The Italian Teacher

by Tom Rachman

  “Should that be worrying to me in another way? My grandfather attempted suicide; my mother did it.” He adds: “With my wild social life, I could walk offstage without the curtain moving, though my afternoon tutorials schedule would be a disaster!”

  “Don’t joke about things like that.”

  “I didn’t mean it.”

  “So lovely talking to you, Charles.”

  “I’m so pleased I called you, Mars. Hey, do you ever pass through London?”

  “World travel isn’t in the cards, I’m afraid. On my wages, it’s month to month.”

  “Well, if you find a pot of gold, you’re welcome to crash on my couch.”

  “I will definitely consider it,” Marsden replies, meaning, I definitely can’t.

  “Actually, know what? I’ve got school vacation in a couple of months, and I normally motor off to my dad’s cottage in France. But what about this: What about you let me fly you here to London? You’d be helping me—I need your opinion on a few things.”

  “My opinion isn’t worth an intercontinental flight. It’s yours for the price of a phone call.”

  “No, this needs discussing in person. And honestly,” he says, chuckling, “aside from my dogs, I’ve actually got nothing to spend my savings on.”

  “Except flowers.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “That wasn’t you?”

  “What wasn’t me?”

  “Oh, nothing. Someone’s been stalking me with flower deliveries. I don’t know anybody that nice around here. Probably some creepy old loser.”

  “Not necessarily,” Pinch responds, a trifle defensive. “I’m sure you have plenty of admirers.”

  “But no dogs, alas. What kind are yours?”

  “They’re two sons that people mistake for dogs. Come meet them.”

  “It’s a generous offer. But I couldn’t accept.” As soon as they hang up, Pinch cancels his planned visit to France and resolves to buy his friend a plane ticket.

  56

  When Marsden emerges from Earl’s Court Station, Pinch hesitates. His friend has the body of an ex-bouncer now, in a sweatshirt and jogging pants, face jowly, heavy pouches under his eyes. Pinch strides forward, touching Marsden’s back in welcome. It’s like clapping a stone column.

  They’re formal at first, both concerned that five days might be excessive. As thanks for the plane ticket, Marsden insists on treating at every meal, which causes Pinch—mindful of his friend’s poverty—to divert them to the cheapest eateries, claiming each as a favorite. “It looks a bit greasy but it’s the best fish ’n’ chips in London.”

  Marsden notes that Pinch sought his opinion on something and wanted to speak face-to-face. But Pinch delays. How can he say it aloud?: I’ve destroyed a major work of art by my own father. I’ve committed fraud. Everyone is going to find out. He’ll come clean to Marsden, but not yet. This visit is too important.

  Mostly the two middle-aged men visit art museums—a decorated backdrop before which to restore their bond. Marsden wants to go to Sensation, an edgy show at the Royal Academy featuring contemporary British art, among which a frozen head made from the artist’s blood, a dead shark mounted behind glass, and child mannequins with mouths like anuses and noses like penises. The boisterous young crowd is giddy and goaded.

  “Pretty much all conceptual stuff,” Marsden observes.

  “Yes, I think that’s right. It’s not so much about making the pieces. The artist just has the idea. And, as they point out, even the Old Masters had apprentices paint large bits of their pictures.”

  “Fine, but the Old Masters did some bits,” Marsden notes, a glimmer of his former contrarian self. “And they could have done the whole picture, time allowing.”

  “Well, all I know is that the worst British newspapers love denouncing this kind of art, which almost makes me like it.”

  Marsden stands on the other side of the glass tank, appraising the pickled shark. Peeping into open jaw, he says, “Is this good, enduring work, Charles? Or is it taxidermy?”

  “I’m not sure ‘enduring’ and ‘good’ are the same thing, are they? As you can tell, I try not to have views on art anymore.”

  “Used to be all you had.”

  “You stopped drugs, I quit opinions.”

  “I still have a few. Including that this show is making me dizzy,” Marsden says. “Window shopping at Fortnum and Mason?”

  “Yes, the proper antidote.”

  As they cross Piccadilly, Marsden mentions Barrows, that they’re still in touch. “Her husband is a lovely guy. They’ve got the cutest daughters.”

  “She’s at Princeton, right?” he says, masking his surge of feeling, inquiring as if only mildly curious. “It’s excellent when someone really worthy thrives. Don’t you think? Feels like vindication.”

  “She’d love to hear from you.”

  “Maybe. But more about you, Mars,” he says as the Fortnum & Mason doorman admits them to a paradise of marzipan fruit and chocolate pyramids. “Have you ended up happy?”

  “Much better than I was, which is sufficient for now.” Marsden lists a few goals. “One business idea is pet vacations for people who don’t have pets. You’d pay to visit a farm and look after the animals. We’d assign each person a dog or cat or horse for the week. How does that sound?”

  The idea lacks any of the bravura of the former Marsden. But this is a new person, and Pinch wishes to befriend him too, if only because they both knew that young man. “Pet vacations—I like it.”

  Upon departure, Marsden says, “I still don’t know what you wanted my opinion on.”

  “Maybe it was just trickery to get you here.” Pinch twinkles, taking out his pipe.

  “Funny to see you still puffing that all the time.”

  Pinch considers the object in his hand, frowns. “I stole this from my father’s tobacco box years ago, when visiting him in Larchmont.”

  “He never noticed?”

  “I’m not even sure he’s noticed that I smoke!” Worry lurches inside him. Because his friend is leaving? Pinch extends his hand. “Put it there.”

  Instead, the thick-armed guest embraces his small-shouldered, potbellied host. Shyly Pinch insists on his handshake afterward, and it persists at length, each man wanting an extra minute to express that this trip was important. Finally Marsden hoists his duffel bag, passes the Tube turnstiles, disappears down an escalator.

  All the hurried pedestrians appear odd to Pinch, as if everyone in London had stilled these past five days, only to resume action now. On the street he holds a match over his pipe bowl, sucks down. After two drags, he removes the slobbery bit from his mouth, tongue buzzing, fingers yellowed. Crouching over a puddle, he taps out the tobacco, which hits the dirty water with a hiss. A smoke column rises, then is gone. Using all his force, he snaps the pipe in two and drops it in a rubbish bin. To a passerby he says, “I just quit smoking.”

  A week later he sends a lump of money to Marsden. It was just sitting in his account, doing nothing. What are savings for, if not that? Weeks pass, and he hears nothing. His concern becomes annoyance. Not even an acknowledgment? But a few weeks later, a seven-page letter arrives.

  Marsden explains that he was too touched, hadn’t known what to do, how to thank such an act.

  “Don’t thank me. It was a joy to do,” Pinch writes back. “It comes with a sole condition. You’re not allowed to pay it back. And a second sole condition: I need your help, Mars.”

  57

  Worringly, Bear has moved the cottage and shows few signs of leaving. Normally he takes one trip there a year, a few weeks of summer break during which he cavorts and guzzles, rarely venturing into his studio. But he recently broke with his latest wife, and appears to be settling at the French property this winter, talking of staying permanently, even resuming his art there. Any day he mi
ght discover what’s missing. Pinch can do nothing but wait.

  “It’s a disaster,” he tells Marsden by phone, giving a variation on the truth, claiming that his crime was stealing an original Bear artwork from the cottage, then selling it to help his older sister. It feels too awful to confess that he drunkenly punched one of his father’s paintings in spite, later burning it to hide the misdeed. He certainly isn’t ready to admit to a forgery. That would mean confessing that he paints, a practice that feels too private, too fragile. Yet perhaps such qualms are immaterial now—Pinch might never again enter that studio. And without time in the mountains, standing before a blank canvas, trying to make something? What else do I have? Couldn’t Dad go anywhere but there?

  “What makes it worse,” he tells Marsden, “is there’s no phone line at the cottage, which means I can’t reach Dad. I have no idea when—or if—he’s leaving. Now and then I get him on one of his friends’ mobiles. But for the most part, I’m left in this permanent state of fear. I’m only praying he’s still half blind.”

  “Half blind?”

  “Dad left his glasses in Florida. The last time we spoke, he still hadn’t replaced them, so couldn’t work. Not that blindness stops him driving on those mountain roads, which is insane. This whole thing is lunacy. I could see Dad freezing there. I know how to manage winter nights in that place. But am I supposed to quit my job and look after him now, his little assistant yet again? I’m not doing it.” What’s more, a leave of absence from Utz would be a risk. The chain is cutting costs, replacing experienced teachers with cuter, younger staff, which increases student enrollment. Among the latest hires is Francesca, who hadn’t taught a single Italian class before starting at Utz. Initially Pinch disdained the young botanist from Naples, who was immediately at his salary level. But she rose in his estimation by spurning the advances of Salvatore, then delicately telling Jing of her husband’s serial betrayals. Ever since, Pinch has been most curious about Francesca. She’s reserved, which makes him want to figure her out. In silly fantasies, he imagines taking her to the cottage—without Bear present.

  “No, you can’t be on a string to your father,” Marsden concurs. “But why not hire a local to watch him?”

  “It’s hard to find anyone he’d accept, not least because Dad doesn’t speak French.”

  “Didn’t you say there are loads of foreigners around?”

  “But how do I know they’ll keep me posted? Bear would seduce them in minutes.”

  “Okay, here’s the plan,” Marsden says, clearing his throat, building to this. “I go.”

  “To be Dad’s housekeeper? No way. That’s way below you.”

  “My dear, you have no idea what’s below me. And I want an adventure.”

  “Are you certain, Mars?”

  Once assured about his friend’s wishes, Pinch wires money for the travel and to buy a cell phone so that Marsden may relay regular updates—and so the two friends can plot how to ease Bear out of there. Upon arrival in France, Marsden tests his new Nokia, calling the spymaster in London. After this, Pinch hears nothing for days and grows increasingly frantic. Each time he tries the French mobile, it’s the same message: network service unavailable. Late at night he panics about impending catastrophe and becomes exhausted and twitchy. Then, one evening, the display on his home phone lights up. He bursts off the couch, as do his woofing dogs, which leap about his feet, causing Pinch to trip and fall to his knees. Wincing, he scrambles past the leaping Harold and Tony and grabs the phone.

  “Six rings before you pick up? No way to treat your old man!” Bear says over a hissing connection. “You know what happened here, Charlie?”

  “What?” Pinch responds with alarm.

  “I found me a new roommate: this big queer.”

  “Don’t call him a queer,” Pinch says, eyes closed with relief.Everything’s still okay.

  “Care to talk with your queer? He’s right beside me.”

  “Hey, I’m really sorry about that,” Pinch tells Marsden. “My father is somewhat out of date.”

  “Don’t apologize! He recognizes an old homo when he sees one. We’re having quite a time here. Your father is really something.”

  “I know all too well.”

  “I’m horrified that you never introduced us, Charles. I feel deprived. Oh no—he’s taking the phone back.”

  Bear yammers away, talking for two audiences, son and guest (mainly guest). When the old man returns the phone in order to go take a piss on the lawn, Marsden affirms that all truly is well. They’ve even established a routine. Each night, after Bear’s guests stagger to their cars, the elderly artist—seemingly immune to booze—sets an appointment with Marsden for the following morning. If they agree on breakfast at nine, Bear is there at seven, looming over the leather couch where Marsden sleeps, using the fireplace as his pretext for the wake up. (Bear can’t crouch to stack logs in the hearth because of his bad knees.) Marsden arranges the wood, sparks a match—then is summoned to drink coffee and hear the old man’s ribald tales. For a break each day, Marsden has assigned himself the task of hacking a walkway up the hillside. With the weather warming, he’d like Bear to get himself moving again—part of a strategy to eventually persuade him to leave this property. But to reach the hiking paths in the forest, one must clamber up a hillside, which is beyond Bear. Hence, Marsden’s staircase.

  “Honestly, Charles, I’m enjoying myself. Your father has insane stories.”

  “He’s in what I call his ‘anecdotage.’”

  “You say that, but Bear isn’t exactly gaga. He needs his naps, yes. But he still spends a lot of time, ahem, on the job, so to speak.”

  “What’s that mean?”

  “Diddling a lady down the road, and I know this for a fact.”

  “The Dutchwoman?”

  “God, no—she’s ancient history. They’re feuding actually.”

  “Yes, Dad specializes in feuds. You’ll find half the locals won’t say bonjour if you’re linked to Monsieur Bavinsky. Who’s the current lady friend?”

  “Lady friends, plural. A German woman in Prades. And a French widow who keeps bringing yogurts. I’m telling you, Charles, it’s a whorehouse up here. I keep asking myself how you became such a slouch in the love department with a father like him.”

  “A question I’ve asked myself more than once, Mars.”

  Bear’s current nemesis seems to be the Catalan people as a whole. He has deemed them loutish and pigheaded after clashing with a local couple who sneaked onto the property to collect wild morels. Marsden has been commanded to procure donkeys to guard the land and, ideally, to attack poachers.

  “I pointed out there’s no such thing as a guard donkey. Then the Catalan couple turned up again, and Bear marched out there himself—remember, he’s almost blind without his glasses, so I’m panicking that he’s about to fall down the ravine. I run after, grabbing the back of his shirt while he’s barking in broken French at these poor people with their mushroom baskets. They’re talking about ‘notre terroir’ or something, but your father can’t understand. He’s shouting: ‘Parlez français! Parlez français!’ Meanwhile, the Catalan guy is going, ‘Monsieur, je vous parle en français!’”

  “At which point you released the guard donkeys, which ran down the ravine and bit the marauding Catalans?”

  “No, both sides just kept screaming. Which prompts an observation: Your father, who can’t string together a sentence in French or Spanish or Catalan, gabs with everybody around here, while you—man of a million languages—have no interest in speaking to anyone!”

  “All I want is to talk to people. I just have to find the right ones. And how will I know what language they speak? I must be prepared!”

  Both laugh, neither certain if that was a joke.

  What Pinch refrains from telling his friend is how trying life has become in London without the possibility of
escapes to the cottage. Each day he feels smaller. “But no sign of Dad noticing anything missing from his studio?”

  “That I know of? Nothing.”

  Another week passes, Pinch imprisoned at his flat, his job. This isn’t sustainable.

  When his home phone rings late at night, he rushes past his yapping dogs and picks up. It’s Marsden, whispering, having stepped out of the cottage, ostensibly to get the firewood for tomorrow but actually zigzagging around the dark lawn for a cell-phone signal. “I’m such an idiot,” he whispers.

  “Why are you an idiot?” Pinch asks, heart pounding. “What happened?”

  It’s the staircase in the hillside. What began as whimsy, Marsden explains, drifted into obsession. He’s been spending hours out there digging away, his palms a road map of dirt and blisters, nails cracked, joints creaking. Often, after toiling until dusk, he is scotched by a giant boulder, drops to the turf in frustration, hands on the soggy moss. As if repudiating a lifetime of half-finished pursuits, Marsden has decided he is going to complete this.

  Pinch interrupts, “But what happened? Is there a problem?”

  “I kept leaving Bear alone during the day. He got bored. I came home tonight and found him wearing glasses. One of his lady friends took him to Prades to buy replacements.”

  “Which means he’ll be going back in the studio now,” Pinch says grimly.

  “Worse. He’s already started an inventory of his paintings.”

  “And he knows?”

  “He’s only just started. But I thought you should be warned. Charles, I’m so sorry. I messed this up.”

  “You couldn’t be expected to watch him all day long, Mars. And he doesn’t know yet. Maybe he’ll get distracted and move onto something else.”

  “Or you could just tell him. Maybe you should? Oh,” he adds, “oh shit.”

  “What? Mars?”

  A muffled exchange follows.

  “Mars?”

  A deeper voice comes onto the line. “That you, kiddo?”