108
BERNARD MALAMUD
"Who got," Fidelman muttered. "Who gets."
He considered jumping into the Tiber but it was full of ice
that winter.
One night at the end of February, Annamaria, to Fidelman's
astonishment-it deeply affected him-said he might go with her
to a party at Giancarlo Balducci's studio on the Via dell'Oca; she
needed somebody to accompany her in the bus across the bridge
and Augusto was flat on his back with the Asian flu. The party was
lively-painters, sculptors, some writers, two diplomats, a prince and
a visiting Hindu sociologist, their ladil"-s and three hotsy-totsy, scantily–
dressed, unattached girls. One of them, a shapely beauty with orange
hair, bright eyes, and warm ways became interested in Fidelman,
except that he was dazed by Annamaria, seeing her in a dress for
the first time, a ravishing, rich, ruby-colored affair. The crosseyed
host had provided simply a huge cut-glass bowl of spiced mulled
wine, and the guests dipped ceramic glasses into it and guzzled
away. Everyone but the art student seemed to be enjoying himself.
One or two of the men disappeared into other rooms with female
friends or acquaintances, and Annamaria, in a gay mood, did a fast
shimmy to rhythmic handclapping. She was drinking steadily and
when she wanted her glass filled, politely called him "Arturo." He
began to have mild thoughts of possibly possessing her.
The party grew, at least forty, and grew wildish. Practical jokes
were played. Fidelman realized his left shoe had been painted with
mustard. Balducci's black cat mewed at a fat woman's behind, a
slice of sausage pinned to her dress. Before midnight there were two
fist fights, Fidelman enjoying them but not getting involved, though
once he was socked on the neck by a sculptor who had aimed at a
painter. The girl with the orange hair, still interested in the
art
student, invited him to join her in Balducci's bedroom, but he con–
tinued to be devoted to Annamaria, his eyes tied to her 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 dark–
ish 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."
