A Beast in Venice: (Literary Horror set in Venice) (14 page)

“Yes, quite,” Mr. Todd said.

“I don’t mean to give you a lesson in art history; I know you know it. But that’s why he influenced me, and that’s what I’m trying to do.”

“No, no, I understand. Anyone else?”

“De Kooning.”

Mr. Todd flipped through his note pad, then asked, “How would you describe the state of modern art?”

“It’s a fucking mess. Art is dead.”

Mr. Todd raised his brow, wrinkling his bald head. “What do you mean?”

“All you have to do is go look in the Dogana or Palazzo Grassi. Have you seen the bullshit that passes for art in there?”

Mr. Todd scribbled on his pad.

“And I take it you’ve been to the Tate Modern?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Then you know what I’m talking about.”

“You’ve named some of the best contemporary art museums in the world.”

“Sure, there’s interesting stuff in them. Even the Dogana has a few Cy Twomblys, but the rest is horseshit.” He drank his coffee as Mr. Todd scribbled.

“Painting is dead,” he continued, “and art is dying. Art is an old woman lying in the street in need of CPR, but nobody wants to get puke on themselves.”

Mr. Todd stopped writing and looked up.

Brigham felt himself becoming agitated, but this hit a nerve. “The only thing artists care about anymore is making fucking installations and drawing dicks. You ain’t shit in this business unless you paint a dick—hair, balls, and all. The object, apparently, is to shock and disgust.” He sniffed, then sipped his coffee.

Mr. Todd blinked at Brigham for a few seconds without speaking. “But,” he said at last, “these works have important social meaning.”

“Aw, bull—” Brigham closed his eyes to collect himself. “Have you read any of the descriptions of these so-called works of art? Plain and utter gibberish. I know the shit’s written in English, but the words are totally meaningless. They conjure no images in the mind.”

“Oh, now—”

“That’s my honest opinion.” He reached for his coffee and saw his hands, appearing unnaturally small and bony. He had always hated his hands.

Mr. Todd reviewed his notes, bit his bottom lip, and then looked to the ceiling as if thinking.

Brigham realized that perhaps he had been a bit curt with the journalist who, after all, was here to interview him and to spread his name and work through the art world. On the other hand, Brigham feared that Mr. Todd aimed to make the hillbilly American look foolish. That was silly, though. Hadn’t he been sent from London and put in one of the best hotels in Venice purely for the purpose of interviewing him? This was an important matter, and he was about to screw it up. He had to recover.

“I’m sorry,” Brigham said. “I don’t mean to be a prick.”

Mr. Todd waved off the apology and flashed a wistful smile that said, “Too late.”

“I’m rather passionate about the subject. And I’m having a hell of a time finding a gallery. I’m just a bit frustrated. Please continue.”

Mr. Todd checked his notes, then moved his head to get the kinks out of his neck. “What do you think of artists like Damien Hirst and Jeff Koons?”

Brigham motioned to the waiter for more coffee. “Wait till your boss sees the bar tab here.”

“Don’t worry about that, Mr. Stone. We can afford it.”

“I’m sure. Well. To answer your question, or, more accurately, to dance around it, I congratulate them on their success. But I’m not a critic. You’ll have to ask a critic whether what they do is good or not.”

“Do you consider them part of the problem with modern art you so graphically described?”

Brigham hesitated, considering how to answer without sounding like an asshole. “I won’t say that, but I will say that I don’t like their work. But who am I? They do their work, I do my work, and that’s that. I don’t know them personally. I’m sure they’re fine individuals…”

The interview continued for another hour. Mr. Todd promised to send a copy of the article once it had been published.

The weather was warmer by the time Brigham left, so he turned toward the large garden at the east end of the city. At the edge of the garden there was a café with tables on the walkway along the water. The best seats in Venice. The waiters recognized him as he sat; he ordered an American coffee and a small ham and egg sandwich. This was his favorite spot in Venice. Large trees shaded the tables, and the brilliant sunlight of mid-morning sparkled on the turquoise water. This was the only place in Venice where one could sit in the shade of a tree and look out over the lagoon.

He felt bad about the way the interview had started, but it ended on a positive note. Hopefully, Mr. Todd would chalk it up to Brigham being a sensitive artist.

A hunched-over old woman walked past him, moving with tiny steps. He could tell from her brown and green woolen outfit, olive skin, white hair, and pained facial expression that she was a native Venetian. She had no doubt lived here her whole life, as her family had done for centuries. Her decrepitude telegraphed the end of her life. She probably wouldn’t see another year, which reminded Brigham of his own mortality. He felt like a young man. Felt like eighteen. That’s why he was always surprised to see an old man looking back at him from the mirror. He had a few aches and pains that one associates with age, but his mind and spirit told him that he was still, and forever would be, young.

He watched the woman creep along and wondered what he would do if she collapsed onto the pavement. He might run away. Maybe he would tell the waiter, but there was little chance he would offer help. He wanted to pay and leave before she died there on the street in front of him.

A young woman greeted the old woman as her grandmother and walked off with her. Thank God. He was relieved of any responsibility. These thoughts shamed him but he couldn’t help it. He was deep down a dirtbag and he knew it.

Yes, this belied his true nature. He wasn’t the dour, bitter old man he sometimes appeared but rather a charming guy, full of humor and goodness. People smiled when they saw him and seemed happy for him to enter their establishments. Maybe that was only because he spent money. Yet they laughed at his jokes. For the same reason, perhaps.

He left the café and began the long walk back to San Marco. About a hundred feet ahead of him a young woman knelt over a heap on the pavement, shouting urgently for help.

Brigham ran over. The heap was the old woman. For the love of God. One of his greatest fears now lay on the sidewalk before him: the ancient woman, disfigured and made horrible by age, in need of saving, the doing of which would require getting close and touching her, certainly being soiled by hideous things issuing forth from her nasty little carcass. He called an ambulance, then knelt beside her.

She wasn’t breathing. Holding back the urge to puke, Brigham motioned for the granddaughter to kneel at her head and prepare to breathe into the woman’s mouth. He had taken dynamic control of the situation, but the granddaughter needed to take ownership of the nasty end of business. He pumped on her chest several times, then indicated to the woman to breathe into the old woman’s mouth. They repeated these steps until the ambulance boat arrived and the paramedics took over.

Now hot, tired, covered in sweat, and filled with horror and disgust, Brigham returned to the bar and ordered a beer.

“I saw what you did,” a voice said. At the next table sat Mr. Todd.

Brigham took a long drink of the cold beer. After a moment he said, “What brings you down here?”

“I wanted to see where they held the Biennale. Believe it or not, I’ve never made it here while it was on. I had no idea this café was here.”

“Perhaps the best spot in Venice. Anyway, what else could I do?”

“You could have turned and gone in the other direction.”

“Don’t think it didn’t occur to me.”

“But you didn’t.”

He took another swallow of beer. “No.”

“You saved her. That’s amazing.”

“Nothing else to do. And not so amazing, I know CPR. I was in the Navy, you know.”

“No, I didn’t know.”

“Fought the Cold War. Came out unscathed.”

“Not only did you save her, you saved my article.”

Bits of sunlight filtered through the trees and danced on the tablecloth. Sparrows flitted about looking for crumbs.

“I really didn’t know what to write about you. You are a very talented artist, but a cynical and jaded middle-aged man.”

Brigham smiled. “So far I’m with you.”

“Not what we generally see in the art world.”

“No, I don’t suppose so.”

“An artist telling us that art is dying.”

Brigham shooed away a sparrow. “You know, I hate these fucking birds.”

“What?”

“These sparrows. They’re worse than the fucking Gypsies. They don’t go away, and there are more of them than can be fed.”

“Never thought of that.”

“One took a chip right out of my mouth once. Scared the shit out of me.” He crunched with exaggerated movement of his jaws.

“Yes, right. Well, back to the article. You saved it.”

“You said that.”

“Here’s a guy who is disillusioned, cranky, and mean…”

“Ouch. I’m mean?”

“What could I write? Brigham Stone is an artist with great talent, but he’s a real bastard?”

“Would’ve been the truth,” Brigham said, smiling and still crunching a chip.

“Quite, but not a good article.”

“Maybe not. I’m trying to get the world to love me.”

“But now, not only are you not a bastard, you are a true human being.” He smiled. “A humanitarian, almost.” 

Brigham laughed. “No, I wanted to run like hell when I saw that old woman. I’m still disgusted by the thought of it.” He shivered.

“Of course, but you didn’t. You did what you had to do.”

“Yeah, well.” Brigham emptied his glass.

“In spite of your horror and disgust.”

“Yeah, so what does that get me?” He waved to the waiter for another beer. It was only ten thirty, but he had had a rough day already.

“I can now say that you think that art is dying but that you have what it takes to revive it.”

Brigham gazed out over the glittering turquoise water. “I like that. Has a nice ring to it.”

Mr. Todd smiled, looking satisfied with himself and his idea.

“One thing you should know, though,” Brigham said. “You noticed that I didn’t give her mouth-to-mouth.”

“So?”

“I would have let her die first.”

“I would have let her die anyway,” Mr. Todd said.

“Then, Mr. Todd, we understand each other.”

A large glob of white seagull shit splattered in the middle of the tan tablecloth. “Hey, look,” Brigham said, “a Jackson Pollock.”

INSPIRED TO PAINT BY SEAGULL SHIT, bolstered by the realization that he had the moral fiber to save an old woman, and encouraged by the outcome of the interview, Brigham headed to his studio to paint. At the top of the Accademia Bridge he ran into Gloria.

“Brigham, how are you?” she asked.

He was both glad and horrified to see her. “I’m all right,” he said. “How ’bout you?”

She smiled. “Good.”

A moment of awkward silence passed as they watched the activity on the Grand Canal in the bright morning light.

“Sorry about last night,” she said finally. “I was out of line.”

“Don’t worry about it. It surprised me, that’s all. It was otherwise quite… pleasant.”

“I hope you’re not upset.”

“Not at all.”

A vaporetto banged into the pier below. He watched as people streamed off.

“Where are you going?” she asked.

Oh no, now what? As much as he may have wanted to, he couldn’t associate with Gloria in broad daylight, particularly in this neighborhood. What if she asked to come with him? Ah, well, who gives a fuck? “I’m going to my studio.”

“Oh, you have a studio! I’m not sure we got that far in our discussion.”

“I don’t know, but you knew I was a painter.”

“Yes, of course.”

“In fact, I’m just coming from an interview with a London rag.”

“Really? That’s exciting. How did it go?”

“I acted like a prick, then I saved an old lady’s life.”

She wrinkled her brow in puzzlement, so he told her what happened. At the end of the story he said goodbye and attempted to go his way alone.

“Could I come to your studio? I’d like to see your work,” she called to him.

His fears had come to life. He did want to show her his work, but if they got caught together there, violence would ensue. “I’m not sure that’s a good idea.”

Gloria’s expression turned serious. “I promise I won’t be any trouble.”

“It’s not you I’m worried about.”

“Then what is it?”

“My wife. She found a long blond hair on my jacket. She has shorter brown hair.” Why did he tell her that? His instinct was to cover it up, hide it, and pretend that it never happened. But he recently discovered that telling the truth was liberating, though not always the best idea. Now Gloria knew what was what, and she could decide what to do.

“Oh.” 

“I told her everything but she didn’t believe it. She thinks I have a girlfriend.”

Gloria’s eyes grew large. “You told her about the sanguinarians?”

“Yeah, but she didn’t believe it. I knew she wouldn’t.”

“Well, I would still like to see your studio.”

“She might come there. I slept there last night.”

“I see,” Gloria said, dropping her gaze.

Brigham hated to disappoint a woman, so he relented. “I’ll take you there, but if she shows up, I’m going to make like you just agreed to buy a painting.”

Gloria nodded. “I can live with that.”

They started toward the studio.

“By the way,” she said, “there’s another meeting tonight.”

He blew air through his lips like a balloon being deflated. “Christ, I dunno. She was rather pissed when she found the hair. Did I mention I slept in my studio last night?”

“I understand, but we both know that nothing is going on between us, and that’s all that counts.”

Brigham stopped and leaned with both hands on the railing of the bridge, looking off into the distance. “Actually that’s not all that counts. Going to another meeting would have the appearance of impropriety, as they say. And if Rose thinks it, it’s as good as true. And it could certainly be deduced from the circumstances.”