“I will if he won’t,” Fidelman offered.
Annamaria, enraged, spat on her picture of his unhappy phallus.
“Don’t dare come near me,” she cried. “Malocchio! Jettatura!”
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 hoarsely.
“That doesn’t concern me.”
“—how will I paint?”
“Who cares? Paint at night.”
“Without light—”
“Paint in the dark. I’ll buy you a can of black paint.”
“How can you be so cruel to a man 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 answered. In the street he stood at the river wall, watching the dome of St. Peter’s in the distance. Maybe a potion, Fidelman thought, or an amulet? He doubted either would work. How do you go about hanging yourself? In the late afternoon he went back to the house—would say he was sick, needed rest, possibly a doctor. He felt feverish. She could hardly refuse.
But she did, although explaining she felt bad herself. He held onto the bannister as he went down the stairs. Clelia Montemaggio’s door was open. Fidelman paused, then continued down but she had seen him. “Come een, come een.”
He went reluctantly in. She fed him camomile tea and panettone. He ate in a wolfish hurry as she seated herself at the piano.
“No Bach, please, my head aches from various troubles.”
“Where’s your dignity?” she asked.
“Try Chopin, that’s lighter.”
“Respect yourself, please.”
Fidelman removed his hat as she began to play a Bach prelude, her bottom rhythmic on the bench. Though his cold oppressed him and he could hardly breathe, tonight the spirit, the architecture, moved him. He felt his face to see if he were crying but only his nose was wet. On the top of the piano Clelia had placed a bowl of white carnations in full bloom. Each white petal seemed a white flower. If I could paint those gorgeous flowers, Fidelman thought. If I could paint something. By Jesus, if I could paint myself, that’d show them! Astonished by the thought he ran out of the house.
The art student hastened to a costume shop and settled on a cassock and fuzzy black soupbowl biretta, envisaging another Rembrandt: “Portrait of the Artist as Priest.” He hurried with his bulky package back to the house. Annamaria was handing the garbage to the portinaia as Fidelman thrust his way into the studio. He quickly changed into the priest’s vestments. The pittrice came in wildly to tell him where he got off, but when she saw Fidelman already painting himself as priest, with a moan she rushed into her room. He worked with smoking intensity and in no time created an amazing likeness. Annamaria, after stealthily re-entering the studio, with heaving bosom and agitated eyes closely followed his progress. At last, with a cry she threw herself at his feet.
“Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned—”
Dripping brush in hand, he stared down at her. “Please, I—”
“Oh, Father, if you knew how I have sinned. I’ve been a whore—”
After a moment’s thought, Fidelman said, “If so, I absolve you.”
“Not without penance. First listen to the rest. I’ve had no luck with men. They’re all bastards. Or else I jinx them. If you want the truth I am an Evil Eye myself. Anybody who loves me is cursed.”
He listened, fascinated.
“Augusto is really my uncle. After many others he became my lover. At least he’s gentle. My father found out and swore he’d kill us both. When I got pregnant I was scared to death. A sin can go too far. Augusto told me to have the baby and leave it at an orphanage, but the night it was born I was confused and threw it into the Tiber. I was afraid it was an idiot.”
She was sobbing. He drew back.
“Wait,” she wept. “The next time in bed Augusto was impotent. Since then he’s been imploring me to confess so he can get back his powers. But everytime I step into the confessional my tongue turns to bone. The priest can’t tear a word out of me. That’s how it’s been all my life, don’t ask me why because I don’t know.”
She grabbed his knees, “Help me, Father, for Christ’s sake.”
Fidelman, after a short tormented time, said in a quavering voice, “I forgive you, my child.”
“The penance,” she wailed, “first the penance.”
After reflecting, he replied, “Say one hundred times each, Our Father and Hail Mary.”
“More,” Annamaria wept. “More, more. Much more.”
Gripping his knees so hard they shook she burrowed her head into his black-buttoned lap. He felt the surprised beginnings of an erection.
“In that case,” Fidelman said, shuddering a little, “better undress.”
“Only,” Annamaria said, “if you keep your vestments on.”
“Not the cassock, too clumsy.”
“At least the biretta.”
He agreed to that.
Annamaria undressed in a swoop. Her body was extraordinarily lovely, the flesh glowing. In her bed they tightly embraced. She clasped his buttocks, he cupped hers. Pumping slowly he nailed her to her cross.
THE DEATH OF ME
Marcus was a tailor, long ago before the war, a buoyant man with a bushy head of graying hair, fine fragile brows and benevolent hands, who comparatively late in life had become a clothier. Because he had prospered, so to say, into ill health, he had to employ an assistant tailor in the rear room, who made alterations on garments but could not, when the work piled high, handle the pressing, so that it became necessary to put on a presser; therefore though the store did well, it did not do too well.
It might have done better but the presser, Josip Bruzak, a heavy, beery, perspiring Pole, who worked in undershirt and felt slippers, his pants loose on his beefy hips, the legs crumpling around his ankles, conceived a violent dislike for Emilio Vizo, the tailor—or it worked the other way, Marcus wasn’t sure—a thin, dry, pigeon-chested Sicilian, who bore, or returned the Pole a steely malice. Because of their quarrels the business suffered.
Why they should fight as they did, fluttering and snarling like angry cocks, and using, in the bargain, terrible language, loud coarse words that affronted the customers and sometimes made the embarrassed Marcus feel dizzy to the point of fainting, mystified the clothier, who knew their troubles and felt they were as people, much alike. Bruzak, who lived in a half-ruined rooming house near the East River, constantly guzzled beer at work and kept a dozen bottles in a rusty pan packed full of ice. When Marcus, in the beginning, objected, Josip, always respectful to the clothier, locked away the pan and disappeared through the back door into the tavern down the block where he had his glass, in the process wasting so much precious time it paid Marcus to advise him to go back to the pan. Everyday at lunch Josip pulled out of the drawer a small sharp knife and cut chunks of the hard garlic salami he ate with puffy lumps of white bread, washing it down with beer and then black coffee brewed on the one-burner gas stove for the tailor’s iron. Sometimes he cooked up a soupy mess of cabbage which stank up the store, but on the whole neither the salami nor the cabbage interested him, and for days he seemed weary and uneasy until the mailman brought him, about every third week, a letter from the other side. When the letters came, he more than once tore them in half with his bumbling fingers; he forgot his work, and sitting on a backless chair, fished out of the same drawer where he kept his salami, a pair of cracked eyeglasses which he attached to his ears by means of looped c
ords he had tied on in place of the broken side-pieces. Then he read the tissue sheets he held in his fist, a crabbed Polish writing in faded brown ink whose every word he uttered aloud so that Marcus, who understood the language but preferred not to hear, heard. Before the presser had dipped two sentences into the letter, his face dissolved and he cried, oily tears smearing his cheeks and chin so that it looked as though he had been sprayed with something to kill flies. At the end he fell into a roar of sobbing, a terrible thing to behold, which incapacitated him for hours and wasted the morning.
Marcus had often thought of telling him to read his letters at home but the news in them wrung his heart and he could not bring himself to scold Josip, who was by the way, a master presser. Once he began on a pile of suits, the steaming machine hissed without let-up, and every garment came out neat, without puff or excessive crease, and the arms, legs, and pleats were as sharp as knives. As for the news in the letters it was always the same, concerning the sad experiences of his tubercular wife and unfortunate fourteen-year-old son, whom Josip, except in pictures, had never seen, a boy who lived, literally in the mud with the pigs, and was also sick, so that even if his father saved up money for his passage to America, and the boy could obtain a visa, he would never get past the immigration doctors. Marcus more than once gave the presser a suit of clothes to send to his son, and occasionally some cash, but he wondered if these things ever got to him. He had the uncomfortable thought that Josip, in the last fourteen years, might have brought the boy over had he wanted, his wife too, before she had contracted tuberculosis, but for some reason he preferred to weep over them where they were.
Emilio, the tailor, was another lone wolf. Every day he had a forty-cent lunch in the diner about three blocks away but was always back early to read his Corriere. His strangeness was that he was always whispering to himself. No one could understand what he said, but it was sibilant and insistent, and wherever he was, one could hear his hissing voice urging something, or moaning softly though he never wept. He whispered when he sewed a button on, or shortened a sleeve, or when he used the iron. Whispering when he hung up his coat in the morning, he was still whispering when he put on his black hat, wriggled his sparse shoulders into his coat and left, in loneliness, the store at night. Only once did he hint what the whispering was about; when the clothier, noticing his pallor one morning, brought him a cup of coffee, in gratitude the tailor confided that his wife, who had returned last week, had left him again this, and he held up the outstretched fingers of one bony hand to show she had five times run out on him. Marcus offered the man his sympathy, and thereafter when he heard the tailor whispering in the rear of the store, could always picture the wife coming back to him from wherever she had been, saying she was this time—she swore—going to stay for good, but at night when they were in bed and he was whispering about her in the dark, she would think to herself she could never stand this thing and in the morning, was gone. And so the man’s ceaseless whisper irritated Marcus; he had to leave the store to hear silence, yet he kept Emilio on because he was a fine tailor, a demon with a needle, who could sew up a perfect cuff in less time than it takes an ordinary workman to make measurements, the kind of tailor, who when you were looking for one, was very rare.
For more than a year, despite the fact that they both made strange noises in the rear room, neither the presser nor the tailor seemed to notice one another; then one day, as though an invisible wall between them had fallen, they were at each other’s throats. Marcus, it appeared, walked in at the very birth of their venom, when, leaving a customer in the store one afternoon, he went back to get a piece of marking chalk and came on a sight that froze him. There they were in the afternoon sunlight that flooded the rear of the shop, momentarily blinding the clothier so that he had time to think he couldn’t possibly be seeing what he saw—the two at opposite corners staring stilly at one another—a live, almost hairy staring of intense hatred. The sneering Pole in one trembling hand squeezed a heavy wooden pressing block, while the livid tailor, his back like a cat’s against the wall, held aloft in his rigid fingers a pair of cutter’s shears.
“What is it?” Marcus shouted when he had recovered his voice, but neither of them would break the stone silence and remained as when he had discovered them, glaring across the shop at the other, the tailor’s lips moving noiselessly, and the presser breathing like a dog in heat, an eeriness about them that Marcus had never suspected.
“My God,” he cried, his body drenched in cold creeping wetness, “tell me what happened here.” But neither uttered a sound so he shrieked through the constriction in his throat, which made the words grate awfully, “Go back to work—” hardly believing they would obey; and when they did, Bruzak turning like a lump back to the machine, and the tailor stiffly to his hot iron, Marcus was softened by their compliance and speaking as if to children, said with tears in his eyes, “Boys, remember, don’t fight.”
Afterwards the clothier stood alone in the shade of the store, staring through the glass of the front door at nothing at all; lost, in thinking of them at his very back, in a horrid world of gray grass and green sunlight, of moaning and blood-smell. They had made him dizzy. He lowered himself into the leather chair, praying no customer would enter until he had sufficiently recovered from his nausea. So sighing, he shut his eyes and felt his skull liven with new terror to spy them both engaged in round pursuit in his mind. One ran hot after the other, lumbering but in flight, who had stolen his box of broken buttons. Skirting the lit and smoking sands, they scrambled high up a craggy cliff, locked in many-handed struggle, teetering on the ledge, till one slipped in slime and pulled the other with him. Reaching forth four hands, they clutched nothing in stiffened fingers, as Marcus, the watcher, shrieked without sound at their evanescence.
He sat dizzily until these thoughts had left him.
When he was again himself, remembrance made it a kind of dream. He denied any untoward incident had happened; yet knowing it had, called it a triviality—hadn’t he, in the factory he had worked in on coming to America, often seen such fights among the men?—trivial things they all forgot, no matter how momentarily fierce.
However, on the very next day and thereafter daily without skipping a day, the two in the back broke out of their silent hatred into thunderous quarreling that did damage to the business; in ugly voices they called each other dirty names, embarrassing the clothier so that he threw the measuring tape he wore like a garment on his shoulders, once around the neck. Customer and clothier glanced nervously at each other, and Marcus quickly ran through the measurements; the customer, who as a rule liked to linger in talk of his new clothes, left hurriedly after paying cash, to escape the drone of disgusting names hurled about in the back yet clearly heard in front so that no one had privacy.
Not only would they curse and heap destruction on each other but they muttered in their respective tongues other dreadful things. The clothier understood Josip shouting he would tear off someone’s genitals and rub the bloody mess in salt; so he guessed Emilio was shrieking the same things, and was saddened and maddened at once.
He went many times to the rear, pleading with them, and they listened to his every word with interest and tolerance, because the clothier, besides being a kind man—this showed in his eyes—was also eloquent, which they both enjoyed. Yet, whatever his words, they did no good, for the minute he had finished and turned his back on them they began again. Embittered, Marcus withdrew into the store and sat nursing his misery under the yellow-faced clock clicking away yellow minutes, till it was time to stop—it was amazing they got anything done and their work was prodigious—and go home.
His urge was to bounce them out on their behinds but he couldn’t conceive where to find two others who were such skilled and, in essence, proficient workers, without having to pay a fortune in gold. Therefore, with reform uppermost in his mind, he caught Emilio one noon as he was leaving for lunch, whispered him into a corner and said, “Listen, Emilio, you’re the smart one,
tell me why do you fight? Why do you hate him and why does he hate you and why do you use such bad words?”
Though he enjoyed the whispering and was soft in the clothier’s palms, the tailor, who liked these little attentions, lowered his eyes and blushed darkly but either would not or could not reply.
So Marcus sat under the clock all afternoon with his fingers in his ears. And he caught the presser on his way out that evening and said to him, “Please, Josip, tell me what he did to you? Josip, why do you fight, you have a sick wife and boy?” But Josip, who also felt an affection for the clothier—he was, despite Polish, no anti-Semite—merely caught him in his hammy arms, and though he had to clutch at his trousers which were falling and impeding his movements, hugged Marcus into a ponderous polka, then with a cackle, pushed him aside, and in his beer jag, danced away.
When they began the same dirty hullabaloo the next morning and drove a customer out at once, the clothier stormed into the rear and they turned from their cursing—both fatigued and green-gray to the gills—and listened to Marcus begging, shaming, weeping, but especially paid heed when he, who found screeching unsuited to him, dropped it and gave advice and little preachments in a low becoming tone. He was a tall man, and because of his illness, quite thin. What flesh remained had wasted further in these troublesome months, and his hair was white now so that, as he stood before them, expostulating, exhorting, he was in appearance like an old hermit, if not a saint, and the workers showed respect and keen interest as he spoke.
Idiots First Page 5