A Beast in Venice: (Literary Horror set in Venice) (19 page)

“Lobster bisque,” Charles said, motioning to the bowl in front of him.

Rose glared at him without saying a word.

“Eat, please. It’s delicious.”

She pushed it away. “I’m not in the mood to eat.”

“Please, don’t be that way.”

“I was dragged from my home, told what to wear, which, I might add, is just a tad on the gaudy and tasteless side, and then told when to eat. It’s a prison. A pretty prison, but still a prison. Why am I here? What do you want? I want to go home.”

Charles nodded. “Very well. If you’ll do me the honor of having dinner with me, I’ll explain.”

Rose took up the spoon and sipped the soup. It was probably the best thing she had ever tasted.

“What do you think?”

She shrugged with one shoulder. “It’s passable. Brigham’s is better.”

Charles laughed. “Now,
that
was funny. I have one of the finest chefs in Europe.”

“Nevertheless.”

“Wait till you see what’s next.”

“I can’t wait.”

“Quail stuffed with walnuts and figs.”

Rose yawned.

“I intend to make your stay here as comfortable as possible. This is not about you, it’s about Brigham.”

“What if I just got up and walked out? I think we’re near the Brenta. I’ll just go to the main road and get a ride.”

She stood and started toward the door. No one moved to stop her.

Charles dabbed his mouth with his napkin. “You’re free to go at any time. This house is not your prison.”

Rose continued slowly toward the door.

“You’re right about where you are, more or less, but it’s not a problem of where, it’s a problem of when.”

Rose stopped and stood with her back to Charles.

“This is the year 1756. Time is your prison, not these walls.”

She turned to face him. “Why on earth would I believe that we somehow went back in time? You’re not dealing with Brigham here.”

“I don’t expect you to believe me. I’ll prove it to you soon enough, but kindly sit down and let’s have a nice meal.”

She slowly returned to her seat. A servant pulled out the chair for her. “I’ll tell you what I’m going to do. I’m going to humor you for a short time, but my patience is limited. When I’ve had enough, I’m leaving this place. You’d better have armed guards at the doors and bars on the windows. And God help you if you get within arm’s reach.”

Charles nodded, smiling. “Of course. Please, let’s eat.”

“Fine, but let me tell you one more thing. I’m not dressing in this idiotic getup again. I expect you to deliver me some decent outfits commensurate with my station in life.”

“Of course. As you wish.”

“I’m an educated professional woman. I don’t dress like the Queen of England.”

“Understood. Tell the woman who helped you into your dress what you want, and you’ll have it.”

“Lovely.”

“I understand you are a scholar of Schopenhauer.”

“Yes.”

“Do you know he came to Venice to meet Byron?”

“Yes, he had a letter of introduction from Goethe. When he and his lady friend saw Byron riding a horse on the Lido, they were taken by his appearance. Schopenhauer did not show the letter to Byron for fear he would take his woman.”

“Oh, I didn’t know that story.”

“Schopenhauer later said he regretted it.”

“Imagine the people who’ve been to Venice. Schopenhauer with a letter from Goethe, of all things. Wagner, Byron, Browning, Turner, Hemingway, and many others.”

“Yes, it boggles the mind.” Then abruptly, she said, “You know, I’m going along with this charade of yours because it seems at the moment I have little choice, but I don’t intend to engage in small talk or to have long philosophical discussions with you. And you haven’t shed any light on why I’m here.”

Charles put down his spoon. The servants cleared the soup bowls. “Fair enough. I was hoping to have a nice dinner and then go into the details of your… status as a guest, but we’ll do it now.”

“Thank you.”

“Your husband has a couple of issues with which I intend to help him. One, his desire to be a successful painter. I’ve already made a contribution in that direction.”

The servants brought the next course, placing a plate in front of each of them and serving wine.

“The other issue has to do with his fear of death.”

Rose nodded. “Yes, he’s expressed concern about that lately, particularly given his recent birthday, and a few people he’s known who’ve died young. What can you possibly do about that?”

“You’ll find out soon enough, but the other thing is more subtle. In exchange for my help, he’s going to help me, although he doesn’t know it, and probably never will.”

“That makes it clear.”

Charles laughed. “I understand what Brigham sees in you.” He paused to cut into his quail. “I’ve introduced Brigham to my friend Lorenzo Zorzi.” He took a forkful of meat into his mouth. “Zorzi is a great collector of art, and he is, shall we say, not without means. He and I have a long history, but he’s become a thorn in my side, for reasons we needn’t go into. Suffice it to say that when I showed him Brigham’s work, he insisted on meeting him. Now I fear he will steal him from me.”

“You don’t know Brigham Stone very well, do you? He doesn’t belong to anybody, and it’s nearly futile to tell him what to do. I could tell you stories. Point is, you’re barking up the wrong tree.”

“Perhaps. I know, however, that Brigham suspects me in your disappearance.”

Rose swallowed a sip of wine. “Well…?”

“I intend to redirect this suspicion to Zorzi. Create a rift. Confusion. Mistrust.”

“That’s it?”

“At the moment, yes.”

She shook her head. “This should be good. You know, you’re dealing with someone who, in spite of his talents and charms, is a combination of obsessive-compulsive and anal-expulsive. That may be an exaggeration, but when he gets an idea under his hat, you’d better stand aside and hope nothing splatters on you.”

Charles smiled. “That’s exactly what I’m counting on.”

BRIGHAM WENT TO THE BAR in Campo Santa Margherita where they played live music. A trio, consisting of an upright bass, a trumpet, and a drummer, played improvisational jazz. The drummer, with only a snare drum and a set of bongos, moved in animated rhythm while the bassist slapped notes from his instrument. The trumpet played intermittent short riffs of rapid notes.

The waitress brought Brigham his beer and burrito, along with a small bowl of sliced peppers on the side. Not many places in Venice served burritos. This was certainly no
bona fide
Mexican burrito, yet it was quite good. Just as he took a bite, his phone rang.

“Mr. Todd,” he said with a mouth full of burrito. “What’s up?”

“Where are you? Sounds like a concert.”

“Ah, right. Just a minute. I’m in a bar.”

Brigham stepped outside. “That’s better. What can I do for you?”

Two little boys walked past waving sparklers in circles.

“I talked to a man I know who runs a gallery in Rome. He wants to see your studio.”

“Wow, that’s great. Does he charge?”

“No, nothing like that. When can he come?”

A bottle broke in the middle of the campo and young men shouted.

“Anytime. Tomorrow would be good.”

“
Great, I’ll let you know.”

XVI

Brigham tried to work in his studio but had trouble concentrating. He and Mauro had made the report with the police, but they didn’t seem overly interested. When he told them about the vampire club and its possible connection to the bodies in the canals, they laughed. He still had no word from Rose, and none of her friends or family knew where she was. But he had to try to paint. Maybe it would help him clear his head and think of what he could do about Rose’s disappearance.

As the day wore on he was able to work, with a little help. About halfway through a bottle of red wine, in touch with the muse and working energetically on a painting, there came a knock on the door.

“
Charles,” Brigham said as he opened the door.

“
Sorry to drop in on you like this,” Charles said.

“No problem. Come in. Anyway, I wanted to thank you for introducing Mr. Zorzi to my work.”

“
Only too happy to. Quite a study, that Zorzi, don’t you think?”

“
He was very nice. Not without his idiosyncrasies, but nice nonetheless. And a great collector. Can I get you something to drink?”

“
No, thanks,” Charles said, waving his hand. “What do you think of that bloody tomb he lives in?”

“
A bit on the Gothic side, but it has its charms. Have a seat. What can I do for you?”

“
It’s time we laid our cards on the table.”

Brigham didn’t know there were cards to be laid. “What do you mean ?”

Charles sat in one of the big leather chairs, and Brigham sat in the other with a glass of wine. “Yes. Well, I want to talk to you about the little matter of you spilling liquid on me at the café.”

A wave of fear and panic shot through Brigham’s brain. “I’ve been meaning to talk to you about that,” he said in a sandpaper voice.

Oh, this was going to be awkward. The blood rushed to his face, and his mouth went dry. Time to spill it and tell Charles about the men going through walls, that he and Mauro had formed the idea that the bodies showing up in the canals were victims of shroud eaters, about Gloria’s club, and about the dream in which Charles was a shroud eater.

Charles’s black eyes narrowed. “So,” he said slowly, “the only reason you thought I might be a shroud eater is because of… your dream?”

“
Uh… right.”

“
That was the only connection?”

Brigham shrugged. “Yes.”

C
harles laughed, his brilliant white teeth shining. “There are ideas flying around the universe that come in and out of men’s minds, sometimes coming to them in a dream.”

“
Yes. That’s how I justified what I did. No evidence, only a dream, but I was convinced that you were, or at least could be, a shroud eater solely because of the dream. I don’t know how I could have been so stupid. I know there is no such thing as a shroud eater. It was a superstitious medieval invention. There is an explanation for it all. A reasonable, medical explanation. But I went off half-cocked with this potion from a crazy old woman who believes in all this garbage. And my friend Mauro? Forget it. He’ll believe any goddamn thing.”

Charles nodded. “I understand. A dream can be quite a powerful thing.”

“
I know, but that’s no excuse for my behavior. I apologize.”

“
Don’t apologize, lad. You were right.”

After a pause, Brigham said, “I was right? What do you mean? You’re a shroud eater?”

“
I’m not a shroud eater.”

“
That’s a relief.”

“
More accurately, a shroud eater is not the type of creature these people imagine. I’m infinitely worse.” Charles’s black eyes glistened, and the salmon-colored handkerchief spewing from the pocket of his jacket fluttered at Brigham.

“
Worse?”

“
Oh yes, dear lad. Shroud eaters, as they’re thought of here, are tame when held up to my standard.”

“
The description of shroud eaters I’m familiar with would be hard to trump.”

“
The stories are sometimes confused, and the characteristics of yours truly are often attributed to the lowly shroud eater.”

“
Then what are you?”

“
There is no one name for us. Nosferatu, Nachzehrer, vampire, what you will. Virtually every culture has a story about us, many of which are wrong, and none of them are totally correct. There are myths about what we can and cannot do and how we can be killed, but, for the most part, those are fictionalized and romanticized accounts of the truth. The truth is much worse. In your culture, the closest thing you would understand is a vampire, though we also have traits of ghouls.”

Craving gin, Brigham went to the counter and fixed a martini. Here was a guy who looked normal, but who thought he was a vampire. An old man, not an emo doper in high school having trouble dealing. All right, not the first whack job to wear a nice suit. But why did he decide to take up with lowly Brigham Stone? “Ghouls?”

“
Yes. You’ve seen the bodies in the canals?”

“
Of course. We discussed it.”

“
What did they all have in common?”

Brigham thought for a moment. “They were gutted and drained of blood. And they had been crucified.”

C
harles nodded. “Yes, and what else?”

“
I don’t know what you’re getting at.”

“
Butchered. Wouldn’t you say they had been butchered?”

“
If you mean hacked up real good, yes, I’d say they had been butchered.”

“
No. I mean butchered in the sense of being prepared for eating.”

Brigham raised his brow. “Ah.” He returned to his chair with his martini. “What about the club?”

“
Yes. Well, that is for people who fancy themselves vampires and live this ‘lifestyle,’ but it’s all strictly amateur.”

“
I’ve seen the room where they crucify people—”

“
Again, amateurs. You think I nail a few people to a cross and then let them down to lounge around and talk about their ‘purifying experience’?”

Brigham didn’t answer.

“
No, sir. When they go to the cross under my auspices, they don’t come down until they look like what you saw in the canal.”

Brigham  wanted to run out of there and get the police. But then what? They would see Charles sitting there, looking like the president of a fucking bank while Brigham appeared wild-eyed and haggard, hair waving about like Beethoven after a good drunk, not to mention that he was somewhat off his rocker with gin. Guess who would be going to an institution. No. No cops. He would see where this went. Maybe Charles knew the whereabouts of Rose. His stomach turned at the thought of where she might be and what might have happened to her.