A Beast in Venice: (Literary Horror set in Venice) (37 page)

“Somehow that doesn’t make me feel any better.”

Lorenzo smiled. The light shined off his black hair, and the fire reflected in his dark glasses. “It’s not about making you feel good. It’s about our survival.”

Brigham stood. “I’ve got to be going. I have a busy day tomorrow.”

Lorenzo got to his feet also. “By all means. Until next time.”

“I hope there is no next time. If you like my work, I’m being represented by a gallery in Rome. Otherwise, I think you and I should stay away from each other.”

“Fair enough.”

BRIGHAM AND ROSE STOOD in the middle of the gallery in Rome viewing his paintings, which hung ready for the opening of the exhibition. Although he had cut his hair, it still looked as if he had combed it with a hand mixer. Clad in a wrinkled white linen shirt, a charcoal-gray jacket that was in style five years ago, faded jeans, and rust-colored suede loafers, he looked like a bum compared to Rose, who sparkled in a long black dress and elaborate jewelry made of red Murano glass.

“Your paintings look wonderful,” Rose said. “This is going to be a very successful exhibition.”

Brigham swallowed a mouthful of coffee. “I hope so, but I don’t really have any faith in it.”

“Ten minutes,” one of the artsy-looking gallery snobs said.

“Sure you do,” Rose said. “You’re just nervous.”

“That’s an understatement.”

Mr. Todd came through the door. “How’s the star of the show?”

“Scared shitless,” Brigham said. He hadn’t told Rose about Mr. Todd’s interest in the prostitute. That would forever be a secret between himself and Mr. Todd.

One of the gallery people came from a back room to unlock the front door. “Curtain’s going up,” he said.

A parade of sophisticatos came in, most of whom went straight for the wine and cheese, then moved around leisurely, studying the pictures. The woman who had accompanied the gallery owner to Brigham’s studio came over to him. Dressed entirely in black, with a deep tan, long, straight black hair, white glasses, and the obligatory big scarf piled around her neck, she was a typical Roman. She brought with her a few people who wanted to talk to Brigham. They chatted animatedly and asked the usual stupid questions about the paintings.

One picture in particular got their attention. It consisted of scribbles of orange, blue, and green painted over a few wide swaths of a liver-colored wash.

“I really like this,” one of the wine-and-cheese-eating art patrons, a woman, said. “What do you call it?” she asked, bending over to read the label on the wall next to it.

“Whore’s Blood.”

“Oh my,” the woman said, studying the picture. “Very powerful. I must have it.” She went over to Giorgio, the owner, and in a few moments there appeared a round red sticker on the wall next to the title, indicating it had been sold. That looked awfully good. During the next couple of hours, several more dots appeared. By the end of the evening about half the paintings had sold. Everyone was glowing with happiness.

Brigham stood around looking like the Bohemian he was, chatting all artist-like to the patrons of art who came to see this new and original work. They loved to try to put an intellectual face to the non-intellectual paintings of a drunkard and social parasite. They might have been able to guess the drunkard part–after all, he was a painter–but they had no idea the parasite he had been. The lovers of art talked to him about choice of color, deep philosophical and political meanings in the work (which didn’t exist), as well as making comparisons to other painters, which Brigham hated. But he made nice with them, and indulged them to the benefit of his pocketbook.

“Seems you have broken in,” Mr. Todd said.

“That would be nice,” Brigham said. “It’s not easy to do. But this gallery knew what they were doing. I gave each painting a provocative title, and someone wrote up some art-speak bullshit that made the patrons think they were getting something profound and meaningful. Little do they know... And I owe it all to you.”

Mr. Todd smiled, holding up his hand to fend off the praise. “You
do
owe me a lot, my friend, but it all boils down to the work. All the silly description and provocative titles in the world are nothing without quality work behind it.”

“That’s not what I have observed,” Brigham said. “I’ve seen a lot of bullshit… Well, we covered this in our interview, didn’t we?”

“Indeed.”

Mr. Todd motioned to one of the paintings. “I noticed this one is different from the rest. Are you going in a new direction?”

“Yes.”

“I’m not sure that’s a good idea. Patrons like consistency in their artists. Galleries are reluctant to carry someone they think is changing direction or who hasn’t settled in.”

“I know, but I had to display this one. It’s the first work I did after resolving my… problems.”

“It is quite nice,” Mr. Todd said. “What do you call it?”

“Freedom.”

Mr. Todd held up his glass of prosecco. “Well, then. To Freedom.”

A STRING QUARTET PLAYED in a shady corner of the garden, and the table was set for a feast. The weather had turned unseasonably warm, and Brigham and Rose decided to have a garden party to celebrate the success of the show and Brigham’s return to humanity. In attendance were Mauro, his wife, and Mr. Todd and his wife. Brigham had the grill going and was about to cook some steaks. Mauro stood next to him, drinking a glass of wine.

“You ever see one of these things in operation?” Brigham asked him, pointing to the grill with tongs.

“Of course, we grill a lot.”

“But about all you can get in this Godforsaken country is wood charcoal. Nobody in Venice sells briquettes. I have to go to the mainland, and they cost a bloody fortune.”

Brigham poked the fire with a stick to even out the coals.

“Don’t they have wood charcoal where you come from?” Mauro asked.

“Yeah, but we use mainly briquettes.” He put the grate over the coals. “They burn slower and more evenly. And these wood chunks spark and explode. I’m gonna burn the place down.”

Mauro sipped his wine. “That’s pretty much all we use.”

Brigham ran a wire brush over the grate and wiped it with a paper towel soaked with olive oil. “The wood is okay, but it burns hot and fast. Gotta pay attention.”

The musicians played one of the Opus 18 quartets by Beethoven.

“You hear that?” Brigham asked.

“Yeah, pretty nice,” Mauro said.

“That’s Beethoven, son. Don’t get no better.”

Brigham grabbed two large T-bone steaks, coated in salt, pepper, and every herb he could find, and tossed them on the grill to the glorious sound and smell of meat sizzling over hot coals. “You ever see better pieces of meat?”

“No, they’re beautiful.”

“What’s the story on the meat?” Rose asked, putting her arms around Brigham.

“Don’t fool with the cook,” Brigham said. “I reckon about fifteen minutes.”

“This is a nice little group of musicians you found,” she said. “Where’d you get them?”

“I saw them by the Frari and got them to come here at a most fair and reasonable price.”

“They’re wonderful.”

“Thanks. I told them to come with an all-Beethoven program.”

“Is there another composer?”

“Not that I can think of.”

She laughed. “Don’t forget about the meat.”

“Oh, please.”

“Fine. I’ll leave you and your friend here to the task and mingle with the other guests.”

He pointed at her with a pair of tongs. “That’s the idea.”

Mauro, who had gone off to get more wine, came back over with the bottle and a glass. “You want some wine?”

Brigham stared at the wine, then raised his eyes to Mauro. “I swore off booze, but there’s no reason to get nutty about it.” He gestured toward the glass for Mauro to pour wine into it.

“You sure?”

“Why tempt a brother if you’re not going to cooperate?”

Mauro began to pour the wine.

“There’s a good boy.” He sipped the wine. “Oh, that’s good.”

“Take it easy, though. Rose will blame me if you get drunk.”

Brigham gestured toward Mauro with the tongs. “And you
will
be to blame.”

Brigham stood without speaking for a moment, then tossed the wine into the bushes. “Never mind. I can’t do it.”

Mauro dropped his gaze, then looked up at Brigham. “Sorry to tempt you.”

“No problem. It was a good test. Such temptations will be around me all the time.”

“Not going to be easy.”

“I can hack it. Now, bring me some pineapple juice, if you don’t mind.”

“Coming up.”

Mauro brought over a glass. “Don’t you think you should turn the meat?”

Brigham blinked at him. “Do I tell you how to row that funny-looking boat of yours?”

Mauro chuckled. “No.”

“Then leave the grilling to me. I am a professional.” He turned the meat. The steaks sizzled loudly, sending up a plume of smoke and flame. He put the cover on the grill to quash the fire.

Mr. Todd came over. “I see you’re an artist in more ways than one.”

“Yes sir, I am.”

“I’ll have mine rare,” Mr. Todd said.

“Me, too,” Mauro said.

“That’s good, because the chef serves the meat rare at this establishment. Now you boys stand back. I’m gonna turn the meat ninety degrees to add some nice grill marks.” He turned the meat and covered the grill.

“You know,” Mr. Todd said to Brigham, “you’ve taught me a lot.”

“Have I?”

“Indeed—”

“I love it when you Brits say ‘indeed.’”

“Thanks, but you really have.”

“And what is that?”

Brigham took the cover off the grill in a pillar of smoke and inspected the meat.

“One thing is perseverance.”

“Really? I’m a quitter.”

Mr. Todd shook his head. “No, you’re not. It’s a big act you put on, but you have been slugging away at your painting for years without any real or meaningful feedback.”

“That’s true.”

The quartet took a break. A blackbird sang a complex and tuneful song in the tree next to them.

“But you kept at it.”

“What else was I gonna do?”

Mr. Todd smiled and ran his hand over his hairless head. “Quit. Sell insurance. Do what you did before. What myriad generations have done before you. Just keep cranking away at whatever doomed endeavor they established for themselves.”

“Meat’s done,” Brigham said. “Hand me that plate.”

Mauro handed him a large plate.

Brigham took the meat from the grill. “Perseverance and hard work pay off, although it’s not always clear that they will.”

Brigham served the meat, cutting it into thin slices, placing a few on each plate, and drizzling them with olive oil.

 They all sat and filled their glasses. Brigham, sitting at the head of the table, raised his glass. “I should make a big speech. I had one planned. But there is too much to say. So, to spare you all, I’ll simply say,
salute
.!”

T
hey all raised their glasses. “Salute!”

The string quartet took up their instruments and began to play.

ABOUT THIS EDITION

This novel was originally published in the summer of 2014 under the title,
A Beast in Venice
. The story of this edition is materially the same, with the exception of the ending, which had been deleted in the first version.

Outside of small organizational changes, such as chapter divisions and the location of certain scenes, the main purpose of this edition is to restore the author’s original wording.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Michael E. Henderson lives in Venice, Italy, with his wife. In previous lives he practiced law in Maryland, and served as a reactor operator on a nuclear submarine.

Visit his website:
www.MichaelHendersonNovelist.com