A Beast in Venice: (Literary Horror set in Venice) (3 page)

“Let me ask you something,” Brigham said. “This is going to sound strange, but you know everything about Venice.”

“What is it? You look worried.”

“Promise not to laugh?”

Mauro’s product-laden hair glistened in the sun. “I promise.
Dimmi
. Tell me.”

“When I was out walking last night I saw a man walk through a solid brick wall.”

“Are you sure he didn’t just go down a narrow calle?”

“I’m sure. I went over to look. There was just a door that had been bricked up. That’s where he went. You ever see or hear about anything like that in Venice?”

Mauro grinned, his white teeth contrasting with the tan of one who works in the Venetian sun all day. “How many beers did you have?” 

“You sound like my wife.” Brigham gave him the finger. “I had one stinkin’ martini.”

“I’m just bustin’ your
coglioni
. I’ve never seen it myself, but there are legends.”

“Really? Do you know them?”

“Sure, but I know a woman—”

The gondolier in charge of who got fares called Mauro’s number.

“Gotta go.” He waved to Brigham and shouted over his shoulder as he hurried to the dock. “We’ll talk about this later.”

THE CANALS AT THIS TIME OF DAY were still, and in shadow. The sun highlighted the rusty reds and yellow ochers of the buildings, casting brilliant reflections on the water, the surface of which shone and glimmered like mercury. Every turn and every corner reminded him that he was in the most beautiful city in the world. The sun lit the ancient brick, and its light shimmered in the hazy mist over the canals, dancing off the houses and the undersides of bridges. During the few times he had been out of Venice in the past few years, all he could think about was getting back. He loved every stone of the city.

He reflected on the decision to move to Venice. They had come here to escape the destructive juggernaut of the ordinary world. 

Back in the States it had been difficult for Brigham to find the time or space to pursue his passion for oil painting. He had painted since high school and had hoped to study art in college, but his parents wouldn’t pay for it. His dad railed against the crap passing for art at the time and the sort of people who were artists. There was also no money in it, his dad had said. So he studied business then went to law school, abandoning his dream of being an artist.

He did manage to take a couple of drawing and painting classes, and an art history class, but that was it. After a number of years of working and raising a family, he took private lessons to hone his skills.

In the US, Brigham had painted in a corner of the basement. Here, he had a real studio, consisting of two rooms. One opened onto the street, where he could display paintings to the public, and the other was in the back, where he painted. Both had bare brick walls with cement floors and large wooden beams. Outfitted with a sofa, a couple of leather chairs, old wooden tables, a few easels, and a small kitchen area, the place was comfortable and more than adequate for him to work. The easels, each with its own worktable covered with paints, brushes, solvents, and rags, were placed strategically around the room, all with different views. Dozens of paintings, some finished, others unfinished and drying, leaned against the walls. The sweet, piney smell of turpentine filled the air.

Back at his studio, Brigham sat on the sofa, staring at two blank canvases. For his café exhibition he needed two new paintings, and he had only a few days in which to do them. They had to be something special. Something new and original. But his mind was a blank. Painting with a deadline was new to him. There was only one thing to do.

He sat with a glass of wine, considering the canvases, but they were not revealing anything. He stared at them. He had another glass of wine. Still nothing. After the third glass, the muse came spinning into his mind, and he began to put paint onto the canvas.

III

Brigham and Rose approached the gate to Charles’s apartment, carrying a bottle of prosecco. Brigham pushed the doorbell. The gate buzzed and clanked open.

Rose stepped into the courtyard leading to the house. “Are you sure you want to spend your birthday with people you don’t know?”

“Yes, we talked about this. I think Charles has money, and he’s shown an interest in my art. Anyway, I don’t plan to spend the whole night here. After an hour or two we can leave, and continue the festivities at home.”

“All right, but behave yourself.”

He raised his hand. “Please, I know how to act in polite society.”

Rose shook her head.

They crossed the courtyard on a stone path to the main part of the house. Charles greeted them warmly, saying, “
Ciao, ciao
,” and kissing them each on both sides of the face, as is the custom in Italy. Brigham could do without this practice. He preferred other men to be at least at arm’s length. Charles took their coats and brought them into the largest room Brigham had seen in Venice, outside of those found in a palazzo. Paintings and drawings, clearly medieval and Renaissance, mounted in gilt frames, covered the walls. Others, not yet hung, leaned against the walls around the room. Busts of Roman emperors, and ancient Chinese bronzes stood on pedestals in the corners. Frescoes and elaborate plasterwork decorated the ceilings, many of them trimmed in gold leaf.

A handful of people sat on large sofas arranged in a square, sipping prosecco and munching tidbits from small silver bowls on the coffee table. So far, so good—decent surroundings, good booze, and salty snacks.

Charles introduced Brigham and Rose to a group of his friends, referring to Brigham as a “fabulous painter” and to the others in a similar manner; for example, Deborah, the wonderful writer, and Augusto, the exquisite conductor.

Brigham liked being called fabulous and enjoyed being in the presence of wonderful and exquisite others. Self-doubt and uncertainty had crept into his work lately, making it difficult for him to paint without jamming his mind full of wine. Maybe he would go home after this and be fabulous the rest of his life.

Perhaps he would talk to the exquisite conductor. In his youth, Brigham had, above all else, wanted to be a musician and composer. He had written music and applied to conservatories but had been rejected; they insisted he show talent and musical ability.

Augusto looked as if he belonged in a Bugs Bunny cartoon—aged about eighty with a big mop of white hair, a long black coat, and a frilly white shirt. He appeared friendly enough, so Brigham approached him. He was sitting in a large leather chair.

“I like being introduced as fabulous,” Brigham said, attempting to break the ice.

Augusto smiled. “Yes, it’s always that way with Charles. I’ve been fabulous too.”

His accent and tone of voice reminded Brigham of Cary Grant.

“I think exquisite trumps fabulous,” Brigham said. “You have been promoted.”

“Seems so,” Augusto said, bowing his head.

“Charles says you’re a conductor.”

Augusto put his nose in the air. “Yes.”

“What kind of music do you conduct?” Brigham hoped to Christ it wasn’t show tunes or he would have to go talk to the wonderful writer.

“Classical, mainly symphonic, early to mid-twentieth century. I also conduct opera.”

“Fascinating. I’m a huge fan of classical music, particularly Beethoven.”

“Oh?”

Brigham detected an air of indifference. “I also like opera, but I’m not an expert. Have you made any recordings?”

“Yes, a few. You can hear snippets of them on my website.”

“I’ll have to listen to them.” Brigham wrote down Augusto’s name and website in the small notebook he always carried. “I think Beethoven was the father of modern music,” he said, pulling a topic out of his ass.

Augusto smiled as one does when hearing bullshit from someone too dumb to know it’s bullshit. “There are people who hold that opinion.”

This wasn’t the “Amen” he had expected, and it was said in a tone that meant, “Yeah, you’re an idiot. What do I care what you think?” This was the point in any conversation when one either shuts up and moves along or continues to bore those within earshot. Never talk to someone on a subject about which they know more than you. This would have been a good time for Brigham to look over at his wife, who was holding court with another guest, and make like she were calling him. But no. He continued.

“A friend of mine,” Brigham said, “once told me that Debussy was the father of modern music.”

“Yes, Debussy did a lot to advance it.”

“I told him he was mistaken. It was Beethoven. I told him that the French shouldn’t be given staff paper and a pencil at the same time. I lent him a copy of Beethoven’s
Grosse Fuge
. He listened to it, and the following week when he gave it back to me he told me I was right.”

Augusto sniffed. “Really?”

Brigham nodded while swallowing a mouthful of wine.

“Perhaps Charles forgot to mention that I studied in Paris.”

“Ah.”

“The last opera I conducted was
Manon
, by Massenet.”

“Wonderful piece.” Brigham’s face felt warm.

Augusto rose from the chair. “If you’ll excuse me, I see a friend I haven’t spoken to in a while.”

“Of course.”

Good job, son. Maybe now you can make an impression on the wonderful writer.

Deborah was in her mid-fifties and obviously having a female mid-life crisis. Men usually dealt with this time in their lives by buying expensive toys. Women, however, dealt with it by getting jacked-up haircuts and dressing in exotic clothes in an attempt at self expression. Her hair was cut to a gray stubble, and she wore layers of thin, gauzy material in bright oranges, reds, and yellows. An array of silvery bangles on her arms and legs and around her neck topped it all off. She sounded like Santa’s frickin’ sleigh when she moved. Her expression said, “I care about all the right issues, and I’m smarter than you are.” Normally, he would have shied away from this woman, but the prosecco gave him the courage to approach her. He actually found the look interesting and attractive. Artistic.

“If my memory serves, you’re Deborah.”

“Yes,” she said with a faint smile, cocking her head to the side in the manner of the intellectual.

“The wonderful writer.”

“Right, isn’t that fun? Charles is great,” she said with a larger smile, now exposing a set of crooked teeth.

“Yes, I haven’t felt this good about myself in years.”

“You’re the fabulous painter.”

Candlelight glinted off the silver trinkets on her bracelet.

Brigham bowed. “That is correct. At your service.”

“What kind of painting do you do?” 

“I don’t like to put a label on it, but it would best be described as abstract, or abstract expressionist, although it’s not strictly expressionist.”

She sipped her wine. “Oh, I like that type of art. You will have to show me your work sometime.”

Perhaps he had misjudged this wonderful writer because of her cover. Anyone who wanted to see his paintings, and actually asked to do so, was a person of obvious taste, refinement, and culture. “That would be great. Here’s my card. Take a look at my website, and we’ll arrange a time for you to come over.”

“Great.”

“By the way,” he said, reaching into his inside breast pocket and taking out a small flier, “I’m having a small exhibition at a café. The opening, or inauguration, as they call it here, is in a few days. Stop by.”

She took the flier and examined it briefly. “I will, thanks.”

“There’ll be free prosecco.”

“Now, that’s how you get impoverished writers to go.”

He laughed. “What sort of things do you write?” He took a handful of sugar-coated almonds from a silver bowl.

“I’m a freelance journalist. Just got back from India.”

“I’ve never been there, although I hear it’s unbelievable.”

Her bangles jingled as she adjusted a bracelet. “That’s a good word for it. It’s certainly like no other place I’ve been.”

“What was the article about?” he asked through a mouthful of nuts and sugar.

Her smile left and her brow wrinkled. “The plight of women there.”

“What plight in particular? Lack of education? Unequal pay?”

She shook her head. “No, much more serious than that.” She glanced around the room as if looking for a way out. “For example, if a woman does something to bring dishonor to the family, she may be stoned to death, or burned alive.”

“Yeow, I had no idea.”

“Yes, it’s quite a problem. They call it ‘honor killing.’”

“Oh, I’ve heard about that. Horrible thing. Barbaric.”

She nodded seriously and sipped her wine. “Do you live in Venice?”

“Yes, my wife and I live near Piazzale Roma.”

“What brought you here?”

“We had visited many times and loved it. One day we decided life was short, and we should live in Venice.”

A woman came by with a tray of small hors d’oeuvres. They each took one.

“Wow, that’s a big move. What did you do in the US?”

“I practiced law.”

She dabbed the corner of her lips with a napkin. “What kind of law?”

“Criminal defense.”

Deborah reached for a small sandwich on a nearby table, jingling as she moved. “Very interesting. I thought of being a lawyer, but they have such a bad reputation.”

He nodded slowly. “Yes, we are held in low esteem. Wrongly so, I might add.” He took another handful of almonds.

“I always wondered how you could defend a criminal if you knew they were guilty.”

He dropped an almond on the floor, which landed in front of Deborah’s sandaled feet. Around each toe was a silver ring. How did she get those on there? “Guilt or innocence is irrelevant. The only thing that matters is what the State can prove.”

“I don’t think I could do that.”

“Oh, I’m sure you could. It’s a matter of–” Rose waved to him from across the room. “I’m sorry, I’m being hailed by my wife.”