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 fist fight, during which the green-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 in 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 furiously on the door. Fidelman, standing barefoot on a rubber 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.
“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! Jettatural”
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 stay out of my sight.”
“But how—” he asked hoarsely.
“That doesn’t concern
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 fist fight, during which the green-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 in 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 furiously on the door. Fidelman, standing barefoot on a rubber 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.
“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! Jettatural”
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 stay out of my sight.”
“But how—” he asked hoarsely.
“That doesn’t concern
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