me.”
“—how will I paint?”
“Who cares? Paint at night.”
“Without light—”
“Paint in the dark. I’ll give 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 onto the banister as he went downstairs. 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 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 house.
The art student hastened to a costume shop and settled on a cassock and fuzzy black soupbowl 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 into her room. He worked with smoking intensity and in no time created an amazing likeness. Annamaria, after stealthily reentering 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 what I’ve done. 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’m an Evil Eye myself. Anybody who loves me is cursed.”
He listened in fascination.
“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. That’s when I left Naples. I was pregnant and 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
“—how will I paint?”
“Who cares? Paint at night.”
“Without light—”
“Paint in the dark. I’ll give 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 onto the banister as he went downstairs. 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 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 house.
The art student hastened to a costume shop and settled on a cassock and fuzzy black soupbowl 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 into her room. He worked with smoking intensity and in no time created an amazing likeness. Annamaria, after stealthily reentering 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 what I’ve done. 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’m an Evil Eye myself. Anybody who loves me is cursed.”
He listened in fascination.
“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. That’s when I left Naples. I was pregnant and 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
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