The Italian Teacher(100)

But Marsden is occupied, studying the reverse sides of various Life-Stills, which are smeared with threads of tobacco and manly handprints. Marsden turns to her, agape. “Holy fucking shit, Jing. These are originals.”

“What do you mean?”

“These here. These are real.”

“But you say Bear only does one of each picture.”

“That’s true. Is it possible that the ones people bought, that those are copies? Is that possible?” he says, flushing from excitement. “And who came out here obsessively, Jing? Who was the only person?”

“So that is Chars’ painting, hanging in Saint Petersburg?”

“They all are. I bet you!” He claps, jubilant—but is still jittery, still running through the consequences.

Jing walks into the living room, trying to digest this. She pauses at the memorial booklet, its pages paint-spattered, folded at reproductions of family snapshots. These photos are curiously familiar, including one of Birdie at age fifteen. Jing searches online for images from the Faces series. She starts shouting for Marsden. “Look! Come look!” The Faces paintings aren’t identical to the memorial photos. But they were clearly inspired.

“I’m telling you,” Marsden says triumphantly. “I saw Bear’s late days. The man was terrified to work. He had his trademark style, and was resting on it. There are no late works by Bear Bavinsky.”

“The late works of Bear are the early works of Chars.”

“They’re his late works too,” Marsden remarks sadly. “Well, you’re a rich woman, Jing. All those collectors who bought phony Bavinskys might sue the sellers, but that wasn’t you. It was his siblings. I guess they might sue the estate. Come to think of it, you’ll have lawsuits. Still, in my view, you have every right to put these on the market.”

“What about the Life-Stills that Chars painted?”

“Oh, it’ll be a huge scandal,” Marsden says, delighted. “When your originals hit the market, there’ll be insanity. What a comedy! Hey, do you think Charles cultivated that pompous journalist, Bear’s ‘authorized biographer,’ to pull this off—to have an expert at the ready to verify all his fakes? Or is that too crafty? Jing, you have no idea the stink this is going to cause.” Rubbing his hands with glee, he finds a Cecil Ditchley teapot and a box of loose Darjeeling. At the stove he tests the gas tank, which still has fuel, and makes them a brew.

Jing leans over her steaming cup. “What I do now, you don’t tell.”

“Is that a question?”

She approaches one of the original Life-Stills, lifts it, and drags it toward the front door.

He stands, bemused. “Whoa—it’s raining outside. Jing? Jing, stop!”

But she persists, pulling the painting by one side, which causes him to grab for the other side, lest a decades-old masterpiece be dragged along the soggy lawn. He keeps telling her to stop, or at least explain herself. She keeps moving, saying only: “You’ll see. You can see now.” She back-kicks open the unlocked studio door and drops her side of the canvas on the floor. “This machine? What is it? Fireplace?” She points to the kiln. “How do I turn it on?”

“Hang on, Jing. What am I supposed to not say anything about?”

“I burn them, all the paintings.”

Blinking double-time, he scrunches his face. “Jing, this is an original. Apologies—I thought you understood. We’re talking millions of dollars, each one.”

“I understood.”

“Then I don’t.”

“If I sell these ones, then the paintings that Chars did, all around world, they come down. And the museums that are putting up the Faces, also by Chars—what happens?”

“Okay, fine. But you cannot just destroy original works of art. These are the rare few that Bear saved. He kept them back for years and years. These are part of art history. You can’t. I’m sorry.”

“Chars’ paintings go in the museums,” she insists, kneeling by the kiln, struggling with the latch.

“You’re not doing this,” he repeats. “If you want to honor Charles, remember that he spent years guarding these paintings.”

“How I can turn on this machine?”

“I’m not showing you. Sorry. I won’t.”





88


Marsden strides fast toward the woods. This woman is nuts. He scrambles up the subsided remains of his staircase in the hillside, pausing at the beginning of the hiking path. He is panting; his pulse won’t slow. The forest rustles. The remains of that old Nokia must be in there somewhere. Could’ve been his own remains rotting there.

Why, he wonders, am I so upset with Jing? Because what she’s suggesting is a violation! I will not allow it. But why not? I’m supposed to maintain the integrity of art history? As if there weren’t thousands of forgeries all through the great museums!

He kicks a tree trunk. “Charles,” he says, turning to see his friend. How can you not be here? On the snowy steps before class in Toronto: “We’re smoking Cuban cigars today, my dear Charles. Come admire us. And apply your body heat. We’re ice cubicles, and it’s for you alone to save us.” Marsden presses his knuckles hard into his breastbone, to drive back the grief. Then he smells smoke and swivels around. It’s billowing from the studio.