STILL
LIFE
99
"The Evil Eye," she said with irritation. "Malocchio."
He had heard something of the sort. They returned quickly to
the studio, their heads lowered against the noisy wind, the pittrice
from time to time furtively crossing herself. A black-habited old
nun passed them at the trattoria comer, from whom Annamaria
turned in torment, muttering, "Jettatura! Porea miseria!" When they
were upstairs in the studio she insisted Fidelman touch his testicles
three times, to undo or dispel who knows what witchcraft, and he
modestly obliged. Her request had inflamed him although he cau–
tioned himself to remember it was in purpose and essence, theological.
Later she received a visitor, a man who came to see her on
Monday and Friday afternoons after his work in a government
bureau. Her visitors, always men, whispered with her a minute,
then left restlessly; most of them, excepting also Giancarlo Bal–
ducci, a crosseyed illustrator-Fidelman never saw again. But the
one who came oftenest stayed longest, a solemn gray-haired gent,
Augusto Ottogalli, with watery blue eyes and missing side teeth,
old enough to be her father for sure. He rakishly wore a black
fedora, and a shabby gray overcoat too large for him, greeted Fidel–
man vacantly and made him inordinately jealous. When Augusto
arrived in the afternoon the pittrice usually dropped anything she
was doing and they retired to her room, at once locked and bolted.
The art student wandered alone in the studio for dreadful hours.
When Augusto ultimately emerged, looking disheveled, and if success–
ful , defeated, Fidelman turned his back on him and the old man
hastily let himself out of the door. After his visits, and only
his,
Annamaria did not appear in the studio for the rest of the day. Once
when Fidelman knocked on her door to invite her out to supper,
she told him to use the pot because she had a headache and was
sound asleep. On another occasion when Augusto was locked long
in her room with her, after a tormenting two hours Fidelman tip–
toed over and put his jealous ear to the door. All he could hear was
the buzz and sigh of their whispering. Peeking through the keyhole
he saw them both in their overcoats, sitting on her bed, Augusto
tightly clasping her hands, whispering passionately, his nose em–
purpled with emotion, Annamaria's face averted. When the
.art
stu–
dent checked an hour afterward, they were still at it, the old man
imploring, the pittrice weeping. The next time, Augusto came with
