“Why would anyone kidnap her?”
Brigham poured them each a cup of coffee. “Good question. She never did anything to anybody.”
Mauro blew on his coffee. “What did the carabinieri say?”
“The police are fucking worthless. They wouldn’t take a report because it hasn’t been twenty-four hours.”
“Brig, I wouldn’t worry too much. Maybe she decided to take a vacation from you.”
“Very funny. You think she would up and leave without her phone and keys, not pack anything, and not tell so I could take care of the dogs?”
“Now that you put it that way…”
The corgi sauntered into the room, peered into his empty food bowl, then put his front paws on Mauro.
Brigham put his head in his hands. “What am I gonna do?”
Mauro petted the dog. “Your dog wants food.”
“Look at him. Do you think he’s starving?”
“No. He certainly doesn’t look like he’s gone without food.”
“Get down,” Brigham said to the dog. “It’s not time to eat. Go lay down.”
The dog walked slowly into the other room.
“I wonder whether Rose disappearing has anything to do with the people who have pushed you and chased you through the streets,” Mauro said.
“I don’t see any connection.”
Mauro put his cup on the marble table with a clatter. “I’ll bet you it has to do with these shroud eaters.”
“Why? She doesn’t have anything to do with it.”
“No, but you’ve been rubbing elbows with vampires—”
“They’re not vampires. They’re sanguinarians.”
“Rubbing elbows with vampire wannabes, then, and I’m sure you made an impression on that friend of yours you thought was a shroud eater and spilled the potion on.”
“I don’t know. None of it makes any goddamn sense. Is someone trying to get to me through her? Why don’t they just deal with me?”
“Maybe they’re trying to get your attention. There’s something they want you to do, and she’s their insurance.”
Brigham frowned. “But no one has asked me to do anything.”
Mauro shrugged. “Not yet. Maybe taking Rose is a sort of preemptive strike.”
“What do I do, Mauro?” Brigham slurped his coffee.
“All you can do is wait, keep checking with her family and friends, and then make the police report after twenty-four hours.”
“Maybe it’s just someone who thinks I’m rich. They want money.”
“Could be,” Mauro said. “I bet they’ll send a ransom note or some other kind of message.”
“But they must know I would go to the cops.”
“Sure. But they know it doesn’t matter. The police are fucking worthless, as you say.”
“Yeah, and the note will tell me not to go to the cops.” Brigham waved his hands. “I can’t talk to them anymore.”
“No, Brig. You must report Rose missing.”
Brigham nodded. “I know. You’re right.”
They sat silently for several minutes. The morning sun slanted through the kitchen window, shining a spotlight on the table and its contents, including the book on vampires. Mauro picked it up and examined its spine. “What’s this?” he asked, paging through it. “Looks really old.”
“It is, but I can’t think about it now. We gotta figure out what happened to Rose.”
“Somebody wrote all over the pages.”
“Leave it alone.”
Mauro studied a page with the secret notations. “Why does the writing look so funny?”
“Christ, you’re persistent. They wrote it in invisible ink, probably lemon juice.”
“What do you mean ‘invisible’? I can see it.”
“It was invisible when I bought the book. I discovered by accident that there was writing there you can see if you heat it up. Now let me think.”
“That’s wild,” Mauro said. “Where’d you get it?”
“The used bookstore in Dorsoduro. Now be quiet.”
Mauro put the book down.
XV
The moon hung as a sharp and narrow crescent, white against an ultramarine sky, the deep blue of a clear evening just before nightfall. Below the moon shone a bright star, probably Venus. Brigham had shown it to her with his telescope one night. From Earth a star, in the telescope a crescent. Yes, it must be a planet. It didn’t twinkle; another fact learned from Brigham. A thin band of high clouds caught the red of the setting sun, no longer visible over the horizon. Rose stood before the large window formed from small panes of leaded glass that looked out across a canal dug into the countryside. The water reflected the sky like a glowing strip of silvery-blue ribbon stretched across ground covered with green down.
Definitely not Venice. Where, then? The Brenta? Brigham must be going crazy looking for her. It must be days by now, though she had lost count.
Rose thought back to the first night of being held captive, when her terror at being abducted had subsided but not her annoyance. At that point, all she knew was that they had been taking decent care of her, and there did not seem to be any imminent danger. She remembered her throat being sore from yelling, demanding to be let go or to know who had taken her and where she was. In the intervening days, she had been provided simple meals, though no one who had brought them spoke a word to her.
Presently, she turned from the window to the small, cozy room to which her captors had brought her. A single bed stood against one wall, a large bookcase full of ancient-looking books occupied another. A fireplace with a triangular hood of stone was cut into the wall opposite the bed. The walls were covered in salmon-colored damask, which gave off a pleasant sheen in the dim light. There was no electricity. The only light came from a candelabra standing on a small round table between two armless, cloth-covered chairs with high backs. With lunch had arrived an elaborate gown, similar to ones she had seen in eighteenth-century paintings, which had been laid out on the bed. The dress was a golden fabric trimmed in stones and pearls. The gems glittered, even in the candlelight, leading her to believe they were real. Rubies and emeralds arranged in swirling patterns, punctuated by pearls whose satiny sheen reflected the candles and the gems. Beautiful as it was, she had no idea how to get into it, although it was clear she was meant to do so.
There came a knock at the door, hesitant and light, as if the knocker was tacitly begging forgiveness for interrupting or intruding.
“Come in,” Rose said.
The door slowly opened, and a small woman in her fifties stepped in. Rose hadn’t seen her before, and she smiled at the contrast between this plain woman and the elegant room in which she found herself. The woman closed the door behind her and went straight to the bed and lifted the dress. In Italian she asked Rose to come and put it on.
Rose did not move but stood near the table, hands behind her back, peering at the woman. “Am I going to a party?”
The woman did not respond. It was unlikely she spoke any English, so Rose asked her the same question in Italian.
The woman held up the dress, imploring Rose to get dressed. She was expected at dinner shortly, and it was the woman’s job to help get her there on time and appropriately dressed. Rose’s first instinct was to tell her to stuff it, but dinner sounded good, and it looked like a nice dress, so why not? Maybe it would shed some light on why she was here and who her host was.
With the woman’s assistance she got herself into the dress, at which time the woman opened the door and motioned for her to go through, saying, “Prego.”
The woman led her down a corridor lit only by candles standing in sconces of Murano glass. Again, no electric lights and no apparent source of heat. The dress swished uncomfortably. She was not used to wearing such things except at Halloween. Catching a glimpse of herself in the mirror, she thought the dress didn’t look half bad, but they had not bothered with her hair, the style of which did not fit the dress. She should have on a tall powd
ered wig, or something.
They came to a large room completely covered in frescoes, including the ceiling. In the center of the room stood a large dining table set for two, one place at the head, another on the side. At the head sat her host, who rose when she entered.
BRIGHAM RETURNED TO HIS STUDIO and found an envelope under the door. Good quality, heavy paper, with Brigham’s name written across the front in an elegant script in black ink. He removed its contents.
Dear Mr. Stone:
My friend Charles Raymond has shown me the work he purchased from you. It’s brilliant. Please be so kind as to bring two of your favorite works to my house this evening. A man will arrive at your studio at 7:00 to help you and to show you the way.
Respectfully,
Lorenzo Zorzi
P.S. I prefer paintings of women.
Although not feeling up to entertaining, or being entertained, Brigham had a feeling in his gut that this person could help him find Rose. He would be ready.
AS PROMISED IN THE NOTE, a man appeared at the studio and led Brigham, along with two paintings, to the house of Lorenzo Zorzi.
Lorenzo lived beneath Venice in a tremendous arched vault. Its low, bare-brick, Gothic-arched apex curved down to a stone floor the size of a football field. Huge oriental rugs dotted the floor but they appeared small in the vast space.
Devoid of sunlight, the room was lit by hundreds of candles. Wooden partitions decorated with paintings by Titian sectioned off a sleeping area, bath, and dressing room. Otherwise, the vault continued uninterrupted, broken up only by groupings of furniture that created room-like areas. At either end of the vault, and at several places along the walls, fires raged in mammoth medieval stone fireplaces.
A servant led Brigham to the far end of the room, to a tall figure with straight, shoulder-length hair, a rugged complexion, and angular features. Small rectangular dark glasses obscured his eyes and reflected the candles and fireplaces of the room.
Lorenzo greeted Brigham warmly. “Thank you for coming. I know the invitation and the method of delivery were… unusual.”
“Yes, well, artists never turn down an invitation to show their work. I’m afraid, though, I won’t be very good company tonight.”
“I’m sorry. Are you ill?”
“No. My wife has gone missing.”
Lorenzo raised his brow. “Missing?”
“Yes. Vanished without a trace, as they say.”
Lorenzo took Brigham’s elbow and led him to a sofa. “Please, sit down. I had no idea. Have you told the police?”
Brigham sat on the large leather sofa. “They won’t take a missing person report for twenty-four hours. I’ll do it tomorrow.”
“I’m very sorry to hear that. If there’s anything I can do, please let me know.”
“I will, thank you.”
“If you’d rather do this some other time—”
Brigham held up a hand. “No, we’re here now. Let’s proceed.”
“Very well. As I wrote in the note, Charles has shown me your work. It’s wonderful.”
“Thank you. Kind of you to say so. And I’m glad Charles is not upset with me. We had a bit of a misunderstanding the other day.”
“Ah, yes, he mentioned that, but he’s not angry. He seemed to understand.”
“That’s a relief.”
“As to your work, it’s truly remarkable. I know great art when I see it. I’m something of a collector, as you can see.”
Lorenzo nodded toward a number of easels near the sofa, each containing a painting. Brigham recognized them as works by Picasso and de Kooning, as well as the one Charles had bought from him. A servant carried in the paintings Brigham had brought with him and placed them among the others. A light from above beamed down through the hazy atmosphere, illuminating the pictures. The paintings had in common that they were of women or, in the case of Brigham’s, had titles relating to women.
Lorenzo went over to one of the Picassos. “Consider these images. All of women. Not generally flattering images. Not images of beauty. Some would even argue that they evidenced a hatred of women. Exaggerated and distorted features, big mouths, and monstrous teeth. Exposed and misshapen breasts.”
Brigham viewed the paintings from the sofa.
“But, no,” Lorenzo continued, running a finger over the lines of the Picasso, “they don’t mean that these artists hated women. They loved women, and you love women. Maybe not in the way women would like to be loved or think they should be loved by men, but the way men see them and love them.”
Standing in the light, Lorenzo’s black hair appeared white and his skin a ghastly pale. The purple brocade on his dark green coat glistened like gold and contrasted with his velvety red Venetian slippers. “Yet, there is an element of hate. No, hate is too strong a word. Disdain. That’s what it is. They love them for what they are. They represent the potential for continuing the species. At the same time, though, men hold them in disdain. They hate not the woman, for they love her and her attributes; the way she looks, the way she feels, and the way she smells. But they hate her for the power she holds over them.
“For example, this painting of yours. Pure abstraction, pure painting, no images of any kind, other than random circles and lines, yet you called it Woman. Why?”
Brigham didn’t want to answer this question. The answer was probably much simpler than Lorenzo expected. “Because I don’t paint men.”
Lorenzo laughed. “That’s what you think, but it’s not the real answer. Do you want to know the answer?” He faced Brigham, the fires of the room burning in his dark glasses.
Brigham gestured, indicating that Lorenzo should go ahead and tell him.
“The truth is that something in this picture said woman to you. The colors, the shapes, the overall composition, something. You didn’t know it when you painted it, and you may not have been aware of it when you gave it the title, but your subconscious was, and that’s the source of the name.”
Brigham shrugged. “If you say so.”
A log in the fire popped, sending a plume of sparks up the chimney.
“Don’t be so nonchalant about it. You know I’m right.”
No, that’s not how he named his work, but who was he to argue with the likes of Lorenzo Zorzi?
“You wanted to paint a woman, but you couldn’t bring yourself to do it. You left out—no, avoided—all imagery because of your love and disdain for women.”
Brigham rose from the sofa and stood next to Lorenzo. “I appreciate your interest in my work, but you are reading too much into it. Everyone tries to see things in a work of art. To ‘understand’ it. The truth is, artists care about conveying a message only to the extent that the curator or the buyer cares to read one into the work. Consider this Picasso. It isn’t some made-up person; it’s his wife. He painted many such pictures. Did he love her and hate her at the same time? Of course, as she did him. But was he trying to portray a special meaning by the way she was represented? Make a political statement? No. Picasso painted political paintings, but you don’t have to stare at them to find their message; it’s right there, smacking you in the face. He never hid the ball. His goal was to be original. That is the one and only goal of all artists. A curator may write unintelligible gibberish about what the painting means. They use art-speak to mystify, to cast a spell over, the patron. There is a reasonable chance that a buyer is simply some boor with too much money and no understanding of art, who doesn’t want to look stupid when confronted by several hundred meaningless words. They think that if the description can’t be understood, then the work must be good. Important. And the more strange the fucking thing is the better. But in the end, it’s about originality.
“Most artists struggle just to sell a work for a paltry sum. Do you think they really give a shit about making a political or philosophical statement? No. They’re simply trying to create something new, and they believe, for good reason, that the art world expects a deep meaning. There isn’t one.”
&nb
sp; Lorenzo reclined on the sofa while Brigham paced before the paintings.
“I saw an interview with Robert Rauschenberg once. The guy who did the fucking goat with a tire around it. Did you know he won the grand prize for painting at the Venice Biennale for a different work? Anyway, when a painter saw the goat, he said, ‘If that’s modern art, I quit.’ But what was Rauschenberg trying to say? Nothing, that’s what. He was just trying to be different. To create something new. In the interview, he talked about his work, Erased de Kooning, where he actually had de Kooning give him a drawing on paper so he could erase it. Was that meant to be a deep political or philosophical statement? Of course not. It’s just that everyone was painting like de Kooning. He needed to do something different.”
Brigham sat in a chair opposite the sofa.
“You must intend for your paintings to be more than a bunch of colors on the wall,” Lorenzo said.
“Yes. I would love for the viewer to take something away from my work. Maybe an emotion. They feel the energy of it, or the tranquility, or perhaps only the feeling that they’ve looked at something interesting. Inspiring. But there is nothing hidden. It’s right there in front of you, and what you get out of it depends on you.”
Lorenzo stood in front of Brigham’s painting. “Then this is not a woman.”
“Hell, no. It’s nothing more than random marks on the canvas. Do you see a woman there?”
Lorenzo gently touched the painting with the palm of his hand. “I do.”
“Then that is proof that the psychology of giving it a title works. If I had called it Christ on the Mount of Olives, you’d be on your hands and knees praying to Jesus.”
Lorenzo laughed. “I still think there’s a deeper psychological meaning to your calling the painting Woman. Not some hidden symbolism you were trying to convey to the viewer, but something about you personally.”
Brigham smiled. “When I die, have them dissect my brain.”
A Beast in Venice: (Literary Horror set in Venice) Page 14