The Italian Teacher(43)
“Whatever floats your boat, Mr. Bear. You and Rembrandt, gazing from your canvases for the edification of future generations, right?”
“Let me guess. You fancy yourself a critic someday?”
“I wouldn’t mind.”
“Well, tell me something, young lady. You ever seen the paintings of Gabriel von Max?”
“No, why?”
“Track them down. One I’d recommend is Monkeys as Art Critics.”
“And that,” she says, “proves my point.”
“How so?”
“Because I never heard of the guy. He doesn’t count now. And neither do you.”
36
Once alone in the cottage, Pinch and Barrows fight in hushed voices. “I wasn’t ‘attacking’ anyone. And he should be grown-up enough to handle it. Anyway, you seem to be the one who’s offended.”
“Don’t tell me what he is or isn’t,” Pinch attempts, unable to keep up, unsure of his own views, just hanging on, terrified of what is happening, her every glance seeming to shout: good-bye. “We’re enjoying his hospitality, remember.”
“I’ll leave then,” she responds. “And, seriously, if you’re incapable of discussing controversy without taking it personally, you will struggle in academia. You’ll struggle at anything. The NYU admissions panel definitely got it right.”
“Thank you. Thanks.”
“I’m very sorry, but it’s hard for me to respect a grown man who acts like a worshipful little boy around his father.”
Flushing, he stands there, pointing at her, speechless.
“What is that supposed to mean?” she asks.
“Fuck you.”
They lie in the dark for hours, neither able to sleep. Before dawn, she whispers: “I’m going.”
“We’ll discuss it in the morning.” He pretends to fall asleep but is lying there, sweating, scrambling for a way back.
At breakfast, Barrows tells Bear that she needs to leave because of an emergency back home, though it’s preposterous that she could’ve learned such news with no telephone out here. As she packs, Pinch stares at a window ledge dotted with dead bugs. “We came all the way here.”
“I haven’t forgotten that you paid for everything.”
“That’s not my point.”
“Seemingly, if you pay the bills, I’m your chattel.”
He slams the window closed, its latch shuddering, and points at her again, finger trembling. “You’re insane.”
She raises her eyebrows, as if to a third party. Barrows zips up her luggage. She lugs the suitcase outside, rebuffing his offers of help.
“You can’t thumb a ride from here to Paris,” he says. “Take the car, if you’re going. But please, can we talk for a second?”
“We did talk.”
“I lost my temper. I’m . . . I . . . I don’t know.”
She drops her suitcase on the gravel, looks at him, hatred draining away. “Don’t swear at me again. Okay? Please.”
He takes a half step closer. “Barrows, just—”
“Just hitting the road,” Bear calls out, tromping down from the studio. “An early start is always best.” He passes them, pops the front trunk on the Beetle, drops her suitcase in, and slams the hood, then hoists Barrows off the ground for a farewell peck on the cheek. Looking away, she expresses chilly thanks and slides into the driver’s seat. She doesn’t start the engine, instead staring through the closed window at Pinch, eyes wide: Can we talk?
Bear taps the roof twice, giving her a thumbs-up.
She starts the engine but remains in place, the exhaust cloud billowing. Pinch steps forward but is tugged aside by his father for a private huddle. “You, Charlie boy,” Bear assures him, “are another class from that girl.”
Slowly, the Beetle is reversing down the driveway, tires spitting up the stones and dust. Sharply, Pinch turns from his father, trying to catch her eye but only squinting at the glint on the windscreen. Bear waves at her in a semaphore sweep while addressing his son: “Better off without her, kiddo,” he says, holding Pinch in a one-armed hug. “We’re better off without her.”
Toronto
37
After flinging his suitcase into the house, Pinch sets out to find Barrows. When she drove away from the cottage, he had no way to reach her, so awaited their flight home, spending ten more days alongside Bear, who cavorted and socialized and never mentioned their departed guest. Each night, Pinch lay under the cottage rafters, head spinning from too much alcohol, tortured by the recollected spat and rehearsing what he’d say when he met Barrows at the airport. Once it was time to leave, he traveled by train and ferry back to Britain, almost forgetting that he had promised to see his mother. But he couldn’t face that, couldn’t bolster her, so he went directly to Heathrow. At the departure gate, he searched everywhere. “Sorry,” the airline rep told him finally. “That person’s name is not on your flight.”
Her housemate answers the door, peering disdainfully over her glasses when he asks after Barrows. “Cilla isn’t living here anymore.”
“Where did she go?”