Murder in Rock & Roll Heaven

by Robin Ray

  “Yes,” the musician nodded. “Spicy. If my nasal passages were clogged before, they sure wouldn’t be now after this.”

  “So I just showed you how to mix paint using bamboo stirrers,” Masaccio said as he laid his mug of wine down on the floor next to the wine pot. “Now, here are a few brush techniques. Take one of those smaller, bear grass brushes,” he indicated, pointing to the set on the chair next to Eddie.

  “This one?” Eddie asked, picking up a flat-bristle brush.

  “Yes, that’s good,” the painter acknowledged.

  The young student flicked the soft flexible head of the brush. “What’s bear grass?”

  “Indian basket grass,” his delicate host explained. “It’s a plant about 4’ high with white flowers. That very issue, by the way, was the single biggest problem in the art world.”

  Eddie furrowed his brow. “Grass?”

  “Fine art brushes were usually made from hog hair, sable, squirrel, ox, horse, different animals,” the artist revealed. “There were different thicknesses, but generally speaking, sable was used for detail work and the others were for broader strokes. The problem was, when the early artists came here, maybe about 1000 years ago, there were no art brushes because animals didn’t exist here. They were so angry that they protested often. It was ugly, I heard. Then they figured, well, since they’re stuck here for the time being, they may as well make the most out of it, so they started experimenting with different materials, from plant fibers to human hair.”

  “Human hair?” the stunned, early rock star asked. “Really?”

  “Sì,” Masaccio answered. “One very creative Asian fellow even used pubic hair.”

  “What?!” the guitarist mouthed.

  “It’s true,” Masaccio insisted. “You know, Chinese calligraphers used to use human baby hair for their finer strokes. That was the norm. Anyway, the brushes they did eventually make were good for painting houses, furniture, applying varnish, but not for art. The fibers came from lots of different places, but they later found out the softest and best substitute for hair were fibers from the banana yucca and bear grass plants. The fibers from other yuccas were used, too, but for bigger and stiffer brushes. Needless to say, over the years, they really perfected the craft of brush making and painters started using them.”

  “You mean,” Eddie asked, “like DaVinci?”

  “Sì,” the Italian answered. “DaVinci, Donatello, Botticelli, Titian, Raphael, Dürer, everyone, really. And all because of one artist. They said, [Utilizing a stodgy, scruff voice] ‘Well, if it’s good enough for him, it’s good enough for me.’”

  “Which artist were they talking about?”

  Instead of answering directly, Masaccio displayed a smile as wide as the Grand Canyon and as bright as a savant. The guitarist quickly got the hint.

  “You?” he asked the painter.

  “Sì,” Masaccio said proudly. “Tommaso di Ser Giovanni di Simone, da parti di Castel San Giovanni di Altura.”

  “Where did the Masaccio come from?”

  “Tommaso,” he explained, “or Maso for short. Masaccio is just a goofy play on words. A modern translation of Maso would be oddball or weirdo which, for all intents and purposes, fits.”

  “Can you give me a refill?” Eddie asked, holding his mug out to Maso.

  “Sì.” The Renaissance artist poured him a full cup. Then, after a quick toast, they both took a good, long swig with their eyes locked on each other. Feeling slightly uncomfortable, Maso decided to break the silence.

  “A famous painter fell on hard times because no one was buying his art,” he began. “Even though he hated to do it because of his pride, he decided to ask the Art Foundation for a grant. Not being a great writer, he dictated the all-important letter to his common assistant to present to the board in person, reminding him, "Make sure you get this letter perfect or there'll be hell to pay!" The nervous assistant sat at his desk, carefully notated the message, then left for the Foundation. Along the way, his anxiety got the best of him because he wasn't sure if he was the great writer he'd often bragged himself to be.”

  “Which artist are you talking about?” Eddie asked.

  “You’re interrupting.”

  “Sorry,” the guitarist said remorsefully. “You may continue.”

  “As the anxious assistant walked down Main Street, he saw a sign over a shoppe that said, ‘Proofreader For Hire.’ Sweet, he thought, maybe this guy can help me. Walking in, he saw an old man busy scribbling at a desk and approached him. ‘Are you the proofreader?’ he asked. ‘Yep, that's me,’ the man replied. ‘Good,’ the artist's assistant said. Taking out the letter, he handed it to the stranger. ‘Can you correct this?’ he asked. ‘It's very important. My master has a temper like an ogre.’ ‘Sure,’ the proofreader said. ‘I'll start right away.’ The assistant said, ‘Okay, but if there's anything you should remember, it's this - feel free to dot all my I's, just don't cross Matisse.’”

  Eddie sat staring at his host as if he was watching a leaf change colors.

  “You don’t think that’s funny?” Maso asked him.

  “I’ve been up since this morning,” the visitor apologized. “But, yeah. It was funny.”

  Getting back to their tutoring session, they both laid their mugs to the side, and got down to work. Eddie picked up his natural fiber brush.

  “What color?” he asked the Italian.

  “Meadow green,” his instructor answered.

  Complying, Eddie dipped the brush in the oil he’d mixed earlier and positioned himself in front of the vertical white canvas.

  “Now,” Maso said, illustrating by position his own arm, “hold the brush like this.”

  “Like this?” the guitarist asked, nearly mimicking Maso’s outstretched right arm.

  “Almost,” the artist said. “Like this,” he repeated, holding out his arm in his own particular way.

  “This?” Eddie asked, trying his best to match the Italian.

  “Not yet,” Maso said. “Technique is important. Let me show you.” Instead of taking the brush himself, he slid closer to Eddie, placed his right arm around his body, gently grabbed his right wrist and repositioned the neophyte’s arm to his liking, the tip of the brush mere inches from the canvas. The guitarist felt Maso’s heart pounding, the steady beat of his pulse bouncing against his back. Eddie’s heart started speeding up as he began to feel warmer and warmer from the young Italian’s presence. Turning to face the artist, he stared into his eyes with the earnest depth of a seaman trying to navigate a swerving submarine through an unstable periscope. A quick kiss on his teacher’s wine-tainted lips and he pulled back, hoping he didn’t just make a big mistake. Maso gently kissed him back. It was no mistake.

  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 c
ooking 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, 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?” he asked his 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.