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Brood of a New Age
73.
Dante rushed into the "Artists" room so violently that even the half-corpse Michele twitched and grunted. He was breathing heavily and had put his hand over the bloody cut on his cheek. What had that been? WHAT HAD THAT BEEN?! He could still hear the commotion from the main room. And his heart-it hurt so much! As if it had been made of stone for decades and now weathered chunks were breaking off ... only to leave the soft wildly beating tissue.
Behind him, the three humans came in. Vittorio as the first, ran into the room made a u-turn, roared like a soccer fan whose team had scored the decisive goal to the European Cup and raised his arms in front of Dante!
"THAT WAS EPIC!" he shouted for probably the fifth time.
"Why leave the stage now?" he heard Ron ask behind him, coinciding with the door lock and the scraping of the chair as he used it to block the door again.
"First showbiz rule- Ron. Make yourself rare - be a star."
"Okay, that sentence doesn't work like that in English, Ria."
"Anyway, you know what I'm saying. Half baldy will forgive us for playing only six numbers instead of ten because within the next three days word will spread all over the fucking city that there was a gargoyle singing in his club. And he'll pay us ten times as much to play just one song at his place again. He's gonna have to get to the back of the line. Ha!"
Ria stepped up to him and rubbed his arm. "Dante that was great. Don't worry about the guitar. Show me the scratch." Dante looked into her big brown eyes, then at the guitar he still held in one hand. Out of six strings, four had broken during his playing. One had whipped in his face and the copper wire had cut him. But he had kept going. On and on. He had no idea why. Or how. There had to be something wildly desperate in his gaze. She smiled mildly, took the guitar from his hand and gently pulled his fingers away from his face.
"It's just a little scratch. It's barely bleeding."
Vittorio - totally exhilarated like a kid after three pounds of sugar didn't stop jumping around. His spiky green mohawk, condemned to immobility by copious amounts of gel, was the only stable thing about him. He even hopped on the couch, drumming his drumstick on Michele's oily mop of hair.
"Bababababam! Fanfare is going to go through the roof! Gotham Records, Young God Records, Reach Out International! Jesus. Triple Crown is going to come knocking on our door. I know it!"
"Now slow down, Vittorio," Ria hissed, and the little guy jumped down grinning sheepishly. Dante turned away from the people. He strode to the couch and sat down. Then he stood up again, sitting wasn't right for him. Then he went to the vanity mirror and looked in. A small scratch on his face - no comparison to his other scars and tomorrow already healed. But he didn't want to look at himself in the mirror any longer. The person he saw in it could not have been the one on the stage. He walked to the table. To the door where Ron looked at him uncomprehendingly and a little worried. Then to the window. Air, maybe air was the right thing for him. Or was it? Did he want a smoke? Or a drink? Yes to everything and no to everything. He put a claw to the neckline of his shirt and tore the fabric of his tie and the top button at the same time. His breathing was steadfastly heavy and he had the feeling that he was about to topple over and had the simultaneous urge to jump around like Vittorio before, who was now also staring at him in his erratic pacing back and forth. All his muscles were electrified and he had to move.
"Ria. Dante is all agitated," said one of the boys - probably Ron.
The bassist approached him again.
"Dante? What's wrong?"
"I don't know," he croaked, leaning forward and rubbing his chest. God, did he just have a heart attack? Were gargoyles getting heart attacks?
"That's the post-performance high. Endorphins and adrenaline flood you. That's a good thing. You've been good. You're OK."
"There were so many humans!" he brought out without looking at her.
"A hundred at the most. But yeah - for your first gig, there were a lot."
"And everyone-and everyone was staring."
"Aren't you used to that?"
"Yes I am! But-" He put a hand over his eyes. He didn't even know how to put his feelings into words.
"They stared. And then ... they-" he searched for that strange word in his head. Found it in Italian and then in English.
"They cheered. They cheered for us! Cheered for me!"
Ria laughed as did the drummer and the keyboard player.
"That feeling is incredible, isn't it? And believe me, New York audiences don't cheer that easily. Even if there were Quarrymen in the room - you made them queer for gargoyles! A hundred people and they'll all tell an enthusiastic story about a gargoyle!"
Dante looked at her with wide eyes. She sounded sane and crazy at the same time. But he had seen it too. When he had opened his eyes again after the clapping and euphoric cheering had started (because he had really had them closed most of the time.) Through the light he had seen them. The people. Not fearful. But excited. Excited about a gargoyle that had done something they probably would never have thought possible. He had not thought it possible until 6 minutes ago. Excited, ecstatic, delighted about a gargoyle. Even crazier - excited about him. About the heir of the collapsed Della Marra empire, the abused, scarred Camorra prince, the formerly joyfully murdering and torturing Hell-Spawn, the Henchman Tony Dracons. And none of it - though that was all that defined him - had mattered there in the light of the stage. Everything had fallen away from him. He had to hold onto the table to keep from falling over.
"This is too much," he muttered.
Ria and Vittorio were suddenly beside him.
"What did you feel, Dante?" Vittorio asked.
"Doesn't matter."
"Yes, it does," Ria replied, rubbing his shoulder over which his wing was resting, but which really hurt because he had to tense the muscles even in them all the time so that they wouldn't snap open from the urge to move and the emotionality.
"Tell us, man," urged Ron, whose vital contribution was to have settled down on one of the chairs where his massive figure wasn't in the way. Dante appreciated that.
Dante grabbed at his now exposed neck, feeling his own racing pulse. What had he felt? What was he feeling now? It hurt, as if something inside him had been torn. Like old scar tissue tearing open. But not so that putrid pus could run out, but so that fresh tissue could grow. A shrill very short laugh burst out of him. He spoke while staring at the guitar on the table with its torn strings.
"THE MUSIC! It rises in your bones. You feel it inside you as if you were ... made of it! You are part of it, its resonating body and it bursts out of you and multiplies exponentially IN your listeners. It is ... energy transmission! It's like magic, not a spell, not waving a wand. YOU are the magic. And all who hear it and love it are part of and multipliers of that magic. I could..." he shook his head with a grin, unable to put into words the mass of these previously unknown feelings. His wings had snapped open in his flow of speech after all, displacing the two people beside him.
Ria stepped to him again. Put a hand to his head without fear and looked at him with understanding eyes that shone with emotion.
"You can then feel heaven and earth at the same time and YOU are the piece that holds it all together."
He put his hand on hers.
"Yes," he said softly, grateful for her help.
"You had a spiritual experience," the Ron said, now lighting a cigarette.
"What did I have?" Dante held out a hand less demanding than asking, and Ron gave him the cigarette and lit a second one himself.
"Spiritual. The music made you see the light. It does. Over and over again," Vittorio opined.
Dante smiled at him, a little more self-conscious again. "My sister is the Jesus and Mary freak. I-."
"NO! Not religion. Spirituality. There's a difference," Ria interjected.
"You can find spirituality anywhere," she said. "In a child's laughter. In a plastic bag swirling in the wind. And in music. If finding her salvation and inner peace in one of the predetermined religions makes your sister tick, that's her thing. Yours -" she pointed to the guitar- is this."
Dante looked down at the instrument. Inner peace. That term again. He loved music. He always had. But THAT couldn't be his inner peace. He felt his face grow bitter - an expression that was at least habitual for his facial muscles. "I ... this is ridiculous."
"Was it ridiculous when you were on stage?"
"I'm a gargoyle. And a ... My claws made the strings snap."
"Yes, that's a problem. But certainly not one that is unsolvable," Vittorio said, stroking the brush of his mohawk. Ria beside him nodded encouragingly.
"Your voice is made for the stage. And you said you've only held a guitar a few times?"
"Because I always wrecked it."
"But you knew how to play. Your playing was on point."
Dante took a drag on his butt like a drowning man hoping the toxins made him clearer.
"I heard that song just now - sure I could remember it. What are you looking at?"
"Dante - Dude. Just because you've heard a song ONCE doesn't mean you can play it. You knew lyrics AND notes," Ron grumbled.
Dante looked at him uncomprehendingly.
The three humans exchanged confused glances.
"You can't read music? But how-"
"Shit, I know what this is," Vittorio groaned, grabbing his head.
"What?"
"You're one of those super talented ones. What are they called?"
"A savant?" Ron offered.
"'Nah - savants do have ... limitations in other areas. Don't they? Absolute pitch isn't either because he obviously doesn't know any music system to orient himself to. He then has a ...ah! A phonographic memory! Like Mozart - Mozart supposedly could play music perfectly after hearing it only once," the woman remarked in awe.
"Mozart?" Dante screwed up his face.
"If it's true that you can recreate entire song lyrics and play the notes after hearing them once. Then you are highly gifted. Congratulations."
The gargoyle rubbed his forehead in embarrassment. "I've always thought everyone can do that and they just don't because then they find it dull."
"Not everyone can. Most people never learn an instrument and most people who like to sing SHOULDN'T sing. But you ... you have a real talent there. You should do something with that," the woman said.
Vittorio took his hand as if to propose. "Join us. Michele is a failure and has never been a team player. Fanfare will be internationally famous!"
Dante wrestled his fingers away from the human. He was exactly the opposite of a team player! What was wrong with them? Okay. They had had a great time on stage just now. They had ... harmonized. But he was still a monster. A murderer. A mobster.
"You still see that I'm a gargoyle, right?"
"It just didn't matter that you were a gargoyle. You saw that in the reactions. And at the same time, it mattered tremendously - and that showed in the reactions, too. You could really do something for the acceptance of gargoyles, just by using this gift. The Quarrymen would never again be able to claim that gargoyles have no soul. Everyone who hears you knows that you are full of soul."
A snort of laughter escaped him, but it quickly died away. He as a poster boy for the acceptance of gargoyles! How would people take it if they learned about his former life? About his current life.
Ria pulled a card from her purse, handed it to him with the CD and the promised Diskman he'd earned.
"Our offer stands. That's my number."
Dante looked down at the card. Not a printed business card. But thicker laminated paper written on with waterproof fineliner. Ria. "Fanfare" A number and -.
"It says manager."
She laughed wearily. "Yeah. Thought I could be one. But ... well - it's hard in the business for women. Lots of cock wagging from the chauvinists. Should probably stay behind the bass. Our own little gigs- I can get that organized. But no artist wants a chick with no prior experience."
"If she just got a chance, she'd be good in there," Vittorio pitched. "The managers are all scared of her because she won't leave a place without pulling out a gig. She's really badass." He poked her in the shoulder with his finger. Which she returned triple with the shorter guy ducking away under her poking.
Dante tucked the card into his pants and jumped onto the window ledge. Ria joined him one last time.
"With a talent like that. That would be a shame to let it go to waste. And you looked really happy playing."
"I actually work for-"
"Dracon. We've heard. The sparrows are whistling it from the rooftops. And does that monster shit you do for the skunk make you as happy as those three minutes on stage just now?"
Dante was silent.
"Have you ever been that happy in your life?"
"I ... have to think about it."
"Do that. And Dante?"
"Yeah?"
She nodded her head toward the door, on which there was just a heavy knock. No one seemed to care. Ria didn't rush to lecture him again.
"Those people out there. They were happy when you played. They could breathe. They saw the light for a minute. You weren't the only one. How many people are you currently making happy in your mafia job? Factor that into your thinking."
The gargoyle and the bassist/manager looked at each other for another moment. Then the gargoyle turned his head and jumped off the window ledge.
Dante glided into the night and was out of sight when Ron pulled the chair from the door and unlocked it. Instantly, people rushed in. Three guys from security, a couple of employees Ria didn't know and who might as well have been guests, as unspecifically normal as they looked and dressed. Finally, the manager limped in, supported by one of his people.
"Wher ish he?" he screeched.
"Who?" asked all three musicians, looking as stupid as musicians were often accused of being.
"The gargoyle who was just on stage!" One of the security guys shouted, stepping up to the window with a Quarrymen hammer and peering out.
Ria made a disgusted face as the short stocky man who was supposed to be paying her for five (or six) performances right now stood right in front of her. He reeked terribly of booze.
"Boss, you're completely drunk!" she stated.
"I'm nat! I wouk up like tis in my offce an was told what youve been up do! You' ... Race traitorsahhhh!" he slurred indignantly, screaming as his obviously injured foot struck the floor as the co-worker supporting him swayed under the wild flailing of his boss.
"He was on the stage," said one of the suspiciously unsuspicious "staff?".
"Did you all take something? That was clearly a costume," Ron said, and Vittorio nodded.
"And where is the guy in the costume supposed to be now?" one asked.
"Well-if it was a gargoyle he must have jumped out the window and fluttered away," said Vittorio smart-aleckily and the musicians laughed.
"He's gone. Out the door," Ria then said more seriously. "Either way - he's gone. And we don't know where to. I'll be right with you for the dough, boss."
"You dawn't believe tat yurself!" the manager screeched angrily and limped away. When everyone saw that there was nothing to retrieve, the room was empty again very quickly.
Ria and her boys breathed sighs of relief.
The woman stepped up to the window and took another brooding look into the darkness. The last half hour had been the coolest of her life and the boys - surely even the gargoyle - felt the same way. But Dante had been so torn. Even though everyone who had seen him on stage tonight had seen that this was where he belonged.
"He won't call, Ria," said Vittorio, who was packing his backpack. They also had to go back on stage to pack up their instruments. No one in the room felt like playing their remaining four pieces. How could they - after hearing Dante. They would never play in this shithole again. They would do without the fee. Ria still had some of the money her father had given her three months ago. She'd dragged Vittorio and Ron along a couple of times before.
"I don't know. I hope he comes back."
"A gargoyle as bandleader would be a blast."
"Yeah - but I think he needs us more than we need him. But he'll have to figure that out for himself." She turned and saw the small, modern handheld camera lying on the dressing table the moment Ron saw it, too.
It wasn't there earlier. Before all the people had rushed into the room.
"Did Dante forget it?" asked Vittorio, getting a brotherly slap on the back of the head from Ron. "His suit didn't have pockets that big, man."
Ria took the camera, sat down on the couch and flipped open the small screen on the side. Ron sat down between her and Michele, who had slept through the whole experience and continued to sleep, and Vittorio perched himself on the armrest on Ria's other side. She started the one and only recording.
They inhaled deeply as a sole three-headed creature when they realized what the recording showed. The sound was remarkably good. The image sharp as no recording of a gargoyle had ever been before.
"Who filmed this?" asked Vittorio, who only dared to speak again at the end of the song when the applause had died away and the recording was finished.
Ron was more pragmatic about it.
"We can make a lot of money if we give the video to a TV station. We'd be invited on every talk show."
"Possibly," she said contemplatively.
"And? Do we do it? I think if Dante doesn't show his face again that's the best we can get out of it."
She nudged Vittorio sisterly. "You don't say anything about tonight for now. Neither of you blab on about it. I'll figure out what to do with the recording."
"I can't even brag that I jammed with a gargoyle?"
"And what if you brag to a Quarrymen in civilian clothes? You don't seem to be hanging on to your head," Ron pointed out, and his little band brother made a face.
"Okay. Okay, you're the brain here, Ria. I just bang on drums and cymbals. But make the most out of that."
"I'll come up with something. In the meantime, let's keep the ball low."
"All right. We'll pack up our stuff. You coming?"
"I'll meet you at the bus," she said, smiling at her two friends. Vittorio, who had followed her like a faithful dog even to America. And Ron, who had only gotten off anabolic steroids after she had adopted him. Months ago she thought she could help Michele too. But some didn't want help even though they kept saying they did. Others were the opposite. They never begged. But these needed friends and guidance most urgently. She probably collected broken figurines. At times she felt like Dorothy in the Wizard of Oz. She had a big level-headed lion and a hyperactive straw man. The only thing missing was the tin man, who thought he had no heart.
She leaned back on the couch and rewound the video, letting the little screen built into the camera show it to her again.
The gargoyle- Dante - at first a disturbing sight on stage. But just three seconds after the curtain rose, his voice resounded over everyone. She knew everyone in the hall had goose bumps. Because she had had it all along. She thought she could see the music flowing around him. The hard, scarred, gruesome exterior was washed away by it and robbed of its terror. His hard expression became soft and somehow somnambulistic as he sang - despite the scars, despite the beak, he now suddenly looked ... good. And his voice. This voice was really magic. He sang of battlefields and death, of God and insight, and one felt that he not only spoke the words but lived them. He was tragic and ... sublime at the same time. His playing was good even when his guitar strings snapped - he could adjust his playing within two seconds to the increasingly limited acoustic spectrum. This was something that even musicians with decades of experience had trouble with. He did it ... instinctively. The video came to an end and the last note faded away. Silence from the auditorium. But a silence with a different quality. Still stunned ... but awestruck. Stunned because of the gargoyle on stage - awestruck because he could play like that and had such a voice. The applause, alienatingly enthusiastic for a club with late-night drunks and big-city chronically jaded patrons, was as raucous and enthusiastic as she'd ever heard anywhere. And the video showed Dante smiling. And that, too, despite the beak and the scars, looked sympathetic - indeed, handsome.
"By God, that guy is a total package," the bassist muttered.
She pulled her cell phone out of her pocket and dialed a number she hadn't called in months. She really only called when she needed money. For a long time the conversations were about nothing else and all sides were tired. She looked at the clock. Two o'clock in the morning. So eight o'clock over there. That was convenient. Even on Saturdays he would be awake now and check La Reppublica like EVERY morning for flaws that had escaped his employees in the previous meetings so that he could thoroughly wash these clever heads on Monday.
The ringing lasted a little eternity. Then the voice that had been telling her since she was a child to do something with her life and that had been telling her for eight years to come back home answered.
"Mauro? Pronto!" Sounded gruffly from the receiver, visibly disgruntled at the intrusion.
The bassist smiled broadly and she knew the man 3500 miles away heard the smile as she spoke.
"Ciao, papà. Sono io, Rita. Ho un video per te che farà notizia. In tutto il mondo, ma soprattutto in Italia. Potrebbe anche attirarmi a casa … se giochiamo bene le nostre carte."
Ria/Rita translation: "Hi dad. This is Rita. I have a video for you that will make headlines. Worldwide but especially in Italy. Might even lure me back home... if we play our cards right."
I don't think you'll ever read this, Rita. But Fiore (Dante with me) will always be yours. You created him just like Luca and Eva. That's why you're in the story, too, of course.
Those were two special chapters for me. I hope you can see that. And I know, surely even gifted musical geniuses can't adjust their playing to broken strings during a song. For sure some things are not right. I never played a musical instrument (after a tragic accident with a triangle in second grade. The teacher just shouldn't have been standing so close to me - I'm still sorry today, really, Mrs. Kliewer.)
But music (any form of artistic expression) can lift the soul and make the heart light. That I know. However, hardly think Tony Dracon will be cool with letting his new gargoyle go. Let's see what Dante makes of this.
Thanks for reading Q.T.