A Beast in Venice: (Literary Horror set in Venice) (5 page)

V

After Charles left, Brigham went to a small gallery displaying abstract paintings. The owner greeted him coolly, a habit of shop owners in Venice, particularly those engaged in the high and noble profession of selling art. Brigham introduced himself.

The owner, with his well-kept gray hair, dark suit, and colorful tie, rose from the chair behind his desk and approached Brigham, walking slowly and deliberately, as if he were a king. He straightened his tie, bringing the knot just below the top button of his immaculate blue-and-white-striped shirt. “May I help you?” he asked slowly, in nearly unaccented English.

This question, and the manner in which it was asked, meant, “You don’t look as though you belong here. What do you want?” Why did this guy intimidate him? Brigham was not without means, though he might not give the appearance of wealth. It was his practice to look poor; people expected less of him that way. He had felt less anxiety trying a case to a jury than he did talking to this man. “You have a lovely gallery here,” Brigham said.

The owner bowed slightly. “Thank you.”

“Wonderful paintings.”

“Some of the best in Venice.”

Brigham stood before one of the paintings, a neo-cubist still life. “I really like this one.”

“Yes, it is very beautiful. Seventy-four
thousand
euro.” He let the thousand linger on his tongue.

Ah, got right to the price as a way of telling him he knew he wasn’t in the market for a seventy-four-thousand-euro painting. He considered telling him to wrap it up and then pretend that he lost his wallet. All right, then, let’s get to the point. “I’m not a patron, as you know. I’m a painter.”

The man turned and walked toward his desk. “I’m not looking for any more artists.”

“Of course. I only want to ask you about the art scene in Venice.” The owner sat behind his desk. “The art scene, as you call it, is not good. There are a few favored artists but that’s it. Even Picasso would have trouble finding a gallery in this town.”

Brigham strolled around the gallery. His paintings were better. “I understand.”

“There’s nothing I can do for you. Now, if you would kindly—”

“I’m not asking you to do anything for me, except come to my studio.”

The man typed on his computer. His face glowed blue in the light of the screen. “I’m sorry. As you can see, I’m busy.”

“I’ll buy you lunch.”

The owner’s chair creaked as he leaned back.

“Give me twenty minutes at my studio, then a nice lunch. Good wine, beautiful view.”

The owner stood. “All right. You are a persistent man. What is your name?”

“Brigham Stone.”

The man extended his hand. “I’m Alberto.” He gestured toward the door. “After you.”

“VERY INTERESTING WORK,” Alberto said as he scanned the studio. “Lots of color and energy. Exciting.”

“Can I offer you a glass of wine?”

“I’d prefer coffee, thank you.”

“I’m sorry, I don’t have any at the moment.”

“That’s fine, then nothing for me.”

“What do you think? Can we come to an arrangement?”

Alberto’s delay in responding answered the question before he spoke. “I’m afraid not.”

“Is it a problem with the work?”

Alberto shook his head. “Not at all. It’s brilliant. It’s not the work.”

“You already have too many artists?”

Alberto lowered his eyes, then motioned for Brigham to come closer. In a hushed voice he said, “It’s not that. I shouldn’t really talk about it.”

The bells of the Carmini chimed one o’clock.

“Don’t be shy. I can take criticism.”

“I’m being honest when I say it’s not the quality of your work.”

Brigham cleared his throat. “Then what is it?”

“I will tell you that there are certain forces…” He looked around the room, seemingly expecting eavesdroppers. “There are people who determine which art will and which art will not be sold in Venice. You are a foreigner. Representing you is out of the question. It would be trouble for us both.”

Brigham’s face darkened. “You mean the Mafia?”

Alberto held up his hand. “I didn’t say that.”

“Then what is it? I can meet with them. Grease the skids, as it were.”

“No, they won’t talk to you.”

Brigham stood and held his arms out from his sides. “Then what can I do?”

“Go home. If you want to be an artist, go back to your own country. There is nothing for you here.”

Brigham tightened his mouth and ran his fingers through his hair. “I promised you lunch, and I’m hungry. Let’s get something to eat.”

“No, there’s nothing I can do for you. No need to—”

Brigham held up his hand. “I understand your position, and I don’t intend to argue with you. The price of your coming here was lunch, and I intend to take you to lunch.”

“If you insist.”

“There’s no reason we can’t be friends. I may come round to chat with you on occasion, and I don’t want it to be awkward.”

Alberto smiled and nodded. “Fine. Let’s go.”

“I know just the place.”

Brigham knew the waiter. They greeted each other and shook hands. The waiter seated them at the best table on the pier, overlooking the glistening, pale blue water of the Giudecca Canal. The sun warmed them in the faint breeze. Boats moved lazily past, and waves slapped the underside of the wooden pier. The air smelled of the sea.

Brigham ordered a bottle of good white wine and a bottle of sparkling water.

“What a beautiful place,” Alberto said, gazing across the canal to Giudecca Island.

“One of my favorites,” Brigham said. “And the salty breeze has given me a craving for seafood.”

Alberto took a piece of bread. “One can never go wrong with seafood in Venice.”

“No, sir. Venice is in and of the sea.”

They ordered an appetizer of mixed seafood of the lagoon and a main course of grilled fish.

“I understand that there’s no place for me at your gallery,” Brigham said, “but do you know anyone else, even outside Venice, who might be interested in my work?”

Alberto slid fish off the bone and drizzled it with olive oil. “I will keep my ears open. Maybe talk to a few people.”

“That would be great.”

“There may be someone I know who might be interested and who is not subject to the same… restrictions I am.”

Brigham poured them each a glass of wine. “Anything you could do would be most helpful.”

“My pleasure.”

Brigham pulled a flier for his exhibition out of his pocket. “I almost forgot. Here’s a brochure for my exhibition at Imagina Café. Please come to the inauguration, and bring all your art world friends.”

Alberto took the flier with a slight smile. “I’ll see what I can do.”

“Wonderful.”

ALTHOUGH DISCOURAGED BY WHAT ALBERTO had told him, Brigham wanted to see an exhibition or two. Posters hyping the shit out of an exhibition of photographs taken by a famous movie director hung all over Venice. “Genius,” the posters said.

Ever the fan of genius, Brigham paid the ridiculous admission fee and went in.

Groupings of black-and-white photographs from the 1940s hung throughout the several rooms making up the gallery. The images, although interesting for what they were—movie stars, shoe-shine boys, and other pictures of daily life at the time—weren’t great. Someone had spent thousands on posters, and enough money to support a small village for a year on rent for the gallery, and the pictures were mediocre. If he went into even a small gallery with these images, he would be subject to derision and ridicule.

Disappointed, he walked to Campo Santo Stefano. Emblazoned in blue neon across the windows of one of the palazzi glowed the words “Culture is a palace built of dog shit.” Interesting way to put it, but it described perfectly the current state of modern art. Dog shit. Art is dead. Call the mortician. And not only art, but all culture.

Still having time, and an annual pass to the Peggy Guggenheim Collection, he went there to see the temporary part of the exhibit. The paintings were mediocre at best; knockoffs of Matisse, Picasso, and Pollock at worst. Brigham’s paintings were better, more interesting, and more original. How did these make it here? Okay, the artist was dead, which helps—a benefit Brigham didn’t yet enjoy. But the paintings were as bad as the photographs. Someone obviously paid a fee. That must be it. You gotta pay. He had to pay. This bonehead had room after room at the Guggenheim, but Brigham had to stand on his head and spin around spitting nickels and shitting clowns for the privilege of paying two hundred and fifty euros to have an “exhibition” at a frickin’ café.

Once his stomach settled down from the agitation of being a superior artist in a sea of mediocrity supported by money, he found a café in a sunny little campo to have a glass of wine. Dirty plastic tablecloths full of holes covered the tables. The food was mediocre, and the house wine nearly undrinkable, but it was a great spot.

As he finished his wine, Mauro called. “Where are you?”

“Campo San Basegio, near the San Basilio vaporetto stop.”

“
Arrivo
.” I’ll be right there.

Brigham ordered another glass of wine. Mauro arrived moments later.

Brigham waved. “Ciao, Mauro. Nobody taking gondola rides this afternoon?”

“Ciao, Brig,” Mauro said, pulling up one of the aluminum café chairs. He ordered a coffee. “Yeah, plenty, but I need to talk to you.”

“What’s up?”

“You told me you saw a man go through a wall.”

“That’s right.”

“And you know that bodies have been showing up floating in the canals with some very strange marks on them.”

“If being gutted and mutilated is a strange mark, yes. I actually saw them taking one out of the canal this morning.”

The sun glistened off Mauro’s cop haircut and his too-tan face. He took off his chartreuse glasses. “Not only were they gutted, but I heard that they think the bodies had been crucified.”

Brigham screwed up his face. “Fuck.”

“And that’s not all.”

“There’s more?”

“Yeah. They didn’t have any blood in them.”

Brigham leaned back in his chair. “They were gutted and crucified, for fuck’s sake. I’m no doctor but that usually results in rather serious blood loss, does it not?”

A sparrow landed on the edge of the little bowl of potato chips sitting in the middle of the table. “Get outta here,” Brigham said to the bird, shooing it away. “These birds are worse than the fucking Gypsies. I had one actually try to take a chip out of my mouth once. Scared the shit out of me, the thing fluttering in my face.”

“Leave the little birdies alone,” Mauro said. “Anyway, according to the medical examiner, almost all the blood was gone.”

Another sparrow grabbed a chip and flew away.

“Son of a bitch,” Brigham said, swatting at the bird.

“Brig, forget the birds.”

“He took my chip.”

The waitress brought Mauro’s coffee.

“They got more. Forget it,” he said, stirring sugar into his coffee.

“All right, you were saying?” Brigham asked, scanning the area for sparrows.

“It’s as if the blood had been sucked out.”

“Sucked out? Jesus.”

Mauro put on a pair of mirrored sunglasses. Brigham moved his chair to avoid seeing his own reflection.

“They say the victims were crucified and kept alive for a while,” Mauro said . “Then they were, how do you say? Gutted.”

Brigham narrowed his eyes. “How did they figure that out?”

“The wounds from being crucified were older, weeks older than the wounds from being gutted.”

The sun had moved. Brigham had to shade his eyes to see Mauro. “You don’t die from being crucified?”

“Not necessarily, at least not right away. They say it’s possible to live for quite a while. The medical people think the victims were kept alive and drained of blood over a few weeks, and then killed by being gutted.”

“Christ. Why would anyone do that?” Brigham sipped his wine.

“I have a theory.”

“So do I. My theory is that there are some sick bastards loose in Venice.”

Mauro faced Brigham with mirror eyes. “I think it’s worse than that. The man you saw go through the wall…”

“Yessir.”

“There are stories about such things.”

Brigham leaned forward and put a chip in his mouth. “Now we’re getting somewhere.”

Mauro pointed his mirrors toward the table next to them, where two pretty girls had sat down and begun to speak to each other in French.

“Hey,” Brigham said. “Snap out of it. What are the stories?”

Still considering the girls, Mauro said, “Do you remember about a year ago they found the skeleton of a woman with a brick shoved in her mouth?”

“Vaguely.”

“They say the woman died during the plague of 1576, and that the gravediggers put the brick there because they thought she was a shroud eater. A cross between a vampire and a ghoul.”

“Oh, yeah, I remember that story. There was a picture of the thing in the paper. Most frightening.”

“During the plague, they buried people in… what do you call it? Mass graves. When they opened graves for new bodies, the gravediggers found that some of the corpses had chewed through the burial shroud covering their face and had blood around their mouths. They thought these corpses were eating the flesh of the other bodies. If they ate enough, they would rise from the grave as vampires.”

“That’s pretty scary.”

“Shroud eaters were blamed for causing the plague.”

“I’ve heard that. Often during the plague people thought that vampires caused it. I think it’s a metaphor for the Jews.”

“Makes sense. We blamed the Jews for plagues, too.”

“Who else you gonna blame?” Brigham filled his mouth with chips. “But what does this have to do with the guy going through the wall?”

“Shroud eaters could walk through walls.”

Mauro’s glasses still reflected the French girls.

“You mean like room to room or what?” Brigham said.