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

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.