A Beast in Venice: (Literary Horror set in Venice) (10 page)

THE NEXT MORNING HE FELT RESTED. Better than he had in a long time. He had to go to the café to set up his exhibition, the opening of which would take place that evening at six o’clock. The venue was small and would fit only eight paintings, so it was only a matter of a couple of hours to set it up, which usually happened the morning of the opening.

Six o’clock came. The food was set out, and a couple of bottles of prosecco sat chilling in a bucket of ice. Brigham and Rose stood in the center of the room, each with a glass of the sparkling prosecco, waiting for the first guest. Classical music played quietly on the stereo.

“You look great,” Brigham said. “Very artsy, like you know what you’re talking about.”

Rose had on tight jeans, a black jacket, and a purple cashmere scarf. She could have worked in any gallery in Milan. 

“You be the saleswoman,” Brigham said. “These things will be gone in a few hours. You can sell snow to the Eskimos.”

“Stop it. I’m here for moral support.”

She brushed a speck from his jacket and straightened his collar. “You look good, too. Just be polite and talk about the deeper meaning of the pictures.”

“There isn’t any deeper meaning.”

“Make it up.”

At six fifteen, nobody had shown up.

“Where is everyone?” Brigham asked.

“Who did you invite?”

“Everyone I could think of, plus all the gallery owners in Venice.”

A customer who had been sitting at the outside table came in to pay. He looked around briefly, paid his bill, and left.

“Don’t worry,” she said. “It’s still early.”

“Yeah, they’ll be along. At least some of them.”

He poured another glass of prosecco.

“Don’t drink all the prosecco,” she said.

“Someone has to drink it. Here, have a sandwich. We’re going to have a fridge full of these things.”

She picked up a tramezzino and took a bite. “Oh, stop it. They’ll come.”

“I think there’s a conspiracy.”

She laughed. “Oh—”

“I even distributed notices to hotels. Walked around for hours.”

“I know you did,” she said, taking his hand. “Very ambitious. You

worked very hard. There are sure to be people coming.” An hour later, no one had come. “Wrap up the sandwiches. We’ll take them home,” Brigham said. Rose had the waiter cover the platter with plastic wrap.

“And you wonder why I drink,” he said.

“No, I know why.” She wrapped an arm around his waist and rested her head on his shoulder. “Let’s go. I’ll carry the platter.”

They left the café and started for home. A short distance away, Brigham tore off the plastic wrap. “Want another sandwich?”

“No, I’ve had enough.”

“Me too.” Whereupon he drew back to toss the platter into the canal.

“Brigham, stop!”

He pulled back. “You’re right, I paid for these. The least we can do is have a few sandwiches from it. What the fuck difference does it make? I’m a failure.”

She put her arms around him. “No, you’re not. You’re very talented.”

“Nobody was even curious to see what I had.”

“You didn’t really expect gallery owners to come by, did you? They told you that you would not show in Venice. Why would they bother?”

His expression darkened, and they continued on their way. “What about my friends?”

“I don’t know.” She shrugged. “Maybe they forgot.”

“All of them?”

She took his hand. “I don’t know. Let’s go home and watch a movie.”

“Mauro didn’t even come.”

“He’s got kids. Anyway, he saw your paintings at your studio.”

“But there was free food. And prosecco. He could have brought the whole neighborhood.”

She put her arm around him and guided him home.

ROSE MET MAURO’S WIFE, Paola, at a pastry shop just off Campo San Giovanni in Bragora. Rose already had a table outside the café with a cup of tea.

“Ciao, Paola,” Rose said, standing up to greet her. They embraced and kissed once on each cheek.

“Ciao, ciao. You look beautiful,” Paola said. “And I love your hair. Very classy.”

“Thank you. You always look great. How do you stay so thin?”

Paola smiled and took her seat. “I chase after two boys all day.”

Rose laughed. “That’ll do it.”

The waitress came out and Paola ordered a coffee.

“Poor Brigham,” Rose said as she picked up her teacup. “He had such a bad opening to his art show. No one came.”

Paola looked down and then said quietly, “I’m sorry we couldn’t make it. The kids—”

Rose held up her hand. “No, don’t worry, it’s all right. No need to apologize. We know how hard it is with kids, and Mauro has already seen Brigham’s paintings.”

Paola smiled. “Thank you for understanding. I wish we could have made it.”

“I’ll tell Brigham. He’ll appreciate it.”

“Can we have you over for dinner to make up for it?”

“We’d love to. We always love seeing your boys.”

The waitress delivered the espresso. Paola stirred sugar into it. “Please, do come. We haven’t seen you in a while, and the kids love you and Brigham. They talk about you all the time.” 

Rose smiled. “When were you thinking?” She sipped her tea.

“Tomorrow night? It’s Mauro’s night off.”

“Perfect. What can we bring?”

Paola waved her hand. “Nothing. Just bring yourselves.”

“No, Brigham won’t allow us to show up empty-handed.”

“A dessert, then?”

“Great, We’ll be there.”

“
ZIO
!” THE CHILDREN SHOUTED as Brigham and Rose entered Mauro and Paola’s apartment. “Uncle Bree-gam!”

“Don’t forget
Zia
Rose,” Paola said.

“Don’t worry, I’m used to it,” Rose said. “It’s always Brigham. From the fish guy in Campo Santa Margherita, to your kids. It’s almost as if I slip into the background when he’s around.”

“There’s a reason for that,” Brigham said. “With the fish guys, you’ve got to drink with them in the afternoon. When’s the last time you had a glass of wine with them?”

“Never,” Rose said.

“There you go.”

“How does that explain the children?” Rose said.

“You have to think at a kid’s level.”

Rose laughed. “Well, you’ve got that one licked.”

“Yes, he does,” Mauro said.

“You ought to know,” Brigham said.

Mauro and Paola had two boys, Matteo and Enzio. The former, the older of the two, was dressed like Spider-Man, and the latter like Superman.

“This is great,” Brigham said. “I’d like to see Superman fight Spider-Man.”

“Don’t encourage them,” Paola said. “They spend most of the day wrestling with each other. I want them to calm down.”

“
Zio
, do the trick with the pencil!” Matteo shouted excitedly.

Rose chuckled. “Brigham does not generate ‘calm down.’”

“Yeah!” Enzio shouted. “Make the pencil come out of your mouth!”

Mauro laughed.

“Okay, okay,” Brigham said. “Does anyone have an ordinary wooden pencil?” He scanned the room.

Spider-Man shouted, “I do, I do!” He ran to a small school-type desk, opened the top, and took out a pencil. “Here!”

He handed it to Brigham.

“Now, don’t try this for yourselves. You should never push anything into your ear.” 

Brigham put the pencil to his ear, moved it around as if working it to get it inside, then made it disappear. The children squealed with glee. He then put his hand in front of his chin and pulled the pencil out of his mouth. The boys shrieked with laughter.

“Coin trick!” they shouted in unison.

He showed them his hands. Nothing in them. He waved one hand over the other and produced a coin out of nowhere.

“How did you do that?” Superman asked with energetic excitement.

“Magic, my friend,” Brigham said.

Rose was shaking her head.

“Now make the coin disappear!” Spider-Man said.

“I don’t know. I might be out of magic.” Brigham held up his hands and shrugged.

“Please, please, please,” both children pleaded.

“All right.”

He showed them the coin, held it with one hand, took it with the other, and poof! It was gone.

“Where’d it go?” Superman shouted.

“I don’t know,” Brigham said. “Wait, here it is.” He made the coin come from Spider-Man’s ear.

The children jumped up and down, laughing uncontrollably.

“That’s enough,” Rose said. “Brigham the Great is out of tricks.”

“We want more, we want more,” the boys chanted.

“
Basta
,” Mauro said. “That’s enough. Let’s eat.”

Brigham learned early on that whenever one goes to an Italian’s home for dinner, one better arrive hungry and plan to leave on a stretcher. First came an antipasto of sliced meats and cheeses. Then came a first course of pasta: ravioli stuffed with pumpkin, topped with salt, pepper, grated Pecorino Romano cheese, and drizzled with a delightful, fruity extra virgin olive oil. Next was a pile of fried sardines with black olives followed by mixed grilled meats: sausage, pork chops, lamb chops, and chunks of beef tenderloin. All of this was washed down with vats of prosecco and refosco. For dessert, Rose had brought panna cotta, and Paola made coffee. The kids were put to bed, and the adults retired to the living room for the digestivo: grappa.

“That was one hell of a meal,” Brigham said, patting his stomach.

Rose nodded. “Yes, delicious.”

Paola smiled. “Thank you.”

Brigham leaned back with his tiny grappa glass. “You gondoliers sure know how to throw a dinner party.”

“I think it’s the best meal I’ve had in Venice,” Rose said.

“Same here,” Brigham said, “but I don’t think I’ll ever eat again.”

After a short time, Rose and Paola got up to go into the kitchen. Brigham and Mauro offered to help clean up, but the women wouldn’t hear of it.

“It’s easier for them to talk about us when we’re not in the same room,” Mauro said.

“It’s not always about you,” said Paola. “There are other people in the world to talk about.”

Brigham laughed. “You probably ought to be quiet,” he said to Mauro, “or you
will
be the topic of conversation. Be like me. Keep your mouth shut and your head down.”

Rose shook her head. “Now I’ve heard everything. Let’s go, Paola, before he says something that makes sense.”

When they were alone, Mauro said, “Brig, I’m sorry about the inauguration, but—”

Brigham held up a hand. “Don’t worry about it, it’s okay. You’ve got your hands full with the kids and all. And you’ve already seen the paintings. It’s not like it would have been any great revelation.”

“Still, I feel bad.”

“Forget it.”

“So now that we’re alone, what happened with that elixir?”  “I spilled it on Charles.”

“What did he do?”

“Nothing, really. He went into the bathroom to clean himself off, then he said he had to go.” Brigham sipped his grappa.

“Did he get sick or anything?”

“He turned pale, but that was it.”

“What do you think it means?”

Brigham shook his head. “I don’t know, but it doesn’t give me any more faith in this shroud eater theory of yours.”

“Did it actually touch his skin?”

“I’m sure it did. It got all over his pants.”

“Hmm.”

“I think we should forget the whole thing.” 

“No, Brig. They are finding more bodies in the canals every day. This is turning into a big problem.”

“I think I’ve got to lay low. I’m trying to get this artist thing going, and I probably just lost one of my biggest patrons. People are chasing me and knocking me down, and I’m starting to see things.”

Mauro frowned. “I don’t think they’re related.”

“Either way, I’ve got to pay attention to my painting and forget this other stuff for a while.”

“If you say so.”

“And I’ve got to figure a way to square things with Charles. I hope you understand.”

“
I do.”

Part Two

XI

A small bell tinkled as Brigham entered an antique bookshop tucked into a little corner of Dorsoduro. The warm, dusty, and comforting smell of old books embraced him as he closed the door. Brigham loved books, aged ones in particular. A middle-aged man wearing an old tweed blazer and a faded yellow scarf sat behind a worn wooden desk stacked with books and papers. He was peering intently at the screen of a laptop, his face glowing ghostly white. Shelves of ancient leather-bound books lined the walls. “
Buongiorno
,” he said without looking up.

“
Buongiorno
,” Brigham said. He headed for the section in English. Collections of Shakespeare, a history of Venice, books by John Ruskin, and a few stray works on art.

He paced around the tiny shop, absorbing the library-like atmosphere and examining a few volumes of etchings lying open on a table, reflecting a beam of late-afternoon sun cutting through the dust-speckled air like a ray of hope.

Returning to the English section to have one last look, he noticed a thin book with a pale leather cover. Script in faded brown ink along the spine spelled out the title, but he couldn’t read it. He took the book from the shelf. Still unable to make out the faint stylized script, he carefully turned to the title page.
Vampires and Witches in Venice
. “You’ve got be kidding me,” he said.

“I beg your pardon?” the owner said.

“Nothing. Just thinking out loud.”

The pages of the worn, formerly water-logged, leather-bound book from the eighteenth century crackled as he leafed through it. The paper, though affected by water and age, was still white, having been made from good rag stock, with the type still dark and deeply imprinted on the page. Wonderful drawings illustrated its points. It smelled of history… knowledge… magic. What a coincidence. He had to have it.