110
BERNARD MALAMUD
pounded on the door. Fidelman, standing barefoot on a bathmat, was
eager to see what Annamaria was accomplishing but had to be patient.
When the half hour was up he was permitted to look. Balducci had
drawn a flock of green and black abstract testiculate circles. Fidel–
man shuddered. But Annamaria's drawing was representational, not
Fidelman although of course inspired by him: a gigantic funereal
phallus that resembled a broken-backed snake. The blond sculptor
inspected it with half-closed eyes, then yawned and left. By now the
party was over, the guests departed, lights out except for a few drip–
ping white candles. Balducci was collecting his ceramic glasses and
emptying ashtrays, and Annamaria had thrown up. The art student
afterwards heard her begging the illustrator to sleep with her but
Balducci complained of fatigue.
" I will
if
he won't," Fidelman offered.
Annamaria, enraged, spat on her picture of his unhappy phallus.
"Don't ever dare come near me," she cried. "Malocchio!
J
et-
tatura!"
5.
The next morning he awoke sneezing, a nasty cold. How can I
go on? Annamaria, showing no signs of pity or remorse, continued
shrilly to berate him.
"You've brought me nothing but bad luck since you came here.
I'm letting you stay because you pay well but I warn you to keep
out of my sight."
"But how-" he asked ho.arsely.
"That doesn't concern me."
"-How will I paint?"
"Who cares? Paint at night."
"If
there's no light-"
"Paint in the dark. With black paint."
"How can you be so cruel to someone 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
