Pictures of Fidelman by Bernard Malamud Read Free Book Online Page B

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 hotly embraced Fidelman. In the middle of a passionate kiss the doorbell rang.
    Annamaria stiffened in his arms. “Diavolo! Augusto!”
    “He’ll go away,” Fidelman advised. “Both doors locked.”
    But she was at once out of bed, pulling 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. 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.
    “Who is he to you?” Fidelman asked.
    “Who?”
    “Augusto.”
    “An old friend. Like a father. We went through much together.”
    “Were you lovers?”
    “Look, if you want me take me. If you like to ask questions go back to school.”
    He determined to mind his business.
    “Warm me,” Annamaria 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 doorbell rang loudly.
    “For Christ’s sake, don’t answer,” Fidelman groaned. He tried to hold her down but she was already up, hunting her robe.
    “Put 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 garbage.
    Annamaria furiously got the two bags and handed them to her.
    In bed she was so cold her teeth chattered.
    Tense with desire Fidelman warmed her.
    “Angelo mio,” she murmured. “Amore, possess me.”
    He was about to when she kicked her legs together and hastily rose. “The cursed door again!”
    Fidelman gnashed his teeth. “I heard nothing.”
    In her torn yellow silk robe she hurried to the front door, opened and shut it, quickly locked and bolted it, did the same in her room and slid into bed.
    “You were right, it was nobody.”

    She embraced him, her hairy armpits perfumed. He responded with postponed passion.
    “Enough of antipasto,” Annamaria said. She reached for his member.
    Overwrought, Fidelman, though fighting himself not to, spent himself in her hand. Although he mightily willed resurrection, his wilted flower bit the dust.
    She furiously shoved him out of bed, into the studio, flinging his clothes after him.
    “Pig, beast, onanist!”
     
    At least she lets me love her. Daily Fidelman shopped, cooked, and cleaned for her. Every morning he took her shopping sack off the hook, went down to the street market and returned with the bag stuffed 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