The Italian Teacher

by Tom Rachman

  “Humbled?” Connor ventures, and everyone laughs. “Can I be humbled?”

  As Bear is led off by the starstruck journalist, Pinch nearly rushes forward to chaperone his father. But this should be safe: The Mallard painting wasn’t included, thankfully—Eva is still trying to woo the collector back. And Connor himself knows nothing dangerous. When the two return from the impromptu tour, Pinch asks his father how it went.

  “Tell you what, kiddo. A helluva set of pictures they rustled up. Damn fine.”

  Bear never did invite his other children. When Pinch realizes, he is highly annoyed. But guiltily, he is flattered too—he is the chosen child. He just hopes none of them hear about this event, which will convince them that he’s trying to monopolize their father. Birdie has hinted that several siblings envy his access to Dad.

  The gallery fills fast with guests, a sweaty jazz quartet bopping hard, the saxophonist’s neck engorged as he rips a solo, although it’s barely audible over the jabbering. The crowd—white faces, asymmetrical haircuts, interesting glasses—includes a group of youths, art-schoolers who scammed tickets and are making a rebel display of sitting on the floor, their hands around big glasses of free wine. One after another, renowned guests seek an audience with Bear, each of them raving not only about the paintings displayed tonight but about his contribution, how his art had inspired them. Most of the encomiums conclude with a version of “What are you working on now? And won’t you put any of it into the market? Please do.”

  “Satisfy your public, darling!” Eva adds, handing Bear another flute of bubbly.

  “Trying to bribe me with booze?” he says. “Because you can!”

  She stands on tiptoes—a short woman in silver stilettos—and gives him a peck on the lips. “To buy you off, Bear, I’d try anything,” she says, to whoops all around.

  “They say Petros is an all-service gallery, right?” quips a snarky Village Voice columnist, everyone cackling, clinking champagne flutes.

  Pinch stands a step apart, monitoring the scene. He takes out his pipe, feels for his Zippo. Everything is going far better than he feared. After all these hours of dread and vigilance, he allows himself a break, leaning against a bare white wall, sipping iced pinot grigio, surveying the crowd, noting that more than a few people are looking at him, knowing who he is: the middle-aged son—like a shorter, uglier version of Bear—who works as a teacher in London. If he had been born to another father, they would consider Pinch’s achievements perfectly respectable. But relatives are judged relatively.

  A sixtyish man in blue Oxford button-down, khaki trousers, and Rockport boat shoes, one hand drumming a fanny pack, the other gripping a glass of scotch, pushes through the crowd in the direction of Bear. An uneasy feeling suffuses Pinch. He delays lighting up, pockets his pipe, and hastens into the throng, cutting off the man’s path. “Hi there. Can I help you?”

  “You work here?”

  “I’m assisting during this show, yes.”

  “The name’s Mallard Dwyer.”

  After an instant, Pinch makes himself stand tall, forces a smile, heart racing as he shifts subtly to block the route toward his father. “What can I do for you?”

  “Get out of my way for a start.”

  “Is there something that you needed?”

  “I need to speak with Bear Bavinsky. Can you help with that?”

  “Definitely,” Pinch says, chest tightening. “What may I say it’s about?”

  “Just get the man’s attention, will you?”

  “But your question?”

  “How is that your concern? All right, fine. I bought a painting of his. It shows some girl’s hands. Now, I got this theory. Those hands are more than hands. Because I know art has meanings that aren’t what you see. And there’s that saying, ‘Let me give you a hand.’ Is that what Bavinsky meant?”

  Pinch nods double-time, as if listening intently, sweat trickling down his brow. He wipes his upper lip, searching for any logical reason why Mallard may be disallowed from addressing the artist.

  “I understand that the subconscious is important to artists,” Mallard continues. “So is that what my painting is about? I want to hear it from the man himself. I paid good money for the thing. I got a right.”

  “All of Bear Bavinsky’s portraits are painted from life, so I’m not sure the subconscious was central.”

  “Take my word, Bavinsky’s highfalutin assistant. It’s all the subconscious.” He downs his scotch, places the empty glass in Pinch’s hand, and pushes past.

  Pinch launches himself before Dwyer again. “I’m sorry—it’s not possible to just approach him. He doesn’t like it. He’s very shy.” Bear’s laughter booms from across the room.

  “Take your hand off me before I snap it!”

  “I’m not touching you.”

  “You just did. Out of my way.”

  “Wait, wait. Hang on. Let me arrange something exclusive for you. Okay? Privately with the artist, away from this crowd. I don’t want anyone butting in when you’re having your talk. I’ll set it up, and be back to you in a few minutes. Okay? That’s a promise, Mr. Dwyer.”

  Mallard, sucking his teeth, grunts as if to say, I guess this is how leftie New York homosexuals operate. He pushes back through the crowd to his trophy wife, who nibbles mousily around the crust of a tiny pizzetta.

  Dripping with sweat now, Pinch pushes toward Bear, overhearing his father regaling admirers with an account of when Audrey Hepburn visited his studio in Rome and prevailed on him to sell her a Life-Still.

  “Dad.”

  Bear doesn’t hear. Pinch tries again. His father talks all the louder.

  Finally Pinch grabs his father’s upper arm, causing Bear to turn, livid. Pinch draws his father away from the others, saying dry-mouthed to Dad’s hairy ear: “It’s time to go. Okay?”

  “What’s that?”

  Shouting: “The town car’s still waiting outside! Let’s make our exit! Okay?”

  “Like hell!” He shakes off his son and swivels toward where Mallard Dwyer lurks. The Nebraskan shoots a quizzical look at Pinch: Now?

  Pinch yanks his father back around, causing Bear to lose balance and clasp his son’s windbreaker. Pinch grips Bear’s elbow, holding firm when the old man attempts to shake him off. “I came all the way across the ocean. To help you, Dad.” Teeth gritted, Pinch swallows. “And I am telling you it is time to leave. Now.” Voice cracking: “Bear? Now. Enough of this. All right?” In desperation, he adds: “For God’s sake! There must be a limit to how much fucking flattery you can take.”

  Bear looks right at his son, and it’s among the most disturbing sights of Pinch’s life: Dad is frightened of me.

  Pinch drags his father toward the exit, gives a wave to Eva (“He’s exhausted; talk tomorrow”), places Bear into the town car, jumps in afterward, shoving his father along the leather seat. “Back to the hotel, please. We’re in a rush. Thanks.”

  As the car pulls into traffic, Bear says, “Where do you get off talking to me like that?”

  “It was time to go. That’s that. I decided it. Done.” Pinch looks out the window.

  “Goddamn unbelievable,” Bear mumbles. “Never been . . .” His voice trails off.

  After a few minutes, to cut the tension, Pinch points out where they stayed three decades earlier, recalling how he listened to a ball game in his room.

  “Nope, we watched the Yankees on the TV,” Bear says, more subdued.

  “No, it was the Mets on the radio. You weren’t there. You went back to the gallery. Remember?”

  Bear frowns, puzzled, as if maybe, perhaps maybe? All this talk of his events, unrecalled.

  “I almost phoned Mom, but I couldn’t figure how to get an outside line, and thought I’d get in trouble for calling overseas. Who knows if I even wanted to talk to her.” Pinch pauses. “Would be nice if there
were a number to reach Natalie now. Tell her we’re here together.” He looks at his father.

  Bear says nothing.

  Up in the suite, the old man hobbles toward the bar fridge, takes out a lukewarm minibottle of Moët & Chandon. Stiffly he fetches two plastic cups, murmuring to himself.

  “What’s that about?” Pinch asks, still rigid with tension.

  “A toast, I thought.”

  “To what?”

  “To our dear Natty,” Bear replies.

  Pinch cannot respond. He nods, raises his plastic cup, too moved to speak.

  55

  On his next visit to the cottage, Pinch takes out the one painting of his own hidden in the attic. During the drive here, he was so jittery. But that dissipated the moment he emerged from the rental car, breathed this bracing winter air, walked up the path, unlocked the cottage. Safe here. Still, it’s too dangerous to keep this painting. He gives a last look—a woman’s chin—and takes it outside to burn.

  That night he prepares duck confit, tasting directly from the pan, bubbles of fat spitting up his arms, gamy scent filling his nostrils, a fly buzzing somewhere in the dim kitchen. Each perception explodes inside him, then dissolves, experiences that are saved nowhere. He eats fast and lustily, then returns to the studio, painting until his focus blurs and there is no creaking forest outside, no loneliness, no time, only the bliss of action.

  On his last day, he destroys all his new efforts too, distracting himself while they burn by leafing through a book bought at the Strand while in New York. He intended to read this during his stay at the cottage but hasn’t managed a single page, just the jacket copy, which says the essays were previously published in The Nation, the New York Review of Books, October, and the Times Literary Supplement. The author bio reads, “A professor at Princeton University, P. J. Barrows lives in New Jersey with her husband and two daughters.” Why, Pinch wonders, must they detail her family status? How is that relevant? Is it to flaunt the author’s perfected life? Why not print, “Stunning intellectual of renown and she’s got a winning spouse who probably runs marathons with his shirt off, an Ivy League lecturer himself—and did we mention their two adorable daughters, both cramming for exams they’ll surely ace”?

  I’m being horrible, Pinch decides, whacking his thigh in punishment, which causes his dogs to run over and sniff the leg of his corduroys. She has achieved a far more substantial life than I, and justly so, Pinch thinks. Barrows had determination and rare talent. He wishes to boast of her to someone. What a muddled sensation: the success of one who didn’t love you back.

  A metallic clang in the kitchen. He leaps and the dogs bark. Only a frying pan that fell off the drying rack. Why am I so on edge? He survived the New York show. He looks to the ceiling, sighs, a shaky exhalation. Harold and Tony pant at him, tongues out.

  “Your comments leave much to be desired,” he tells them and stands by the window, darkness outside, the kitchen reflected, his eyes narrowing as if to draw a figure into focus: a tall young man in Toronto with wildly colored scarves around his neck, babbling flamboyantly, leading Pinch through underground bars, a squirrel under his bed. Gosh, that was more than twenty years ago!

  On the night of Pinch’s return to London, he travels directly to Utz, arriving after hours. His dogs bolt into Jing’s office, where she is correcting homework. She emerges, a pen in each hand like tiny ski poles. “Do you eat dinner?”

  “Pretty much nightly. You want to visit the sandwich bar of doom? I would love to, Jing, but I have my bodyguards to look after.” He nods at Harold and Tony.

  “I thought you are on holiday.”

  “I just popped in to do a little research. Actually, there’s something I wanted to ask of you. I have to call someone, but don’t want to do it myself.”

  “What I should say?”

  “I like that you don’t even ask who,” he responds, smiling. “Okay, here’s the situation. I’m trying to get someone’s address, and I don’t want him knowing it’s me asking.” Ever since thinking of Marsden, Pinch has wanted to find him again—their sad meeting at the St. Charles Tavern, when both were in such a desperate state, was the wrong ending. Pinch even wonders if Marsden might concoct a clever way to help him escape this constant worry about the forged painting. At the least, Marsden could be a confidant. But Pinch is picturing the Marsden he once knew, not Marsden as he left him. Anyway, Pinch is too shy to just call and ask for help. He will apologize in a letter.

  He tells Jing, “I was looking up things on AltaVista on the staff computer, and it lets you read the white pages from different cities, including Toronto, where this friend of mine lives,” he explains to Jing. “The problem is, I want to write, and it shows only his phone number.”

  She dials it, and covers the mouthpiece, telling Pinch, “I say ‘flowers delivery.’”

  “But don’t give my name!”

  While she talks, he hurries down the hall, shooing the dogs toward the staff room. He’s so apprehensive these days, as if everything were ready to careen out of control. He pulls at his fingers, fighting back an image that keeps intruding: Mallard Dwyer, slapping a scotch tumbler into Pinch’s hand.

  Minutes later Jing appears, holding a scrap of paper with Marsden’s address on the back.

  “Jing, you’re a genius!”

  That night, he takes out Natalie’s portable red Olivetti and types a long letter, expressing remorse about the end of their friendship. He revises, striking out passages. He reads it again, crossing out still more. Finally, he is left with the opening and closing salutations. Even there, he’s unsure of the tone. He balls up all the attempts and tosses them down the living room carpet for the dogs, which give chase and chew.

  After classes at Utz, he visits the staff computer again and finds the phone number of a florist near Marsden’s address—he’ll bring to life Jing’s ruse about that flower delivery. Pinch calls, ordering a modest arrangement to arrive anonymously. Soon a bouquet is presumably in Marsden’s home, sowing mystery, which much amuses Pinch. To avoid detection, he waits a few weeks, then phones.

  The voice that responds, however, seems not to be Marsden’s—the man has a soft, slow delivery.

  “Marsden?”

  “Who is this?”

  “It’s Charles Bavinsky. Sorry, I’m phoning for absolutely no good reason. Except that I keep thinking about you recently, and rustled up your number. It’s been ages. How are you? Is this a good time? Sorry, Marsden—is it okay that I called?”

  “Charles.” “So lovely to hear your voice again.”

  “And yours, Marsden!” he says, eyes welling up. “And yours!” Pinch coughs to disguise his cracking voice; he gives a hearty smoker’s hack. “Where’s my damn pipe?” He returns shortly and launches into loud chatter, asking for details about life in Toronto.

  These days, Marsden works part time at the Art Gallery of Ontario, mostly doing photocopies for powerful people, which is fine, he explains. They know of his past problems and hired him despite all the gaps in his resume. He also volunteers at a Toronto charity for street kids, marching down the nastier alleyways with pamphlets on safe sex, shelters, needle exchanges.

  “Isn’t that dangerous?”

  “You haven’t seen me in a while. I’m pretty intimidating,” Marsden says, in a voice utterly without threat. For a spell, Marsden explains, he became obsessed with weights, and bulked himself up with other means too. “Lots of supplements, and injections.”

  “Steroids? Really? Just to get strong?”

  “To get beautiful,” he replies. “I’ve been off for ages, but my body doesn’t go back to normal.”

  “But you’re doing okay now? In general?”

  “Fine, yes. Given what I was up to, and when, it’s a miracle that I’m still alive. The dreaded disease has spared me so far.”

  They talk and talk that evening. Pinch called f
or help and advice, yet he discloses nothing about his predicament, only asks questions and listens. Marsden is as candid as ever, but not showy anymore. Disturbing details emerge, and he never twists the tale to burnish himself. He feels no shame about failure—he never had that defect.

  For a spell, he fell low indeed, even selling himself for a few years to pay for cocaine and amphetamines, prowling business hotels around King Street, downing a double amaretto in the lobby bar before 9 a.m., then heading to the elevators: upstairs for work. But that’s the past, he says. “Hey, I was listening to the CBC the other day, and these critics were discussing your father. Apparently he’s been discovered again.”

  “So I hear.”

  “I tell everyone at work how I was at U of T with Bear Bavinsky’s son,” he says. “And the rest of your family, Charles? You still see that grandmother in Montreal?”

  “Ruth died a few years ago. An unhappy end, I’m afraid, given what happened with my mother.”

  “What happened with her?” Marsden asks, concerned.

  “Gosh, really has been ages since we spoke.” Pinch is never sure how to say this. Typically he says Natalie died of a long illness. But he tells the truth this time.

  “I remember answering sometimes when she called from London,” Marsden says. “I know you two were very close.”

  Pinch never considered it this way until hearing it. Natalie does accompany him more as years pass—when brushing his teeth at the medicine cabinet mirror, for instance, he sees her expression in his own. Or Natalie standing in his living room, looking at him; she shrugs.

  “Did she explain why?” Marsden asks.

  “In movies there’s always a note. But hardly anyone leaves a note, it turns out. They leave an act.” As Pinch speaks, her ceramics around the living room seem to light up. “I hate that you remember me avoiding her calls.”

  “I remember you talking to her.”

  “I feel guilty about what happened. Extremely.”

  “It’s hardly ever somebody else. It’s something inside the person who does it. I’ve met people like that.”