A Beast in Venice: (Literary Horror set in Venice) (28 page)

“Oh my God,” Gloria whispered. “I think I’m going to be sick.”

“Hang in there,” Brigham said. “Let’s get out of here.” They doubled back and got into the boat.

“Get down,” Mauro said. “I’ll row us out of here nice and slow, like I’m just out for a ride.”

“At one o’clock in the morning?” Brigham asked.

“If they stop me, I’ll make something up, but I’m going to look normal.”

Mauro rowed calmly, as if he were out for a Sunday morning picnic. He had gone about fifty yards when a police boat sped past and moored where the rowboat had been. Another police boat came slowly up the canal behind Mauro and shined a light on him.. The police asked him whether he had seen anything. No, nothing. They asked what he was doing out here at this hour. He and his wife had argued and he had come out to blow off steam and to calm down. He was afraid he would end up busting her in the mouth. The cops laughed, accepted this explanation, and left.

After a short distance, Mauro reached the lagoon, and he rowed off into the mist.

AS THE SUN ROSE THE FOLLOWING DAY, Brigham despaired of ever finding his wife. She had been gone for over a week. Perhaps it was best to try to accept his condition and that Rose wasn’t coming back. Lorenzo had been courting his attention away from Charles, saying he thought Charles had hijacked Brigham and his talents. That night, Lorenzo invited Brigham to accompany him in search of a meal, this time without using a portal. After the last time, Brigham was reluctant, but he decided to give it another shot.

They strolled through Campo Santa Margherita near midnight, when only the young were out, reveling in their youth, smoking, drinking wine and spritzes, and talking politics and philosophy. The music of guitars and drums pulsed loudly from a corner bar, and blue light poured over the patrons and into the street, reflecting off the smooth pavement.

In spite of the darkness, Zorzi wore small, round, dark glasses. The light added blue highlights to his black hair, colored his face, and glistened like sapphires from his glasses.

In the middle of the square, by a well, several young girls lined up to have their picture taken. Laughing, beautiful, nubile, hair long and glowing, breasts showing and heaving under thin fabric. Youthfulness incarnate, upright and walking. Lorenzo seemed mesmerized. “They will come home with me,” he said.

Brigham was silent, taking in the scene. But if he was to come around to the eating of human flesh, this would be the path to success.

After the girls had been photographed, they stood around talking with a couple of local boys. Brigham and Lorenzo watched them for a moment, then approached. When the local boys saw Lorenzo, they backed off, turned, and walked away.

“Where are you girls from?” Lorenzo asked.

They considered him for a moment, glanced at Brigham, and then one of them said, “California. LA.”

“I’ve been to LA,” Lorenzo said. “Beautiful place.”

They stood gazing at him, eyes wide, lips parted, silent.

“You from around here?” one of them asked.

“Yes, I live not far from here. I have a big beautiful apartment in a palazzo, and I’m having a party tonight.”

“It’s kind of late,” another said.

Zorzi smiled. “This one is a thinker,” he whispered to Brigham. “Yes,” he said to the girls. “It’s more like an after-party. It starts late, goes most of the night, but only the best people are there. Interested?”

The girls looked at each other, glanced at Zorzi, then looked at each other again, appearing undecided.

“We have pharmaceuticals there, the likes of which you have never seen,” Lorenzo said.

The girls again looked at each other, nodding and smiling this time, and agreed to follow Lorenzo to his house.

Oh, the wayward folly of youth. Living with abandon, not heeding any rules of common sense, not knowing fear. Actions not tempered by experience. If there were easier pickings in the world, Brigham didn’t know what they could be.

They arrived at the palazzo, which was dark, save a few candles. They escorted the girls to the vault, too young and naive to complain that it was dark, or that they didn’t know where they were going, how they would get out, or the obvious question of who this exotic man was. They followed blindly and innocently.

He led them first to a long table near a fire, raging in a medieval hearth. He fed them and gave them wine. They grew giddy and brave, asking about the drugs. Lorenzo told them that the drugs couldn’t be kept here, since it was rather public and subject to the scrutiny of those not interested in drugs, as well as the police. The girls nodded knowingly. They also inquired as to the location of the other revelers, as they were alone. In the same place as the drugs, Zorzi told them, and they were happy to accompany him to the lower reaches of the vault. To the dungeon. But they grew apprehensive as Zorzi led them into the bowels of Venice. He seemed to understand that their protocol of keeping and appearing cool precluded them from saying what they felt or from running out of there. He knew them. He had had them before.

There were no drugs and there was no after-party. The only drug Zorzi needed was the screams of the girls as his men nailed them to wooden beams and they watched one of their number butchered.

I
t was then that Brigham accepted his condition, like the born again to Christ.  

Part Three

XXIII

Brigham worked in his studio to prepare for the show in Rome, now only a few days away. He sat at an easel, staring at a blank, white canvas, not knowing what to do next. Several unfinished works rested on easels scattered around the studio.

“Say something,” he growled at Pink Jesus, but Pink Jesus had been silent for days.

A threadbare floor-length green velvet robe hung loosely on his gaunt and hunched-over frame, a cloth cap of the same color sat sideways on his head, and bits of toe protruded from holes in his maroon velvet slippers. Next to his chair sat his second bottle of wine of the day. Not bothering with glasses anymore, he reached his claw-like hand down, with its long nails, to take the bottle to drink from it. His long gray hair, now nearly to his shoulders, stuck out from under the cap like straw from a scarecrow’s brain. His face was drawn and covered in thick, gray stubble, his eyes wet, red, and tired. Taking the last bit of wine from the bottle, he threw it across the room with a roar, shouting, “Wine!” But there was no one to hear. The bottle landed on a table covered with jars of paint and turpentine, sending them crashing to the floor. He sat slouched over in his chair, muttering, “Wine… wine.”

He would have to finish these paintings shortly if they were to dry, but his muse didn’t come most days. The wine helped him to a point, but too much of it hindered his work. He had lost all hope of finding Rose. He had lost track of time. How long had she been missing? Weeks? Months? He had no idea. The police were accomplishing nothing and would no longer even talk to him.

Most of the blood he needed came from Gloria. But not all of it. She had commented on his declining condition, but he didn’t like such criticism, and he would shout at her and throw things around the studio and kick her out if she mentioned it. He knew he was disgusting to behold and a frightful thing to be around; he didn’t know why she tolerated him. Yet, she did and came by every day to feed him. On occasion, though, Gloria’s blood didn’t satisfy him, and he went into the Venetian night. He rarely left the studio otherwise except to care for the dogs.

Tonight he would go out. In spite of his sottish ways, and being tired and worn, he had the strength to dispatch his prey. He could go out dressed as he was, as strange-looking people were not unusual in Venice. Either way, identifiable as he was, any person who saw him once would know him if they saw him again. He prepared himself. He would wear an overcoat because of the blood. Always so much blood.

ARMED WITH HIS KNIFE-CANE and obscured by a thick fog that the streetlights struggled to penetrate he went into the night. Droplets of vapor flew around the lights like moths, and shadows of things cut slices of darkness through the mist, carving apparitions in the opaque air. Hard to see, easy to hide. He had the advantage.

It being after one o’clock in the morning, only a handful of people roamed about. He headed toward the Rialto and the small, dark streets on the market side of the bridge, where few people ventured at this hour.

Should he go to a different time? No, he had given that up, at least temporarily. This era was so much more… sanitary. Whenever he caught anyone in the past he wanted to wash them first. They repulsed him. Moreover, the consequences of getting caught in the eighteenth century, or especially in one of the earlier, less civilized centuries, would be materially more dire than being caught in the twenty-first.

He moved slowly through the streets, his shadow growing and then shrinking as he passed under lights. His breath glowed in front of him, mixing with the fog.

As he rounded a corner, he came upon a group of teenage boys wearing masks, each with a beer bottle in hand, throwing firecrackers, and generally whooping, hollering, and raising drunken hell. Having no taste for boys, he ignored them.

They, on the other hand, and to their peril, did not ignore him. Rather, they addressed him in a most insolent manner, bandying words like geezer, bastard, bugger, and wanker (Brits, they were). One threw a bottle at him. The group surrounded him, taunting and threatening him, pushing him, promising to kick his ass.

Brigham begged them to leave him alone. He was just an old man out for a stroll. Go have fun, boys. No harm done. One of them suggested they continue on their way and seek, perhaps, the companionship of girls. Another of them, however, and there is always one in every gang, thought they should take the less noble path of tormenting an old sot.
Then
they would seek the comforts of the fairer sex. Maybe they should rob him; he surely had money, and they could use it.

Brigham leaned weakly on his cane and begged for their mercy. He didn’t need their mercy, but he didn’t want to engage them. He merely wished to continue unmolested to do molesting of his own. They wouldn’t have it, though, and one of the less enlightened of the lot took Brigham by the arm while another kicked his feet from under him. Holding tightly to the cane, he hit the pavement. He made no threatening gestures, in fear they would take his only weapon. Then came a rain of kicks and punches. Light flashed behind his eyelids as one of them kicked a rib hard.

But he kept his wits. He rolled himself into a fetal position while undoing the blade from the cane. Looking up, he could see one of the young gentlemen draw back a doughy leg preparing to deliver a kick. Brigham stuck the blade in the boy’s thigh about where he expected there to be a nice fat artery, and behold, there was an artery. The boy looked with surprise at the knife, Brigham holding it firmly in his leg, the blood gushing.

The kid let forth a scream and withdrew from the fray, pulling himself off the blade. The others looked at their companion and then at Brigham and seemed to consider what they should do: continue their fun, which was turning into no fun, or make a retreat? One of the less rational of the bunch pressed the attack. Brigham had come to his feet and stood waiting. The boy lacking reason ran toward him and found himself skewered through the neck. The remaining members of the entourage held back, tending to their previously wounded friend. The skewered one fell to the pavement and began to rapidly bleed to death, blood gurgling and frothing from his mouth.

Although what he sought lay before him, served up steaming and red, Brigham didn’t want a boy.

“
Adieu
, gentlemen,” Brigham said and disappeared into the fog. The boys would surely get the police, so best for him to depart for a different section of town.

He set out for the garden at the eastern end of Venice. The episode with the youth of Britain had tired him, and he could rest there. He didn’t intend to seek a meal in the garden. The fare there would be unsatisfactory, as only beggars and derelicts were there at night. For example, a filthy old woman with all kinds of crazy shit in a grocery cart, and a younger man who was always drunk and encrusted with filth.

When he arrived, however, Brigham was delighted to see an attractive young woman with a large backpack sitting on one of the benches along the boulevard leading to the park from Via Garibaldi. He sat on the next bench over. He caught his breath for a moment, watched to see that the girl was alone, then spoke to her. “Rather late for you to be trudging around in the cold, isn’t it?”

The girl looked up, studied Brigham silently, and then said, “I don’t have anywhere else to go.”

“You came to Venice without a hotel reservation?”

“No. I came to Venice without any money.”

“That’s even worse.”

“Tell me about it.”

He took money from his pocket and approached her. As he came near, a figure sprang from the shrubs behind the benches and hit Brigham with a club. A trap. The girl and her boyfriend were working the park to steal money from unfortunate strollers of the night.

The club glanced off his head, stunning him for a second but doing no damage.

What was this city coming to? It was supposed to be safe, yet he had been accosted twice in the same night. He turned to look his attacker in the eyes. The boy froze for a moment, then raised the club to strike Brigham again. Before the club could be delivered to the top of Brigham’s head, he freed the blade from his cane and slashed the assailant’s throat, sending a spray of blood over Brigham and the girl, painting the young man’s face with surprise. The girl sat as though paralyzed. The boy fell back, dead.