The Italian Teacher

by Tom Rachman

“Dad.”

  “What’s the secret chatter about?”

  “We were just catching up.”

  “I want to see you, son. Call in sick tomorrow.”

  “Come there tomorrow? Are you serious?”

  “Fly out. Get a rental car. Get up here.”

  “Why, Dad? You have to tell me.”

  “Who says there’s a reason?”

  “Could you put Marsden back on?”

  No answer.

  “Hello, Dad? . . . Mars? . . . Anyone there?”

  But the line is dead.

  58

  Pinch pulls over on a narrow French country road, delaying the last mile around the mountain, perhaps the final time he travels the route. He fumbles to open a bottle of water, takes a little sip, hardly able to swallow.

  Minutes later he is there: his father walking from the cottage, Pinch hastening out of the car. Bear grips his shoulder, leans in. “Got a surprise for you.”

  When Marsden joins them, Bear leads everyone inside for a drink. Walking in his father’s wake, Pinch stares hard at Marsden, mouthing, “He knows?”

  Eyes wide, Marsden shrugs.

  The two friends haven’t spoken since that interrupted call—Bear has kept the cell phone ever since. In the kitchen he pours three hefty wallops of calvados into pottery mugs, plonking these on the long table. The old man dominates the conversation, even when instructing Marsden to recount his herculean labors on the hillside. Pinch sustains a polite front, toes curled. He needs to know why Bear rushed him here. Yet he sits there, nodding, and would listen for days if it’d delay his expulsion from this place, which feels so much his, invaded by their voices.

  Realistically, he sees no way out. Even if Bear doesn’t know yet, Pinch can’t leave Marsden here indefinitely, spying on an old painter. Pinch envisages the revulsion on his father’s face and looks down at the thighs of his corduroys.

  Bear keeps topping off everyone’s drinks. “The fire roaring, the booze flowing—what else could a guy want, save a few nice gals, hey? Though I can’t speak for all of us in that department, am I right?” He shoves Marsden’s thick shoulder, chuckling.

  Smiling back, Marsden unlaces his boots and massages his sore feet, casting a quick nod to Pinch: Maybe everything is okay.

  “I had this friend once,” Bear says. “Helluva guy; tough as nails. Worked nights for the police down in Boca Raton. Interesting line of work. There’s a real trick to it, he told me.”

  “Trick to what?” Pinch asks tensely.

  “You never, ever accuse the guy,” Bear replies. “He’ll deny, flat out. And then you’re screwed. Because he’ll stick to that line, out of pride, if nothing more. Now he’s in a jam, and so are you. The way to do it, my buddy told me, is don’t ask the guy if he’s guilty. You ask why. Because anything a man does, it can be explained. Give him a chance to make sense of it all, by his own logic.”

  They fall silent, the buzz of a fly.

  Bear lights his pipe, the cloud thickening around his head.

  He reaches for the calvados, pours the dregs into Marsden’s glass. “That painting,” he says.

  “What painting?” Marsden responds.

  “The one you took. Tell us what you liked about it.”

  Marsden sits upright, astonished. “That I took?”

  “What I can’t figure,” Bear continues, “is how you got my studio keys. More impressive is that you whisked it away. Shows what a sucker I am without these specs on me.” He takes off his glasses, places them on the table. “Wouldn’t hurt to know who you gave it to. I’m assuming you sold it already. And you got your reasons. You needed dough. Or just like shiny objects. Hey, nobody’s hanging you from the ceiling. Let’s just hear what happened.”

  Marsden says, “I didn’t take anything.”

  “You heard what I said before,” Bear insists. “I’m looking to understand.”

  “Dad, he didn’t.”

  “Go through my stuff, if you don’t believe me,” Marsden says.

  “Of course you didn’t leave it in your stuff! What do you take me for?”

  “Dad, are you positive something’s missing?” Pinch asks. “You know that for sure?”

  Bear’s chair legs screech back. He stands, pointing at Marsden, a forefinger so arthritic as to resemble a sideways twig. “You had your chance. Call the cops, Charlie.”

  “What are you talking about? No, Dad.”

  “You can tell them in French, goddammit. Why do you think I brought you here? Get the police, and I’ll forget it was you who sent this rat my way.”

  Pinch stares into his sticky glass of liquor; he views the wood-plank floor. Somehow, he can’t find the words for a confession. “Dad, I have keys.” It’s all he can say. Then: “That painting has been gone for ages. I needed help at the time.” He will never mention Birdie—Pinch vows that to himself.

  “Got to be kidding,” Bear says, wincing as if force-fed a battery. “You?” He rests his pipe on the kitchen table.

  “Bear?” Marsden interjects. “You said things can be explained if you hear a person’s reasons. And he had reasons.”

  Bear turns vehemently to Marsden, as if his son weren’t here. “Do you have any idea what that painting was? It was the guy’s mother. His mother, Natalie, who took her own fucking life—who put a goddamn bag over her head!”

  “I know what happened to her, Dad!”

  “And he profits off that?”

  “I didn’t profit off it. This wasn’t for money.”

  “Not for money? Oh, sure.” Bear rears around, takes a step toward Pinch, jabbing his forefinger almost into his son’s eyes, which are averted. “My whole life, I’ve been making something of my time on this earth. And you’d wipe that out.” He shakes his head, bitterly disappointed, addressing Marsden. “He doesn’t say a word to defend himself. Silence. Dead silence.” Suffering the outrage afresh, Bear bellows at Pinch. “How dare you?”

  Pinch’s legs carry him down the driveway toward his car. His father bundles out of the cottage, Marsden alongside, a hand at Bear’s elbow, ready to intervene. At the car door, Bear clutches his son’s lapel, digs in his pockets. “Give ’em over!”

  Pinch takes out a key ring, which Bear snatches away. “In my studio! Snooping around! Stealing from me! Who did you think you’re dealing with? Who are you to me?”

  Marsden, pulling the old man back, says: “Come on. You’re upset. But don’t go to extremes. You two are close. Don’t wreck that.”

  “Close?” Bear says, shaking off the word.

  “It’s true,” Marsden asserts. “It is.”

  “Not fucking ‘close.’ He’s just the one I picked. Of all my kids, I picked that one.”

  “For good reason,” Marsden says.

  “Sure,” Bear concurs. “Ever wonder why, Charlie? Look at me. You can’t look at me?”

  “I know why.”

  “Let’s hear it.”

  “Same reason you chose my mother. Because nobody was as weak as us.”

  “Untrue, Charlie. Untrue. Not because you’re weakest. Not for that. Reason I chose you, Charlie, is you were the genuine number. You know what I mean?”

  Pinch shakes his head.

  “Natty knew it too,” Bear continues. “That Charlie’s got something.” He mimes the act of drawing.

  Marsden asks what they’re talking about. But it’s father and son now, nobody else present.

  “Know how many letters Natty wrote me? How talented you were, how you were really something else? Typical mother stuff, I figured. Then you bring that picture to Larchmont.”

  “Which you barely looked at.”

  “I saw it all right. When you and Carol were out, I go in the guest room, open your suitcase—almost the first day you were with us. I take out that rolled-up canvas, spread it out. A
nd, well well well!” he says, fixing on Pinch. “Natty wasn’t wrong. You had plenty to learn technically. But shit—you had something, Charlie: a style. Nobody can teach that. Gave me chills.” He points. “You had something, Charlie boy. Something special. And that is why I chose you.”

  Perplexed, Pinch grabs his sideburns. “You told me I was terrible.”

  “Let’s be clear, son. I said you’d never be an artist. And take a gander at yourself. Was I wrong? You honestly think I’d be tagging along to gallery openings of my own kid? Listen to me. Hear this. You work for me. Get it? You always worked for me.” He claps his hand on Pinch’s bicep, pinching hard. “And you dare steal? Get this: I win. You hear? I fucking win.” He taps his pipe onto the grass, a tiny heap of smoldering tobacco, stamps it out. “Call the police, Marsden.”

  “I’m not calling anyone.”

  “Hell you aren’t.”

  “I’m bigger than you. Forget it.”

  Bear lunges at Marsden, who easily holds him back. The old man loses his balance, then pushes back, shouting as he walks up the grass: “Off my property! Both of you! Now!”

  “He’s had too much to drink,” Marsden tells Pinch. “Get out of here for a while. This’ll be okay. We’ll fix this. Just go for a while.”

  Pinch finds himself driving, heartbeat thudding in his ears, leaning into a bend in the road, sick drunk, out of sync, foot on the clutch, gearing down. At the nearest town, he jerks to a halt in a supermarket parking lot. On the steering wheel, his fingers tremble. He hears his own breaths and Bear’s voice, shards of that man lodged in him.

  59

  Bear, who left his glasses back in the cottage, is stumbling toward the woods, barely staying upright on the uneven turf.

  “Where are you going?” Marsden calls after him once Pinch has driven away. “Bear?”

  “Where I goddamn please.” His shoe hits a stump and he falls to his knees, swearing. Marsden hastens over, takes the old man’s arm.

  “Get offa me!” Bear snaps. “In my studio? Him? Looking at my work?”

  It’s not only Pinch who has lost control of this situation, Marsden realizes. Because Bear cares about this son. At the very least, he needs him. But he’s gone too far. Marsden refuses to let it end like this—his own father rejected him years before and remains trapped by pride, unable to find a way back.

  “Let’s just take a breath here,” Marsden says, helping the man to his feet. “Charles made a huge mistake. I’m not disputing that. He shouldn’t have gone in there, or sold anything. But he regrets it, Bear. And he’s your son.”

  Bear grunts, shakes his head, walking onward into the woods, each footfall unsteady. Marsden hastens along, a step behind. “This isn’t safe, Bear. There’s nobody to help you that way.”

  But Bear trudges on, grasping for the rope handrail of Marsden’s stairs, pulling himself up, one step at a time. Marsden stabilizes the old man until they reach the top, where the hiking paths begin. Bear takes the ascending trail, past a disused mine and mouths of caves. Beams of sunlight thrust through swaying leaves, sprinkling coins over the undergrowth. “Get,” he says breathlessly, “get the hell, the hell away from me!”

  “We need to go back to the cottage. I’m serious. Bear, it was only one painting.”

  “You don’t have a clue. ‘Just one painting’? That’s years of my life. Years!” Bear leans against a tree trunk, squinting, pained. “You don’t have a clue. But my son, on the other hand? He, of all people—he knows. For him to . . .”

  Marsden takes a half step forward, reaches for the old man’s shoulder. He isn’t shucked off. “Don’t let this get out of control, Bear. You can’t backtrack from a huge blowup.”

  “You’re saying it’s my fault?” He shoves off Marsden’s hand. “What has Charlie even amounted to? Nothing. And he never will. What’s he even do? Translating menus or something?”

  “He’s a language teacher,” Marsden says, suppressing his anger.

  “Oh, well, in that case! The kid is really leaving his mark!”

  Marsden grabs Bear’s wrist. The old man tries to pull free. “I’ve heard you telling every visitor here how your studio is some holy sanctum,” Marsden says. “You fucking liar. You haven’t done a minute of work the whole time I’ve been here!”

  Bear struggles to get free, spittle bubbling on his lips, frothy dots hanging off his beard. “You-you-you—”

  “Do you even know what art looks like anymore? That’s why you don’t let them sell your stuff. Because you’re a mediocrity soon to be forgotten. You won? Really? Seriously?”

  “I’ll break you in two!”

  Bear’s threat—its absurdity—deflates Marsden. Abruptly, he sees this scene: a half-blind painter, traduced by his dearest son, bullied. While Marsden was following after Bear, watching that he didn’t fall, the old man was just trying to get away—he was afraid, his ranting the last resort of a wounded animal. Marsden releases Bear’s wrist. The old man falls onto his backside in the muck, ribs rising and falling, eyes hunted.

  “I’m sorry,” Marsden mutters, raising his palms in surrender.

  Bear sits there, shaking.

  “We need to cool down. Both of us.” Marsden turns, exhaling slowly, walking a few steps to gaze over the path’s edge, through trees that sink into the valley. The cottage must be straight below. He gives a tiny shake of his head, sighing in disappointment at himself. He hears a strange noise. “What?” he asks, spinning around. “What, Bear?”

  The old man is on all fours, coughing, trying to lift his head. “The matter.”

  “What is?” Marsden drops to a crouch, a hand on Bear’s back.

  The old man stares, terror flickering in clouded eyes. “I’m not!” he wheezes. “Not done yet!” He fixes on Marsden, grips the younger man’s sweater.

  “Bear, you’re okay,” Marsden says, hiding his fright, for something is amiss. “Let’s just rest. We pushed this too far.”

  Bear reclines on his side. His jaw closes, opens, like a beached fish. His eyes are fading.

  “Bear?” In panic Marsden rolls the man onto his back, rests his ear to Bear’s mouth. No warm exhalations; nothing. “Bear? Bear? Bear!”

  Marsden learned CPR years before but struggles to recall the rules, seeing only scenes from television melodrama. He locks his elbows, attempts a few chest compressions. He pinches the old man’s nostrils, blows into his mouth. In desperation he jams down harder on Bear’s chest, causing a sinister crack—but a flicker of the eyelids, the focus returning momentarily to his gaze.

  “That did something!” Marsden blurts.

  He resumes more vigorously, checking between sets whether Bear’s breathing has resumed, studying the man’s thin dry lips—a mouth that charmed sitters and enraged Pablo Picasso, that illuminated daughters and destroyed sons. Marsden blows a few more breaths, does more chest compressions; the old man blinks again. Yet whenever Marsden pauses for too long, life seeps from Bear’s eyes. Marsden shouts into the forest for help.

  What if he runs for help right now? He can’t take the path they came by—it’d be ten minutes of descent, then finding the cell phone in the cottage, waiting for an ambulance, pointing the paramedics back here. No, he must take the direct route, forging right down the mountainside—he’ll reach the cottage in around a minute, phone for help, sprint right back up, resume CPR. That could work. And Marsden cannot let his friend lose his father after that last exchange. They can still mend this.

  He notes a gap between two pine trees, does a final set of compressions—again, the old man animates slightly. Marsden leaps up, dizzy for an instant, and he bolts toward the branches, vaulting over the path’s edge.

  Too late, he sees.

  A ski-slope gradient plunges beneath, trees hurtling at him. He turns his shoulder, slams into a trunk, bangs past it, grabbing for anything, hands spiked by pine needles
. He is picking up speed, grasping for any low foliage—and he snags a branch. The canopy swings overhead. He is hyperventilating, needing to vomit. Treetops drop away below him. There’s no way back from this.

  The tighter he grips, the weaker his sweaty grasp seems, his legs kicking for any solid earth. Whenever a boot tip hits mud, it immediately gives way. The branch he clutches quavers with his body, drops of melted snow pelting down.

  I’m about to die.

  He kicks out again, seeking anything firm. One boot tip bashes near-vertical mud. But if he lets go of the branch and tries to scramble upward, will his footing give way? The only chance is to launch in the direction of that foothold and pray that momentum flings his other leg forward, ramming it into the incline. If he hits a root, even a wet leaf, he’ll slide down, somersaulting backward, spine snapping, skull cracked, lying in the cold wet forest, half-alive, devoured. Erase that image! But he can’t: birds feasting on his brain. He plots and replots, palms losing grip. Go!

  But he can’t.

  Just go!

  His shin bangs into a rock, fingers claw the hillside dirt, and his thighs spasm. And somehow, he’s there: on his knees, on flat earth—precisely where he was three minutes earlier.

  Trembling, he crawls over to Bear, puffs another few lungfuls into the man, compresses his chest. Again life flickers in the painter’s eyes. Marsden wipes the sweat from his face and rests his hand against Bear’s hip, taking a shivery breath—whereupon he feels something under his fingers. A plastic antenna juts from the jeans pocket. It’s the cell phone. Bear had it this whole time. That must’ve been why he was running away: to call the police on Charles.

  Marsden battles to awaken the digital screen. Finally, the Nokia theme. And a signal. Frantically he opens the contact list, which contains only two entries: “Charles” and “Police.”

  His brain stalls, staring at gray digits.

  Bear gasps, eyes desperate. His knobbly hand—which moved colors, which moved people—clutches a leaf.

  Marsden looks at the cell phone again, and he stands. He glances down at the man, then back at the screen. “No,” he mutters—then underhands the Nokia over the path’s edge, into the void. The phone flips; it’s lost from sight. After a few seconds, a distant pop.