The Italian Teacher(37)

“Because there’s no malice in Dad. He’s just that way. Like a huge ship, powering forward on his mission, and nobody can stop it.”

“I see,” Natalie notes, “that you’re still very engaged with Bear.”

He looks to the restaurant clock, irritated. Nobody likes to be understood without warning.

“I can’t stick around for ages,” he says. “But let’s keep talking.” He looks at Natalie and his spirits sink. She has skill and knows her craft. But he wishes she would stop hurting herself in this attempt to be an artist. It’s so effortless for Bear, so beyond her.

“If you’re in difficulty, Pinch, would you tell me?”

“I’m not sure.”

“Well, what purpose do I have then? Really, though?”

“Lots of purposes.” He fails to cite one.

“I saw you as a friend too early,” she says. “I burdened you, like I burden all my friends. No wonder people run out on me. What do I offer?”

“That’s stupid. When I was growing up, you were by far my closest friend.” Only by saying this does he realize it’s true. “And you achieved lots at a very young age, Mom. You uprooted yourself at, what, nineteen? Went all alone to London. I couldn’t have done that.”

“How I see it, looking back, is that I got myself into a predicament. I was pretending to be a grown-up. But I couldn’t pull it off. Probably I should never have left Canada, should’ve settled down there, worked in a craft shop, married a nice accountant. I got so far into this artist impersonation that there’s been nothing left but to keep it up.”

“Do you regret having me when you did?”

“No,” she responds with alarm.

“What?”

“Just that I think—I know—that I let you down. Terribly.” She twists her necklace, trying to assert control over herself, slowing her breathing. At last she looks up, lips together, wet eyes blinking. “I keep having this feeling, Pinch. That I’m floating through each day. Like I’m here, but this isn’t anything to do with me anymore.” She indicates everyone in the restaurant, also nodding to the window over the street. “What people are busy with—eating or traveling or even just meeting someone fresh—that part of life is behind me somehow. I had my opportunities. Some went well, some less so. But I’m past that.”

“You make it sound like you’re a hundred years old. You’re young still. And remember, Cecil said something like this when he came to Rome. Telling us how he’d put all ambitions behind him and felt much better for it. Right? Maybe it’s a stage. That you don’t care so much. It’s healthy.”

“And yet,” she interjects, a light in her eyes, that of a younger self, “I so want you to see my pottery, Pinchy. I want you to tell me what you think. To say, maybe it’s all right. I want approval. I still do.” She shakes her head, touches her throat, forces a laugh. “When I’m dead, I’ll probably be worried that people don’t like my headstone!”

“Mom, you are doing much better. Seen from outside. You’re working, throwing again, managing.” He needs her to be okay.

“Of course, I’m doing well! My son is here from Canada—what else could I want?”

“That I don’t run off, as I probably have to.”

“As you must do. Run as far as you can. Don’t look back.” She smiles.

“When I fly back to Toronto, I go via London. Could I maybe visit your workshop then?”

“I would so love that.”

“You can show me these famous sculptures of yours,” he says. “We can have a proper talk.”

She taps the scalding teapot, her fingertip leaping from the heat, then back, held in place. “I’d so value your opinion, as a fellow artist.”

“Fellow artist? The last thing I made was your mint tea.”

“You only poured it.”

“See: I’m not even a tea artist.”

Her eyes brighten again. “We’re still friends, you and I.”

Embarrassed, he chuckles, noticing all the people of his age around. “Actually, on the way over here, I was remembering our rides around Rome—going to Galleria Borghese on our rattly bikes. Me, veering into traffic to scare you.”

With recollected anxiety, she touches her chest. “I know.” But something distracts her. “I’m annoyed. I’ve left out so many things.”

“Tell me.”

“You need to go. We can discuss everything tomorrow.”

“I’m not here tomorrow.”

“But I’ll talk to you anyway. I do every day. Did you know?” she tells him, returning behind her door of eccentricity. “I suppose you can’t hear me talking from across the Atlantic. I wake up and say: ‘Hello, Pinchy, what are you up to this morning?’ Like when you were little in Rome.”

“What did we discuss this morning?”

“I said, ‘See you in a few hours!’”

The waiter deposits their bill.

“I’m sorry my girlfriend couldn’t make it,” Pinch says, looking away. “She had a meeting at the Courtauld, and it—”

“Yes, you mentioned.”