It took him eight days, a labor of love. He tried her as nude and, although able to imagine every inch of her, could not commit it to canvas. Then he suffered until it occurred to him to paint her as “Virgin with Child.” The idea astonished and elated him. Fidelman went feverishly to work and caught an immediate likeness in paint. Annamaria, saintly beautiful, held in her arms the infant resembling his little nephew Georgie. The pittrice, aware, of course, of his continuous activity, cast curious glances his way, but Fidelman, painting in the corner by the stone sink, kept the easel turned away from her. She pretended unconcern. Done for the day he covered the painting and carefully guarded it. The art student was painting Annamaria in a passion of tenderness for the infant at her breast, her face responsive to its innocence. When, on the ninth day, in trepidation Fidelman revealed his work, the pittrice’s eyes clouded and her underlip curled. He was about to grab the canvas and smash it up all over the place when her expression fell apart. The art student postponed all movement but visible trembling. She seemed at first appalled, a darkness descended on her, she was undone. She wailed wordlessly, then sobbed, “You have seen my soul.” They embraced tempestuously, her breasts stabbing him, Annamaria bawling on his shoulder. Fidelman kissed her wet face and salted lips, she murmuring as he fooled with the hook of her brassiere under her sweater, “Aspetta, aspetta, caro, Augusto viene.” He was mad with expectation and suspense.
Augusto, who usually arrived punctually at four, did not appear that Friday afternoon. Uneasy as the hour approached, Annamaria seemed relieved as the streets grew dark. She had worked badly after viewing Fidelman’s painting, sighed frequently, gazed at him with sweet-sad smiles. At six she gave in to his urging and they retired to her room, his unframed “Virgin with Child” already hanging above her bed, replacing a gaunt self-portrait. He was curiously disappointed in the picture—surfacy thin—and made a mental note to borrow it back in the morning to work on it more. But the conception, at least, deserved the reward. Annamaria cooked supper. She cut his meat for him and fed him forkfuls. She peeled Fidelman’s orange and stirred sugar in his coffee. Afterwards, at his nod, she locked and bolted the studio and bedroom doors and they undressed and slipped under her blankets. How good to be for a change on this side of the locked door, Fidelman thought, relaxing marvelously. Annamaria, however, seemed tensely alert to the noises of the old building, including a parrot screeching, some shouting kids running up the stairs, a soprano singing “Ritorna, vincitor!” But she calmed down and then hotly embraced Fidelman. In the middle of a passionate kiss the doorbell rang.
Annamaria stiffened in his arms. “Diavolo! Augusto!”
“He’ll go away,” Fidelman advised. “Both doors locked.”
But she was at once out of bed, drawing on her culottes. “Get dressed,” she said.
He hopped up and hastily got into his pants.
Annamaria unlocked and unbolted the inner door and then the outer one. It was the postman waiting to collect ten lire for an overweight letter from Naples.
After she had read the long letter and wiped away a tear they undressed and got back into bed.
“Who is he to you?” Fidelman asked.
“Who?”
“Augusto.”
“An old friend. Like a father. We went through much together.”
“Were you lovers?”
“Look, if you want me, take me. If you want to ask questions, go back to school.”
He determined to mind his business.
“Warm me,” she said, “I’m freezing.”
Fidelman stroked her slowly. After ten minutes she said, “‘Gioco di mano, gioco di villano.’ Use your imagination.”
He used his imagination and she responded with excitement. “Dolce tesoro,” she whispered, flicking the tip of her tongue into his ear, then with little bites biting his earlobe.
The doorbell rang loudly.
“For Christ’s sake, don’t answer,” Fidelman groaned. He tried to hold her down but she was already up, hunting her robe.
“Put on your pants,” she hissed.
He had thoughts of waiting for her in bed but it ended with his dressing fully. She sent him to the door. It was the crippled portinaia, the art student having neglected to take down the garbage.
Annamaria furiously got the two bags and handed them to her.
In bed she was so cold her teeth chattered.
Tense with desire Fidelman warmed her.
“Angelo mio,” she murmured. “Amore, possess me.”
He was about to when she rose in a hurry. “The cursed door again!”
Fidelman gnashed his teeth. “I heard nothing.”
In her torn yellow silk robe she hurried to the front door, opened and shut it, quickly locked and bolted it, did the same in her room, and slid into bed.
“You were right, it was nobody.”
She embraced him, her hairy armpits perfumed. He responded with postponed passion.
“Enough of antipasto,” Annamaria said. She reached for his member.
Overwrought, Fidelman, though fighting himself not to, spent himself in her hand. Although he mightily willed resurrection, his wilted flower bit the dust.
She furiously shoved him out of bed, into the studio, flinging his clothes after him.
“Pig, beast, onanist!”
4
At least she lets me love her. Daily Fidelman shopped, cooked, and cleaned for her. Every morning he took her shopping sack off the hook, went to the street market, and returned with the bag stuffed full of greens, pasta, eggs, meat, cheese, wine, bread. Annamaria insisted on three hearty meals a day although she had once told him she no longer enjoyed eating. Twice he had seen her throw up her supper. What she enjoyed he didn’t know except it wasn’t Fidelman. After he had served her at her table he was allowed to eat alone in the studio. At two every afternoon she took her siesta, and though it was forbidden to make noise, he was allowed to wash the dishes, dust and clean her room, swab the toilet bowl. She called, Fatso, and in he trotted to get her anything she had run out of—drawing pencils, sanitary belt, safety pins. After she waked from her nap, rain or shine, snow or hail, he was now compelled to leave the studio so she could work in peace and quiet. He wandered, in the tramontana, from one cold two-bit movie to another. At seven he was back to prepare her supper, and twice a week Augusto’s, who sported a new black hat and spiffy overcoat, and pitied the art student with both wet blue eyes but wouldn’t look at him. After supper, another load of dishes, the garbage downstairs, and when Fidelman returned, with or without Augusto Annamaria was already closeted behind her bolted door. He checked through the keyhole on Mondays and Fridays but she and the old gent were always fully clothed. Fidelman had more than once complained to her that his punishment exceeded his crime, but the pittrice said he was a type she would never have any use for. In fact he did not exist for her. Not existing how could he paint, although he told himself he must? He couldn’t. He aimlessly froze wherever he went, a mean cold that seared his lungs, although under his overcoat he wore a new thick sweater Bessie had knitted for him, and two woolen scarves around his neck. Since the night Annamaria had kicked him out of bed he had not been warm; yet he often dreamed of ultimate victory. Once when he was on his lonely way out of the house—a night she was giving a party for some painter friends, Fidelman, a drooping butt in the corner of his mouth, carrying the garbage bags, met Clelia Montemaggio coming up the stairs.
“You look like a frozen board,” she said. “Come in and enjoy the warmth and a little Bach.”
Unable to unfreeze enough to say no, he continued down with the garbage.
“Every man gets the woman he deserves,” she called after him.
“Who got,” Fidelman muttered. “Who gets.”
He considered jumping into the Tiber but it was full of ice that winter.
One night at the end of February, Annamaria, to Fidelman’s astonishment—it deeply affected him—said he might go with her to a party at Gi
ancarlo Balducci’s studio on the Via dell’Oca; she needed somebody to accompany her in the bus across the bridge and Augusto was flat on his back with the Asian flu. The party was lively—painters, sculptors, some writers, two diplomats, a prince and a visiting Hindu sociologist, their ladies, and three hotsy-totsy, scantily dressed, unattached girls. One of them, a shapely beauty with orange hair, bright eyes, and warm ways became interested in Fidelman, except that he was dazed by Annamaria, seeing her in a dress for the first time, a ravishing, rich, ruby-colored affair. The cross-eyed host had provided simply a huge cut-glass bowl of spiced mulled wine, and the guests dipped ceramic glasses into it, and guzzled away. Everyone but the art student seemed to be enjoying himself. One or two of the men disappeared into other rooms with female friends or acquaintances and Annamaria, in a gay mood, did a fast shimmy to rhythmic hand-clapping. She was drinking steadily and, when she wanted her glass filled, politely called him “Arturo.” He began to have mild thoughts of possibly possessing her.
The party bloomed, at least forty, and turned wildish. Practical jokes were played. Fidelman realized his left shoe had been smeared with mustard. Balducci’s black cat mewed at a fat lady’s behind, a slice of sausage pinned to her dress. Before midnight there were two fistfights, Fidelman enjoying both but not getting involved, though once he was socked on the neck by a sculptor who had aimed at a painter. The girl with the orange hair, still interested in the art student, invited him to join her in Balducci’s bedroom, but he continued to be devoted to Annamaria, his eyes tied to her every move. He was jealous of the illustrator who, whenever near her, nipped her bottom.
One of the sculptors, Orazio Pinello, a slender man with a darkish face, heavy black brows, and bleached blond hair, approached Fidelman. “Haven’t we met before, caro?”
“Maybe,” the art student said, perspiring lightly. “I’m Arthur Fidelman, an American painter.”
“You don’t say? Action painter?”
“Always active.”
“I refer of course to Abstract Expressionism.”
“Of course. Well, sort of. On and off.”
“Haven’t I seen some of your work around? Galleria Schneider? Some symmetric, hard-edge, biomorphic forms? Not bad as I remember.”
Fidelman thanked him, in full blush.
“Who are you here with?” Orazio Pinello asked.
“Annamaria Oliovino.”
“Her?” said the sculptor. “But she’s a fake.”
“Is she?” Fidelman said with a sigh.
“Have you looked at her work?”
“With one eye. Her art is bad but I find her irresistible.”
“Peccato.” The sculptor shrugged and drifted away.
A minute later there was another fistfight, during which the bright-eyed orange head conked Fidelman with a Chinese vase. He went out cold, and when he came to, Annamaria and Balducci were undressing him in the illustrator’s bedroom. Fidelman experienced an almost overwhelming pleasure, then Balducci explained that the art student had been chosen to pose in the nude for drawings both he and the pittrice would do of him. He explained there had been a discussion as to which of them did male nudes best and they had decided to settle it in a short contest. Two easels had been wheeled to the center of the studio; a half hour was allotted to the contestants, and the guests would judge who had done the better job. Though he at first objected because it was a cold night, Fidelman nevertheless felt warmish from wine so he agreed to pose; besides he was proud of his muscles and maybe if she sketched him nude it might arouse her interest for a tussle later. And if he wasn’t painting he was at least being painted.
So the pittrice and Giancarlo Balducci, in paint-smeared smocks, worked for thirty minutes by the clock, the whole party silently looking on, with the exception of the orange-haired tart, who sat in the corner eating a prosciutto sandwich. Annamaria, her brow furrowed, lips pursed, drew intensely with crayon; Balducci worked calmly in colored chalk. The guests were absorbed, although after ten minutes the Hindu went home. A journalist locked himself in the painter’s bedroom with orange head and would not admit his wife, who pounded on the door. Fidelman, standing barefoot on a bathmat, was eager to see what Annamaria was accomplishing but had to be patient. When the half hour was up he was permitted to look. Balducci had drawn a flock of green and black abstract testiculate circles. Fidelman shuddered. But Annamaria’s drawing was representational, not Fidelman although of course inspired by him: a gigantic funereal phallus that resembled a broken-backed snake. The blond sculptor inspected it with half-closed eyes, then yawned and left. By now the party was over, the guests departed, lights out except for a few dripping white candles. Balducci was collecting his ceramic glasses and emptying ashtrays, and Annamaria had thrown up. The art student afterwards heard her begging the illustrator to sleep with her but Balducci complained of fatigue.
“I will if he won’t,” Fidelman offered.
Annamaria, enraged, spat on her picture of his unhappy phallus.
“Don’t dare come near me,” she cried. “Malocchio! Jettatura!”
5
The next morning he awoke sneezing, a nasty cold. How can I go on? Annamaria, showing no signs of pity or remorse, continued shrilly to berate him. “You’ve brought me nothing but bad luck since you came here. I’m letting you stay because you pay well but I warn you to keep out of my sight.”
“But how—” he asked hoarsely.
“That doesn’t concern me.”
“—how will I paint?”
“Who cares? Paint at night.”
“Without light—”
“Paint in the dark. I’ll buy you a can of black paint.”
“How can you be so cruel to a man who loves—”
“I’ll scream,” she said.
He left in anguish. Later while she was at her siesta he came back, got some of his things, and tried to paint in the hall. No dice. Fidelman wandered in the rain. He sat for hours on the Spanish Steps. Then he returned to the house and went slowly up the stairs. The door was locked. “Annamaria,” he hoarsely called. Nobody answered. In the street he stood at the river wall, watching the dome of St. Peter’s in the distance. Maybe a potion, Fidelman thought, or an amulet? He doubted either would work. How do you go about hanging yourself? In the late afternoon he went back to the house—would say he was sick, needed rest, possibly a doctor. He felt feverish. She could hardly refuse.
But she did, although explaining she felt bad herself. He held on to the banister as he went down the stairs. Clelia Montemaggio’s door was open. Fidelman paused, then continued down, but she had seen him. “Come een, come een.”
He went reluctantly in. She fed him camomile tea and panettone. He ate in a wolfish hurry as she seated herself at the piano.
“No Bach, please, my head aches from various troubles.”
“Where’s your dignity?” she asked.
“Try Chopin, that’s lighter.”
“Respect yourself, please.”
Fidelman removed his hat as she began to play a Bach prelude, her bottom rhythmic on the bench. Though his cold oppressed him and he could hardly breathe, tonight the spirit, the architecture, moved him. He felt his face to see if he was crying but only his nose was wet. On the top of the piano Clelia had placed a bowl of white carnations in full bloom. Each white petal seemed a white flower. If I could paint those gorgeous flowers, Fidelman thought. If I could paint something. By Jesus, if I could paint myself, that’d show them! Astonished by the thought he ran out of the house.
The art student hastened to a costume shop and settled on a cassock and fuzzy black soup-bowl biretta, envisaging another Rembrandt: “Portrait of the Artist as Priest.” He hurried with his bulky package back to the house. Annamaria was handing the garbage to the portinaia as Fidelman thrust his way into the studio. He quickly changed into the priest’s vestments. The pittrice came in wildly to tell him where he got off, but when she saw Fidelman already painting himself as priest, with a moan she rushed i
nto her room. He worked with smoking intensity and in no time created an amazing likeness. Annamaria, after stealthily re-entering the studio, with heaving bosom and agitated eyes closely followed his progress. At last, with a cry she threw herself at his feet.
“Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned—”
Dripping brush in hand, he stared down at her. “Please, I—”
“Oh, Father, if you knew how I have sinned. I’ve been a whore—”
After a moment’s thought, Fidelman said, “If so, I absolve you.”
“Not without penance. First listen to the rest. I’ve had no luck with men. They’re all bastards. Or else I jinx them. If you want the truth I am an Evil Eye myself. Anybody who loves me is cursed.”
He listened, fascinated.
“Augusto is really my uncle. After many others he became my lover. At least he’s gentle. My father found out and swore he’d kill us both. When I got pregnant I was scared to death. A sin can go too far. Augusto told me to have the baby and leave it at an orphanage, but the night it was born I was confused and threw it into the Tiber. I was afraid it was an idiot.”
She was sobbing. He drew back.
“Wait,” she wept. “The next time in bed Augusto was impotent. Since then he’s been imploring me to confess so he can get back his powers. But every time I step into the confessional my tongue turns to bone. The priest can’t tear a word out of me. That’s how it’s been all my life, don’t ask me why because I don’t know.”
She grabbed his knees. “Help me, Father, for Christ’s sake.”
Fidelman, after a short tormented time, said in a quavering voice, “I forgive you, my child.”
The Complete Stories Page 36
