“Can you tell me where to find Brigham Stone, Esquire” Pink Jesus asked.
“He’s right here, my friend, in the flesh.”
“Ah, so it is you. Didn’t recognize you. It didn’t look like you or smell like you.”
“What do you mean? I smelled?” Brigham was horrified.
“I have to say that your hygiene left a little to be desired.”
“Of all the terrible things I did, I never thought I had BO. I can live with my acts and deeds but to stink at the same time? Ouch.”
“Now aren’t you taking the moral high ground? You killed and dismembered people, feasted on the contents of their earthly vessels, and all you regret is having body odor?”
“It’s like getting in the car after arguing a case in court, looking in the mirror, and realizing you had something hanging out of your nose.”
“If it’s any consolation, I don’t think your victims noticed.”
Brigham dipped the brush into black paint and drew a straight line across the canvas. Paint dripped from the line down the surface. He drew another line parallel to the first.
“What do you think?” Brigham asked.
“Rather minimalist for you, isn’t it?”
“I’m just starting.”
“First time I ever saw you draw a straight line.”
Brigham laughed. “Sobriety does funny things to a brother.”
“Then you don’t need me anymore,” Pink Jesus said.
“Why did I need you in the first place?”
“If you don’t know that now, you never will.”
Brigham nodded.
He worked on the painting for a while, then asked Pink Jesus what he thought should be done with it. Pink Jesus didn’t answer.
He stood in front of Pink Jesus for several minutes in silence, studying him. It was certainly one of his best. Maybe he should put it in the show. But what if someone bought it? No, he couldn’t have that. He took Pink Jesus off the easel, carried him home, and hung him in the living room.
ZORZI REQUESTED THAT BRIGHAM visit him at his vault. Brigham was reluctant, given the events of the past few weeks, but he knew Lorenzo had sent Tiberio to help him and so felt that he owed him at least this visit. When he arrived, Lorenzo, sitting on a sofa, motioned for him to sit in a large chair opposite.
“Thank you for your help disposing of Charles. He had become quite the pest.”
“What do you mean, helping you dispose of Charles?”
“I orchestrated the events that led to his destruction.”
Brigham’s face darkened. “You used me to get to Charles?”
“Used is such a harsh word, but I suppose it’s the proper term.”
“And Samantha?”
“Also part of the plan.”
A servant brought in a platter of olives, steamed baby artichokes, and various hams, cheeses, and salamis, accompanied by a bottle of red wine.
“Please,” Lorenzo said, gesturing toward the food. “Help yourself.”
“Thanks, but I don’t have an appetite.”
Lorenzo poured two glasses of wine and handed one to Brigham.
“I could have been killed,” Brigham said. “People were killed.”
“Yes, that was unfortunate.”
“Unfortunate? You dismiss the deaths of two people as unfortunate?”
Lorenzo held up a hand. “Don’t be so indignant. You knew you were playing with fire. It’s a miracle you weren’t all killed.”
Brigham stared into the fire raging in the hearth. He couldn’t disagree. Then it occurred to him. “You helped kidnap my wife.”
Lorenzo shook his head. “No, it was Charles. I took no active role in that. My role was passive, in that I did nothing about it.”
Brigham took up the glass of wine and gulped it. Courage was needed now, not sobriety. “You knew it would be the impetus for me to look in the tombs.”
“That’s right. More wine?”
Brigham leaned back in the chair, frowning. “No, I’ve had enough. I’ve decided to quit drinking.”
“But—”
“You are a wicked man.”
“I do not deny my wickedness. Wicked is probably a kind way to put it.”
“Then your attention to my art was a lie to gain my confidence?”
Lorenzo shook his head. “No, I truly admire your work. I intend to remain a patron.”
“You have created quite the mess for me , do you know that?”
“I understand,” Lorenzo said.”
“You are concerned with the consequences regarding those individuals whose souls you separated from their flesh.”
“Yes. There are crimes I’ve committed for which the penalty would be less than convenient for a lover of freedom such as myself. Don’t get me wrong; I’m very remorseful about the whole thing, but I don’t feel the need to suffer in prison.”
“You have nothing to worry about. It’s taken care of.”
“Taken care of?”
“There’s a story you might have heard about a Christian in the court of the Grand Vizier. He was offered three choices. Undergo trial by ordeal, whereby they would shoot arrows at him to see whether his God would deflect them; be impaled; or accept the true religion. Which do you think he chose?”
“I’m going with converted to Islam.”
“That’s right. Most people have a very strong aversion to pain and death. To me, there are three kinds of people in this world. Those who do as I say, the dead, and those who wish they were dead. There are certain police officials in this country who deem it in their best interests to look the other way where I am concerned. That works to your benefit, too, Mr. Stone.”
“Very handy.”
The fire popped and sparked.
“Then you don’t object to my converting back?”
“Not at all. It was Charles who wanted you converted.”
“And the others?”
Lorenzo waved his hand. “Minions of Charles. They can do as they please. Not my problem.”
“So, you and they will continue to kill innocent people.”
“Yes, we have to,” Lorenzo said. “But we will do it properly—by going through the portals.”
“Somehow that doesn’t make me feel any better.”
Lorenzo smiled. The light shined off his black hair, and the fire reflected in his dark glasses. “It’s not about making you feel good. It’s about our survival.”
Brigham stood. “I’ve got to be going. I have a busy day tomorrow.”
Lorenzo got to his feet also. “By all means. Until next time.”
“I hope there is no next time. If you like my work, I’m being represented by a gallery in Rome. Otherwise, I think you and I should stay away from each other.”
“Fair enough.”
BRIGHAM AND ROSE STOOD in the middle of the gallery in Rome viewing his paintings, which hung ready for the opening of the exhibition. Although he had cut his hair, it still looked as if he had combed it with a hand mixer. Clad in a wrinkled white linen shirt, a charcoal-gray jacket that was in style five years ago, faded jeans, and rust-colored suede loafers, he looked like a bum compared to Rose, who sparkled in a long black dress and elaborate jewelry made of red Murano glass.
“Your paintings look wonderful,” Rose said. “This is going to be a very successful exhibition.”
Brigham swallowed a mouthful of coffee. “I hope so, but I don’t really have any faith in it.”
“Ten minutes,” one of the artsy-looking gallery snobs said.
“Sure you do,” Rose said. “You’re just nervous.”
“That’s an understatement.”
Mr. Todd came through the door. “How’s the star of the show?”
“Scared shitless,” Brigham said. He hadn’t told Rose about Mr. Todd’s interest in the prostitute. That would forever be a secret between himself and Mr. Todd.
One of the gallery people came from a back room to unlock the front door. “Curtain’s going up,” h
e said.
A parade of sophisticatos came in, most of whom went straight for the wine and cheese, then moved around leisurely, studying the pictures. The woman who had accompanied the gallery owner to Brigham’s studio came over to him. Dressed entirely in black, with a deep tan, long, straight black hair, white glasses, and the obligatory big scarf piled around her neck, she was a typical Roman. She brought with her a few people who wanted to talk to Brigham. They chatted animatedly and asked the usual stupid questions about the paintings.
One picture in particular got their attention. It consisted of scribbles of orange, blue, and green painted over a few wide swaths of a liver-colored wash.
“I really like this,” one of the wine-and-cheese-eating art patrons, a woman, said. “What do you call it?” she asked, bending over to read the label on the wall next to it.
“Whore’s Blood.”
“Oh my,” the woman said, studying the picture. “Very powerful. I must have it.” She went over to Giorgio, the owner, and in a few moments there appeared a round red sticker on the wall next to the title, indicating it had been sold. That looked awfully good. During the next couple of hours, several more dots appeared. By the end of the evening about half the paintings had sold. Everyone was glowing with happiness.
Brigham stood around looking like the Bohemian he was, chatting all artist-like to the patrons of art who came to see this new and original work. They loved to try to put an intellectual face to the non-intellectual paintings of a drunkard and social parasite. They might have been able to guess the drunkard part–after all, he was a painter–but they had no idea the parasite he had been. The lovers of art talked to him about choice of color, deep philosophical and political meanings in the work (which didn’t exist), as well as making comparisons to other painters, which Brigham hated. But he made nice with them, and indulged them to the benefit of his pocketbook.
“Seems you have broken in,” Mr. Todd said.
“That would be nice,” Brigham said. “It’s not easy to do. But this gallery knew what they were doing. I gave each painting a provocative title, and someone wrote up some art-speak bullshit that made the patrons think they were getting something profound and meaningful. Little do they know... And I owe it all to you.”
Mr. Todd smiled, holding up his hand to fend off the praise. “You do owe me a lot, my friend, but it all boils down to the work. All the silly description and provocative titles in the world are nothing without quality work behind it.”
“That’s not what I have observed,” Brigham said. “I’ve seen a lot of bullshit… Well, we covered this in our interview, didn’t we?”
“Indeed.”
Mr. Todd motioned to one of the paintings. “I noticed this one is different from the rest. Are you going in a new direction?”
“Yes.”
“I’m not sure that’s a good idea. Patrons like consistency in their artists. Galleries are reluctant to carry someone they think is changing direction or who hasn’t settled in.”
“I know, but I had to display this one. It’s the first work I did after resolving my… problems.”
“It is quite nice,” Mr. Todd said. “What do you call it?”
“Freedom.”
Mr. Todd held up his glass of prosecco. “Well, then. To Freedom.”
A STRING QUARTET PLAYED in a shady corner of the garden, and the table was set for a feast. The weather had turned unseasonably warm, and Brigham and Rose decided to have a garden party to celebrate the success of the show and Brigham’s return to humanity. In attendance were Mauro, his wife, and Mr. Todd and his wife. Brigham had the grill going and was about to cook some steaks. Mauro stood next to him, drinking a glass of wine.
“You ever see one of these things in operation?” Brigham asked him, pointing to the grill with tongs.
“Of course, we grill a lot.”
“But about all you can get in this Godforsaken country is wood charcoal. Nobody in Venice sells briquettes. I have to go to the mainland, and they cost a bloody fortune.”
Brigham poked the fire with a stick to even out the coals.
“Don’t they have wood charcoal where you come from?” Mauro asked.
“Yeah, but we use mainly briquettes.” He put the grate over the coals. “They burn slower and more evenly. And these wood chunks spark and explode. I’m gonna burn the place down.”
Mauro sipped his wine. “That’s pretty much all we use.”
Brigham ran a wire brush over the grate and wiped it with a paper towel soaked with olive oil. “The wood is okay, but it burns hot and fast. Gotta pay attention.”
The musicians played one of the Opus 18 quartets by Beethoven.
“You hear that?” Brigham asked.
“Yeah, pretty nice,” Mauro said.
“That’s Beethoven, son. Don’t get no better.”
Brigham grabbed two large T-bone steaks, coated in salt, pepper, and every herb he could find, and tossed them on the grill to the glorious sound and smell of meat sizzling over hot coals. “You ever see better pieces of meat?”
“No, they’re beautiful.”
“What’s the story on the meat?” Rose asked, putting her arms around Brigham.
“Don’t fool with the cook,” Brigham said. “I reckon about fifteen minutes.”
“This is a nice little group of musicians you found,” she said. “Where’d you get them?”
“I saw them by the Frari and got them to come here at a most fair and reasonable price.”
“They’re wonderful.”
“Thanks. I told them to come with an all-Beethoven program.”
“Is there another composer?”
“Not that I can think of.”
She laughed. “Don’t forget about the meat.”
“Oh, please.”
“Fine. I’ll leave you and your friend here to the task and mingle with the other guests.”
He pointed at her with a pair of tongs. “That’s the idea.”
Mauro, who had gone off to get more wine, came back over with the bottle and a glass. “You want some wine?”
Brigham stared at the wine, then raised his eyes to Mauro. “I swore off booze, but there’s no reason to get nutty about it.” He gestured toward the glass for Mauro to pour wine into it.
“You sure?”
“Why tempt a brother if you’re not going to cooperate?”
Mauro began to pour the wine.
“There’s a good boy.” He sipped the wine. “Oh, that’s good.”
“Take it easy, though. Rose will blame me if you get drunk.”
Brigham gestured toward Mauro with the tongs. “And you will be to blame.”
Brigham stood without speaking for a moment, then tossed the wine into the bushes. “Never mind. I can’t do it.”
Mauro dropped his gaze, then looked up at Brigham. “Sorry to tempt you.”
“No problem. It was a good test. Such temptations will be around me all the time.”
“Not going to be easy.”
“I can hack it. Now, bring me some pineapple juice, if you don’t mind.”
“Coming up.”
Mauro brought over a glass. “Don’t you think you should turn the meat?”
Brigham blinked at him. “Do I tell you how to row that funny-looking boat of yours?”
Mauro chuckled. “No.”
“Then leave the grilling to me. I am a professional.” He turned the meat. The steaks sizzled loudly, sending up a plume of smoke and flame. He put the cover on the grill to quash the fire.
Mr. Todd came over. “I see you’re an artist in more ways than one.”
“Yes sir, I am.”
“I’ll have mine rare,” Mr. Todd said.
“Me, too,” Mauro said.
“That’s good, because the chef serves the meat rare at this establishment. Now you boys stand back. I’m gonna turn the meat ninety degrees to add some nice grill marks.” He turned the meat and covered the grill.
“You know,” Mr.
Todd said to Brigham, “you’ve taught me a lot.”
“Have I?”
“Indeed—”
“I love it when you Brits say ‘indeed.’”
“Thanks, but you really have.”
“And what is that?”
Brigham took the cover off the grill in a pillar of smoke and inspected the meat.
“One thing is perseverance.”
“Really? I’m a quitter.”
Mr. Todd shook his head. “No, you’re not. It’s a big act you put on, but you have been slugging away at your painting for years without any real or meaningful feedback.”
“That’s true.”
The quartet took a break. A blackbird sang a complex and tuneful song in the tree next to them.
“But you kept at it.”
“What else was I gonna do?”
Mr. Todd smiled and ran his hand over his hairless head. “Quit. Sell insurance. Do what you did before. What myriad generations have done before you. Just keep cranking away at whatever doomed endeavor they established for themselves.”
“Meat’s done,” Brigham said. “Hand me that plate.”
Mauro handed him a large plate.
Brigham took the meat from the grill. “Perseverance and hard work pay off, although it’s not always clear that they will.”
Brigham served the meat, cutting it into thin slices, placing a few on each plate, and drizzling them with olive oil.
They all sat and filled their glasses. Brigham, sitting at the head of the table, raised his glass. “I should make a big speech. I had one planned. But there is too much to say. So, to spare you all, I’ll simply say, salute.!”
They all raised their glasses. “Salute!”
The string quartet took up their instruments and began to play.
ABOUT THIS EDITION
This novel was originally published in the summer of 2014 under the title, A Beast in Venice. The story of this edition is materially the same, with the exception of the ending, which had been deleted in the first version.
Outside of small organizational changes, such as chapter divisions and the location of certain scenes, the main purpose of this edition is to restore the author’s original wording.
A Beast in Venice: (Literary Horror set in Venice) Page 29