The Complete Stories (69 page)
Read The Complete Stories Online
Authors: Bernard Malamud
Beppo sat silent, lighting his cigar.
“Here’s a piece of pop sculpture, ‘Soft Toilet Seat,’ made out of vinylite. It was exhibited for two weeks in New York City. Originally I had a triptych of seats nailed on beaverboard more or less saying, ‘Fuck all art, one must be free of the artistic alibi,’ though I don’t wholly subscribe to that. I can take just so much dada, so I cut it down to the single seat you see before you.”
“Can you shit through it?” the glass blower ultimately asked.
“Art isn’t life,” Fidelman said. Then he said, “Don’t be a wise guy, Beppo.”
“Not that these things can’t be done but you haven’t done them. Your work lacks authority and originality. It lacks more than that, but I won’t say what now. If you want my advice there’s one thing I’d do with this stuff.”
“Such as what?” said the ex-painter, fearing the worst.
“Burn them all.”
“I thought you’d say that, you cruel fairy bastard.”
Leaping up with Fidelman’s kitchen knife in his hand, Beppo slashed the toilet seat and two paintings.
Fidelman interposed his body between the knife and the other canvases. “Have mercy!”
“Let me finish these off,” the glass blower said hoarsely. “It’s for your own sake. Show who’s master of your fate—bad art or you.”
Fidelman savagely struggled with him for the knife but at a crucial moment, as though a spinning color wheel had turned dead white, something failed in him and he relaxed his grip. Beppo quickly slashed up the other canvases. Afterwards they went downstairs and, in a corner of the junk-filled vegetable patch next to the smelly back canal, burned everything, including the fragmented marble head, which Beppo had smashed against a rock.
“Don’t waste your life doing what you can’t do.”
“Why shouldn’t I keep trying?”
“After twenty years if the rooster hasn’t crowed she should know
she’s a hen. Your painting will never pay back the part of your life you’ve given up for it.”
she’s a hen. Your painting will never pay back the part of your life you’ve given up for it.”
“What about Van Gogh? He never sold a single painting in his lifetime.”
“You’re not Van Gogh. Besides he was crazy.”
Fidelman left the garden in a stupor; he wandered a day, his eyes glazed in grief. On Tuesday, somewhat calmer through exhaustion, though the weight of his emptiness dragged like a dead dog chained around his neck, he presented himself to Margherita, who, with tears in her eyes, embraced him, knowing what had happened.
“Come, tesoro,” she said, leading him to the marriage bed. “For our mutual relief, me from my life and you from art.”
As they were in the midst of violent intercourse, Fidelman on top, Margherita more loving than ever, the bedroom door opened and he glimpsed a nude hairy body wearing a horn or carrying a weapon; before he could rise he felt Beppo land on him. Fidelman cried out, expecting death between the shoulders. Margherita, shoving herself up with a grunt, slipped out from under them and fled out of the room. Fidelman rolled to the right and left to be rid of his incubus, but Beppo had him tightly pinned, his nose to the bedboard, his ass in the air.
“Don’t hurt me, Beppo, please, I have piles.”
“It’ll be a cool job, I’m wearing mentholated Vaseline. You’ll be surprised at the pleasure.”
“Is your mother watching?”
“At her age she has no curiosity.”
“I suppose I deserve this.”
“Think of love,” the glass blower murmured. “You’ve run from it all your life.”
He stopped running.
Venice slowed down though it went on floating, its canals floating on Venice.
“Leonardo, Michelangelo,” Fidelman murmured.
“If you can’t invent art, invent life,” Beppo advised him.
For good or ill Fidelman loved him; he could not help himself; he ought to have known. Beppo was handsome, hardworking, and loved to breathe; he smelled (and tasted) of oil and vinegar; he was, after all, a tender man and gentle lover. Fidelman had never in his life said “I love you” without reservation to anyone. He said it to Beppo. If that’s the way it works, that’s the way it works. Better love than no love. If you
sneeze at life it backs off and instead of fruit you’re holding a bone. If I’m a late bloomer at least I’ve bloomed in love.
sneeze at life it backs off and instead of fruit you’re holding a bone. If I’m a late bloomer at least I’ve bloomed in love.
“It’s a good way to be,” explained Beppo, “we’re not like everybody else. I like it better with men because the company is more interesting and it’s easier to be friends with somebody who speaks your language.”
They were together as often as possible, everywhere except in Beppo’s house. Fidelman had stopped going there.
“Naturally,” said Beppo. “It wouldn’t be discreet.”
“What does Margherita say?”
“She’s said it before, I don’t listen.”
“Will you stay married to her?”
“Of course. I’ve got two boys and an old mother to think of.”
“I guess so,” said Fidelman.
Yet he was for once in his life on the whole serene; discontented only during the day when they were on separate islands, Beppo in Murano and Fidelman selling pigeon feed on the Piazza San Marco. He spent most of his time thinking of Beppo, and the glass blower said he thought of him. They talked it over and one summer morning Fidelman gave up his bird-food business and went with Beppo to Murano. At 6 a.m. they met at the Fondamenta Nuove. They stepped into Beppo’s rowboat and, each taking an oar, rowed past San Michele toward Murano. The water was calm and it took no more than twenty minutes to reach the island. Beppo spoke quietly to the assistant manager of the glassworks and got him to put on his friend as an apprentice and part-time man of all work. He was the oldest of the apprentices, some of them kids, but he didn’t mind because Beppo, who was teaching him the rites of love, also taught him to blow glass.
Working with the hot molten glass excited Fidelman sexually. He felt creative, his heart in his pants. “With pipe, tongs, shears, you can make a form or change it into its opposite,” Beppo said. “For instance, with a snip or two of the scissors, if it suits you, you can change the male organ into the female.” The glass blower laughed heartily. Fidelman doubted he would be so minded; the thought evoked pain. Still it helped you understand the possibilities of life. And amid the possibilities was working with glass as an art form, though for certain reasons he did not say so to Beppo, who all day long, his face wet, armpits sweated, at intervals swigging from a beer or water bottle, blew varieties of fish and Disney creatures served up to him by an assistant from a wood or steel mold, for further shaping and decoration. For a change of pace he blew wine goblets, slim-waisted vases, flasks of odd shapes and sizes.
Fidelman, among other things, loved dipping the tapered blowpipe into the flaming opening of the noisy furnace—like poking into the living substance of the sun for a puddle of flowing fire—Prometheus Fidelman—a viscous gob of sunflesh hanging from the pipe like a human organ: breast, kidney, stomach, or phallus, cooling as it gaseously flamed, out of which if one were skilled enough, lucky, knew the right people, he would create glass objects of expected yet unexpected forms. He blew gently into the red-hot glowing mass a single soft bubble of breath—it made no difference if the blower had eaten garlic or flowers—a small inside hole without spittle or seeds, a teardrop, gut, uterus, which itself became its object of birth: a sculptured womb; shaped, elongated by pendulum swing of pipe, the living metal teased and shorn into shape by tongs and scissors. Give the bubble a mouth and it became beaker, ewer, vase, amphora, or burial urn, anything the mouth foretold, or heart desired, or blower could blow. If you knew how, you could blow anything.
Not yet of course Fidelman, although he was learning. As apprentice he blew as Beppo shaped; or delivered the master fresh fish, birdsof-paradise, woodland creatures that he or another assistant blew into pristine form in molds; he also applied stems to vessels blown by Beppo, the stem shaped by a flick or two of his tool. To permit him to open and work at the mouth of any kind of container, Fidelman aimed a red-hot cone of glass at the bubble’s bottom, Beppo gripping the gob with his tongs and leading it to the point of attachment. With his shears he creased the neck of the bubble and with a tap detached it from the blowpipe; he left Fidelman holding the openmouthed possibility: the open mouth. Every move they made was in essence sexual, a marvelous interaction because, among other things, it saved time and trouble: you worked and loved at once. When a glass object was completed, Fidelman hastily trotted to the cooling kiln in the rear with the thing on a wooden board, to stash away before it cracked. And he handed one tool or another to Beppo, who hardly looked at him during working hours, the assistant assisting for love’s sake however he could. There were no spoken orders once you knew the process. He watched the glass blower and foresaw his needs, in essence a new experience for him. Otherwise he stood by, greedily watching the masters at other benches to absorb what they knew.
Impatient, agitated at times by all there was to learn, the variety of skills to master, Fidelman persuaded Beppo to stay on and teach him for an hour or two after the crowd of glass workers had gone home, the workshop talk and shouting silenced, five of the six furnace openings
banked down, one blazing in a perpetual violet and lemon roar. He practiced then what he couldn’t during the day, and though Beppo, eating an apple or smoking a butt, did not always encourage it, blew forms he had never blown before, or seen blown, evolving monstrosities of glass, so huge and complicated it took fifteen minutes to break their grip on the iron when he wanted to discard them. Many of Fidelman’s creations cracked in midair, or against something on the workbench in a careless move. Those he completed intact stood (or fell) unbalanced, lopsided, malformed. But he worked for the first time in his life, instructed. Up to now he had taught himself and not got over it.
banked down, one blazing in a perpetual violet and lemon roar. He practiced then what he couldn’t during the day, and though Beppo, eating an apple or smoking a butt, did not always encourage it, blew forms he had never blown before, or seen blown, evolving monstrosities of glass, so huge and complicated it took fifteen minutes to break their grip on the iron when he wanted to discard them. Many of Fidelman’s creations cracked in midair, or against something on the workbench in a careless move. Those he completed intact stood (or fell) unbalanced, lopsided, malformed. But he worked for the first time in his life, instructed. Up to now he had taught himself and not got over it.
In the fall Margherita objected to the night work—it was killing her husband. Beppo’s complexion had turned pale, his eyes were bloodshot, the skin around them dark and puffy. She was already half a widow, what more did they want? Abandoning the night sessions they came to work earlier, at half past four, leaving the Fondamenta bundled in overcoats against the stabbing wet cold, the fog cradled on the choppy water plopping against the boats at the dock, a star visible if they were lucky. They navigated by instinct—Beppo’s—and made Murano usually on time, though once in a while they rowed in circles around the cemetery, lost in and breathing fog. “In the end we pay for everything,” Beppo muttered. Suffering from loss of sleep he sometimes conked out at his work during the day, Fidelman having to wake him furtively; so in the end they decided that the apprentice himself would stay on alone nights, doing what he felt he had to do. Each assured the other it was for his benefit. “Though in a way it’s mad,” said the master to Fidelman; “the more you give up the more you undertake.”
However, it was arranged and settled with the assistant manager, who had been assured it was all for the good of the company. Because Beppo left in the rowboat, and the vaporetto, before it expired at midnight, was fantastically slow making its stations, Fidelman considered renting a secondhand rowboat for himself; but then the thought occurred that taking a small room in a house on Murano, maybe with a little garden, would make more sense—be cheaper in the long run, and he could spend more time in the factory. Beppo could stay over when he felt like it, and they would as usual be together on Sundays.
Fidelman located a tiny room on Campo S. Bernardo, from which he could see the airport on the mainland and Burano and Torcello. But Beppo, when he heard, was infuriated. “You have no consideration for others, it’s plain to see.”
After he had calmed down, he said, “Why are you so fanatic about this accursed glass? After all, it’s only glass.”
“Life is short if you don’t hurry.”
“A fanatic never knows when to stop. It’s obvious you want to repeat your fate.”
“What fate do you have in mind?”
“Yours.”
The apprentice sighed but hurried. For months he tried everything he saw others doing: cut glass in diamond patterns, carved glass as gems, practiced diamond point and acid engraving, flash painting with stains, gold and silver leaf applied in reverse: gods and goddesses in classic poses pretending left is right. In the spring he hungered to be involved with modern forms. Fidelman envisioned glass sculptures, a difficult enterprise, deciding first to experiment with compositions of mixed colors ladeled into and cast in molds. He invented objets trouvés—what better way to find what wasn’t lost?—and worked with peacock’s tails and Argus eyes in targets, casting concentric circles: amber / lavender / black / green. He fabricated abstract stained-glass windows, created Op Art designs of mosaics, collages of broken glass, and spent hours dripping glass on hot glass in the manner of Pollock.
Beppo from time to time watched, picking his teeth with an old toothpick.
“You’re doing the same things you did in your paintings, that’s the lousy hair in the egg. It’s easy to see, half a talent is worse than none.”
His criticism upset Fidelman so badly that he did not appear in the factory for a week. Is he wrong or am I? He went back one night to see what he had done and, when he saw, chopped it up with a hammer. He decided again, as he had more than once in the past, that he had no true distinction as an artist and this time would try not to forget it.
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