Chapter 2

The next morning he woke to the smell of coffee being brewed and eggs and toast being cooked. Rose was in the kitchen busy cooking his birthday breakfast. He put on his robe and slippers and went in to see what was going on, and to get a cup of coffee.

“There’s the birthday boy,” she said, handing him a cup of coffee and a birthday card.

“Thanks,” he said. “Where’d you get a card? They don’t do that here.”

She smiled. “I had to look around, but I found one.”

“Good coffee. The coffee’s always better when you make it.”

“Thanks.”

“So, what do you want to do today?”

“I dunno, but I have my Italian lesson today.”

She looked serious. “That’s right.”

“We should have canceled it for today,” he said, hoping she would take the hint.

“Too late now,” she said, “you have to go. Have you done your homework?”

He sipped his coffee and sat down at the kitchen table. “Of course not.”

She frowned, as she took the eggs from the pan and put them on a plate with toast. “How do you expect to learn Italian if you don’t do your homework?”

“I was hoping it would just fly into my brain. You mean I have to work at it?”

She looked at him blankly with blue eyes that told him she was not amused. “Then why are we paying a tutor?”

“Is that a rhetorical question, or do you want an answer?” he asked through a mouthful of egg and toast.

She just shook her head with an attitude of defeat.

He went to a café at Campo Santa Margherita to meet his tutor. Brigham was embarrassed at not speaking much Italian, but the language was unduly complicated, he was lazy and past the age at which a person easily learned a foreign tongue. He was not going to learn it without some major goddamn help, so Rose hired a tutor for him.

The lesson convened at a café because the tutor refused to meet at their apartment. Brigham hated that because the café was often hot, noisy, and crowded, and the beer and food distracted him. But he did it anyway; he always found it easier to give in than to argue. In spite of being a lawyer, and having litigated many cases, he hated conflict.

“Ciao, Brigham,” the tutor said. “Come stai, oggi?”

“Bene,” Brigham responded. “E tu?”

“Bene.”

That pretty much shot his wad on Italian–“Hi, how are you? Good, and you? Good.” Except, of course, to be able to ask a bartender whether he spoke English, which he usually did in English, under the theory that if the barkeep spoke English, he would understand the question in English. 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 door of the café smoking, looking like the nutty goddamn professor. Brigham, in no hurry, did not mind chatting with the tutor for a few minutes. He preferred putting walnut shells in his eyes to sitting for two hours conjugating frickin’ verbs. Why Rose thought he had a two-hour attention span was never quite clear to him.

“How’s your painting going?” the tutor asked. He at least had the decency to speak God’s English.

“Okay,” Brigham said, “I’m having an exhibition at this café next month.”

“Oh, nice, the tutor said. “How long will it be here?”
     “Three weeks.”

“I can’t wait to see it.”

Sure. The tutor did not like his painting, as Brigham painted only abstracts and the tutor liked only realistic art. He was almost ashamed to have him see them.

From behind them came a voice. “I couldn’t help overhearing that you are an American, and a painter.”

Brigham turned around. A man of about sixty, sitting at one of the tables outside the café, looked at Brigham with a pleasant face and an easy manner. He wore a finely tailored suit made from the best material, and a silk tie, dark blue with white polka dots. From his breast pocket a red silk handkerchief hung out wildly. They exchanged the usual pleasantries and introduced themselves. The man, an American named Charles Raymond, had lived in Venice for many years.

“Maybe I could see your work sometime,” Charles said.

A fellow American living in Venice with an interest in original art! Hopefully he had the cash to do something about it.

“That would be great,” Brigham said, “give me your number and we’ll set up a time.”

“Here’s my card,” Charles said, handing over a business card. “By the way, I’m having a few people over tonight. I know it’s short notice, but maybe you could stop by. It’s a very interesting group.”

“Sounds good; I’ll check with my wife, but I don’t think I have anything going on.”

“Fine,” Charles said, “and your wife is invited too, of course.”

 #

It is important in life for a man to be known at a good drinking establishment or, lacking a good drinking establishment, one of lesser quality. It did not matter, really, so long as they knew you when you went in and at least acted as though they liked you. The café where he had his Italian lesson fit that order.

He liked this place for three reasons: one, they would display his artwork a couple times a year (for a modest fee), the lads who owned or worked at the bar were very friendly, laughed at his jokes when they understood them, and were willing to learn English from him, particularly that brand of English one learned as a sailor on a submarine, a vocation in which Brigham had engaged during his younger years. When he came through the door, they all shouted “Ciao, Bree-gam,” like Norm on frickin’ Cheers.

The third reason he liked this bar was that they had the best beer in Venice on tap, the coldest bottled beer in the city, and very good sandwiches and other light fare.

After his Italian lesson he always went to the bar and said, “Court’s adjourned, bar’s open,” and ordered a beer. He sometimes had to explain this “court’s adjourned” phrase, and was never quite sure they got it, but he didn’t mind so long as they brought the beer. He taught them many other literary turns of phrase that were part of the vocabulary of any decent sailor.

He finished his lesson with a burning thirst, and ordered a Franziskaner Weissbier. The day was warm for this time of year, and he sat down outside in the sun. After a few minutes, the beer arrived with a glass with a bit of lemon in the bottom. What barbarian started putting fruit in beer? Brigham Stone, Esquire, did not put lemons in his goddamn beer. He removed the lemon and filled the glass.

The beer, ice cold and delicious, tasted as though all the angels of heaven, the saints, major and minor, and all the hosts and minions of the Lord God Almighty sang in chorus together to quench his thirst, and to save his already lost immortal soul. He hoped there was Weissbier in hell, convinced that in the unlikely event hell existed, that was where he would spend the rest of eternity after his short term as an infestant of the Earth expired.

He sat for a while watching 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, however, shadows, 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, and 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 to her head, all arranged in an asymmetrical manner. She had piercings all over her face, wore raggedy clothes, and looked overall most idiotic. Her parents must be right proud.

 

 #

Later that day he went for a walk to get his blood going. He didn’t have a particular destination in mind. But ended up at St. Mark’s Square. His gondolier friend, Mauro, stood near his station with a gaggle of other gondoliers.

“Can you tell me how to get to St. Mark’s?” Brigham asked, addressing the question to the pack.

“Brig!” Mauro shouted.

They shook hands, and Brigham shook hands with a couple of the other gondoliers he knew. During his time in Venice, he had come to know a couple of them very well, and Mauro was one. Mauro was taller than most gondoliers, wore the brightly colored glasses Italians are fond of, had a deep tan, and sported a cop haircut, all of which coordinated well with his black and white striped gondoliers’ shirt.

“Making a living?” Brigham asked Mauro.

“We’re busy today.”

St. Marks’ was a zoo due to it being the time of Carnevale. Thousands of people thronged the place, many in very elaborate costumes. One couple dressed as soldiers from the Napoleonic Wars, very detailed and realistic. One woman dressed as a swamp, cattails and all. Others wore only a mask, and maybe a hat. Large dragons hired by the city paraded around the square making roaring noises and spitting fire. Two or three gondoliers at a time were busy giving a pitch to potential fares.

“Let me ask you something,” Brigham said. “This is going to sound strange, but I’m asking because you know everything about Venice.”

“All right, what is it? You look worried.”

“When I was out walking last night, this man came from behind me, passed me, and then walked through a solid wall.”

“Are you sure he didn’t just go down a narrow alley?”

“I’m sure. I went over to look. There was a door that had been bricked up. That’s where he went. You ever see or hear about anything like that in Venice?”

“How many beers did you have?” Mauro asked with a big grin, his white teeth contrasting with his tan.

Brigham gave him the finger. “Fuck you, you sound like my wife.”

“I’m just busting your caglioni. I’ve never seen it myself, but there are legends.”

Mauro spoke excellent English. Brigham augmented his knowledge with such catchy phrases as bustin’ my balls, which he usually said with a New Jersey mafia accent. Occasionally, Mauro would insert an Italian word, not having remembered the proper English one.

In any event, if any legends existed, or in fact people in this city could walk through walls, Mauro would know, or know someone who did.

The gondolier in charge of who got fares called Mauro’s number.

“Brig, I gotta go. I’ll talk to you about this later.”


 

 #

    

He could have taken the vaporetto from St. Marks’s to Ca’ Rezzonico, but he chose to walk the half-hour back to his studio. The canals at this time of day were still, and in shadow, while the sun illuminated the rusty reds and yellow ochers of the buildings, causing brilliant mirror-like reflections on the water. Every turn and every corner, sun shining off of ancient brick, light glowing in a shimmering hazy mist on the canals, reminded him that he was in the most beautiful city in the world. During the few short periods he had been out of Venice during the past few years, all he could think about was getting back. He loved every square inch of it.

Back at his studio he sat on the sofa staring at two blank canvases. For his café exhibition he needed to produce a few new works, and they had to be something special. Something new and original. But his mind was a fucking blank. There was only one thing to do.

He poured a glass of wine and sat down. The canvases were not revealing anything. He stared at them. He stared into space. Just stared. He had another glass of wine. Then another. Then the muse came spinning into his mind, and he began to put pigment on the canvas.

Chapter 1

Chapter 1

     Brigham Stone walked the ancient streets of Venice at night in search of a good martini. Streetlights glowed through the misty air, casting eerie light on the old bricks and ghostly shadows in the fog like specters hovering above the paving stones. Night was his favorite time to walk through Venice. In the summer the air was cooler, and most of the tourist had gone back to their hotels or cruise ships, and he nearly had the place to himself. The city felt differently at night. Closer. More intimate. Ancient. Medieval. The city and its narrow streets embraced him comfortably.

     Raising his collar against the chill, he checked his watch: nearly ten o’clock. Not good. The bars would be closing soon. A man and a woman dressed like nobles from the eighteenth century walked past him, staggering and laughing. It was the time of Carnevale–they must have been at a ball. He combed his fingers through his too-long gray hair as he did when he didn’t know what to do when something had to be done. And something definitely had to be done. He needed a martini, but the night and the time and the cold conspired and worked against him. He pushed his scarf up around his neck and said “fuckin’-A” to himself quietly in resignation to the diminishing probability that he would get a martini this night.

     Then through the window of a bar, to his joy and surprise, he beheld the lovely emerald-green glow of a bottle of his favorite gin. He went to the window and peered in to get a better look. His face reflected faintly on the glass, and his breath fogged his reflection, and he again said “fuckin’-A”, but this time in a whisper as an expression of happiness. It’s rare, though, to find a barista in Venice who knew how to make a martini, or one willing to take instruction on the subject. He went in, hopeful.

     The bartender claimed to know how, and when Brigham began to recite the recipe and procedure, the barista held up his hand and said “No problem, I know.” All right then, Brigham left him to the task and went to the bathroom. When he came out the drink was waiting for him on the counter. Immediately he knew there would be trouble. At the bottom of the drink sat a bright yellow strip of lemon peel. For the love of God, where was the olive? Don’t panic. Taste it. Maybe it’s okay. He tasted it and was confronted by some of the most vomitous swill ever to pass through the lips of man. The bartender looked at him expectantly, then inquired as to the quality of the drink.

     “Well,” Brigham said, “truth be told, I can’t drink it.”

     “What you mean, you can’t drink it?” the bartender asked with indignation, anger swelling in his throat.

     “I think the proportions are a tad off,” Brigham said.

     “What? I don’t understand,” the bartender said, his face beginning to contort with annoyance and disgust.

     As an American, Brigham had trouble just coming out and saying that something was terrible. The Italians had no trouble doing this, so Brigham decided to make like a local.

     “Honestly, it’s terrible. I think you put too much vermouth in it.”

     “It’s Martini, like you asked,” the bartender said, screwing up his face like he had to take a shit.

     “Ah,” Brigham said, “that explains it. I asked for the cocktail martini, not for a glass of Martini. Who the fuck can drink just Martini?”

     “I give you what you asked,” the bartender said loudly.

     Brigham, who had been in Italy for a few years, was getting sick and fucking tired of being given shit when he had asked for Shinola, and then having to fucking argue about it. He knew that this country didn’t have a culture of mixology, but they had some of the finest gin in the world in this bar, and the sack of shit bartender said he knew how to make a martini. Fuck him. He wasn’t gonna take no for a fucking answer this time.

     “Sorry,” Brigham said calmly, struggling to keep all them fucks out of his sentence, “but take this back and just give me a glass of Ten Gin, and another glass on the side filled with ice. And I ain’t payin’ for this.”

     As the bartender started to yell in Italian, a man came from the back to see what all the noise was about. The bartender shouted in the other man’s direction, then the other man, apparently the boss, shouted at the bartender. The bartender stomped off to the back room. The boss looked at Brigham and smiled.

     “I’m very sorry,” the boss said. “Let me make you a proper martini.”

     “That would be lovely,” Brigham said, smiling.

     Ah, the boss knew how to make a martini, for not only did he fill the glass with ice and water to chill it while he mixed the drink, he garnished it with an olive, rather than a twist of lemon–an act of barbarism no doubt learned from the English. The boss put the drink on the counter. “Please,” the boss said, pushing the drink slightly toward Brigham.

     Brigham sniffed the drink and smiled. He sipped it. The cold juniper-flavored herbal joy of the gin went over his tongue like the word of God into the ear of the faithful. He took his time with it, held each sip for a few seconds, and let the elixir infest his blood and brain. He finished the drink, thanked the boss, and stepped into the night air feeling a hell of a lot better than when he went in, and almost believing in God and all his angelic hosts. The warmth of the drink contrasted deliciously with the chill of the night, and he walked in happy solitude through the misty silent darkness of the streets of Venice, thinking thoughts all high and philosophical, contemplating his own mortality and the short span he had left, his youth having fled years ago. He had been thinking about death recently, as he would turn fifty-five tomorrow. Happy fucking birthday, dead man. He knew that the next thirty years would not be so kind as the past thirty, and that things were as good as they were gonna get. From now on, it’s dying time. And his lack of religious faith, his belief that when you were dead, you were dead, offered no comfort.

     Just then he became aware of the sound of boots clomping on the stones behind him, approaching quickly. A man hurried past him, a long cape billowing behind him and a tri-cornered hat darkening his face, nothing more than a shadow in the hazy half-light. Continuing a short distance, the man turned to the right, and disappeared–into the wall.

     He saw no street there. He walked over to where the man had disappeared, and saw only the white marble outline of a door that once occupied that spot, now filled in with brick. He studied the wall and the pavement in front of it. Nothing there. He pushed on the bricks, but they did not move. There was no evidence of the man, and no hint as to where he might have gone.

     Good gin. After only one stinking martini he saw men going through walls. Christ, he couldn’t tell his wife about this, as she’d think he’d been hitting the sauce a bit too hard. Although not above over doing it on occasion, he had behaved himself that day.

#

     He wrestled with the lock at the front door of their apartment, cursing, as his key had never worked right. It finally opened. He let the large heavy wooden door close behind him, and went up the marble stairs to the apartment. His wife, Rose, sat in bed reading, her pink reading glasses perched on her nose. Their two dogs, a Corgi and a mutt, waited for him at the door. The Corgi stretched and howled in delight, and the mutt danced around shaking a stuffed toy. He got down on the floor for a moment to play with the dogs. He tugged on the toy with the mutt, who violently shook it and growled. He referred to this as playing rabid dog. The Corgi barked with excitement and jumped full force on him, knocking him over. Small as they look, these dogs were bred to herd cattle, and were very sturdy. This one weighed forty pounds. The Corgi then put his paws on Brigham’s chest, looking at him, which position he called “bird dog,” because the dog’s face reminded him of a bird from this angle. Then the Corgi commenced to lick his face. “Ahh, dog germs,” Brigham cried, buzzing his lips to free them of Corgi juice.

     “Get up, you nuts,” Rose said, laughing.

     He and Rose had been high school sweethearts, gone off and married other people, had kids, got divorced and, through a few twists of fate, met up again and renewed their relationship. Now they had been married for several years. He worshiped her.

     “Where’d you go?” Rose asked, not looking up from her book.

     “I walked to the Rialto and back,” he answered, giving her a hug and a kiss.

     “Where’d you stop?” He knew she wasn’t bustin his chops, just making conversation, although she clearly knew he had stopped for a drink, as it would not take a Bloodhound to smell gin on his breath.

     “I found a joint with Ten gin, and the bartender knew how to make a martini.”

     “How many did you have?” she asked, looking at him now with clear blue eyes over her glasses, her brown hair done up for bed.

     “Just one.”

     “I worry that you will fall into a canal and drown. Someone did that last year because they were drunk.”

     “I’m not drunk.”

     The dogs stood in parallel, looking expectantly at him. It was their turn to go out, and they knew it. So he packed up a few poop bags, grabbed the leashes, and opened the door. The dogs ran as fast as they could to the bottom of the stairs and waited for their leashes to be attached.

     Italians love dogs, and they particularly love the Corgi, as the breed is rare in Italy. People who would otherwise shove him out of the way and kick him in the ass, lit up with joy when they saw the Corgi, bending over and saying, “Ciao, Ciao,” and asking what kind of dog that was. If he sat on the street with this dog and a cup, he would make a bloody fortune.

     At Campo Santa Margherita Carnevale revelers milled about everywhere, and a band played Led Zeppelin at the other end of the campo. Dodging the occasional firecracker, and ducking from glow-in-the-dark toys being shot into the air by street vendors, he made it to one of his favorite places at the edge of the campo, went in with the dogs, ordered a glass of red wine, then went outside and sat at a table. He could sit inside, as dogs were allowed, and there were a couple of dogs in bar, but he and the mutts preferred the cooler temperatures outside, and the dogs loved to watch people go by as much as he did. Tonight was more interesting than most, as many people wore interesting costumes and masks. One person had dressed as the “plague doctor,” a mask with a long beak, a large wide-brimmed hat, and a long black coat. A scary, but historically accurate, getup.

     He finished his wine and they returned home, the Corgi panting as if he had just gone a hundred miles and grinning with accomplishment. Everyone was happy. The dogs were happy for the walk, his wife was happy he did not drown in a canal, and he was happy to have found a place with Ten gin. He did not say anything about the man going through the wall.

     He joined Rose in bed, where they usually read for a while, or discussed matters of the world, before going to sleep. It was after midnight. She wore a selection from the L.L. Bean birth control collection: Pjs made of sexy plaid flannel. He wore only cotton pajama bottoms–he could never stand wearing the tops.

     “Happy birthday,” she said, giving him a kiss.

     “Don’t remind me,” he said, frowning.

     “What’s the matter? Feeling old?”
     “I am old. I’m gonna be dead before you know it.”

     “Oh, what a happy thought. Come here,” she said, taking off her pink glasses and holding up her arm for him to come to her. He slid over and she hugged him. “Stop it, you’re not that old.”

     “Do the math.”

     “I know the math . . . I’m right up there with you.”

     “Well, I want to live for ever.”

     “You can’t live for ever. People die.”

     “How do you just accept that? Don’t you know that you will one day cease to exist?”

     She smiled a knowing smile. “I believe in God. I will not cease to exist, but will live for ever in Heaven.”

     “There’s where we differ,” he said. “I do not believe in God. When you’re dead, that’s it. No heaven, no hell, and nothing in between.”

     “Maybe you should see someone. Whether you believe in God or not, if you sit around thinking about dying you will drive yourself nuts.”

     “I’m already nuts.”

     “That’s true,” she said, smiling.

     “You’re supposed to say ‘no, honey, you’re not nuts, you’re perfectly normal.’”

     “But you’re not,” she chuckled.

     “Did I ever tell you you were funny?”

     “All the time. I am funny.”

     “That’s it, lights out. I’m going to sleep.”

#

     One of the monstrous sea gulls of Venice stood on a little island floating in the middle of a canal, moving slowly with the current of the incoming tide, barely visible in the early morning mist. The bird pecked at the island and screeched a warning to the other gulls to say away. The gull took flight, causing the island to roll in the water, revealing the waterlogged and gutted corpse of a young woman.