The Italian Teacher(40)
“Light summer reading,” Pinch comments wryly, nodding at her paperback.
She lowers The Gulag Archipelago. “You should talk: Syntactic Structures?”
“It’s strangely fascinating.”
At lunch, the Dutchwoman returns, bringing a magnum of vin ordinaire, just as mouth-puckeringly tannic as the previous night’s red, and just as pleasing. Afternoon naps follow before Bear rouses the kids with local sausages and muscat doux served in pottery mugs. (Marsden always raved about the pairing of muscat doux with foie gras, which he suggested they farm in the yard of the Annex house—only required a willing goose!) Pinch smiles, but it fades. He’s sorry how matters ended with Marsden, that Pinch so coldly cut off a friend of several years. Banish the guilt; too much at stake now. Each day must go perfectly.
In bed that night, Barrows comments on how sociable Bear is. “Is he sleeping with the Dutch lady?”
“Jorien? No, no. She’s married.”
“You noticed what time she drove off? After the afternoon nap.”
He watches Barrows smoke a Virginia Slim, a wiseacre smile cracking. I completely love you, he thinks.
“Diminishing returns, after a point,” she is saying.
“What are?”
“When artists repeat early work, people say they’re limited. But if they innovate, it’s ‘lesser late work.’ They get imprisoned by their success,” she says. “Hey, am I going to pose or what?”
“You don’t really want to. Sitting takes forever.”
“Maybe that explains why your father produces so little—not to mention all of his visitors, Pinch,” she says, inserting his nickname as a tease.
“Don’t call me that. It’s what my mother calls me. And I promise, Bear is not gallivanting up here. If he has slowed his work, it’s because we’re around. But Dad is a machine. He works every day of the year. Trust me. I grew up with this.”
“I didn’t see stacks of canvases at the studio.”
“Because he only just got here. And did you notice the oil barrel outside? He always has one where he paints. It’s for burning paintings that don’t make the grade. And that’s nearly everything.”
“Why? That’s a bit extreme.”
“It’s smart. Dad’s plan is to leave fewer than a hundred major works, each placed in major collections. He doesn’t pump out factory products, like certain artists I could mention. Even fifty great paintings for posterity is way more meaningful than a thousand shitty sketches churned out for cash, like Picasso did.”
“Okay, but how do you know Bear was painting before we arrived? Maybe he was busy seducing Jorien.”
“First, because he said so. Second, because Dad doesn’t busy himself with seducing. He does that in his spare time.”
“You sound so pleased about it.”
“Not pleased,” he rejoins, chuckling. “I’m just worldly—unlike certain prim ladies of Alberta. Your prudish roots shine through.”
She pushes him, laughing.
“Anyway, we saw at least one painting in the studio,” Pinch notes.
“All I saw was the back of a canvas with hand smudges on it.”
“Smudges from paint.”
“True.”
“Listen, I have this idea,” he says. “I was thinking we could drive down to Italy. It’s not that far.”
“Didn’t we come all this way so you could show off your Dad?”
“We came to sell a house,” he says defensively. “And certainly not to pose for my father.” But she’s right. He brought Barrows here to display Bear to her and her to Bear. Only, she and Bear are getting along almost too well. Pinch is their connection yet feels himself shrinking from view. “If we go to Italy, I could show you around, impress you with my Italian. We can resume your lessons. Barrows?”
“Are you nuts? I’m having a ball,” she says. “You go to Italy. I’m staying here with Bear Bavinsky.”
35
Bear drives them to a nearby town for the weekly market, where farmers stand awkwardly behind portable tables loaded with local fare: wheels of cheese, pain de campagne, blood sausages. Behind them rise the Pyrenees, dogtooth peaks that inspire Barrows to pan across the landscape, inhaling crisp air. From a distance, Pinch watches Bear buying item after item, intent that the kids try everything delicious from around here. Speaking little French, Bear relies on pointing and horsing around, sharing uproarious laughter and backslaps with the vendors. Laden with purchases, he walks back to his son, places a few bags in Pinch’s hand, throws an arm around his boy, and hands Barrows a few more bags, throwing his other arm around her, uniting the young couple, and leaving them to their intimacy.
“What’s that amazing smell?” Barrows asks, peering into one of Pinch’s bags.
He reaches in, breaks off a hunk of cheese. “Try.”
“Won’t he mind?”
“This is for us.”
“He’s so generous.”
“I told you.”
On the drive back, Barrows nibbles away, peppering their host with amiable queries about the life of an artist. At the cottage, Bear fetches an unlabeled bottle of red and distributes glasses. Pinch remarks, “That Basque guy selling the cheeses reminded me of Supper at Emmaus.”