Who's Gonna Take Care of Lucille? (eBook)
392 Seiten
Bookbaby (Verlag)
979-8-3509-8670-9 (ISBN)
Art Halperin is an author of humorous literary fiction that delves into the realms of music, love, cultural influences, and magic. He is an award-winning songwriter, producer, and musician who has been recognized as the last artist signed to CBS Hammond Records by John Hammond Sr., the legendary producer and talent scout who discovered numerous icons, such as Bob Dylan, Bruce Springsteen, Billie Holiday, and Aretha Franklin. When Art is not creating, he divides his time between New York and the Caribbean with his spouse, two daughters, and way too many guitars-including a prized Stratocaster gifted to him by Eric Clapton.
"e;Instruments are meant to be played, not displayed."e;Renowned Haitian American violinist Jean-Pierre Solomon is at the pinnacle of his career, yet despite his success, a deep sense of boredom gnaws at his soul. When blues legend B.B. King dies, Jean-Pierre is plagued by prophetic dreams in which King entrusts him with his beloved guitar, Lucille, and an unfinished song. While Jean-Pierre dismisses these visions of B.B. King and a white buffalo as crazy dreams, Kimana, his Lakota girlfriend, interprets them as a sign from the divine. Digging deeper into the significance of King's message, they conclude Lucille and the song were meant for another musician, prompting Jean-Pierre to set out on a quest to find the rightful recipient. His journey takes him from New York City to Chicago to the heart of Mississippi, where the blues runs deep in the veins of the Delta. In a world where instruments have souls and dreams carry messages from beyond, Jean-Pierre's life takes a dramatic turn from the mundane to the mystical. Rich with humor, magic, and a heartfelt reverence for the power of music, Who's Gonna Take Care of Lucille? swings between the sublime and the absurd, celebrating the universal language that connects us all to the unexpected harmonies of life.
Chapter four
From the hallway, a crack of light seeps into Jean-Pierre’s music room. The wooly head of a white buffalo calf peeks in. She blinks her large umber eyes, then pushes the door open with a brazen assurance. Inside, shadows cast by musical sculptures and figurines stretch long across the floor. Alabaster busts of Chopin, Bach, Beethoven, and Mozart emerge, their faces shift and glow like lunar phases.
In a lazy plod, the calf wanders in. Her hooves clomp on the hardwood floor. A few neon glow necklaces dangle from around her neck and light her way. She stops in front of a plush red velvet chair. Camouflaged as a cushion, Rosin is curled up on the seat. With the daintiness of a baby bull in a china shop, the calf sniffs her curiously. Rosin wakes with a sharp hiss, then pounces, only to ricochet off the calf’s side. She bolts from the room and flees down the hall. The freaked bovine stumbles backwards into a five-foot-tall statue of a violinist, hand-carved in Haiti. They crash to the floor and end up nose to nose. B.B. King ambles in carrying his guitar case. Wearing a red floral brocade tuxedo with a black bow tie, the larger-than-life superstar, now eighty-nine years old, stands above them. He rubs his chin. “How many times I got to tell you ’bout making a mess? Huh?” The white buffalo calf cowers away. B.B. lifts the statue back up and gently pats its wooden cheek. “There you go. Good as new.”
In the faint light, B.B. comes across a Tiffany table lamp. He pulls its small gold chain. The soft light reveals a haven of harmony. A mixture of two worlds—a blend of elegance and serenity. He takes a seat between a sculpture of Paganini and a golden cane palm. The calf circles a few times before she settles at B.B.’s feet, her bulky head hidden beneath the plant fronds. “All right, Miracle.” B.B. rubs her belly with his foot. “You remember your manners. You hear? I’m expecting a guest any minute now.”
Miracle lets loose a loud, low, drainpipe fart. B.B. recoils and fans the air. “Really?” He shakes his head, unlatches his guitar case and takes out his fabled guitar, Lucille. Miracle perks up. She thumps her bushy tail on the floor.
“Take it easy,” B.B. says. “You’re gonna wake the folks in the apartment below.” He plugs a curly black guitar cable into a Fender Twin amplifier and flips up both switches in back. The frosted, jewel-faceted glass light turns the room a grainy red. An illuminated framed cartoon on the wall depicts an irate customer shouting at a mechanic in an auto repair shop. “$500.00 for a tune-up! Who tuned it? Jean-Pierre Solomon?”
B.B. glances around the room. The presence of Molly Maid and feng shui loom. He’s impressed by the countless objects that fill the space. Not the possessions accumulated, but the overall absence of clutter. With years of endless touring, he’s well aware how filthy a home can get when there’s no one to care for it. On a mahogany coffee table, a framed family photo gleams from fresh Windex and rosy amp light. B.B. picks it up for a closer look. A young Jean-Pierre riding a rollercoaster appears to be the only one thrilled. With hands in the air, he’s sandwiched between a thirty-something, hanging-on-for-dear-life black woman and a curly headed white man with his eyes shut tight. He places the photo back down and looks at the one beside it—a teenage Jean-Pierre in his school uniform. Smiling for the camera, Jean-Pierre proudly holds his three-quarter-size violin. The inscription 1994, Port-au-Prince is stamped on the bottom of the frame.
B.B. loosens his bow tie and checks his gold Rolex. “He should’ve been here ten minutes ago. I wonder what’s keeping him?”
Miracle doesn’t care who’s coming or when they show up. She’s hungry. She eagerly waits for B.B. to feed her. Her bulbous eyes follow him as he moves to the fireplace. Displayed on the mantlepiece, beside a dozen antique metronomes, are four Grammy awards. Best Classical Instrumental Soloist Jean-Pierre Solomon—2010, 2011, 2013, 2014. B.B. opens a wood pyramid-case metronome and winds it up. He places it next to a Grammy. His foot taps along as he listens to it keep time. It’s hard to comprehend how much mileage these metronomes put on before Jean-Pierre won his first Grammy. As far as he knows, no one has ever thanked a metronome in an acceptance speech. Miracle gets up. She nudges B.B. with her head. B.B. scolds her, “I told you. You should have stayed in the field. You didn’t listen. Now you’re gonna have to be patient.”
B.B.’s words elicit a derisive rumble from Miracle’s belly. She scowls, shakes her head, and lets out a vile belch. B.B. pulls out his handkerchief and fans the air. “Mind your manners now, you hear?” He dabs the sweat from his brow, unbuttons his collar, goes to the window and beholds the beauty of Central Park submerged in honey-yellow moonlight. As he raises the window, he speculates his latitude must be twenty blocks north of his B.B. King Blues Club and sixty-six blocks south from the Apollo Theater. From the Hudson River, a damp wind blows in and scatters sheet music off an ornate music stand. Miracle licks the fallen papers with her blue tongue. B.B. shoves her away. The window slams down. He lifts it again, but it fails to stay up. On the music stand, B.B. finds a violin bow and uses it to prop the window open. The bow bends slightly under the strain but holds firm. As he stoops to gather the sheet music, the ceiling lights switch on.
In unison, B.B. and Miracle’s heads swing towards the door. Curled around the doorway, a long bare brown-skinned arm reaches in. Sleek fingers lay flat on the light switch. B.B. calls out, “Come in. You’re late enough already.”
Jean-Pierre’s index finger pushes the slider down to dim the lights. He steps in barefoot, carrying a demitasse cup and saucer. The rich aroma of freshly brewed espresso accompanies him into the room. Unfazed by B.B.’s rebuke, he casually asks in Creole, “Sak pasé, Monsieur King?”
B.B. answers, “N’ap boule.”
All those years of living in the States, you’d think Jean-Pierre would’ve changed. But ironically, no. “Island time” still pumps faithfully through his Caribbean blood. His musical timing is precise, while his be-there-on-time timing is pathetic. He takes a slow, satisfying sip from his cup. “Would you like one?”
“No, I can’t drink coffee at night. But thank you for asking.”
“Can I get you anything else?” He puts his cup down on the piano lid and collects his violin.
“No, I’m fine. Thank you. Please, sit.”
Jean-Pierre picks up a remote control and aims it toward the wall. A soft, golden glow accents the vast collection of vinyl records, literary works, and exotic plants that adorn his classic, floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. With a head bow and double twirl of his hand, he utters the word “Voilà” in a suave French accent. His timeless face and stunning green eyes confirm the varied looks B.B. noted in the photos. B.B. takes a seat. Miracle settles down beside his feet.
“What a magnificent animal. May I pet him?”
“He’s a she, and yes, you may. She likes her belly rubbed.”
Jean-Pierre bends down and pets her. “Ah oui, what a good girl. Oh yes you are.”
“That’s her sweet spot.” Miracle’s leg moves as though she’s riding a bicycle.
Jean-Pierre laughs. “You like that? You do. Don’t you? Uh, huh. What’s her name?”
“Miracle.”
“Miracle. Ma jolie petite fille.” Miracle lets out a few quick grunts. “Should I bring her some water? Some food? Must cost a bundle to feed. What does she eat?”
“She’s a grazer. A note-ivore.”
“A note-ivore?”
“Yes, she eats notes.”
“Notes? Like, musical notes?”
“That’s right.”
“The same old notes must get tiring for her.”
“Why? Is it for you?”
“Absolutely, some days more than others.”
As B.B. picks up Lucille, Miracle licks her rubbery lips and thumps her tail.
“Notes are nourishment.” B.B. plays some bluesy guitar riffs. “It’s up to you to make them tasty. She’s a tad hungry, so let’s get started.”
Jean-Pierre gives Miracle a kiss on both cheeks. “Bon appétit, Miracle.”
Opposite B.B., he pulls a chair close and opens his violin case. The glorious smell of aged wood mixed with piney resin permeates the air with rich memories. Focused like a Zen master, Jean-Pierre closes his eyes, and takes a long deep breath in through his nose. He purses his lips, exhales, then says, “Welcome. Welcome, B.B. Welcome, Miracle. Welcome to my sacred space.”
With great care, he lifts his delicate instrument from the case and grasps her smooth, slender maple neck. For a moment, he gazes at her in admiration. It’s remarkable how beautiful this 1713 Stradivarius still looks, despite her age. She appears frail beside Lucille, but that’s understandable. Lucille’s not three hundred years old, plus Lucille’s got...
| Erscheint lt. Verlag | 14.3.2025 |
|---|---|
| Sprache | englisch |
| Themenwelt | Literatur |
| ISBN-13 | 979-8-3509-8670-9 / 9798350986709 |
| Informationen gemäß Produktsicherheitsverordnung (GPSR) | |
| Haben Sie eine Frage zum Produkt? |
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