Grave on Grand Avenue

by Naomi Hirahara

  “Is that their organ?” Nay gestures toward a giant wooden hearth. It looks like a piece of modern art with shards of polished beams—I’ve heard it jokingly called gigantic French fries. That nickname fits it for sure.

  “Ummm,” I say, but nod.

  Nay leafs through the press packet again. “That Strauss guy was young when he composed this. Thirty-three.”

  Wow. He was young. I guess Nay had the same impression I did—that only old European men wrote classical music. It’s hard to picture someone just ten years older able to create music for a whole orchestra. And not just any kind of music, music good enough to have lasted more than a century.

  Nay keeps peppering me with more details and fun facts.

  “So Xu’s playing the music for this Don Quixote guy?” she asks.

  “Yes. The man of La Mancha. It’s a place in Spain. I’ve never heard Don Quixote in concert before, but I bet it’s like a dialogue between instruments.”

  “And the viola player is supposed to be the best friend?”

  Nay’s distracted from her program when a musician carrying a violin enters the stage and the crowd begins to applaud.

  “What’s that all about?”

  I’m actually not quite sure, but I tell her, “It’s starting, it’s starting.”

  The tuxedoed man strokes his violin strings with a bow, and soon all the members of the orchestra start to tweet, saw, and blow on their instruments. It’s obviously some kind of tuning exercise. Next comes the conductor, a thin man in a tuxedo with crazy wavy hair down to his shoulders. More clapping for him. And then Xu appears, also in a black-and-white tuxedo, carrying a cello by its neck. Is it his multimillion-dollar cello? Outside of that distinctive purple case, I can’t tell. It’s honey colored. Shiny. Kind of looks like a pear-shaped woman with two curlicue holes in the middle. Basically it looks like any other cello I’ve seen, but then, I’ve never really paid attention before. Either way, he’s owning it. Thunderous applause for him.

  Xu sits in a chair directly facing the audience. As soon as he starts playing, I am mesmerized. When he’s not playing, he seems otherworldly, like he’s a fantasy character, maybe an elf, in an animated movie. But when he lifts his bow and plays, he transforms into a warrior. His head rocks to the music, his hair tossed from one side to another.

  “Can I borrow your binoculars?” Nay asks an older woman next to us. The woman seems amused by Nay. Judging from the age of the crowd, the season ticket holders seem only too happy to see young people appreciating classical music. “You can hang on to them,” the woman generously offers. “I have another.”

  As she watches Xu, Nay begins to practically groan, and I don’t mean in pain. How totally embarrassing. I take the binoculars to stop her audible aching for Xu. But magnified, I see that the star cellist is even more intriguing. He keeps his eyes closed during some of his performance, showcasing his unusually long eyelashes for an Asian male. Dust explodes as his bow moves through the cello strings. Like a pro athlete, Xu occasionally presses a rolled-up towel against his sweaty forehead during breaks. I notice that some long hairs from his bow have come loose from his passionate playing. I bite down on my lip; I understand why Nay was making such a spectacle of herself.

  The viola soloist then comes in. She has a head of platinum blond hair with a streak of pink—more appropriate for a concert on the Sunset Strip than on Grand Avenue, but as far as I can tell, her playing is superb. Her body is at one with the viola; her elbow extended, she moves her arm as vigorously as Xu does. It’s almost like they’re dancing together.

  “Hot, huh?” Nay says, fanning herself with the program.

  My body is pulsing. I have to nod in agreement.

  I look more closely at Xu’s musical partner through the binoculars and gasp in surprise. “The blonde is Asian!”

  Nay opens up the program and uses her cell phone for illumination. “Yeah, she’s from Taiwan.”

  “Psst,” someone hisses from behind. “Turn off your phone.”

  I give Nay a look. My “I can’t take you anywhere” look, even though technically she’s the one who’s taken me here to Walt Disney Concert Hall.

  “Hey, I’m not the one who’s wearing shorts,” Nay snaps at me.

  “Shh!” the same person scolds us from behind.

  I lower my body into my chair. I don’t need anyone to see that my back is branded LAPD.

  The performance continues with a re-creation of the bleating sheep that Don Quixote and Sancho Panza encounter, the snorts and wailing coming from the tuba and other instruments.

  “I can hear the sheep!” Nay says to me, smiling.

  I smile back. I can, too.

  When the performance ends, the crowd erupts in applause. Some rise to their feet and yell out, “Bravo, bravo.” Before I know it, Nay is standing, shouting, “Encore, encore!”

  I sock her in the thigh.

  “What?”

  “You don’t say encore at a classical concert. It’s not like they are going to follow up with Beethoven’s Fifth or something.”

  The lights come up during intermission. The session with Xu and Don Quixote is over. The second half of the concert is dedicated to Brahms and just the orchestra. I wouldn’t mind leaving, but there’s a meet-and-greet with the musicians that Nay insists we stay for.

  “There’s somethin’-somethin’ going on with those two,” Nay declares, looking through her program.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “The way Xu and that platinum blonde were going at it with their instruments? They are definitely getting it on.”

  “Nay, these are professionals. Just like actors. They express their passions in their art. It’s not necessarily personal.”

  “No way. You can’t fake that kind of stuff. Listen, I know.”

  I take the press packet from Nay’s hands and look at the artists’ bios. “Cece Lin. She’s been with the Philharmonic for a year. She’s based here in LA.”

  “Un-huh, and that proves what?”

  “Well, that she’s a professional.”

  “Duh, you heard her play. Just because she may be hooking up with a megastar doesn’t mean she’s shallow or anything. She is a pro.” She flips through the program, then stops again at a photo of the platinum-haired violist. “I wonder how I’d look as a blonde?”

  I study Nay’s dark, uniform skin. She’d look like a Muppet with hair that blond, but I don’t dare say that out loud. “I think you’re better as a brunette,” I say instead. Then I notice that one of her false eyelashes has sprung loose, making it look like a black caterpillar has descended from her eyebrow. “Uh.” I mime that something has gone wrong around her eyelid.

  “You got a mirror?” she asks.

  “Do I look like I’d have a mirror?”

  Nay plucks my sunglasses from atop my head and tries to see if she can make out her reflection in the lens, but it doesn’t work. “I’m going to head out for the bathroom.”

  We go out the side doors together—Nay covering one side of her face with her purse. Yeah, super discreet. That’s really not going to attract attention.

  Once we are on the terrace level, Nay heads for the restroom and I tell her I’ll meet her in the downstairs eating area. I’m starving, but everything here is so dang expensive. I can only afford a small bag of potato chips, for almost three bucks. Oh well, the ticket was free and I can’t have my stomach growling in the middle of Brahms.

  As I’m nibbling on my chips, trying to make them last as long as I can, Nay comes back and practically plows me over. “Guess who I just saw?”

  I shrug my shoulders and lick salt from my lips.

  “Bono! You know, that guy who’s always trying to dig wells in Africa and stuff.”

  “You know that he’s also a singer, right?” My dad is a U2 superfan and, embarrassingly, s
ings “I Still Haven’t Found What I’m Looking For” in the shower. (What he’s looking for, especially in the shower, I really don’t want to ask.) “Anyway, that isn’t Bono. He’s just a guy who’s trying to look like Bono.”

  “No, Ellie, he is Bono. Really.”

  “If you say so.” I toss the empty potato chip bag in a garbage can and we make our way upstairs.

  “Wait, wait, there he is.” Nay elbows me and points to the guy I’d been mentally making fun of earlier. He’s being tailed by a huge black man with an earpiece dangling down to a radio. It certainly gives credence to Nay’s theory that this is Bono and a bodyguard.

  “Wow,” I say. Who knew that Xu could command the presence of a celebrity that big? Both Nay and I have no shame, and continue staring. Nay takes out her cell phone and starts taking pictures. I worry that might be against the rules, and look around to see whether anyone notices—and jump when I hear a voice behind me say, “Ellie? I thought that it was you.”

  Oh great. It’s the assistant chief of police—aka my aunt Cheryl. I didn’t know she was a classical music fan, but here she is, in front of me. As usual, she looks like she’s dressed straight out of a Saks Fifth Avenue catalogue. She’s wearing a black tuxedo jacket over a shimmering shell the color of blue pearls. She even smells like she has money. Which she does.

  I cross my arms and cover my thighs, as if that will make my bicycle shorts disappear.

  “You’re not working here, are you?” Aunt Cheryl takes a quick assessment of what I’m wearing.

  “Last-minute. Nay had tickets. You remember Nay, right?” I push Nay forward.

  She’s been to a couple of our family parties.

  “Love your lipstick color,” Nay says.

  Aunt Cheryl frowns slightly. “Uh, thank you.” She’s not a warm fuzzy type; more like an ice cube. Even Nay, who could melt an Antarctic glacier, doesn’t try to endear herself, and instead excuses herself to get a drink of water.

  “Actually, Ellie, I’ve been wanting to talk to you,” Aunt Cheryl says when Nay leaves.

  My palms start to sweat. Even though she’s my aunt, she’s also the highest-ranking Asian American in the LAPD, and she has that effect on me.

  I immediately flip through the possibilities in my mind. For the past couple of months, I’ve been low-profile. A good girl. Done whatever my supervisors have told me to do. I’ve even made time to floss my teeth. Maybe this has to do with Eduardo Fuentes?

  “I heard that your car was stolen.”

  “Oh,” I say, although I’m thinking, loudly, Who told you?

  My aunt can read my mind.

  “Grandma let me know. She wants to buy you a new car.”

  “I have the money to do it on my own,” I say. But so sweet that Grandma Toma wants to help me.

  “That’s what I told her. I don’t know why you were driving that old beater, anyway. It’s not safe, you know.”

  “We need to get back to our seats.” A figure, at least six feet tall, looms over me. The voice, deep and raspy, sounds familiar. It can’t be. But it is. Councilman Wade Beachum is addressing my aunt. He holds an almost empty glass of booze, only a thin line remaining. You have got to be kidding me. No. This cannot be happening. That nasty old man known for his philandering ways cannot be with my aunt.

  The uniformed ushers now move through the lingering crowd, hitting their mini-xylophones with thin mallets. We get it, we get it. The next performance is starting.

  Aunt Cheryl and I say our good-byes and I watch to see whether there’s any sign that those two are on an official date. Beachum has a hand on Aunt Cheryl’s back, but it’s a light touch—not necessarily a romantic one. The very thought sends a chill through me. I’ve dealt with the married councilman before, and I don’t like the thought of him anywhere near my aunt.

  “Hey, I think we need to get going.” Nay’s beside me. “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing.” I know better than to mention my suspicions to Nay. She’ll start constantly obsessing about whether the two of them are really having an affair. Rather than allaying my fears, she’ll put more wood on the fire.

  We settle in for a completely different performance, unfortunately one without either Xu or Cece. I’m not quite sure what a contrabassoon looks like, but the program says this symphony features a famous movement for that neglected instrument. I do a process of elimination and figure out that the musician in the back I see holding a large black instrument must be the contrabassoonist. He’s about midthirties, thinning blond hair, a nose shaped like a ball. Not hot at first glance, that’s for sure. But, of course, you’d have to talk face-to-face with a guy to see if he’s really hot or not. I bend my head toward Nay to share this musical nugget with her but she’s dozed off. Thankfully, the bassoons and contrabassoon are making enough noise to disguise her light snoring.

  I try to concentrate on the music, but my mind can’t help but wander to my encounter in the lobby. Aunt Cheryl has only ever had one serious relationship that I know of. The guy—his name was Steve something—even came to our Japanese New Year’s party back when it was at my grandmother’s house. (We’ve been holding them at my parents’ house ever since Grandma Toma moved in two years ago, so it was well before that.) He also was with law enforcement, with the ATF—Alcohol, Tobacco, Firearms and Explosives. I think that they met on the job, working together on a gang gunrunning sting investigation. No one in the family ever said it out loud, but I think most of us except for Grandma Toma wondered whether maybe Aunt Cheryl was a lesbian. Which isn’t really fair; it’s a stereotype that men on the force like to banter about the female officers, especially the ones in leadership. I know that Aunt Cheryl had to sacrifice a lot, especially for a woman of her generation. How could she be a wife and mother, raising babies while helping to oversee one of the largest police departments in the country? Things are a little bit better these days, but not by a lot. And I know I want all those things for myself, but way, way down the line. I don’t want to think about any of that right now.

  The Brahms piece has ended and someone in the front row begins to clap first, setting off a rainstorm of applause throughout the hall. The noise rouses Nay, who immediately sits up and starts yelling, “Bravo, bravo.”

  After the concert, there’s the Q & A with the artists that Nay insists on attending. “There’ll be food, too,” she says, and then adds, “Free.”

  Free food is definitely an added bonus to make an appearance at the reception, which is held in the lobby. In a matter of minutes, I’m loading my napkin with some kind of gooey cheese appetizer and then a shrimp one. I don’t care who sees me pigging out. I’m hungry.

  Most of the attendees, including Nay, have congregated toward the front of the reception hall to hear a USC professor interview Xu and the conductor. I opt to stay behind, close to the food and drink. Their topic will be on Strauss and Don Quixote, whereas I’m more interested in filling my stomach.

  I am dying for some wine, but even though I’m off duty, I can’t drink while wearing my uniform. Instead I pick up the last glass of mint lemonade and, making myself at home against the wall, I take a sip. This definitely is not my crowd, but then, what is?

  I feel that as the months pass, I share less and less in common with the Fearsome Foursome. My coworkers are mostly guys who are married or have girlfriends. Johnny has his biking friends. The one other woman in our unit, Armine, has two kids. I don’t fit in anywhere anymore, at least not as easily as I used to when I was at PPW. There, I was just another college student. I could wear my PPW sweatshirt and feel like I belonged to a club (so what if it was a club with a grapefruit mascot; at least it was something).

  While the interviewer is talking to Xu at the front of the reception hall, I notice Xu’s father taking a phone call in the back. Rude, I think. Isn’t this your son’s shining-star moment? But Mr. Xu seems upset. I mean really upset. He raises hi
s voice and then realizes that he’s attracting unwanted attention. People don’t realize that he’s Xu’s father and give him some stink-eye. I can’t find Nay in the crowd; she’s probably positioned herself in the front row.

  I’m wondering whether something has happened to Mr. Fuentes. Nobody would think of informing me of his medical status. If he dies, then Mr. Xu could really be in some hot water. He’ll have to extend his stay in the U.S.; that’s for sure.

  After about half an hour, there’s clapping in the main hall, and the crowd disperses. Some choose to get more appetizers, but quite a few, their jackets and purses in hand, choose to leave. I search for Nay. Don’t see her. Mr. Xu is gone, too.

  As I eat more cheese, Nay finally reappears. “Listen, I’m going to stick around. I met someone.”

  “Who?”

  She gestures toward an Asian guy and I catch a flash of orange neon, the same neon as at the crime scene.

  “You have got to be kidding me,” I say, disgusted.

  “You know him?”

  “I never got his name.”

  “Washington Jeung.”

  I arch my eyebrows.

  “Now, now, no need to be so rude,” she scolds me, even though I haven’t actually said anything. “You know the whole Chinese immigrant thing for presidential names. He can’t help what his parents named him.”

  “Still . . .”

  “He’s not bad-looking.”

  “He’s not good-looking, either. Or bad enough.” I know Nay’s type—or should I say types—and this guy doesn’t fit any of them.

  “Anyway, he’s a freelance translator. He’s even translated for Xu’s father in Europe in the past.”

  “Yep, I know.”

  “So how do you know him?”

  I catch myself before I reveal too much about the case. It has enough complications as it is.

  “I heard him introduce himself to some people here,” I lie. Weak, but Nay uncharacteristically buys it. Perhaps she’s too smitten to think straight?