Idiots First by Bernard Malamud Read Free Book Online Page B

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 ladies 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 bloomed, at least forty, and turned wildish. Practical jokes were played. Fidelman realized his left shoe had been smeared with mustard. Balducci’s black cat mewed at a fat lady’s behind, a slice of sausage pinned to her dress. Before midnight there were two fist fights, Fidelman enjoying both 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 continued 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 darkish face, heavy black brows, and bleached blond hair, approached Fidelman. “Haven’t we met before, caro?”
    â€œMaybe,” the art student said, perspiring lightly. “I’m Arthur Fidelman, an American painter.”
    â€œYou don’t say? Action painter?”
    â€œAlways active.”
    â€œI refer of course to Abstract Expressionism.”
    â€œOf course. Well, sort of. On and off.”
    â€œHaven’t I seen some of your work around? Galleria Schneider? Some symmetric, hard-edge, biomorphic forms? Not bad as I remember.”
    Fidelman thanked him, in full blush.
    â€œWho are you here with?” Orazio Pinello asked.
    â€œAnnamaria Oliovino.”
    â€œHer?” said the sculptor. “But she’s a fake.”
    â€œIs she?” Fidelman said with a sigh.
    â€œHave you looked at her work?”
    â€œWith one eye. Her art is bad but I find her irresistible.”
    â€œPeccato.” The sculptor shrugged and drifted away.
    A minute later there was another fist fight, during which the bright-eyed orange head conked Fidelman with a Chinese vase. He went out cold and when he came to, Annamaria and Balducci were undressing him in the illustrator’s bedroom. Fidelman experienced an almost overwhelming pleasure, then Balducci explained that the art student had been chosen to pose in the nude for drawings both he and the pittrice would do of him. He explained there had been
a discussion as to which of them did male nudes best and they had decided to settle it in a short contest. Two easels had been wheeled to the center of the studio; a half hour was allotted to the contestants, and the guests would judge who had done the better job. Though he at first objected because it was a cold night, Fidelman nevertheless felt warmish from wine so he agreed to pose; besides he was proud of his muscles and maybe if she sketched him nude it might arouse her interest for a tussle later. And if he wasn’t painting he was at least being painted.
    So the pittrice and Giancarlo Balducci, in paint-smeared smocks, worked for thirty minutes by the clock, the whole party silently looking on, with the