Idiots First by Bernard Malamud

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 ash trays, and Annamaria had thrown up. The art student afterwards heard her begging the illustrator to sleep with her but Balducci complained of fatigue.
    â€œI will if he won’t,” Fidelman offered.
    Annamaria, enraged, spat on her picture of his unhappy phallus.
    â€œDon’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.”
    â€œBut how—” he asked hoarsely.
    â€œThat doesn’t concern me.”
    â€œâ€”how will I paint?”
    â€œWho cares? Paint at night.”
    â€œWithout light—”
    â€œPaint in the dark. I’ll buy you a can of black paint.”
    â€œHow can you be so cruel to a man who loves—”
    â€œI’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 onto the bannister 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.
    â€œNo Bach, please, my head aches from various troubles.”
    â€œWhere’s your dignity?” she asked.
    â€œTry Chopin, that’s lighter.”
    â€œRespect 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 were 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