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

by Michael E. Henderson

  “Perhaps Charles forgot to mention that I studied in Paris.”

  “Ah.”

  “The last opera I conducted was Manon, by Massenet.”

  “Wonderful piece.” Brigham’s face felt warm.

  Augusto rose from the chair. “If you’ll excuse me, I see a friend I haven’t spoken to in a while.”

  “Of course.”

  Good job, son. Maybe now you can make an impression on the wonderful writer.

  Deborah was in her mid-fifties and obviously having a female mid-life crisis. Men usually dealt with this time in their lives by buying expensive toys. Women, however, dealt with it by getting jacked-up haircuts and dressing in exotic clothes in an attempt at self expression. Her hair was cut to a gray stubble, and she wore layers of thin, gauzy material in bright oranges, reds, and yellows. An array of silvery bangles on her arms and legs and around her neck topped it all off. She sounded like Santa’s frickin’ sleigh when she moved. Her expression said, “I care about all the right issues, and I’m smarter than you are.” Normally, he would have shied away from this woman, but the prosecco gave him the courage to approach her. He actually found the look interesting and attractive. Artistic.

  “If my memory serves, you’re Deborah.”

  “Yes,” she said with a faint smile, cocking her head to the side in the manner of the intellectual.

  “The wonderful writer.”

  “Right, isn’t that fun? Charles is great,” she said with a larger smile, now exposing a set of crooked teeth.

  “Yes, I haven’t felt this good about myself in years.”

  “You’re the fabulous painter.”

  Candlelight glinted off the silver trinkets on her bracelet.

  Brigham bowed. “That is correct. At your service.”

  “What kind of painting do you do?”

  “I don’t like to put a label on it, but it would best be described as abstract, or abstract expressionist, although it’s not strictly expressionist.”

  She sipped her wine. “Oh, I like that type of art. You will have to show me your work sometime.”

  Perhaps he had misjudged this wonderful writer because of her cover. Anyone who wanted to see his paintings, and actually asked to do so, was a person of obvious taste, refinement, and culture. “That would be great. Here’s my card. Take a look at my website, and we’ll arrange a time for you to come over.”

  “Great.”

  “By the way,” he said, reaching into his inside breast pocket and taking out a small flier, “I’m having a small exhibition at a café. The opening, or inauguration, as they call it here, is in a few days. Stop by.”

  She took the flier and examined it briefly. “I will, thanks.”

  “There’ll be free prosecco.”

  “Now, that’s how you get impoverished writers to go.”

  He laughed. “What sort of things do you write?” He took a handful of sugar-coated almonds from a silver bowl.

  “I’m a freelance journalist. Just got back from India.”

  “I’ve never been there, although I hear it’s unbelievable.”

  Her bangles jingled as she adjusted a bracelet. “That’s a good word for it. It’s certainly like no other place I’ve been.”

  “What was the article about?” he asked through a mouthful of nuts and sugar.

  Her smile left and her brow wrinkled. “The plight of women there.”

  “What plight in particular? Lack of education? Unequal pay?”

  She shook her head. “No, much more serious than that.” She glanced around the room as if looking for a way out. “For example, if a woman does something to bring dishonor to the family, she may be stoned to death, or burned alive.”

  “Yeow, I had no idea.”

  “Yes, it’s quite a problem. They call it ‘honor killing.’”

  “Oh, I’ve heard about that. Horrible thing. Barbaric.”

  She nodded seriously and sipped her wine. “Do you live in Venice?”

  “Yes, my wife and I live near Piazzale Roma.”

  “What brought you here?”

  “We had visited many times and loved it. One day we decided life was short, and we should live in Venice.”

  A woman came by with a tray of small hors d’oeuvres. They each took one.

  “Wow, that’s a big move. What did you do in the US?”

  “I practiced law.”

  She dabbed the corner of her lips with a napkin. “What kind of law?”

  “Criminal defense.”

  Deborah reached for a small sandwich on a nearby table, jingling as she moved. “Very interesting. I thought of being a lawyer, but they have such a bad reputation.”

  He nodded slowly. “Yes, we are held in low esteem. Wrongly so, I might add.” He took another handful of almonds.

  “I always wondered how you could defend a criminal if you knew they were guilty.”

  He dropped an almond on the floor, which landed in front of Deborah’s sandaled feet. Around each toe was a silver ring. How did she get those on there? “Guilt or innocence is irrelevant. The only thing that matters is what the State can prove.”

  “I don’t think I could do that.”

  “Oh, I’m sure you could. It’s a matter of–” Rose waved to him from across the room. “I’m sorry, I’m being hailed by my wife.”

  “You’d better go over. Good talking to you.”

  “Same here. And come see my studio sometime.”

  “I will. Ciao.”

  He waved as he stepped away. “Ciao.”

  Rose sat on a sofa talking with a couple of men. She fit the palatial surroundings perfectly. Pale pink Murano glass jewelry glistened in the candlelight against her slim form in a black dress. Hard to believe that this princess, ignored by the ravages of time, had written treatises on Schopenhauer and Nietzsche. He decided to go over and wax intelligent.

  Rose smiled and held out her hand toward him. “Here’s my husband.”

  Brigham took her hand. One of the men with whom she sat had blond hair cropped short on the side, longer on top, the color of which was not right for his skin. It made him look kind of green. The other had dark hair, shaved on the sides, with longer hair from the top pulled back into a ponytail. They both wore colorful jackets with white shirts.

  “I see you two gentlemen have found the most beautiful woman at the party,” Brigham said.

  Rose blushed. “Stop it.”

  “It’s true,” Brigham said. “Even Charles told me he thought so.”

  “Liar.”

  “Oh no, he’s right,” the dark-haired man said.

  “See?”

  “I understand you’re a painter,” said the dark-haired man, grinning.

  “A fabulous painter,” Brigham said, holding up an index finger.

  “Right. I love to be introduced by Charles,” the man replied.

  “Oh, so do I,” said the blond man.

  Holy fuck. “Excuse me, but I need to find the bathroom,” Brigham said, glancing around.

  “Down the hall to the right,” one of them said.

  Brigham started down the candle-lit hall and soon came to a series of rooms decorated with Venetian renaissance paintings and Roman and Chinese antiques. Busts of Roman emperors and Tang Dynasty horses. All clearly authentic. He definitely needed to get Charles interested in abstract art, as it seemed he had plenty of disposable income.

  Dazzled by the beauty of the house, Brigham became lost. He hated wandering around other people’s houses; it made him feel like an intruder. He feared being accused of stealing or breaking something. Now, he was lost in a house where each painting was worth more than all the money he had ever earned or ever would earn.

  He turned to go back whence he came, or so he thought. He went down a hallway, which ended at a large library decorated in the style of the fifteenth century. Persian carpets of rich reds, blues, and greens covered the floor, and one such carpet adorned a large table. On the other side of the room a cape and tri-corne
r hat were draped over one of the chairs. Isn’t that odd? Could it be? Nah. Brigham himself owned a tri-corner hat and cape, which he had worn for Halloween. And now it was Carnevale. Everyone wore a costume.

  The glint of gold caught his eye. A large glass case holding ornate containers made of gold and crystal shimmered on the opposite side of the room. He stepped closer. They were reliquaries. Bits of body parts purported to be those of saints, preserved for the admiration of the faithful. They were usually found in churches rather than private collections, but hey, this guy had money, and those with money often obtain strange shit. Here stood a collection of fingers, toes, teeth, hands, and feet, all nicely displayed.

  He stopped in front of a painting. “That’s a Bellini or I’m a monkey’s uncle,” he said aloud to himself. He drew closer. Near the bottom of the painting was the signature, made to appear to be carved in wood: Ioannes Bellinus. Sure as fuck. “Gotta be priceless.”

  From behind him came a female voice. “Lost?”

  Startled, he turned.

  Before him was a woman, her hair piled high, her hairline raised by shaving slightly above the forehead; a style he had seen in medieval paintings. Although not beautiful, Brigham found her attractive in a way he didn’t understand. When she moved, layers of sheer, off-white fabric floated with her, and the diamonds around her neck and on her wrists sparkled warmly in the candlelight.

  “Uh… yes.” He opened his mouth to say something else, but no words came out.

  “I see you’ve found our little collection,” she said, smiling and nodding in the direction of the reliquary.

  “Yes, sorry. I went to find the bathroom and got lost.”

  She held out her hand. “I’m Samantha Raymond. Charles’s wife.”

  Brigham shook her hand. “Glad to meet you. I’m Brigham Stone.”

  “I know. The painter. My husband told me you might come. Now let me help you find your way back.”

  THE SURPRISE OF BEING CAUGHT in a part of a stranger’s house where he had no business to be left Brigham’s mouth dry. It had been a while since his last glass of wine.

  “Can I get you something to drink?” he asked Samantha.

  “Yes, let’s get some prosecco. You look as though you could use it.”

  They found Charles talking at the wine table.

  “Ah,” Charles said to Samantha. “I see you’ve met my new friend Brigham.”

  “Yes.” She handed Brigham a glass.

  “Brigham is a wonderful painter living in Venice,” Charles said.

  “Yes, you told me.”

  “I thought I was fabulous. Isn’t fabulous better than wonderful?”

  Samantha smiled. “I think they are the same.”

  “It doesn’t matter,” Brigham said. “Either one is better criticism than I’ve ever gotten.”

  “If you will excuse me,” Charles said, “I see someone I need to talk to.”

  “We shall have to have a look at your work sometime,” Samantha said.

  “I would really like that. What do you do, Samantha?”

  She held her wine glass in front of her with both hands, a pose that made her seem cultured and royal, like a queen.

  He couldn’t take his eyes off the gleaming diamonds. “I’m a woman of leisure. Charles takes good care of me.” She took a sip of wine.

  “Would you like to adopt a son? I can cook and clean, and I’m fun to be around.”

  “That’s not what your wife tells me.”

  Brigham choked on his wine. “Whatever she said is a lie.”

  “I’m kidding. She told me you were actually very talented, and a wonderful person.”

  “Ah, well, she finally told the truth about me.”

  “Oh, she thinks very highly of you. You’re a lucky man.”

  Brigham nodded as he picked up a piece of bread covered with salmon and caviar. “I don’t know much, but I do know that.”

  Charles waved Samantha over.

  “If you’ll excuse me,” she said, “my husband beckons.”

  “Of course. Nice talking to you.” Brigham watched her walk away, a diamond-clad apparition. He went to find Rose.

  “Having fun?” he asked , finding her where he had left her.

  “It’s okay. I met a few new people, but I’m not one to just go up and chat with strangers. You’re much better at that than I am.”

  “Nonsense. You’re beautiful, brilliant, and people like you immediately. Me? They have to work at it.”

  “You’re still better at it than I am.”

  He shrugged. “You gotta schmooze sometimes. Wanna go?”

  “What time is it?”

  “About ten.”

  She sighed. “Yeah, I’m tired. You can stay, if you want to.”

  “No, I’m ready to go. I’ve done my share with the wine and food. Don’t wanna be a pig. Let’s say good-bye.”

  On the way out through the courtyard Brigham noticed for the first time an arched doorway that had been filled in by brick, the keystone of which was the face of a screaming man.

  IV

  Brigham walked to Campo Santa Margherita for his mid-morning coffee. A small crowd had formed by a bridge, watching the police fish a dark mass out of the water. Using a long pole with a hook at the end, they pulled the thing to the edge of the canal.

  The crowd gasped. At the end of the hook hung the nude and gutted body of a young woman, bloated and fetid, with large areas of flesh cut away.

  The sight and smell of it made him nauseous. Dead bodies lying all nice and peaceful-like and properly made up in caskets at funerals are one thing, but he’d never seen an honest-to-God human corpse in its natural habitat, let alone one in this condition. His reaction puzzled him, though. He had field-dressed deer, their guts steaming in the sun on a cold day, and felt no revulsion.

  The police lifted the carcass from the water, stinking and dripping, put it in a body bag, and took it away. He continued on his way, trying to shake the image and stench of the body from his mind.

  At his favorite café, people sat outside enjoying the warm sun and cool breeze.

  “Ciao, Brigham,” came a voice from the crowd. There sat Charles, clad in a dark sport coat, a wad of orange silk erupting from his breast pocket.

  “Ciao, Charles,” Brigham responded as they shook hands.

  “Will you join me?” Charles said, smiling and pushing a chair toward him with shiny black loafers

  Brigham sat and ordered a caffè americano with extra hot water on the side. With his coffee he ordered a tramezzino, one of the small sandwiches on white bread sold at nearly every bar. His favorite was ham and egg, which they served slathered in mayonnaise.

  The sun lit the brilliant red tablecloth and gleamed off Charles’s white shirt.

  “Lovely party, Charles. Thanks for the invitation.”

  Charles placed his coffee cup on its saucer with a clatter. “You’re most welcome. We enjoyed having you, and your wife is delightful.”

  “Yes, she is. We had many friends in the US, primarily because she is so nice. People hate me.”

  The waiter brought Brigham’s order.

  “Oh, I don’t believe that,” Charles said, waving a well-manicured hand.

  “You will.” Brigham sipped the coffee and bit into the sandwich. “I saw them pulling a body out of the canal on the way over.”

  Charles frowned. “A body? A dead body?”

  “Yes, sir,” Brigham said through a mouthful of egg and ham.

  “You don’t say…”

  “It was a woman. She had been… gutted.”

  “Gutted?”

  A pigeon landed on an empty chair next to them. Brigham kicked the chair to scare it away. “Yep. Dressed and cleaned. Very nice job. And it looked as though most of her flesh had been cut off, although I couldn’t get that close. But I’m sure I saw bone.”

  “You don’t see much of that in Venice, thank God.”

  “No, it was quite shocking.”

  “W
hat is this bloody world coming to? A person can’t even go to Venice without having someone cut them open.”

  Brigham shooed away a sparrow. “We’re a frightening race.”

  “Absolutely,” Charles said through a mouthful of custard-filled croissant.

  “On a more pleasant note,” Brigham said, “if you’re really interested in seeing my paintings, my studio is just around the corner. We could go there when we finish our coffee..”

  “Great idea. I’d love to.”

  “WHAT A FABULOUS SPACE,” Charles said as he walked slowly around Brigham’s studio. “And your paintings are wonderful.”

  “Thank you. I noticed that you didn’t have any abstract art in your apartment. Maybe I could bring you over to the dark side.”

  Charles smiled. “I might be convinced.”

  “Coffee?” Brigham said, turning on the coffee maker.

  “Sure. ”

  “Cream and sugar?”

  “No, just black.”

  “The way it works here is that the client browses leisurely through the paintings. Feel free to paw through any of the stacks. They’re not as delicate as they look.” Pointing to a group of paintings leaning against the opposite wall, he said, “Watch those over there, though. They’re wet.”

  Charles moved through the studio, studying the paintings, pulling out a few for closer examination.

  “I’m a big advocate of mixing abstract art with antique or traditional decor,” Brigham said. “It makes a wonderful contrast.”

  “I think I see what you mean. It had never occurred to me, but I think we’ll try it.” Charles paused in front of one of the easels and stood with his hands behind his back, studying the work in progress. “This one is brilliant—one of your best.”

  “Thanks. I haven’t worked on it in several days, because I don’t know what else to do. It might actually be finished.”

  Brigham poured them each a cup of coffee.

  “I’ll take it just as it is.”

  “You don’t know how much it costs.” Brigham motioned for Charles to sit on the sofa.

  Charles smiled. “I’m sure the price will be fair.”

  “All right. As soon as I’m sure it’s dry, I’ll call you and arrange to send it to your house. As to the price, why don’t you just pay what you think it’s worth? Leave the cash on the table. I won’t look until you’re gone.” Brigham sat in a chair near the sofa.