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PARTISAN REVIEW
lugged it to the curb. A porter appeared and the student, after some
hesitation, let him carry it toward the line of small dark-green taxis
in the piazza. The porter offered to carry the brief case too, but
Fidelman wouldn't part with it. He gave the cab driver the addres
of the hotel, and the taxi took off with a lurch. Fidelman at last
relaxed. Susskind, he noticed, had disappeared. Gone with his breeze,
he thought. But on the w.ay to the hotel he had an uneasy feeling
that the refugee, crouched low, might be clinging to the tire on
the back of the cab; however, he didn't look out to see.
Fidelman had reserved a room in an inexpensive hotel not far
from the station with its very convenient bus terminal. Then, as was
his habit, he got himself quickly and tightly organized. He was
al–
ways concerned with not wasting time, .as if it were his only wealth–
not true, of course, though Fidelman admitted he was an ambitious
person-and he soon arranged a schedule that made the most of
his working hours. Mornings he usually visited the Italian libraries,
searching their catalogues and archives, read in poor light, and made
profuse notes. He napped for an hour after lunch, then at four, when
the churches and museums were re-opening, hurried off to them
with lists of frescoes and paintings he must see. He was anxious to
get to Florence, at the same time a little unhappy at all he would
not have time to take in in Rome. Fidelman promised himself to
re–
turn again if he could afford it, perhaps in the spring, and look
at anything he pleased.
Mter dark he managed to unwind himself and relax. He ate as
the Romans did, late, enjoyed a half litre of white wine and
smoked a cigarette. Mterward he liked to wander-especially
in
the
old sections near the Tiber. He had read that here, under his feet,
were the ruins of Ancient Rome. It was an inspiring business, he,
Arthur Fidelman, after all, born a Bronx boy, walking around in
an
this history. History was mysterious, the remembrance of things
un–
known, in a way burdensome, in a way a sensuous experience. It up–
lifted and depressed, why he did not know, except that it excited
his thoughts more than he thought good for him. This kind of ex–
citement was all right up to a point, perfect maybe for .a creative
artist, but less so for a critic. A critic, he thought, should live on
beans. He walked for miles along the winding river, gazing at
the
star-strewn skies. Once, after a couple of days in the Vatican
Mu-
