the pad to the musician. Then, opening the paint set, he took out a very thin bear grass brush, handed it to his guest, then retrieved one for himself. “Let’s begin,” he said, lifting up the lid of one of the small jars of black India ink. “Hold your brush like this,” he demonstrated. “Good,” he congratulated Tony who got it right on the first attempt. “Now,” he said, dipping his brush into the ink, “make a line like this from bottom to top.” Illustrating what he meant on his own sheet, Tony carefully dipped his brush in the ink and created his black vertical line. “Very good,” the calligrapher said. “Now draw a line like this.” The musician, closely following his teacher’s instruction, succeed once again. “Are you sure you’ve never done this before?” the artist asked. “Students rarely get this accuracy on their first try, and to top it off, your hand is bandaged.”

  “I’ve always had pretty good penmanship,” the guitarist boasted, though not overtly.

  After a few minutes, Deng and Tony had sketched from A to E, then the older artist started to yawn.

  “I’d better go,” the youngster said.

  “We’re not done,” the calligrapher insisted.

  “That’s okay,” Tony assured him. “I can finish this at home. I’m pretty tired myself.”

  “In that case,” Deng said standing up, “take this with you.” Going over to the cupboard, he brought a sheet of paper with the complete cursive alphabet on it and handed it to the novice. “I made copies of the original, just in case,” he winked.

  “Thanks,” Tony said, getting up. “If it’s okay with you, I’m gotta get to stepping.”

  “Okay with me,” Deng swore. “Will you back in Caprese any time soon?”

  “Probably,” he answered as he walked to the door. “Probably won’t be any time soon, though. Thanks for the tea.”

  “No problem,” his teacher said. “I’ll see you later. Zài lián xì – keep in touch.”

  “Bye,” the guitarist said as he closed the front door behind him.