STILL LIFE
10'1
full of greens, pasta, eggs, meat, cheese, wine, bread. Annamaria
insisted on three hearty meals a day although she had once told him
she no longer enjoyed eating. Twice he had seen her throw up her
supper. What she enjoyed he didn't know except it wasn't Fidelman.
After he had served her at her table he was .allowed to eat alone in
the studio. At two every afternoon she took her siesta, and though it
was forbidden to make noise, he was allowed to wash the dishes,
dust and clean her room, swab the toilet bowl. She called "Fatso,"
and in he trotted to get her anything she had run out of-drawing
pencils, sanitary belt, safety pins. After she waked from her nap,
rain or shine, snow or hail, he was now compelled to leave the studio
so she could work in peace and quiet. He wandered, in the tra–
montana, from one cold two-bit movie to another. At seven he was
back to prepare her supper, and twice a week Augusto's, who sported
a new black Borsalino and spiffy gray overcoat, and pitied the art
student with both
wet
blue eyes but wouldn't look at him. After
supper, another load of dishes, the garbage downstairs, and when
Fidelman returned, with or without Augusto Annamaria was already
closeted behind her bolted door. He checked through the keyhole on
Mondays and Fridays but she and the old gent were always fully
clothed. Fidelman had more than once complained to her that his
punishment exceeded his crime, but the pittrice said he was a type
she would never have any use for. In fact he did not exist for her.
Not existing how could he paint, although he told himself he must?
He couldn't. He aimlessly froze wherever he went, a mean cold that
seared his lungs, although under his overcoat he wore a new thick
sweater Bessie had knitted for him, and two woolen scarves around
his neck. Since the night Annamaria had kicked him out of bed he
had not been warm; yet he often dreamed of ultimate victory. Once
when he was on
his
lonely way out of the house-a night she was
giving a party for some painter friends, Fidelman, a drooping butt
in the corner of his mouth, carrying the garbage bags, met Clelia
Montemaggio coming up the stairs.
"You look like a frozen board," she said. "Come in and enjoy
the warmth and a little Bach."
Unable to unfreeze enough to say no, he continued down with
the garbage.
"Every man gets the woman he deserves," she called after him.
