“No, I can’t,” he said harshly. “I can’t.”
She covered herself. “Okay, I understand.”
Candlelight and shadow danced across her face.
“I should probably go,” Brigham said, his voice dry and shaky.
“Okay, I’m sorry if I upset you. Let’s go.”
“No, I don’t want to leave yet. You surprised me, that’s all. Let’s have some wine.”
“All right. You stay here, I’ll get it.”
She returned with a couple glasses of red wine, and they silently watched the goings on. The interaction between guests and donors had become more… energetic, with those taking the blood attaching themselves to a spot at the base of the neck of the donor.
“What are they doing?”
“Some of the sanguinarians take blood from their donor by making a small cut near the clavicle and sucking blood from the wound.”
“Sounds pretty much like a real vampire to me.”
“It helps them play the role, but they’re just people who think they need blood.”
“So, you don’t believe there are real vampires?”
“No. It’s an interesting story, but it’s just a story.”
Strange movement caught his eye. “Are those two in the corner doing it?” he asked.
“You mean having sex?”
“Yeah. Sure looks like it to me.”
“Those two are notorious for getting a little carried away. It’s not really the purpose of the organization, but nobody cares to stop them.”
The couple’s shadow waxed and waned against the wall.
“Why would you?”
“I agree. Rather stimulating, isn’t it?”
Brigham sipped his wine and continued to watch the couple screwing in the corner. He heard again the words of Pink Jesus: “Don’t do it.” Things were starting to add up to great temptation to which he would submit unless he left right away.
“I think I should go,” he said.
“Okay. Let me say goodbye to our host.”
“I haven’t met the host.”
“You will if you come back, but not tonight.”
They slid into the night through the narrow streets where lamps cast their shadows on crumbling brick and ocher plaster. They passed a young couple engaged in oral sex at the end of a street across the canal, cloaked in darkness as though invisible. Still before midnight, they went to a small bar where a single musician played lonely and sorrowful music on an electric guitar. Young women, dressed in black with silver piercings running the length of their ears, in their lips, and through their tongues, swayed quietly to the rhythm of the music and nodded with understanding. Brigham thought he had seen them at the vampire club but couldn’t be certain. Gloria ordered a white wine, he a martini. This time he would drink whatever the bartender brought. When it came, it was a perfect martini: dry, in a cold glass with good gin and a stuffed olive.
“How’s your drink?” she asked.
“Excellent. This man has been to bartender school.”
She laughed. “What did you think of the club?”
The guitarist finished a song and the girls clapped. A blue light from the bar revealed Gloria’s figure through her dress.
“It was very interesting. I never imagined that such a place existed, particularly in Venice.”
“Most people are surprised to learn it exists. The first time I went I had been invited by a man. I didn’t really believe it, but when I saw it, I was amazed. It fascinated me. After visiting the club a few times I tasted the blood and liked it.”
“Took a lot of courage,” he said while chewing the last of the olive.
She sipped her wine and nodded. The guitarist returned from a break and began a slow and twangy song in a minor key. One of the girls joined in by shaking and rhythmically striking a tambourine. “And there are other parts of the club I haven’t seen. Some say people are tortured there, or even killed.” Gloria’s body jiggled through the blue X-ray light of the bar as she adjusted herself on the stool.
“Is that right?” Brigham said.
“Yes, but I think it may be an exaggeration.”
“Maybe we’ll seek admission.”
She swallowed hard a mouthful of wine. “I think it’s best to stay away. I get what I need out of the regular part of the club.”
A woman joined the guitarist and began to sing a sad song in French.
“This is about the only place in Venice with live music nearly every night,” he said. “I think these guys are quite good.”
“Not bad. I love the French songs from the fifties and sixties.”
“I never really got into them, but in this environment they’re quite enjoyable. Suits the mood.”
They sat quietly, listening to the music. Then he said, “I never asked you about yourself.”
Gloria laughed and waved her hand in front of her. “Oh, it’s a boring story.”
“I seriously doubt that. I mean, look where you are now and what you’re doing.”
She shrugged. “I guess so.”
Brigham ordered them each another drink. “So tell me about yourself.”
“I hope you can take the excitement of it.”
“Give it a try.”
He leaned back and gestured for her to proceed.
“I grew up in a small town in Michigan, and I work as a librarian in another small town in Michigan.”
“Oh, the Reader’s Digest version. And a librarian. I always suspected you librarians weren’t as boring as you look.”
“Oh, really?”
“That might not have come out right.”
The waitress brought their drinks.
“No, it didn’t, but that’s okay; I know what you mean.”
“Go on, then. Where did you go to school? Are you married? Any kids? How was your childhood? I want the whole thing.”
“You asked for it. Childhood was nothing out the ordinary. My dad worked in a factory, and my mom stayed home. Only child. Relatively happy family life, I suppose. “
A young man carrying a double bass entered the bar.
“Go on. What did you want to be when you grew up?”
“I wanted to be a doctor. When I got old enough to go to college, I realized it was more effort than I was willing to expend, not to mention money. I liked books and reading, so I went into library science at Central Michigan. In college I met a nice young man. Shortly after graduation we got married. It didn’t work out. We were too young.”
“I know the feeling. Any kids?”
“No. It may sound mean, but I’m glad we delayed. I’d be a single mom now. I hope to have some one day, but not now.”
The song ended and the handful of people in the bar clapped. Brigham and Gloria sipped their wine through the applause.
“Okay, “he said. “We’re up to the million-dollar question. How did you get into the vampire thing?”
“A college friend and I spent a long weekend in New York City and crashed with her friend in the Village. One night at a small dinner party, over tapenade, the subject of the vampire books and movies that were all the rage at the time came up. That turned into a discussion of some underground clubs in New York. One of the guys at the party had connections. And we could get in.” She moved her eyebrows up and down.
“You were there in New York talking to a guy you didn’t know, who invited you to an underground vampire club. Weren’t your librarian alarms going off?”
She laughed. “You bet. But my friend talked me into it. So we went.”
“And?”
“And I loved it. It was interesting and exciting. An element of mystery and danger one does not get behind the lending desk in a library in a small town in Michigan. The biggest news there last year was the heist of a couple of crates of pop bottles from behind the party store.”
“How did you hear about the club in Venice?”
“When I got back to Michigan, I learned about a similar club in Detroit. That’s wher
e I met the man who suggested I try the one here.” She sipped her wine. “Now it’s your turn. Tell me about yourself.”
Brigham waved his hands. “Nah, it’s a boring story.”
“Oh no you don’t. That’s my line.”
“Another time. I should be getting home.” He downed the rest of his martini.
“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?”
Brigham 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 s
urely 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.
A Beast in Venice: (Literary Horror set in Venice) Page 10