I held up his shining blade, cradled in Rodrigo's coat of arms vestment. "What do you mean, 'part of it?'"
"As a magical sword," said Tizona, "there was one more thing I could do. One thing more than bringing your husband back to life."
"What is that?" I said.
"I did what swords do best," said Tizona. "I cut something out of him."
*****
That night, dressed all in black, I retired to my bed chamber. The house, at last, was empty of the mourners who had flown to my side. The mourners who had come to pay their respects to my dead husband, the hero El Cid.
It had been a difficult day. The Battle of Valencia was won, but at terrible cost. El Cid and many brave knights had been lost forever.
Almost.
Sitting on the bed, I unwrapped the sword that laid upon the scarlet coverlet. The blade of the great Tizona gleamed in the flickering candlelight, its smooth surface more perfect than any mirror.
I ran my finger over it, and I smiled. No need for tears, not now. Never again.
The guerrito was gone for good, chewed to pieces by the fangs of Moorish steel. Rodrigo was dead, too...but Tizona had cut something out of him.
And put it inside himself.
Something precious beyond words, beyond imagining.
"Hello, my love," I said to the sword.
"Hello." The voice that came from the sword was not Tizona's. It was rich and deep. And familiar.
It made my heart beat faster.
"I love you," I said to the sword.
"And I love you more than I can ever say," said the part of Rodrigo that Tizona had drawn inside himself.
Rodrigo's immortal soul.
"Why don't you give it a try?" I said.
*****
Dionysus Dying
The old jazzman’s crooked fingers wrapped around Bobby Ball’s hand with surprising strength. Even as the fingers dug in, they never stopped twitching, as if they were playing the keys of a saxophone.
“Nice to meet you...Bobby.” The old man breathed with an effort. He held Bobby’s hand a long time, as if he were posing for a photograph or greeting a long-lost friend.
But Bobby had never met Omar Wild until that very moment. The years of hero worship from afar didn’t count.
Bobby grinned and just let Omar hold onto his hand. “It’s an honor, Mr. Wild. I just...I can’t tell you how much this means to me.”
Omar breathed deep from the twin clear oxygen hoses riding up into his nostrils. Thanks to the cancer, he was down to one lung, and it wouldn’t last long.
No more sax playing for this living legend, not ever.
“You’re not exactly...small change yourself, son.” Omar lifted his head from the pillow and gazed up at Bobby with an expression of searching intensity and strange wonder. “You’re bigger...than I ever was.”
Bobby’s grin faded a little. Nervously, he patted the black stubble on his shaved, brown scalp. “I used to be big,” he said. “But even then, I could never fill your shoes for a second.”
Omar’s smooth onyx skin leaped out in high relief from the white pajamas and bedclothes around him. “You can...fill my shoes...just fine.” He drew in three deep breaths, and the effort seemed to exhaust him. “That’s why...I invited you here. I need you...to be...my breath.”
Bobby felt the pull of Omar’s ancient eyes. Bloodshot, yellow, and filmy as they were, those eyes exerted the wild and desperate gravity of an animal caught in a trap.
Bobby recognized it instantly. Though he didn’t show it, he felt the same desperation, the same hunger for hope.
It was really why he had accepted Omar’s invitation and come here, all the way to the old man’s deathbed in a dilapidated row house on the north side of Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania.
Because Bobby needed Omar.
“You’ll do...just fine,” said Omar. “I know you can play...at my level.” He wheezed out a squeaky little snicker. “My level...when I could still play...that is.”
Bobby smiled. “So what time tomorrow do you want to get started?”
Omar’s eyes flew wide open. “Who said anything about...tomorrow?” he said. “Go get your axe, man!”
With that, he finally released Bobby’s hand. His fingers never stopped twitching over the invisible keys of his own phantom sax.
*****
Though the album had been recorded by the great Omar Wild, Bobby wanted to crack it over his knee instead of putting it on the turntable.
The album was titled Nineveh. The problem was, Omar had recorded it in 1970 during his experimental period, throwing aside the usual jazz elements in favor of a raucous free jazz free-for-all.
“Wait a minute.” Dropping Nineveh to his side, Bobby tipped out another album from one of the record-packed shelves that lined three entire walls of Omar’s bedroom. “You’ve got an original copy of Wild Man? Let me put that on for just a minute, okay?”
“Wild Man’s got nothing...to do with us,” said Omar.
“It’s the one that got me to pick up a sax,” said Bobby. “It’s maybe your greatest achievement.”
Omar brushed a fluttering hand through the air. “It’s garbage...to me now. Waste of time...and I don’t have much time...left to waste.”
“All right.” With a sigh, Bobby slid Wild Man back onto the shelf. At the same time, as unobtrusively as he could, he dropped Nineveh flat on the seat of a rickety wooden chair in the corner. “How ‘bout Born Wild?”
“Nineveh.” Omar closed his eyes and drew deeply from the oxygen hoses in his nostrils.
Defeated, Bobby snatched up Nineveh from the chair and walked to Omar’s bedside. “I thought we were gonna get started today.”
“We are,” said Omar. “I want you...to match my solo...on ‘Solomon.’”
Bobby stopped in the act of sliding the black vinyl record album out of its sleeve. “You’re kidding, right?”
“It’s a...warm-up...for recording,” said Omar.
“I don’t really need a warm-up,” said Bobby.
Omar’s eyes were still closed. “Don’t worry,” he said. “You can...do it.”
Bobby tried to change the subject. “The new piece you’ve written. Revelations. Can I see the chart for it?”
“You’re not...ready for it yet,” said Omar, fingers twitching over his chest. “You’ve gotta...get to the right place...y’know?”
Bobby sighed. As much as he idolized Omar, he knew he’d better lay his cards on the table.
“All due respect,” said Bobby. “I’m one of the top ten bestselling jazz artists of all time. A guy like me can deliver the goods. You asked me here to record your new music, so why not trust me to do the job?”
Omar’s eyes were still closed, his fingers twitching. “Heh. I said...almost exactly the same thing...to a guy one time. Who’d he think he was...telling me what to do?
“Guy’s name...was Louis Armstrong.” Omar opened his eyes. “Five years later...my career was...in the toilet...and he was bigger than ever.
“And he was...dead.” Omar laughed.
Bobby’s smile was forced. The truth was, his own career was already in the crapper, and this was his best chance--maybe his last chance--to bring it back to life.
He hadn’t been a top ten jazz artist for years, or even a middle hundred one. The best gigs he could manage were bottom-tier clubs and colleges. His label and his agent had both dropped him on the same day.
All because of a little drinking problem. Not that he thought it was a problem.
The anger management, though...that was a problem.
When Omar had called, Bobby had jumped at the chance to work with him. Like Rick Rubin producing Johnny Cash’s late-life comeback recordings, Bobby would rescue a faded star from oblivion and restore his own luster in the process.
He had already daydreamed about the CD release and the world tour. He could picture the poster copy: “Bobby Ball Plays Revelations by Omar Wild.” He could imagine the reviews: “Ball’s in
terpretations amplify the power of Wild’s last testament, raising both musicians to unequalled and unreachable heights of jazz magnificence.”
At least, that was what he’d expected before he’d met Omar...before Omar had insisted he warm up with the godawful free jazz that had killed the old man’s career in the 70s.
The question now was, when would Bobby know for sure that the whole scene with Omar was a lost cause? When would he know it was time to give up and leave?
How far would he let the old man push him?
“The ‘Solomon’ solo is forty-five minutes long,” said Bobby. “And it’s all freestyle. Everything’s random. About the only way to play it is memorize every note.”
“Sounds...about right.” Omar had trouble with his next breath. He gasped and shuddered, then finally pulled in oxygen on the third try. “Except...not all random. There’s a...pattern...a code.”
“Code?” Bobby frowned. “Solomon” was legendary for its complete lack of any harmonic, melodic, or rhythmic structure of any kind. The name of the piece had actually become slang among jazz musicians for a performance that amounted to glorified noise.
“It’s...a key,” said Omar, reaching for the dirty glass of water on the bedside table. “It...opens things.”
“What kind of things?” Bobby picked up the glass and placed it in the old man’s quivering hands.
“You’ll...find out.” Omar sipped the water. “Now put that damn...record on the player...and get to work.”
Bobby smirked. Code, my ass.
Then, he finally put Nineveh on the ancient phonograph on the bedside table. He dropped the needle at the start of “Solomon,” which took up the record’s entire Side 2.
And the bedroom filled with the sound of complete chaos.
*****
Squee squaaw squee honk squaaaawk
Rasheesheesheeree reeeeeeeeeee
Honk squeeeee squaaaa squeee ronnnk reeeee
Diddydeedee squeesquaa rideedoodeeda honnnk
Weeeee heeeee keeeee squee squonnnk reesheee
Screeeech honnnk screeeech honnnnk
Cheechareedeedookaakeesqueesquawkhonnnkronnnk honnk.
That was what “Solomon” sounded like, but played at ultra-high velocity. It was like an angry child scribbling fast on a wall. Like a room full of ping pong balls bouncing off walls, floor, and ceiling at zero gravity. Like Saturday night traffic exploding in downtown Mexico City.
Bobby, who’d made a career out of sweet, soothing ballads and upbeat standards, just wanted to cover his ears. To him, “Solomon” wasn’t any kind of music at all.
To him and ninety-nine-point-nine percent of the rest of the world.
But he picked up his sax and played along the best he could anyway. He played loud, hoping to drown out the record and fool the old man into thinking he’d matched the solo better than he really had.
But whenever Bobby deviated much and looked in Omar’s direction, he saw the old man scowling hard with full awareness of the cheat.
*****
After hours of half-heartedly aping the cacophony on the record, Bobby was glad when the old nurse interrupted.
She appeared in the bedroom doorway and said something, then repeated it. Bobby couldn’t hear her until he turned down the volume of “Solomon.”
“I’m here to give him his care.” The old woman wore a beige cardigan sweater over scrubs. Her pants were turquoise, and her top was decorated with a wildly colorful pattern of geometric shapes.
She was scrawny, and her brown face was scarred. One puckered line ran from her right ear to her chin, and another scar creased her forehead, leaving her brow and lid to sag down over her left eye.
“Come in.” Bobby smiled and stepped away from Omar’s bed. He was a little surprised when the woman showed no sign of recognizing his famous face. Even now, in mid-career-slump, Bobby’s once overexposed features still got a rise out of ninety percent of the people he met.
“This is...Diona...my assistant,” said Omar. “She stops by...two, three times...a day.”
“Nice to meet you, Diona.” Bobby reached out to shake her hand.
Diona hobbled right past without acknowledging him. She pulled out a wrinkled piece of paper from a pocket of her sweater and unfolded it.
“Dear Jesus our Lord,” she said, reading from the piece of paper. “Please help this poor soul to go quiet and easy. He’s done some things he isn’t proud of, but I ask you to please help him not to suffer too much.”
Diona placed her hand on Omar’s chest. She bowed her head and shut her eyes. “Wash him clean of the wickedness of his life,” she said. “Bring him into your kingdom as fast as you can. Amen.”
“Not too fast,” said Omar, raising his eyes toward the ceiling. “Remember...I gotta finish my last work...with this young man. Amen.” With that, he gave Bobby a wink.
“I brought soup,” said Diona.
“No pepperoni pizza?” said Omar.
Diona paused before lifting her hand from his chest. She lingered just a beat and flashed him a look...and Bobby noticed.
There was more between those two than met the eye.
“I’ll heat your soup.” Diona shuffled toward the door.
“Don’t forget...the pizza,” said Omar. “And the...cigarettes.”
Diona acted like she hadn’t heard him. “There’s only enough soup for one,” she said. “In case you’re wondering.”
“Was she talking to me?” said Bobby as the old woman disappeared through the doorway.
Omar shrugged. “I wouldn’t lose any sleep over it.”
*****
Slouching on a stool in the smoky bar, Bobby had himself another shot of whiskey and a beer. He knew they’d just make his headache worse, but what kind of an alcoholic would he be if he only drank when he wasn’t hurting?
Now if only the booze could get that damn “Solomon” out of his head. That squeaking screeching squawking honking ruckus was what had given him his headache in the first place.
That and knowing he’d have to listen to it again the next day. At the end of the seemingly eternal session that had wrapped two hours ago, Omar had told him he’d failed to match the solo and would have to pick it up again tomorrow.
Which was really something for Bobby to look forward to and a great reason to drink...not that Bobby needed any more of those.
Getting the chance to work with his idol, Omar Wild, only to have to play along with Omar’s worst, most head-splitting work, was just the tip of Bobby’s personal miseryberg.
He had been to the top of the world, and now he was closing in on the bottom.
Maybe being on the skids wouldn’t have been so bad if Bobby had never made it all the way to paradise. He’d struggled in the early days, too, after all...but that had been before the hit records and awards and accolades and money. It had been easy to live down low when he hadn’t known what it was like to play Carnegie Hall and the Tonight Show and get billing over Kenny G and Herbie Hancock at Newport.
It had been easier to live down low before he’d killed a man, too.
Bobby had held out hope that Omar would be his ticket back to the game, but now that he’d spent an afternoon with the man, he didn’t have much faith in the payoff.
If anything, the old man was giving him a bellyache on top of his free-jazz headache. There he was, Omar Wild himself, a living legend...and he was dying no better than an average loser.
Omar had played with Dizzy and Miles and Coltrane and Monk and Herbie. He’d been instrumental in developing multiple schools of jazz, and he’d even founded his own style, wildjazz. He’d brought his career back from the dead more times than Bobby could remember.
And there he was. Dying like a bum.
Which begged the question, if a legend like Omar could die like that, what would the end be like for a bum like Bobby? Would he have rooms in a rundown row house? Would he even have a scarred and ancient nurse to check on him twice a day?
Bobby wasn’t e
ven sure Diona was a nurse. He hadn’t seen her give Omar a pill, much less check his vital signs. Maybe she was some kind of church nurse, because she’d prayed over him several times.
The only thing Bobby knew for sure about her--and not because of her scars--was that she’d been through some terrible suffering. It was like someone had poured her full of darkness and plugged it up inside her, leaving it to curdle and soak in and rot her from the inside out.
Bobby recognized it because he was full of the same stuff. Same darkness.
He downed another shot of whiskey, but it wasn’t enough to drown that darkness. It never was.
Punching guys in the face wasn’t enough, either. He already knew that, had known it for a long time, but he punched someone anyway.
He hit a fan of his, just like always.
The guy looked like he was in his late fifties. He had a blocky head, doughy face, gray crewcut, and a big beer belly under a rumpled denim workshirt. He drank beers and watched Bobby from across the bar for half an hour before shambling around to stand beside him.
“‘Scuse me,” said the guy. “I’d like to buy you a drink.”
“I don’t swing that way, man,” Bobby said without looking up.
When the guy touched his shoulder, Bobby knew what was coming. He knew what the guy would say, and he knew what would happen after that.
Honestly, he was grateful. He was glad for the excuse. He had lots more anger to give than chances to give it.
“You’re Bobby Ball, aren’t ya?” said the guy. “The sax player? ‘Heart Attacker,’ right?”
It was the name of Bobby’s biggest hit, the crossover smash that had made him a household name. A big chunk of his current income came from “Heart Attacker” royalties.
So why was the mention of that song like the waving of a bullfighter’s red cape to him?
6 More Fantasy Stories Page 3