not only hers for me now that I’ve had a most serious operation, or both of us for her starving father, but also in reference to my aged mother, a woman of eighty-three who is seriously in need of proper nursing care. I understand you’re an American, signore. That’s one thing but Italy is a poor country. Here each of us is responsible for the welfare of four or five others or we all go under.”
He spoke calmly, philosophically, occasionally breathlessly, as if his recent operation now and then caught up with him. And his intense small eyes wandered in different directions as he talked, as though he suspected Esmeralda might be hiding.
F, after his first indignation, listened with interest although disappointed the man had not turned out to be a wealthy picture buyer.
“She’s had it with whoring,” he said.
“Signore,” Ludovico answered with emotion, “it’s important to understand. The girl owes me much. She was seventeen when I came across her, a peasant girl living a wretched existence. I’ll spare you the details because they’d turn your stomach. She had chosen this profession, the most difficult of all as we both know, but lacked the ability to handle herself. I met her by accident and offered to help her although this sort of thing
wasn’t in my regular line of work. To make the story short, I devoted many hours to her education and found her a better clientele—to give you an example, recently one of her newest customers, a rich cripple she sees every week, offered to marry her, but I advised against it because he’s a contadino. I also took measures to protect her health and well-being. I advised her to go for periodic medical examinations, scared off badly behaved customers with a toy pistol, and tried in every way to reduce indignities and hazards. Believe me, I am a protective person and gave her my sincere affection. I treat her as if she were my own daughter. She isn’t by chance in the next room? Why doesn’t she come out and talk frankly?”
He pointed with his cane at the alcove curtain.
“That’s the kitchen,” said F. “She’s at the market.”
Ludovico, bereft, blew on his fingers, his eyes momentarily glazed as his glance mechanically wandered around the room. He seemed then to come to and gazed at some of F’s pictures with interest. In a moment his features were animated.
“Naturally, you’re a painter! Pardon me for overlooking it, a worried man is half blind. Besides, somebody said you were an insurance agent.”
“No, I’m a painter.”
The pimp borrowed F’s last cigarette, took a few puffs as he studied the pictures on the wall with tightened eyes, then put out the barely-used butt and pocketed it.
“It’s a remarkable coincidence.” He had once, it turned out, been a frame maker and later part-owner of a small art gallery on Via Strozzi, and he was of course familiar with painting and the painting market. But the gallery, because of the machinations of his thieving partner, had failed. He hadn’t re-opened it for lack of capital. It was shortly afterward he had had to have a lung removed.
“That’s why I didn’t finish your cigarette.”
Ludovico coughed badly—F believed him.
“In this condition, naturally, I find it difficult to make a living. Even frame making wears me out. That’s why it’s advantageous for me to work with Esmeralda.”
“Anyway, you certainly have your nerve,” the painter replied. “I’m not just referring to your coming up here and telling me what I ought to do vis-à-vis someone who happens to be here because she asked to be, but I mean actually living off the proceeds of a girl’s body. All in all, it isn’t much of a moral thing to do. Esmeralda might in some ways be indebted to you but she doesn’t owe you her soul.”
The pimp leaned with dignity on his cane.
“Since you bring up the word, signore, are you a moral man?”
“In my art I am.”
Ludovico sighed. “Ah, maestro, who are we to talk of
He spoke calmly, philosophically, occasionally breathlessly, as if his recent operation now and then caught up with him. And his intense small eyes wandered in different directions as he talked, as though he suspected Esmeralda might be hiding.
F, after his first indignation, listened with interest although disappointed the man had not turned out to be a wealthy picture buyer.
“She’s had it with whoring,” he said.
“Signore,” Ludovico answered with emotion, “it’s important to understand. The girl owes me much. She was seventeen when I came across her, a peasant girl living a wretched existence. I’ll spare you the details because they’d turn your stomach. She had chosen this profession, the most difficult of all as we both know, but lacked the ability to handle herself. I met her by accident and offered to help her although this sort of thing
wasn’t in my regular line of work. To make the story short, I devoted many hours to her education and found her a better clientele—to give you an example, recently one of her newest customers, a rich cripple she sees every week, offered to marry her, but I advised against it because he’s a contadino. I also took measures to protect her health and well-being. I advised her to go for periodic medical examinations, scared off badly behaved customers with a toy pistol, and tried in every way to reduce indignities and hazards. Believe me, I am a protective person and gave her my sincere affection. I treat her as if she were my own daughter. She isn’t by chance in the next room? Why doesn’t she come out and talk frankly?”
He pointed with his cane at the alcove curtain.
“That’s the kitchen,” said F. “She’s at the market.”
Ludovico, bereft, blew on his fingers, his eyes momentarily glazed as his glance mechanically wandered around the room. He seemed then to come to and gazed at some of F’s pictures with interest. In a moment his features were animated.
“Naturally, you’re a painter! Pardon me for overlooking it, a worried man is half blind. Besides, somebody said you were an insurance agent.”
“No, I’m a painter.”
The pimp borrowed F’s last cigarette, took a few puffs as he studied the pictures on the wall with tightened eyes, then put out the barely-used butt and pocketed it.
“It’s a remarkable coincidence.” He had once, it turned out, been a frame maker and later part-owner of a small art gallery on Via Strozzi, and he was of course familiar with painting and the painting market. But the gallery, because of the machinations of his thieving partner, had failed. He hadn’t re-opened it for lack of capital. It was shortly afterward he had had to have a lung removed.
“That’s why I didn’t finish your cigarette.”
Ludovico coughed badly—F believed him.
“In this condition, naturally, I find it difficult to make a living. Even frame making wears me out. That’s why it’s advantageous for me to work with Esmeralda.”
“Anyway, you certainly have your nerve,” the painter replied. “I’m not just referring to your coming up here and telling me what I ought to do vis-à-vis someone who happens to be here because she asked to be, but I mean actually living off the proceeds of a girl’s body. All in all, it isn’t much of a moral thing to do. Esmeralda might in some ways be indebted to you but she doesn’t owe you her soul.”
The pimp leaned with dignity on his cane.
“Since you bring up the word, signore, are you a moral man?”
“In my art I am.”
Ludovico sighed. “Ah, maestro, who are we to talk of
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