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Authors: Bernard Malamud
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hotel, saw Fidelman coming pell-mell and ducked him around a corner, through a cellar door, into the Hotel du Ville, a joint for prostitutes who split fees with the padrone for the use of a room.
Angelo registered the former art student, gave him a tiny dark room, and pointing a gun, relieved him of his passport and the contents of the Texan’s wallet. He warned him that if he ratted to anybody, he would
report him to the Questura where his brother presided, as a dangerous alien thief. The former art student, desperate to escape, needed money to travel, so he sneaked into Angelo’s room one morning and from the strapped suitcase under the bed, extracted fistfuls of lire, stuffing all his pockets. Scarpio, happening in, caught him at it and held a dagger to Fidelman’s ribs—who fruitlessly pleaded they could both make a living from the suitcase—until the padrone appeared.
“A hunchback is straight only in his grave.”
Angelo slapped Fidelman’s face first with one fat hand, then with the other, till it turned red and the tears flowed freely. He chained him to the bed in his room for a week. When Fidelman promised to behave he was released and appointed mastro delle latrine, having to clean thirty toilets daily with a stiff brush, for room and board. He also assisted Teresa, the asthmatic, hairy-legged chambermaid, and ran errands for the whores. The former art student hoped to escape but the portiere or his assistant was at the door twenty-four hours a day. And thanks to the card games and his impassioned gambling, Fidelman was without sufficient funds to go anywhere, if there was anywhere to go. And without passport, so he stayed put.
Scarpio secretly feels Fidelman’s thigh.
“Let go or I’ll tell the padrone.”
Angelo returns and flips up a card. Queen. Seven and a half on the button. He pockets Fidelman’s last hundred lire.
“Go to bed,” says Angelo, “it’s a long day tomorrow.”
Fidelman climbs up to his room on the fifth floor and stares out the window into the dark street to see how far down is death. Too far, so he undresses for bed. He looks every night and sometimes during the day. Teresa, screaming, had once held onto his two legs as Fidelman dangled half out of the window until one of the girls’ naked customers, a barrel-chested man, rushed into the room and dragged him back in.
Sometimes Fidelman weeps in his sleep.
He awakes, cringing. Angelo and Scarpio are in his room but nobody hits him.
“Search anywhere,” Fidelman offers. “You won’t find a thing except maybe half a stale pastry.”
“Shut up,” says Angelo. “We want to make a proposition.”
Fidelman slowly sits up. Scarpio produces the yellow sheet of scribbled fantasies. “We notice you draw.” He points a dirty fingernail at the nude figure.
“After a fashion. I doodle and see what happens.”
“Could you copy a painting?”
“What sort of painting?”
“Just a nude. Tiziano’s ‘Venus of Urbino.’ The one after Giorgione.”
“Oh that one?” Fidelman thinks. “I doubt that I could.”
“Any fool can.”
“Shut up, Scarpio.” Angelo sits his bulk at the foot of Fidelman’s narrow bed. Scarpio, with his good eye,
moodily inspects the cheerless view from the window.
“On Isola Bella in Lago Maggiore, about an hour from here,” Angelo says, “there’s a small castello full of lousy paintings, except for one which is a genuine Tiziano, authenticated by three art experts, including a brother-in-law of mine. It’s worth half a million dollars but the owner is richer than Olivetti and won’t sell though an American museum has offered a fortune.”
“Very interesting.”
“Exactly. Anyway it’s insured for at least $400,000. Of course if anyone stole it it would be impossible to sell.”
“Then why bother?”
“Bother what?”
“Whatever it is,” Fidelman says lamely.
“You’ll learn more by listening. Suppose it was stolen and held for
Angelo registered the former art student, gave him a tiny dark room, and pointing a gun, relieved him of his passport and the contents of the Texan’s wallet. He warned him that if he ratted to anybody, he would
report him to the Questura where his brother presided, as a dangerous alien thief. The former art student, desperate to escape, needed money to travel, so he sneaked into Angelo’s room one morning and from the strapped suitcase under the bed, extracted fistfuls of lire, stuffing all his pockets. Scarpio, happening in, caught him at it and held a dagger to Fidelman’s ribs—who fruitlessly pleaded they could both make a living from the suitcase—until the padrone appeared.
“A hunchback is straight only in his grave.”
Angelo slapped Fidelman’s face first with one fat hand, then with the other, till it turned red and the tears flowed freely. He chained him to the bed in his room for a week. When Fidelman promised to behave he was released and appointed mastro delle latrine, having to clean thirty toilets daily with a stiff brush, for room and board. He also assisted Teresa, the asthmatic, hairy-legged chambermaid, and ran errands for the whores. The former art student hoped to escape but the portiere or his assistant was at the door twenty-four hours a day. And thanks to the card games and his impassioned gambling, Fidelman was without sufficient funds to go anywhere, if there was anywhere to go. And without passport, so he stayed put.
Scarpio secretly feels Fidelman’s thigh.
“Let go or I’ll tell the padrone.”
Angelo returns and flips up a card. Queen. Seven and a half on the button. He pockets Fidelman’s last hundred lire.
“Go to bed,” says Angelo, “it’s a long day tomorrow.”
Fidelman climbs up to his room on the fifth floor and stares out the window into the dark street to see how far down is death. Too far, so he undresses for bed. He looks every night and sometimes during the day. Teresa, screaming, had once held onto his two legs as Fidelman dangled half out of the window until one of the girls’ naked customers, a barrel-chested man, rushed into the room and dragged him back in.
Sometimes Fidelman weeps in his sleep.
He awakes, cringing. Angelo and Scarpio are in his room but nobody hits him.
“Search anywhere,” Fidelman offers. “You won’t find a thing except maybe half a stale pastry.”
“Shut up,” says Angelo. “We want to make a proposition.”
Fidelman slowly sits up. Scarpio produces the yellow sheet of scribbled fantasies. “We notice you draw.” He points a dirty fingernail at the nude figure.
“After a fashion. I doodle and see what happens.”
“Could you copy a painting?”
“What sort of painting?”
“Just a nude. Tiziano’s ‘Venus of Urbino.’ The one after Giorgione.”
“Oh that one?” Fidelman thinks. “I doubt that I could.”
“Any fool can.”
“Shut up, Scarpio.” Angelo sits his bulk at the foot of Fidelman’s narrow bed. Scarpio, with his good eye,
moodily inspects the cheerless view from the window.
“On Isola Bella in Lago Maggiore, about an hour from here,” Angelo says, “there’s a small castello full of lousy paintings, except for one which is a genuine Tiziano, authenticated by three art experts, including a brother-in-law of mine. It’s worth half a million dollars but the owner is richer than Olivetti and won’t sell though an American museum has offered a fortune.”
“Very interesting.”
“Exactly. Anyway it’s insured for at least $400,000. Of course if anyone stole it it would be impossible to sell.”
“Then why bother?”
“Bother what?”
“Whatever it is,” Fidelman says lamely.
“You’ll learn more by listening. Suppose it was stolen and held for
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