Pictures of Fidelman Page 13

  The painter of the cave, wearing a leafy loincloth as he labored, varied the patterns of the geometric design. He was at that time of his life engaged in developing a more intricate conception of circles within circles of various hues and shades including copper red and light olive; and to extend his art further, of triangles within triangles within concentric circles. He drove himself at his work, intending when his labor was done to climb the dark stairs ascending to his sister’s first floor and tell her what he had accomplished in the cave below. Bessie, long a widow, all her children married and scattered across the continent, her oldest daughter in Montreal, lived, except for occasional visitors, mostly the doctor, alone in the old frame house she had come to as a young bride, in Newark, New Jersey. She was at this time, ill and possibly dying. Nobody he could think of had told her artist-brother, but he figured he somehow knew. Call it intuition. It was his hope she would remain alive until he had completed his art work of the cave and she could at last see how it had turned out.

  Bessie, he would say, I did this for you and you know why.

  Fidelman worked by the light of a single dusty 100-watt bulb, the old-fashioned kind with a glass spicule at the bottom, dangling from a wire from the ceiling of the cave, that he had installed when he first came there to paint. For a long time he had distrusted the bulb because he had never had to replace it, and sometimes it glowed like a waning moon after he had switched it off, making him feel slightly uneasy and a little lumpy in the chest. He suspected a presence, immanent or otherwise, around; though who or why, and under what circumstances, he could not say. Nothing or nobody substantial. Anyway, he didn’t care for the bulb. He knew why when it began, one night, to speak to him. How does a bulb speak? With the sound of light. Fidelman for a while did not respond, first because he couldn’t, his throat constricted; and second, because he suspected this might be he talking to himself; yet when it spoke again, this time he answered.

  Fidelman, said the voice of, or from within, the bulb, why are you here such a long time in this cave? Painting–this we know-but why do you paint so long a whole cave? What kind of business is this?

  Leaving my mark is what. For the ages to see. This place will someday be crowded with visitors at a dollar a throw. Mark my words.

  But why in this way if there are better?

  What would you suggest, for instance?

  Whatever I suggest is too late now, but why don’t you go at least upstairs and say hello to your sister who hasn’t seen you in years? Go before it is too late, because she is now dying.

  Not quite just yet I can’t go, said the painter. I can’t until my work is finished because I want to show her what I’ve accomplished once it’s done.

  Go up to her now, this is the last chance. Your work in this cave will take years yet. Tell her at least hello. What have you got to lose? To her it will be a wonderful thing.

  No, I can’t. It’s all too complicated. I can’t go till I’ve finished the job. The truth is I hate the past. It caught me unawares. I’d rather not see her just yet. Maybe next week or so.

  It’s a short trip up the stairs to say hello to her. What can you lose if it’s only fourteen steps and then you’re there?

  It’s too complicated, like I said. I hate the past.

  So why do you blame her for this?

  I don’t blame anybody at all. I just don’t want to see her. At least not just yet.

  If she dies she’s dead. You can talk all you want then but she won’t answer you.

  It’s no fault of mine if people die. There’s nothing I can do about it.

  Nobody is talking about fault or not fault. All we are talking about is to go upstairs.

  I can’t I told you, it’s too complicated, I hate the past, it caught me unawares. If there’s anything to blame I don’t blame her. I just don’t want to see her is all, at least not just yet until my work here is done.

  Don’t be so proud my friend. Pride ain’t spinach. You can’t eat it, so it won’t make you grow. Remember what happened to the Greeks.

  Praxiteles? He who first showed Aphrodite naked? Phidias, whose centaur’s head is thought to be a self-portrait? Who have you got in mind?

  No, the one that he tore out his eyes. Watch out for hubris. It’s poison ivy. Trouble you got enough, you want also blisters? Also an electric bulb don’t give so often advice so listen with care. When did you hear last that an electric bulb gave advice? Did I advise Napoleon? Did I advise Van Gogh? This is like a miracle, so why don’t you take advantage and go upstairs?

  Well, you’ve got a point there. There’s some truth to it, I suppose. I might at that, come to think of it. As you say, it’s not everybody who gets advice in this way. There’s something Biblical about it, if I may say. Furthermore, I’m not getting any younger and I haven’t seen Bessie in years. Plus I do owe her something, after all. Be my Virgil, which way to up the stairs?

  I will show you which way but I can’t go with you. Up to a point but not further if you know what I mean. A bulb is a bulb. Light I got but not feet. After all, this is the Universe, everything is laws.

  Fidelman slowly climbs up the stone, then wooden, stairs, lit generously from bottom clear to top by the bulb, and opens the creaking door into a narrow corridor. He walks along it till he comes to a small room where Bessie is lying in a sagging double bed.

  Hello, Bessie, I’ve been downstairs most of the time, but I came up to say hello.

  Why are you so naked, Arthur? It’s winter outside.

  It’s how I am nowadays.

  Arthur, said Bessie, why did you stop writing for so long? Why didn’t you answer my letters?

  I guess I had nothing much to write. Nothing much has happened to me. There wasn’t much to say.

  Remember how Mama used to give us an apple to eat with a slice of bread?

  I don’t like to remember those things any more.

  Anyway, thanks for coming up to see me, Arthur. It’s a nice thing to do when a person is so alone. At least I know what you look like and where you are nowadays.

  Bessie died and rose to heaven, holding in her heart her brother’s hello.

  Flights of circles, cones, triangles.

  End of drypoint etching.

  The ugly and plebeian face with which Rembrandt was ill-favored was accompanied by untidy and dirty clothes, since it was his custom, when working, to wipe his brushes on himself, and to do other things of a similar nature. Jakob Rosenberg.

  If you’re dead how do you go on living?

  Natura morta: still life. Oil on paper.

  6

  Venice, floating city of green and golden canals. Fidelman floated too, from stern to stern. When the sirocco relentlessly blew in late autumn the island dipped on ancient creaking piles toward the outer isles, then gently tipped to the mainland against the backwash of oily waters. The ex-painter, often seasick in the municipal garbage boat, fished with a net out of the smelly canals, dead rats and lettuce leaves. He had come for the Biennale and stayed on.

  November fog settled on the webbed-canaled and narrow-streeted city, obscuring campanile, church steeples, and the red-tiled roofs of houses tilted together from opposite sides of streets. Oars splashing, he skirted the mist-moving vaporetti, his shouts and curses opposing their horns and the tolling bellbuoys in the lagoon. For Fidelman no buoy bells tolled, no church bells either; he kept no track of tide or time. On All Souls’ Day, unable to resist, he rowed after a black-and-silver funeral barge and cortège of draped mourning gondolas moving like silent arrows across the water to San Michele, gloomy cypressed isle of the dead; the corpse of a young girl in white laid stiff in a casket covered with wreaths of hothouse flowers guarded by wooden angels. She waits, whatever she waited for, or sought, or hungered for, no longer. Ah, i poveri morti, though that depends on how you look at it. He had looked too long.

  Fidelman, December ferryman, ferried standing passengers, their heads in mist, to the opposite rainy shore of the Grand Canal. Whichever shor
e. The wet winter rain drummed on the crooked roofs of the façadeeroded palazzi standing in undulating slime-green algae; and upon moving clusters of black bobbing umbrellas in the dark streets and marketplaces. The ex-painter wandered wet-hatted, seeking in shop windows who knows what treat the tourists hadn’t coveted and bought. Venice was full of goods he hungered for and detested. Yet he sought an object of art nobody would recognize but Fidelman.

  In January the cold swollen tides of the Adriatic rose again over the Mole, swirling a meter deep on the Piazza and flooding the pavimento of San Marco. If you had to, you could swim to the altar. Gondolas stealthily glided over the Stones of Venice, wet Bride of the Sea, drowning greenly an inch or two annually as Fidelman, a cold fish in his thin pants, inch by inch also drowned, envisioning Tintoretto: “Venice Overwhelmed by Tidal Wave.”

  The rain blew away before the sunlit cold but not the pools and ponds, more than one campo alongside open water or canal, flooded. Fidelman staked a claim, having been fired from cross-canal transportation on the complaint of two patriotic gondoliers, and now did his ferrying piggyback for one hundred lire per person, skinny old men half-price if they didn’t grip him too tightly around the neck. He had once read of a fiendish beggar who had strangled and drowned a good samaritan carrying him across a flooded brook. Fat people he served last, after he had ferried across the others on line, though they roundly berated him for prejudice, or offered twice the going rate. One aristocratic huge old dame with a voice that rose out of a tuba belabored him with her slender silk umbrella.

  Fidelman waded in hip boots through high water glinting like shards of broken mirror in the freezing winter sunlight, and deposited his customers on dry ground whence they proceeded hurriedly along narrow streets and alleys. Occasionally while transporting a female he gave her a modified feel along the leg, which roused no response through winter clothing; still it was good for the morale. One attractive, long-nosed, almost oriental-eyed young Venetian woman who mounted his back, began at once to giggle, and laughed, unable to control it, mirthfully as he slowly sloshed across the pond. She sat on Fidelman, enjoying the ride, her rump bumping his, cheek pressed to his frozen ear, hugging him casually, a pair of shapely black-stocking legs clasped in the crooks of his arms; and when he tenderly set her down, his penis erect, athrob, she kissed him affectionately and hastily went her way. As Fidelman watched she turned back, smiling sadly, as though they had once been lovers and the affair was ended. Then she waved goodbye and walked on. He wished she hadn’t, for he was after a while in love with her.

  When the water receded as the bora roared, drying the city, uncovering here and there a drowned cat, the winter light sprang up crystal clear as Fidelman, once more jobless, holding onto his hat–you can’t chase them on the canals—sought his lady, to no avail. He searched from the Public Gardens to the Slaughter House and on both sides of the humpbacked Grand Canal. And he haunted the little square of blessed memory where he had once carried her across the wet water, chain smoking used butts from a pocketful in his overcoat as he watched a steam-breathed sweeper sweeping at the mud with a twig broom; but she never appeared. A few of his former clients passed by, all ignoring him but the large aristocratic lady, who called him a son-of-a-dog-in-heat. You can’t win them all.

  Afterwards, wandering along the Mercerie in the early evening, through a shop window hung with wires dripping strings of glass beads and trinkets, he had the sudden sense he had glimpsed her, saw himself reflected in her large dark eyes. If he was truly conscious she was standing behind a counter, this slim-bodied, slant-eyed, long-nosed, handsome Venetian, staring at him as though contemplating the mark of fate in the face of a stranger. Then taking another swift look and this time recognizing who he was she lifted a frightened hand to her bosom and turned abruptly away. He ducked close to the glass under the beads, pawing the window as though to see her better, but she was no longer there; the shop was empty. Fidelman flung away a good butt and entered. The shop was crowded, its shelves laden with glass knickknacks, baubles, Madonnas, medallions, crap for tourists, which proved nothing although he wondered if she had disappeared for reasons of taste.

  Where the woman had been, now stood a nearsighted man past sixty, in a gray suit, with puffy brows and pot belly, who gazed at the former ferryman in surprise, if not distaste—as though he knew he was there for no good cause—yet courteously inquired if he could assist him. Fidelman, secretly shivering, modestly priced a vase or two, politely listened to the verdict, nodded, bowed, casting a wild look through the open door into the rear room where a corpulent glass blower sat at a table working with a small torch, in the process of creating a green glass snake; but no one else. After desperately trying to think what else to do, pretending to be thoughtfully counting the change in his pocket though they both knew he had none, then asking if he could use the gabinetto and being refused, Fidelman thanked the shopkeeper and left. He had visions of her disappearing in a mist. The next day, and every day for two weeks thereafter he passed the shop seven or eight times daily. The shopkeeper once in exasperation thrust his arm at him in an obscene gesture but otherwise paid no attention. Fidelman never saw his dream girl in the shop. He had doubts he ever had: trompe l’oeil, mirage, déjà vue, or something of the sort.

  He then gave her up, no easy trick if you had nothing. Like blowing kisses or kissing blows. Eh, Fidelman, you old cocker, there was a time you would have held on longer. Onto what? I had nothing, I gave up nothing. Nothing from nothing equals nothing. Say more and it’s confronting death. On the other hand spring came early that year: to his surprise flowers looking out of house windows. Young jewel-like leaves of myrtles and laurels rose above ancient brick walls in back alleys. Subtle pinks, apricots, lavenders streaked an underwater architecture of floating Gothic and Moorish palazzi. Mosaics glittered, golden and black, on the faces of churches. Sandali sailed under bridges, heaped high with eggplants, green peppers, mounds of string beans. The canals widened, golden light on green water, pure Canaletto all the way to the Rialto. A sense of sea enlivened the air, lagoon and Adriatic under high blue sky above the outer islands. Fantasticando: Eastern galleons, huge battletubs approaching with cannons booming, star and crescent billowing on red sails, from Byzantium of mosaic saints and dancing dolphins. Boom, tara, War! History, the Most Serene Venetian Republic, Othello singing Verdi as Desdemona tussles in the hay with Iago under a weeping-willow tree. Fidelman, golden-robed Doge of Venice, though maybe better not since they garroted, stabbed, poisoned half the poor bastards. The Doge is dead, long live the dog that did him in! Boom, tara, yay! Fidelman III, Crusader on horse, hacking at Saladin and a thousand infidels! Fidelman in the Accademia! Ah Bellini, Giorgione, Tiziano, carissimil The ex-painter wiped a wet eyelid, felt better and decided he hadn’t given her up after all. She is still present, lives in the mind. He kept an eye cocked for the sight of her, and with surprise, though not astonishment spied her in the glass trinket shop, which he now passed only once in a longing while. There she wasn’t but if you looked again, she was.

  Churchbells.

  Cannon scattering pigeons in San Marco.

  Gondolas lit with Japanese lanterns.

  Holy Mother, you have sent your Blessed Daughter. His heart, if he had a bit left, missed six beats and flapped like a mass of furled banners. He tapped on the window and out she came.

  They talked quickly, intensely, searching one another with six eyes. She spoke her name: Margherita Fassoli, that made it real, an immediate commitment. She was herself real at last, no longer wildgoose shade he chased in a maze of dead-end canals, under low arches, and in alleyways. Breathless, she had only a moment; her uncle out for an espresso forbade her to be friendly with strangers. She had been ill for weeks —niente, a persistent virus—was better now, had hoped he would come by. He did not say how often he had, fruitlessly.

  “Fidelman,” he told her. “Where can we go, I have no money?”

  She seemed momentarily stunned, hadn’t given i
t a thought; then confessed she was a married woman—he knew—her husband a glass blower who worked in Murano, Beppo Fassoli. If nothing else he treated her kindly. “He gets annoyed about the kids sometimes but otherwise he’s considerate. I’m sure you’ll like him, he’s wise about life.”

  “I can’t invite you to my dump, Margherita,” Fidelman said. “All it is is a lousy rathole with a bed that would collapse with two in it. And nothing else but a wine bottle to piss in. Should you open the window you have no idea of the stench of the canal.

  She was desolated, squeezed her hands white but could not offer her place. They had four rooms and two boys, Riccardo and Rodolfo, eight and ten, little terrors. That made her around thirty or so, not a bad age for a woman. She was simple, spontaneous, direct–had already taken his hard hand and pressed it to her bosom. Her nose and eyes, pure Venetian. Her glossy hair, parted in the center, was rolled in braided circles over the ears. Her eyes were beyond him: the depth, light in dark, quiet enduring sadness—who knows where or from what. Whoever she was she knew who.