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

black-and-white-striped gondolier’s shirt.
    “Making a living?” Brigham asked.
    Mauro nodded. “We’re busy today.”
    Crowds celebrating Carnevale filled Saint Mark’s Square. A couple passed them, dressed as soldiers from the Napoleonic Wars, complete with tall fur hats, coats with many golden buttons, and swords. A woman stood nearby dressed as a swamp, cattails and all, while others simply wore masks or funny hats. Large dragons paraded around the square, roaring and spitting fire. The aroma of frying dough and roasting nuts filled the air. Two or three gondoliers at a time made pitches to potential fares.
    “Let me ask you something,” Brigham said. “This is going to sound strange, but you know everything about Venice.”
    “What is it? You look worried.”
    “Promise not to laugh?”
    Mauro’s product-laden hair glistened in the sun. “I promise. Dimmi . Tell me.”
    “When I was out walking last night I saw a man walk through a solid brick wall.”
    “Are you sure he didn’t just go down a narrow calle?”
    “I’m sure. I went over to look. There was just a door that had been bricked up. That’s where he went. You ever see or hear about anything like that in Venice?”
    Mauro grinned, his white teeth contrasting with the tan of one who works in the Venetian sun all day. “How many beers did you have?” 
    “You sound like my wife.” Brigham gave him the finger. “I had one stinkin’ martini.”
    “I’m just bustin’ your coglioni . I’ve never seen it myself, but there are legends.”
    “Really? Do you know them?”
    “Sure, but I know a woman—”
    The gondolier in charge of who got fares called Mauro’s number.
    “Gotta go.” He waved to Brigham and shouted over his shoulder as he hurried to the dock. “We’ll talk about this later.”
     
     
     
    THE CANALS AT THIS TIME OF DAY were still, and in shadow. The sun highlighted the rusty reds and yellow ochers of the buildings, casting brilliant reflections on the water, the surface of which shone and glimmered like mercury. Every turn and every corner reminded him that he was in the most beautiful city in the world. The sun lit the ancient brick, and its light shimmered in the hazy mist over the canals, dancing off the houses and the undersides of bridges. During the few times he had been out of Venice in the past few years, all he could think about was getting back. He loved every stone of the city.
    He reflected on the decision to move to Venice. They had come here to escape the destructive juggernaut of the ordinary world. 
    Back in the States it had been difficult for Brigham to find the time or space to pursue his passion for oil painting. He had painted since high school and had hoped to study art in college, but his parents wouldn’t pay for it. His dad railed against the crap passing for art at the time and the sort of people who were artists. There was also no money in it, his dad had said. So he studied business then went to law school, abandoning his dream of being an artist.
    He did manage to take a couple of drawing and painting classes, and an art history class, but that was it. After a number of years of working and raising a family, he took private lessons to hone his skills.
    In the US, Brigham had painted in a corner of the basement. Here, he had a real studio, consisting of two rooms. One opened onto the street, where he could display paintings to the public, and the other was in the back, where he painted. Both had bare brick walls with cement floors and large wooden beams. Outfitted with a sofa, a couple of leather chairs, old wooden tables, a few easels, and a small kitchen area, the place was comfortable and more than adequate for him to work. The easels, each with its own worktable covered with paints, brushes, solvents, and rags, were placed strategically around the room, all with different views. Dozens of paintings, some finished, others unfinished and drying, leaned against the walls. The sweet, piney