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

Nothing he understood.
    “How you ask directions in America?”
    Brigham shifted his attention from the paper to the tutor. “I don’t know.”
    The tutor blinked. “You don’t know? What you mean you don’t know?”
    The waiter placed their coffees in front of them.
    “I mean,” Brigham said, “I don’t know. Where I come from, men don’t ask for directions.”
    The tutor sipped his espresso. “But, what if you are lost?”
    “We drive around until we find it.”
    “But—”
    “Or, if there’s a woman in the car, until she gets out and asks directions. But no man is going to ask for directions.”
    “Interesting. Well, here we ask directions, and that is the topic of today’s lesson.”
    Brigham finished the lesson with a burning thirst and went to the bar. “I’ll have one of them over-priced beers. The hefeweizen.”
    The waiter delivered a bottle and a glass containing a wedge of lemon. Brigham removed the fruit (What barbarian started putting fruit in beer?) and filled the glass.
    The beer, cold and delicious, tasted as if all the angels of Heaven, the saints, both major and minor, and all the hosts and minions of the Lord God Almighty were singing in chorus together to quench his thirst and to save his already-lost immortal soul. He hoped there was beer in Hell.
    He sat at an outside table, where he watched the parade of those whom fate had dealt the good fortune to be in this place at this time. It reminded him of Plato’s allegory of the cave. These were not shadows, however, or at least they did not appear as shadows, but were actual people, all flesh and blood and real. They marched past all day and half the night. Tourists, locals, beggars, thieves, people normal and plain, and those not so normal or plain. Two-legged, upright-walking creatures of all kinds in a place where looking exotic was the norm.
    One particularly stupid-looking girl wore her over-sized painter’s pants hanging down below her fat ass, and had her hair cut such that parts of it were long, and other parts shaved close the scalp, all arranged in an asymmetrical manner. She had piercings all over her face, wore raggedy clothes, and appeared overall most idiotic. Her parents must be right proud. Perhaps he should have a talk with her. No, if she were inclined to listen to anyone, she would not dress that way in the first place. His own son, now a lawyer, had gone through such a phase. He had come home one day with a wide swath shaved down the middle of his head and certainly had not been interested in fatherly advice on the subject.
    Brigham went in to pay for the beer. “Where’s my present?”
    The waiter squinted. “What?”
    “It’s my birthday. Where’s my present?”
    “What?”
    “My regalo . It’s my compleanno , and I want my bloody regalo .”
    “ Non ho capito .”
    He pointed to the bar. “You capito just fine. Now hand it over.”
    The waiter laughed. “Ah, Bree-gam, you a funny guy.”
    “Yeah, that’s me, just a funny old man.” He left empty-handed. They didn’t even spot him the fucking beer. 
     
     
     
    ALTHOUGH HE HAD DECIDED AGAINST telling Rose about the disappearing man, the thought still bothered him. Uncertain whether it had been a byproduct of good gin or whether he actually saw a man vanish into the bricks, he went to Saint Mark’s Square to talk to his friend Mauro the Gondolier. If anyone would know about such things it would be Mauro, or he would know someone who did. 
    Mauro stood near his station with a gaggle of other gondoliers.
    “Can you tell me how to get to Saint Mark’s?” Brigham said to the pack.
    “Brig!” Mauro shouted.
    They shook hands, and Brigham did likewise with a couple of other gondoliers he knew. Mauro was taller than most of his colleagues, wore glasses with the brightly colored frames Italians are fond of, and had a deep tan and a highly gelled flattop, which Brigham referred to as a “cop haircut,” all of which coordinated well with his