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.