They met at the café for the lesson since the tutor refused to come to their apartment. Brigham hated that, because the café was often hot, noisy, and crowded, and the beer and food distracted him. But he did it anyway. He often found it easier to give in than to argue. Despite having been a lawyer, and having litigated many cases, he hated conflict.
“Ciao, Brigham,” the tutor said. “Come stai, oggi?”
“Bene,” Brigham responded. “E tu?”
“Bene.” That pretty much shot his wad on Italian–”Hi, how are you today? Good, and you? Good.” Except, of course, to be able to ask a bartender whether he spoke English, which he usually did in English, anyway. Yet, after all this time in Venice, all he could say in Italian was, “Hello, how are you today?” Bloody genius.
The tutor, a middle-aged man with scraggly salt-and-pepper hair and shabby clothes, stood outside the café smoking, looking like the nutty goddamn professor.
Brigham, in no hurry, didn’t mind chatting with him for a few minutes. He preferred putting walnut shells in his eyes to conjugating frickin’ verbs for two hours. Why Rose thought he had a two-hour attention span was never quite clear to him.
“How’s your painting going?” the tutor asked. At least he had the decency to speak English.
“Okay. I’m having an exhibition at this café soon.”
The tutor blew smoke out his nose. “Oh, nice. You must be very happy they’re giving you a show.”
Brigham laughed. “You don’t understand how it works in this country. Nobody gives you a show. This café, for example, displays exhibitions all the time. You go in, tell them you want an exhibition, get on the calendar, and pay two hundred and fifty euros. I essentially rent the space.”
“Ah. How long will it be here?”
Brigham moved upwind to avoid the stench of the cigarette. “Three weeks.”
“I can’t wait to see it.”
Sure. He knew that the tutor liked only realistic art, and Brigham did only abstract paintings. He was ashamed to have him see them.
From behind them came a voice. “I couldn’t help overhearing that you’re an American and a painter.” Brigham turned. A man about sixty-five, sitting at one of the tables outside the café, gazed at Brigham with small wet eyes, a pleasant face, and an easy manner. A red silk pocket square billowed out from the finely-tailored blue suit.
“Yes,” Brigham said, “that’s right.”
The man introduced himself as Charles Raymond, an American who has been living in Venice for many years. “Maybe I could see your work sometime.”
“That would be great. Give me your number and we’ll set up a time.”
Charles handed him a business card. “By the way, I’m having a few people over tonight. I know it’s short notice, but perhaps you could stop by. It’s a very interesting group.”
“Sounds good. I’ll check with my wife, because it happens to be my birthday. She may have something planned.”
Charles smiled. “Well, happy birthday. Make it if you can, and your wife is invited, too, of course.”
Brigham tucked the card away. “Thanks. I’ll try.”
When the tutor had finished trying to kill himself and those around him with cigarette smoke, they went into the bar to start the lesson. It is important in life for a man to be known at a good drinking establishment or, lacking a good one, a mediocre one would do. It didn’t matter, so long as they knew you when you went in, had cold beer, and at least acted as though they liked you. This café fit that order. The bartenders were friendly, laughed at his jokes (when they understood them), and loved his English lessons, which were far more colorful than what they might pick up in school. When he came through the door, they all shouted, “Ciao, Bree-gam!” like Norm on frikin' Cheers. Ah, to be liked, if only for being a source of revenue.
He also liked this bar because they had the best beer in Venice on tap, the coldest bottled beer in the city, and good sandwiches and other light fare.
The waiter met him inside the door. “Ciao! Happy birthday!”
“Oh, Christ. Rose told you.”
“Yes, she told us.”
Brigham and the tutor ordered coffee, then sank into the large, comfortable chairs in the back of the café and spread their papers on a table.
The tutor handed Brigham a sheet with the day’s dialogue on it. “We learn today how to ask for directions.”
Brigham scanned the paper. Nothing he understood.
“How you ask directions in America?”
Brigham shifted his attention from the paper to the tutor. “I don’t know.”
The tutor blinked. “You don’t know? What you mean you don’t know?”
The waiter placed their coffees in front of them.
“I mean,” Brigham said, “I don’t know. Where I come from, men don’t ask for directions.”
The tutor sipped his espresso. “But, what if you are lost?”
“We drive around until we find it.”
“But—”
“Or, if there’s a woman in the car, until she gets out and asks directions. But no man is going to ask for directions.”
“Interesting. Well, here we ask directions, and that is the topic of today’s lesson.”
Brigham finished the lesson with a burning thirst and went to the bar. “I’ll have one of them over-priced beers. The hefeweizen.”
The waiter delivered a bottle and a glass containing a wedge of lemon. Brigham removed the fruit (What barbarian started putting fruit in beer?) and filled the glass.
The beer, cold and delicious, tasted as if all the angels of Heaven, the saints, both major and minor, and all the hosts and minions of the Lord God Almighty were singing in chorus together to quench his thirst and to save his already-lost immortal soul. He hoped there was beer in Hell.
He sat at an outside table, where he watched the parade of those whom fate had dealt the good fortune to be in this place at this time. It reminded him of Plato’s allegory of the cave. These were not shadows, however, or at least they did not appear as shadows, but were actual people, all flesh and blood and real. They marched past all day and half the night. Tourists, locals, beggars, thieves, people normal and plain, and those not so normal or plain. Two-legged, upright-walking creatures of all kinds in a place where looking exotic was the norm.
One particularly stupid-looking girl wore her over-sized painter’s pants hanging down below her fat ass, and had her hair cut such that parts of it were long, and other parts shaved close the scalp, all arranged in an asymmetrical manner. She had piercings all over her face, wore raggedy clothes, and appeared overall most idiotic. Her parents must be right proud. Perhaps he should have a talk with her. No, if she were inclined to listen to anyone, she would not dress that way in the first place. His own son, now a lawyer, had gone through such a phase. He had come home one day with a wide swath shaved down the middle of his head and certainly had not been interested in fatherly advice on the subject.
Brigham went in to pay for the beer. “Where’s my present?”
The waiter squinted. “What?”
“It’s my birthday. Where’s my present?”
“What?”
“My regalo. It’s my compleanno, and I want my bloody regalo.”
“Non ho capito.”
He pointed to the bar. “You capito just fine. Now hand it over.”
The waiter laughed. “Ah, Bree-gam, you a funny guy.”
“Yeah, that’s me, just a funny old man.” He left empty-handed. They didn’t even spot him the fucking beer.
ALTHOUGH HE HAD DECIDED AGAINST telling Rose about the disappearing man, the thought still bothered him. Uncertain whether it had been a byproduct of good gin or whether he actually saw a man vanish into the bricks, he went to Saint Mark’s Square to talk to his friend Mauro the Gondolier. If anyone would know about such things it would be Mauro, or he would know someone who did.
Mauro stood near his station with a gaggle of other gondoliers.
“Can you tell me how to get to Saint Mark’s?” Brigham said to the pack.
“Brig!” Mauro shouted.
They shook hands, and Brigham did likewise with a couple of other gondoliers he knew. Mauro was taller than most of his colleagues, wore glasses with the brightly colored frames Italians are fond of, and had a deep tan and a highly gelled flattop, which Brigham referred to as a “cop haircut,” all of which coordinated well with his black-and-white-striped gondolier’s shirt.
“Making a living?” Brigham asked.
Mauro nodded. “We’re busy today.”
Crowds celebrating Carnevale filled Saint Mark’s Square. A couple passed them, dressed as soldiers from the Napoleonic Wars, complete with tall fur hats, coats with many golden buttons, and swords. A woman stood nearby dressed as a swamp, cattails and all, while others simply wore masks or funny hats. Large dragons paraded around the square, roaring and spitting fire. The aroma of frying dough and roasting nuts filled the air. Two or three gondoliers at a time made pitches to potential fares.
“Let me ask you something,” Brigham said. “This is going to sound strange, but you know everything about Venice.”
“What is it? You look worried.”
“Promise not to laugh?”
Mauro’s product-laden hair glistened in the sun. “I promise. Dimmi. Tell me.”
“When I was out walking last night I saw a man walk through a solid brick wall.”
“Are you sure he didn’t just go down a narrow calle?”
“I’m sure. I went over to look. There was just a door that had been bricked up. That’s where he went. You ever see or hear about anything like that in Venice?”
Mauro grinned, his white teeth contrasting with the tan of one who works in the Venetian sun all day. “How many beers did you have?”
“You sound like my wife.” Brigham gave him the finger. “I had one stinkin’ martini.”
“I’m just bustin’ your coglioni. I’ve never seen it myself, but there are legends.”
“Really? Do you know them?”
“Sure, but I know a woman—”
The gondolier in charge of who got fares called Mauro’s number.
“Gotta go.” He waved to Brigham and shouted over his shoulder as he hurried to the dock. “We’ll talk about this later.”
THE CANALS AT THIS TIME OF DAY were still, and in shadow. The sun highlighted the rusty reds and yellow ochers of the buildings, casting brilliant reflections on the water, the surface of which shone and glimmered like mercury. Every turn and every corner reminded him that he was in the most beautiful city in the world. The sun lit the ancient brick, and its light shimmered in the hazy mist over the canals, dancing off the houses and the undersides of bridges. During the few times he had been out of Venice in the past few years, all he could think about was getting back. He loved every stone of the city.
He reflected on the decision to move to Venice. They had come here to escape the destructive juggernaut of the ordinary world.
Back in the States it had been difficult for Brigham to find the time or space to pursue his passion for oil painting. He had painted since high school and had hoped to study art in college, but his parents wouldn’t pay for it. His dad railed against the crap passing for art at the time and the sort of people who were artists. There was also no money in it, his dad had said. So he studied business then went to law school, abandoning his dream of being an artist.
He did manage to take a couple of drawing and painting classes, and an art history class, but that was it. After a number of years of working and raising a family, he took private lessons to hone his skills.
In the US, Brigham had painted in a corner of the basement. Here, he had a real studio, consisting of two rooms. One opened onto the street, where he could display paintings to the public, and the other was in the back, where he painted. Both had bare brick walls with cement floors and large wooden beams. Outfitted with a sofa, a couple of leather chairs, old wooden tables, a few easels, and a small kitchen area, the place was comfortable and more than adequate for him to work. The easels, each with its own worktable covered with paints, brushes, solvents, and rags, were placed strategically around the room, all with different views. Dozens of paintings, some finished, others unfinished and drying, leaned against the walls. The sweet, piney smell of turpentine filled the air.
Back at his studio, Brigham sat on the sofa, staring at two blank canvases. For his café exhibition he needed two new paintings, and he had only a few days in which to do them. They had to be something special. Something new and original. But his mind was a blank. Painting with a deadline was new to him. There was only one thing to do.
He sat with a glass of wine, considering the canvases, but they were not revealing anything. He stared at them. He had another glass of wine. Still nothing. After the third glass, the muse came spinning into his mind, and he began to put paint onto the canvas.
III
Brigham and Rose approached the gate to Charles’s apartment, carrying a bottle of prosecco. Brigham pushed the doorbell. The gate buzzed and clanked open.
Rose stepped into the courtyard leading to the house. “Are you sure you want to spend your birthday with people you don’t know?”
“Yes, we talked about this. I think Charles has money, and he’s shown an interest in my art. Anyway, I don’t plan to spend the whole night here. After an hour or two we can leave, and continue the festivities at home.”
“All right, but behave yourself.”
He raised his hand. “Please, I know how to act in polite society.”
Rose shook her head.
They crossed the courtyard on a stone path to the main part of the house. Charles greeted them warmly, saying, “Ciao, ciao,” and kissing them each on both sides of the face, as is the custom in Italy. Brigham could do without this practice. He preferred other men to be at least at arm’s length. Charles took their coats and brought them into the largest room Brigham had seen in Venice, outside of those found in a palazzo. Paintings and drawings, clearly medieval and Renaissance, mounted in gilt frames, covered the walls. Others, not yet hung, leaned against the walls around the room. Busts of Roman emperors, and ancient Chinese bronzes stood on pedestals in the corners. Frescoes and elaborate plasterwork decorated the ceilings, many of them trimmed in gold leaf.
A handful of people sat on large sofas arranged in a square, sipping prosecco and munching tidbits from small silver bowls on the coffee table. So far, so good—decent surroundings, good booze, and salty snacks.
Charles introduced Brigham and Rose to a group of his friends, referring to Brigham as a “fabulous painter” and to the others in a similar manner; for example, Deborah, the wonderful writer, and Augusto, the exquisite conductor.
Brigham liked being called fabulous and enjoyed being in the presence of wonderful and exquisite others. Self-doubt and uncertainty had crept into his work lately, making it difficult for him to paint without jamming his mind full of wine. Maybe he would go home after this and be fabulous the rest of his life.
Perhaps he would talk to the exquisite conductor. In his youth, Brigham had, above all else, wanted to be a musician and composer. He had written music and applied to conservatories but had been rejected; they insisted he show talent and musical ability.
Augusto looked as if he belonged in a Bugs Bunny cartoon—aged about eighty with a big mop of white hair, a long black coat, and a frilly white shirt. He appeared friendly enough, so Brigham approached him. He was sitting in a large leather chair.
“I like being introduced as fabulous,” Brigham said, attempting to break the ice.
Augusto smiled. “Yes, it’s always that way with Charles. I’ve been fabulous too.”
His accent and tone of voice reminded Brigham of Cary Grant.
“I think exquisite trumps fabulous,” Brigham said. “You have been promoted.”
“Seems so,” Augusto said, bowing his head.
“Charles says you’re a conductor
.”
Augusto put his nose in the air. “Yes.”
“What kind of music do you conduct?” Brigham hoped to Christ it wasn’t show tunes or he would have to go talk to the wonderful writer.
“Classical, mainly symphonic, early to mid-twentieth century. I also conduct opera.”
“Fascinating. I’m a huge fan of classical music, particularly Beethoven.”
“Oh?”
Brigham detected an air of indifference. “I also like opera, but I’m not an expert. Have you made any recordings?”
“Yes, a few. You can hear snippets of them on my website.”
“I’ll have to listen to them.” Brigham wrote down Augusto’s name and website in the small notebook he always carried. “I think Beethoven was the father of modern music,” he said, pulling a topic out of his ass.
Augusto smiled as one does when hearing bullshit from someone too dumb to know it’s bullshit. “There are people who hold that opinion.”
This wasn’t the “Amen” he had expected, and it was said in a tone that meant, “Yeah, you’re an idiot. What do I care what you think?” This was the point in any conversation when one either shuts up and moves along or continues to bore those within earshot. Never talk to someone on a subject about which they know more than you. This would have been a good time for Brigham to look over at his wife, who was holding court with another guest, and make like she were calling him. But no. He continued.
“A friend of mine,” Brigham said, “once told me that Debussy was the father of modern music.”
“Yes, Debussy did a lot to advance it.”
“I told him he was mistaken. It was Beethoven. I told him that the French shouldn’t be given staff paper and a pencil at the same time. I lent him a copy of Beethoven’s Grosse Fuge. He listened to it, and the following week when he gave it back to me he told me I was right.”
Augusto sniffed. “Really?”
Brigham nodded while swallowing a mouthful of wine.
A Beast in Venice: (Literary Horror set in Venice) Page 2