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.