Idiots First by Bernard Malamud Page A

entered apologetically. He said he had found out by accident where she lived and she asked for no details. Cesare had brought a small bunch of violets which she embarrassedly accepted and put in water.
    â€œYou’re looking better, Signora,” he said.
    â€œMy mourning for Armando goes on,” she answered with a sad smile.
    â€œModerazione,” he counseled, flicking his meaty ear with his pinky. “You’re still a young woman, and at that not bad looking. You ought to acknowledge it to yourself. There are certain advantages to self belief.”
    Etta made coffee and Cesare insisted on going out for a half dozen pastries.
    He said as they were eating that he was considering emigrating if nothing better turned up soon. After a pause he said he had decided he had given more than his share to the dead. “I’ve been faithful to her memory but I have to think of myself once in a while. There comes a time when one has to return to life. It’s only natural. Where there’s life there’s life.”
    She lowered her eyes and sipped her coffee.
    Cesare set down his cup and got up. He put on his coat and thanked her. As he was buttoning his overcoat he said he would drop by again when he was in the neighborhood. He had a journalist friend who lived close by.
    â€œDon’t forget I’m still in mourning,” Etta said.
    He looked up at her respectfully. “Who can forget that, Signora? Who would want to so long as you mourn?”
    She then felt uneasy.

    â€œYou know my story.” She spoke as though she were explaining again.
    â€œI know,” he said, “that we were both betrayed. They died and we suffer. My wife ate flowers and I belch.”
    â€œThey suffer too. If Armando must suffer, I don’t want it to be about me. I want him to feel that I’m still married to him.” Her eyes were wet again.
    â€œHe’s dead, Signora. The marriage is over,” Cesare said. “There’s no marriage without his presence unless you expect the Holy Ghost.” He spoke dryly, adding quietly, “Your needs are different from a dead man’s, you’re a healthy woman. Let’s face the facts.”
    â€œNot spiritually,” she said quickly.
    â€œSpiritually and physically, there’s no love in death.” She blushed and spoke in excitement. “There’s love for the dead. Let him feel that I’m paying for my sin at the same time he is for his. To help him into heaven I keep myself pure. Let him feel that.”
    Cesare nodded and left, but Etta, after he had gone, continued to be troubled. She felt uneasy, could not define her mood, and stayed longer than usual at Armando’s grave when she went the next day. She promised herself not to see Cesare again. In the next weeks she became a little miserly.
    The journalist returned one evening almost a month later and Etta stood at the door in a way that indicated he would not be asked in. She had seen herself doing this if he appeared. But Cesare, with his hat in his hand, suggested a short stroll. The suggestion seemed so modest that she agreed. They walked down the via Nomentana, Etta wearing her highest heels, Cesare unselfconsciously talking. He wore small patent leather shoes and smoked as they strolled.

    It was already early December, still late autumn rather than winter. A few leaves clung to a few trees and a warmish mist hung in the air. For a while Cesare talked of the political situation but after an espresso in a bar on the via Venti Settembre, as they were walking back he brought up the subject she had hoped to avoid. Cesare seemed suddenly to have lost his calm, unable to restrain what he had been planning to say. His voice was intense, his gestures impatient, his dark eyes restless. Although his outburst frightened her she could do nothing to prevent it.
    â€œSignora,” he said, “wherever your husband is you’re not helping him by putting this