A Beast in Venice: (Literary Horror set in Venice) (21 page)

THE LITTLE WOMAN KNOCKED just after sunrise. Pale orange light shone through the edges of the shutters. The woman entered the room with a tray of food.

“
Buongiorno
,” the woman said as she placed the tray on the table near the window.

“
Buongiorno
,” Rose said. No reason to be mean to this poor woman; Rose had taken a number of women’s studies classes and was painfully aware of the plight of servant women in this era. They were often beaten and sometimes raped, and when they showed up pregnant without the benefit of wedlock, dismissed in disgrace.

The woman opened the shutters onto a clear, sunny day and spent several minutes getting the fire going.

As she left, Rose thanked her. The woman did not respond but simply closed the door.

She got out of bed, put on the robe provided (pale green silk with salmon-colored embroidery), and went to the table. The tray contained plates of poached eggs, fruit, bread, jam, and a pot of tea. She poured the tea and sat down. In spite of her agitation at being held prisoner, she was hungry.

As she ate, she took stock of the scenery out the window. For the first time, she noticed a formal garden behind the house. After breakfast she would explore it and see if there was a way out. Although Charles had told her she could go at any time, she feared simply walking through the front door. She didn’t know why, but her better judgment told her not to do it.

The clothing she was wearing when she had been kidnapped had been cleaned and pressed and lay on a bench at the foot of the bed. She washed in a basin of warm water the woman had prepared, then got dressed.

The door to her room was unlocked. She opened it slightly and peered out. No one there. The house was silent. She stepped out and walked down the hall. After a short distance she came to a wide staircase leading down to the first floor. At the bottom was a spacious foyer and the front entrance. On the opposite side of the foyer stood an array of doors opening onto the garden.

No one was about, so she stepped out onto a gravel path that led through the manicured grounds.

An elaborate fountain stood in the middle of the garden, water jetting from dolphins and centaurs with panpipes. A row of low sculptured hedges led off to a group of hedges ten feet in height. They formed a solid wall. She walked along it for some distance until she came to an opening. A maze.

BRIGHAM TRIED TO CARRY ON in spite of Rose’s disappearance, so he went forward with the visit from the gallery. The owner, Giorgio, was a man of about thirty-five, much younger than Brigham expected. He brought with him a young man and a young woman, both of whom looked art-snobby. The young man wore his hair closely cropped, a leather jacket, yellow scarf, tight jeans, and pointy shoes. The woman was dressed entirely in black to match her long, black hair and wore large white-framed glasses. They regarded Brigham briefly and scanned his studio as though they had never seen anything like it. A disheveled old man in the midst of a right chaotic studio. Mr. Todd was with them, looking his regular bald-headed self.

“
Very interesting,” Giorgio said, standing before a work in progress. “You were right, Mr. Todd. Very colorful. Energetic.”

The young people smiled faintly.

“
Brigham has made a couple of sales recently,” Mr. Todd said. “Very tidy sums.”

“
Is that right?”

“
Yes, sir,” Brigham said. “There is definitely a market for this type of work.”

The young people, who had moved off to another part of the studio, laughed quietly in front of Pink Jesus.

“
Can I get you something to drink?” Brigham asked.

“
Coffee would be great,” Giorgio said.

“
I’d like a spritz,” the young man said.

Brigham was at the counter making coffee. Oh, the things that went through his mind. But he kept his mouth shut, not really knowing who in the fuck these two people were. “I’m sorry, this bar doesn’t serve spritz. You want gin or scotch, you’re in luck. Maybe even red wine, but—”

“
That’s okay,” Mr. Todd interjected, having had firsthand experience with Brigham’s wit and charm.

“
Red wine would be great,” the woman said.

Brigham gave them each a glass of wine and Giorgio his coffee.

“
Great work,” Giorgio said, “but I don’t know if I can sell it.”

B
righam felt the blood rush to his face.

“
As I told you,” Mr. Todd said, “Brigham has made two large sales in the past two days.”

Giorgio gestured as if to say, “I heard you, but I still don’t know.”

Mr. Todd’s interruption gave Brigham time to cool off. “I did some research on your gallery. It’s an important gallery, and I would be proud to be associated with it. This work is in line with what you sell but not like any of the others.”

G
iorgio tightened his lips.

“
That’s right,” Mr. Todd said. “It’s consistent with the other artists you represent, but unique. Original.”

G
iorgio sipped his coffee.

“
I love it,” said the young woman.

B
righam raised his brow.

“
I agree,” said the young man.

G
iorgio put his coffee down and stood, his left hand supporting his right elbow, right hand on his chin. “I have too many artists as it is.”

“
Yes, you do,” said the young man. “You need to pare down and get some new blood.”

P
erhaps Brigham had misjudged this lad.

“
Hmm,” Giorgio said, nodding. “Could I take pictures of your paintings? I need to give this some thought.”

“
I’ll do better than that,” Brigham said. “Take two paintings—”

“
I don’t do consignment,” Giorgio said.

B
righam held up his hand. “I’m not asking you to. All I want you to do is take them with you, see how they look, and you’ll have them to show whoever it is you need to consult with.”

“
Well—”

“
You decide not to represent me, stick them in a corner, and I’ll come get them myself.”

“
Great idea,” said Mr. Todd.

G
iorgio was quiet for a moment. “All right. I’ll take them and get back to you in a day or so.”

“
Wonderful,” Brigham said. “Take your pick.”

ROSE STEPPED INTO THE COOL GREEN world of the labyrinth. She had to go left or right. Brigham had a rule: when in doubt, go right. This rule proved to be wrong on all but the rarest occasions, so she went left.

The sun still sat low in the morning sky and hit only the very tops of the hedge with pale orange light. A faint mist coated the grassy floor of the maze. Rose turned to see the view behind her so she would recognize it coming from the other direction. Better to go back to the entrance than come back to her last position. This was the same technique she used to learn her way around Venice, which itself is a maze. She didn’t fancy getting lost, and she didn’t know how large it was.

She repeated this process a couple of times but stopped doing it because she felt comfortable that the maze was not so large, and she could easily find her way out. She moved through, turning a corner, coming to a dead end, turning around, and continuing in the other direction. Whenever she came to an intersection, she turned left.

The sun climbed to shine into the maze so that each path was partially in sun and partially in shade, which indicated which direction was south.

After a time, she realized she was lost. Of course. This was a maze, and that’s what they’re for. If only she could climb up and have a look to see where she was relative to the exit. The hedges, however, although large, would not support climbing. She stood, turning in all directions, but it looked the same. She sat in a sunny corner to rest and to contemplate what to do next.

The sky was cloudless blue. A small blackbird with a yellow beak landed not far from her and began to peck at the grass.

“Hello there,” she said.

The bird pecked twice, throwing bits of grass to the side with a jerky motion and stopped to look about for danger. It repeated the process several times, then flew to the top of the hedge and sang a beautiful song.

“Aren’t you lucky?” she said. “I wish I could just fly out of here.”

From a distance came a voice. “
Signora
?”

It was the woman who tended to her. “
Sono qua
! I’m here!”

“
Dove
?” Where?

Rose was pretty good at Italian, but she didn’t know the words for maze, hedge, or bushes. What else? Trees. “I’m in the trees,” she shouted in Italian.

“Stay there! I’m coming!”

Rose stood. The bird flew off.

After a moment, the woman called again. “I’m coming. Keep talking so I can find you.”

Keep talking. Okay. No one has ever told her to keep talking. She began to recite
The Raven
. “Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary—”

“That’s good.”

The voice was getting closer.

“—Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore, While I nodded, nearly napping—”

“Keep it up! I’m close.”

“—suddenly there came a tapping, As of some one gently rapping—”

The woman appeared around a corner. “Ah, there you are.”

“I’m glad to see you,” Rose said.

“
Che cosa fa
?” the woman asked. “What are you doing?”

“I was curious about the…” She waved her arm to indicate the maze.

“
Il labirinto
.”

“
Sì
.”

“No, it’s very dangerous.”

“I see that.”

“You would never have gotten out alone. I know the way.
Andiamo
.”

As they walked through the narrow paths, Rose asked the woman what year it was. She looked at Rose with a knitted brow, then her expression softened, she smiled faintly, and nodded. “S
ettecento cinquantasei
.” 1756.

“You know I’m not from this time, don’t you.”

I
t was not a question.

T
he woman said nothing.

XVII

The bells chimed midnight as Brigham arrived at Charles’s house. He was admitted to the courtyard, where Charles was waiting. As they approached the bricked-in door with the screaming head, it opened and then shut behind them with the sound of brick sliding over stone, like a mausoleum door.

Charles led him down a long corridor. A light shining from behind sent their shadows ahead, long and thin, like giant men from another planet. Things that Brigham couldn’t rightly see scurried away as they passed, but caught in fleeting glimpses they looked like pigs with the heads of men. Brigham and Charles walked silently through the shadowy light to stone steps leading down into darkness.

Pale eyes followed them from below, moving away as they approached. At the bottom, a strip of pavement ran along an underground canal, which disappeared into the blackness. A low, vaulted brick ceiling arched overhead. Rats plunged into the water and swam rapidly into the void as they passed. Moaning and crying echoed faintly in the distance.

In a cold and gloomy chamber, where Brigham once again smelled raw meat, Charles lit a candelabra and held it up, throwing ghastly shadows as it revealed perhaps twenty human forms, hanging upside down, skinned, but alive. Stark light cast sinew and veins on bare, red musculature in high relief. Some of the people so detained whimpered. He pitied the living carcasses. Was this what Charles had to offer him? He needed to get out of here. Where would he go? How to get out?

“A bit of a shock, isn’t it?” Charles said.

Brigham found it impossible to push enough air through his dry throat to speak. Finally, his voice weak and shaky, he said, “I wasn’t expecting this.”

Charles nodded.

A man came in and cut the throats of two of the skinned. The blood drained into the canal and flowed slowly away as a black cloud in dark water. Brigham staggered as the blood rushed from his head.

“I should have warned you,” Charles said, clasping his hands together in front of him as if in prayer.

One of those hanging began to speak, begging to be killed. Not quite the sociopath he envisioned himself, Brigham longed to help the beggar for death and felt pity for him. As they moved past, one of the tortured grabbed Brigham’s leg and said, “Kill me,” in an airy voice raw from pain and thirst. Two men quickly appeared from the darkness with clubs and beat the man until, screaming in agony, he let go. They continued to minister to him in this way until he became silent.

Brigham shook from fright and the chill damp. They continued through the chamber and out the opposite side where it met up again with the subterranean canal.

“I see you are afraid,” Charles said, “or at least shocked by what you have seen.”

Brigham didn’t respond but continued to stare straight ahead, pale as bone.

“You see, lad, eternal life comes with a price. It is expensive. Its cost gives even the stoutest heart pause, but the true seeker of life will accept it. Look around us. You see death and the machinery of death. Unimaginable pain and agony.

“I am the high priest of death and human suffering. My students were the Romans and the Nazis and the Japanese. Everything medieval man knew of torture, I taught him. Every atrocity the Japanese practiced during the war, the skinning alive, crucifixion, whatever disgusting acts you can think of that those savages committed, I taught them. Oh, they were fertile ground. Their beastliness, their utter brutality, their barbarism and depravity shocked even me. But it was I who showed them. I taught the Apache, Iroquois, Comanche, and all the tribes. Do you know those bastards would skin their enemies with clam shells, one little bit at a time? They thought nothing of skinning a man, cutting off his genitals, and then roasting him alive over an open flame. And don’t get me started on the Chinese. Have you ever heard of death by a thousand cuts? They tie the wrongdoer to a post and then start cutting pieces off him. They start with his breasts, then the meat on his arms and legs, and… well, do you think the bloody Chinese thought of that? No, dear boy.”