The Italian Teacher(35)
“Ignore that. It’s not true.”
“No, I think it is,” she attempts brightly. “All the more reason to catch up. Actually, Pinch, I’ve been wanting to ask. Might I tempt you to pop over here before you disappear off to New York? I don’t want to pressure you, but I can help with your flight.”
“You don’t have money for that.”
“I’ve been saving up, hoping you might want to drop by,” she says bravely. “You’d be so welcome. And bring your friend, provided you and she don’t mind roughing it at mine! I’d be so happy to meet her. Or,” Natalie hastens to add, “if it’s easier, I could come there to Toronto? I might even see Ruth. She’s been so generous to you.”
“Not sure this is the time. I’m so busy right now.”
“Yes, I feared that. Must be lots to do.”
His breathing feels constricted, a rope cinched ever tighter around his ribs. I couldn’t be an artist, and now I won’t even be a critic. I’m a pretender, a fake. Pinch’s worst fear rushes at him: I’ll never become my father, because I’ve always been my mother.
“If something is the matter, Pinchy, I could come out there. Is there?”
He finds an excuse to end the call and immediately phones Bear. Pinch’s voice transforms, upbeat and inquisitive. But he is unable to admit to his mess, eyes tightly shut as he prompts his father to talk and talk. Fortunately, Bear wanted to discuss something: the French cottage once owned by Cecil Ditchley, where the potter went bankrupt in the 1960s, at which time Cecil had offered it at a discount to Natalie, including his pottery studio. She was far too poor (and too unstable) then. But when Bear heard, he mailed a check, purchasing the place for his ex-wife’s use, sentimental about “old Natty,” as he called her. She has never once visited, the location being too remote. Nor has Bear. Which is why—between wives, at a loose end—he is off-loading the place this summer. Problem is, he can’t speak more than menu French. “Which is where a certain multilingual son comes in handy.”
Bear is sending travel expenses, including money for a first-class flight. Curiously, it’s this detail—first class—that moves Pinch, like the squeeze of his shoulder that Dad gave when boasting of his son at the Petros Gallery. If only Barrows grasped that he isn’t just another art history grad student but has actually dwelled in that world, was raised in it, lived among artists, could introduce her around. To hang on to Barrows, he must show her his most dazzling feature: Bear.
She is so deep in NYU prep that it’s hard to discuss anything. “I’m going to France this summer,” he begins.
“Great.”
He nearly flares at her unconcern. Whenever he probes into their relationship status for next year, she is casual, vague, as if this were not the moment. Perhaps that’s right. After all, he doesn’t know what he’ll be doing then or even weeks from now. “Sorry, Charles, I’m really busy right now.”
He cringes at this belittlement but persists with talk of France. Barrows knows Europe only from reading and in art; the sole flight of her life was Edmonton to Toronto. As he knows, she longs to find her way there someday.
“You have a ticket already,” he says.
“I’m not understanding you.”
“With me. My father insisted,” he lies.
“Bear Bavinsky wants to meet me?”
“He sent money for both of us to go.” Pinch has calculated this: If he splits the first-class flight money, they can both travel, provided they do everything cheaply. “We’ll stop in London first because Dad wants me to visit my mom. Hey, Barrows?” With false confidence, he adds, “You’re going to Europe.”
London
32
Natalie stands apart from the pedestrians parading down Carnaby Street, her hair close-cropped and gray, bifocals dangling from a purple-silk ribbon. She mutters to herself, gaze tracking every approaching lone young man, briefly observing a bunch of catcalling punks, chains around their necks, wilting spiked hair. She has lost weight, seems rickety at her height, a loose T-shirt dotted with dried clay, jeans smeared with muddy hand streaks.
As Pinch approaches, he is unable to suppress a loving grin. “Mom.”
She slips on her bifocals, nudges them off again, takes his arm. Without a greeting, Natalie leads her grown-up son a few steps—then halts midway across the crowded walkway and embraces him, fingers impressed into his back. She holds a second too long, looking at Pinch as if to conserve the image. Embarrassed, he chuckles and pushes back. And she’s off again, leading him toward a vegetarian restaurant, informing him that she chose this because she didn’t know what he eats nowadays.
“Maltesers,” he answers as they step inside.
She looks back, a slow ripple of a smile. “I’m not eating. Just mint tea.”
“Make it two.”
At the counter, she knocks over their pot of hot water, then insists on cleaning the puddle, grabbing handfuls of the restaurant’s paper towels despite the waitstaff telling her it’s quite all right: “Really. Just leave it. Please.” Natalie won’t. The queue lengthens, everyone glowering at this kook on her hands and knees, wiping the floor. Pinch urges her to join him at a table. Finally, she obliges—only to realize that she left her plastic bag behind. She barges to the head of the queue again, pestering the staff, who rescue her bag from the bin—they had assumed her papers and notes were rubbish. Finally, she rejoins him, shaking her head. Pinch is exhausted already.