A Beast in Venice: (Literary Horror set in Venice) (13 page)

“Fine, but you are not going to escape.”

“Wouldn’t think of it.”

WHEN HE ENTERED THE APARTMENT, he had been gone less than three hours. Rose sat watching TV.

“How was your show?” he asked, bending over to kiss her.

“You have a spot on your shirt,” she said, poking it with her finger. “Did you eat something?”

He examined the spot. A small spot, which he knew to be a dribble of blood from Gloria. “Shit, I had bruschetta at a bar and must’ve dropped some tomato.”

Rose turned her attention back to the TV. “Go spray it with the prewash, and put it in the laundry.”

Close call. What else? He took stock but saw nothing. He hung his jacket on the rack by the front door, changed his shirt, and applied the cleaner as instructed.

Rose appeared in the kitchen holding something between her thumb and forefinger. “What’s this?”

“I don’t know. I don’t see anything.”

“Take a closer look.” Rose held a long strand of blond hair. Her face said, Now you’re fucked, as did his inner voice. Act cool. Gotta be cool.

“Looks like a strand of hair,” he said. “Where’d you get it?”

“From your jacket.”

Yikes.

“Where do you suppose it came from?”

“You tell me.”

“Are you suggesting I was with another woman?”

“That would be a reasonable conclusion, wouldn’t it? After all, my hair is shorter than this. And brown.”

“No, it wouldn’t be a reasonable conclusion. A stray blond hair doesn’t mean I was with another woman. Someone could have brushed against me on the street or on the vaporetto. Or even in a bar.”

“You go out to God-knows-where, come home with a spot on your shirt, blond hair on your jacket, and alcohol on your breath. You have to admit—it doesn’t look so good.”

“There’re a lot of people out. Could’ve come from anywhere. You’re getting yourself worked up about nothing.”

Her face reddened. “I don’t believe that. You’ve been acting so strangely lately. Why don’t you tell me the truth for a change?”

“I always tell you the truth.”

“Of course you do. Just like your explanation for the spot on your shirt. That was a lie and you know it.”

He wasn’t good at this sort of thing. Brigham thought of his grandmother’s saying, “Oh, what a tangled web we weave…” Rose had his nuts in a vice and they both knew it. If he told the truth, he would be in deep shit. If he continued to lie, he would start to stutter and stammer and be in even more trouble. But she wouldn’t believe the truth. No way in Hell. Either way, he was not going to enjoy the rest of this evening. So he would tell the truth. That meant he would be caught in a lie, but if she didn’t believe the truth, what difference would it make? At least the day would come when he could say, Hey, I told you.

“Get rid of the hair,” he said, “and let’s go into the living room.” He put his arm around her, but she waved it off.

They sat on the sofa.

“You know there’s been some crazy shit going on,” he said.

“I don’t believe any of that either. People going through walls? Please. And as for the canal, you fell in. You had so much gin on your breath when you came home it made my eyes burn.”

The corgi came in seeking attention, probably due to the tone of voice. “It’s all right,” Brigham said, rubbing him behind his ears. “Go lie down.” Turning back to Rose, he said, “I told you—”

“Yeah, yeah, you drank after you fell into the canal.”

“Jumped. I jumped into the canal.”

“Bullshit.”

She was irrevocably pissed if she resorted to cussing and poor grammar. No matter what he did, the outcome would be the same, so he told her the whole story. Gloria, the vampire club, and all.

“So,” she said, “you were out with a woman.”

“I wasn’t out with a woman. She took me to the club. That’s all.”

“Sounds like out to me.”

“I got interested in this vampire thing—”

“That’s another crock.”

She was right about that. “Look, I’m sorry. I should have told you what I was doing. But it wasn’t a date. My only sin is trying to hide what I was doing.”

“That’s a good way to put it. Sin. Why did you feel you had to cover it up?”

“I’m wondering that myself.”

She sat staring into space for a moment, then said, “Maybe you should spend the night at your studio. Give us both time to collect ourselves. I’m

likely to kill you in your sleep.”

“It’s cold there.”

“You have a heater.”

He collected a few things and left the apartment.

“I DIDN’T EXPECT TO SEE YOU TONIGHT,” Pink Jesus said.

“Do the words
fuck you
mean anything to you?”

“Mustn’t be cranky. And that is not exactly original.”

He prepared the only other refuge he had: a pitcher of martinis. He dropped three olives into a glass and filled it with booze. He was not, however, through taking criticism for the night. Pink Jesus was up to bat.

“I was taken to a trap where I think I performed admirably well, considering I had one sweet set of titties in my face. The woman chastises me wrongly.”

“You put yourself in that trap. You deserved to be chastised.”

He tasted his drink. “Is that so?”

“Yes, you had it coming. I told you not to do it.”

“You,” he said through a mouthful of olive, “are a painting. A thing. Talking to you is the same as talking to a table.”

“Talking to you is like talking to the wall.”

Brigham smiled and slowly nodded. “At least I gave you a sense of irony and a biting wit, although steeped in cliché. I wonder how the world would look to you through a thick layer of black paint.”

“Better than it’s going to look to you shortly.”

Brigham leaned back on the sofa, filled his mouth with gin, held it, then swallowed. “Never mind. Either way, what happened tonight was not my fault.”

“Then whose fault was it?”

B
righam blinked into the distance. “That’s the greatest question of all.”

XIII

From the Accademia Bridge, Brigham’s eyes followed the shimmering water of the Grand Canal toward the massive domes of Santa Maria della Salute. The orange light of the rising sun reflected in the water like fire on green glass, and the gray lead of the domes glowed orange.

He raised the collar of his thin coat against the chill, shoved his hands into his pockets, and shivered as the wind penetrated his jacket and his breath blew away behind him.

At Saint Mark’s Square gondolas bobbed and banged against each other in the waves. The lagoon foamed and splashed over the pavement, filling the air with the briny scent of saltwater and fish—the smell of the sea—conjuring in him the desire for a cold, dry martini and oysters on the half shell. But only a drunk would drink gin at this hour. He brought his mind back to coffee.

The large revolving door of the Hotel Danieli moved slowly out of his way. He hated this door, but he didn’t know why. It admitted him to the lofty atmosphere of one of the most expensive and elegant hotels in Venice. Medieval marble covered the walls, and light filled the atrium through a ceiling of stained glass. He was here to be interviewed by a London magazine regarding what a great artist he was; the piece was about expat artists in Venice. Hopefully, the guy would pay for a coffee and a croissant at the obscene prices of the Danieli. Anyone who stayed here could surely spring for a cup of coffee and a pastry.

The interviewer wasn’t in the lobby, so Brigham strolled about, using the time to run his fingers through his hair to convince it to behave. One of the showcases used to sell expensive jewelry reflected clear blue eyes set in a weathered face. A two-day growth of stubble covered his face, mostly brown, but with a scattering of gray. His hair appeared white in the stark light. This wasn’t his reflection. He was a neat and well-groomed young man… distinguished… a gentleman with dark hair. But such hadn’t been true for years. Even while practicing law, his hair shorter with an expensive cut, he appeared disheveled, though he strove to look neat. Now, he might go months without a haircut, until his wife would tell him that he looked like a wild man. He would remind her that he was indeed a wild man, which always caused her to laugh, as that was tantamount to calling Mr. Rogers a maniac.

The interviewer appeared. “Mr. Stone?”

“Yes, you must be Mr. Todd.”

Mr. Todd made eye contact and held out his hand. “That’s right. How are you?”

Brigham shook his hand.

Mr. Todd, a thin, fit man in his late thirties, stood several inches taller than Brigham, had a head intentionally made bald by shaving, and wore jeans and an ugly striped shirt. His handshake was firm, and his kind face bore a half smile.

“I’m well, thank you,” Brigham said. “And you?”

The other man’s smile widened but not so as to expose any teeth, as though he found humor in Brigham’s way of speaking. This annoyed Brigham as he was self-conscious of his American accent, particularly around Brits, whom he imagined to be snooty about their language and the violence done to it by Yanks. On the other hand, anyone who would wear that shirt and walk around with his head shaved bald needn’t look down his nose at Brigham Stone, Esq., Attorney at Law, now painter in Venice.

“Good, thank you,” Mr. Todd said in his working-class British accent.

Brigham’s first impression had been wrong. He liked Mr. Todd.

“Shall we?” Mr. Todd motioned for Brigham to sit at a low table surrounded by four upholstered chairs in the hotel bar. A waiter took their order. Though he had eaten breakfast, Brigham craved a pastry.

“Thanks for taking the time to see me,” Mr. Todd said.

“Happy to. My pleasure.”

Mr. Todd pulled out a tiny tape recorder and placed it on the table. “Mind if I record our conversation?” 

Brigham hesitated and blinked at the device. He didn’t like having his conversations recorded but figured it was probably standard in the interview-giving business. He would look like a jerk if he refused. “No, go ahead.”

“I’ve seen your paintings, and they’re quite colorful and energetic.”

This was tantamount to saying they’re “interesting”—searching for something good to say about a thing one didn’t like or understand.

“Yes,” Brigham said with his mouth full of pastry, crumbs of sugar falling onto his jacket.

“Let’s see… first a few questions about your background.”

“Shoot.”

“You’re an American lawyer who stopped practicing law and came to Venice to be a painter.”

“Correct.”

“Had you studied art prior to becoming a lawyer?”

“No, I studied privately afterward.”

“So why the change? It’s a rather radical step quitting law and coming to Venice to paint.”

“I thought the world would be better off with my art than with my efforts as a lawyer. That answer’s a little glib, but it about sums it up.”

“Were you unhappy as a lawyer?”

“No, I actually enjoyed it most of the time. It’s challenging and intellectual. We have a bad reputation and people love to hate us, but they really admire us. Look at TV and movies. Full of lawyers. So it’s not a bad job in many ways. Sure, a lot of lawyers will tell you they hate it, and they have good reason to. We work long hours, and it’s hard to check out of a case emotionally, especially when you’re defending a client facing jail time. Think you’ve had a bad day? Try having your client, with a five-year-old at home, thrown in prison for ten years. On the other hand, there’s no greater feeling than when your innocent client is found not guilty.”

Mr. Todd was scribbling notes. “Then why quit?”

“There comes a time when you realize you’re not going to live forever. You’ve got enough cash, you’ve sown enough good in the world, and it’s time to move on. Do something you’ve always wanted to do.”

“And you always wanted to be an artist?”

“Yes. As a teenager I painted and did sculpture. I painted on bed sheets, walls, you name it. I dabbled in music too, but art was the thing for me.”

“How would you classify your paintings?”

Brigham put the pastry down, dusted himself off, leaned back with his coffee, and crossed his legs. He honed in on a large painting on the wall behind Mr. Todd, considering the question. “I don’t like to classify my art,” he said finally, looking back to Mr. Todd. “That’s the job of critics and academics.”

“But surely it belongs in a category.”

Brigham sipped his coffee. “The only category I’ll put it into is abstract.”

“Would you say abstract expressionist?”

Brigham leaned forward. “If you say so,” he said, dropping more sugar and bits of flaky crust on himself.

“Yes, but do you say so?”

He swallowed the pastry with coffee and frowned. “No. The answer I would like you to tell the world is that I classified them as abstract and declined to classify them further.”

“Fair enough.” Mr. Todd reviewed the notes he had written on a legal pad. He flipped through a couple of pages. “What painters have influenced you the most?”

“Picasso.”

“What is it you like about Picasso?”

“Did you know that Picasso, at the age of sixteen, painted realistic works as good as any old master?”

“Yes.”

“Why didn’t he continue to do that?”

Mr. Todd began to answer, but Brigham interrupted.

“I’ll tell you why. Because realistic painting, in modern times, is not great art. Any second-rate, first-year art student can make a very accurate representation of any object. It’s not new. There are museums all over the world filled with it. Continuing to paint that way would have accomplished nothing for Picasso.”

“I see what you mean,” Mr. Todd said, still leafing through his notes, the light shining off his bald head.

“He might as well have been a house painter if he stuck to realism. But he tried to be original—and succeeded. He changed art forever with
Les Demoiselles d’Avignon
. That work had the effect on painting that Beethoven’s third symphony, the
Eroica
, had on music.”