Idiots First by Bernard Malamud Read Free Book Online

stone stink, kept the easel turned away from her. She pretended unconcern Done for the day he covered the painting and carefully guarded it. The art student was painting Annamaria in a passion of tenderness for the infant at her breast, her face responsive to its innocence. When, on the ninth day, in trepidation Fidelman revealed his work, the pittrice’s eyes clouded and her underlip curled. He was about to grab the canvas and smash it up all over the place when her expression fell apart. The art student postponed all movement but visible trembling. She seemed at first appalled, a darkness descended on her, she was undone. She wailed wordlessly, then sobbed, “You have seen my soul.” They embraced tempestuously, her breasts stabbing him, Annamaria bawling on his shoulder. Fidelman kissed her wet face and salted lips, she murmuring as he fooled with the hook of her brassiere under her sweater, “Aspetta, aspetta, caro, Augusto viene.” He was mad with expectation and suspense.
    Augusto, who usually arrived punctually at four, did not appear that Friday afternoon. Uneasy as the hour approached, Annamaria seemed relieved as the streets grew dark. She had worked badly after viewing Fidelman’s painting, sighed frequently, gazed at him with sweet-sad smiles. At six she gave in to his urging and they retired to her room, his unframed “Virgin with Child” already hanging above her bed, replacing a gaunt self-portrait. He was curiously disappointed in the picture—surfacy thin—and made a mental note to borrow it back in the morning to work on it more. But the conception, at least, deserved
the reward. Annamaria cooked supper. She cut his meat for him and fed him forkfuls. She peeled Fidelman’s orange and stirred sugar in his coffee. Afterwards, at his nod, she locked and bolted the studio and bedroom doors and they undressed and slipped under her blankets. How good to be for a change on this side of the locked door, Fidelman thought, relaxing marvelously. Annamaria, however, seemed tensely alert to the noises of the old building, including a parrot screeching, some shouting kids running up the stairs, a soprano singing “Ritorna, vincitor!” But she calmed down and then hotly embraced Fidelman. In the middle of a passionate kiss the doorbell rang.
    Annamaria stiffened in his arms. “Diavolo! Augusto!”
    â€œHe’ll go away,” Fidelman advised. “Both doors locked.”
    But she was at once out of bed, drawing on her culottes. “Get dressed,” she said.
    He hopped up and hastily got into his pants.
    Annamaria unlocked and unbolted the inner door and then the outer one. It was the postman waiting to collect ten lire for an overweight letter from Naples.
    After she had read the long letter and wiped away a tear they undressed and got back into bed.
    â€œWho is he to you?” Fidelman asked.
    â€œWho?”
    â€œAugusto.”
    â€œAn old friend. Like a father. We went through much together.”
    â€œWere you lovers?”
    â€œLook, if you want me, take me. If you want to ask questions, go back to school.”

    He determined to mind his business.
    â€œWarm me,” she said, “I’m freezing.”
    Fidelman stroked her slowly. After ten minutes she said, “‘Gioco di mano, gioco di villano.’ Use your imagination.”
    He used his imagination and she responded with excitement. “Dolce tesoro,” she whispered, flicking the tip of her tongue into his ear, then with little bites biting his ear lobe.
    The door bell rang loudly.
    â€œFor Christ’s sake, don’t answer,” Fidelman groaned. He tried to hold her down but she was already up, hunting her robe.
    â€œPut on your pants,” she hissed.
    He had thoughts of waiting for her in bed but it ended with his dressing fully. She sent him to the door. It was the crippled portinaia, the art student having neglected to take down the