The Italian Teacher(57)

When Pinch does so, it’s from a careful script. “I’ll be honest,” he begins (and this part is genuine), “my father would be furious if I sold this painting. He’d never forgive me. So I’m relying on your discretion. If we move ahead, this work can go only to a collector you trust as totally confidential, who’ll hang it privately, never loan it out, or publicize the purchase. Is that possible? I mean, is that something you can guarantee?”

“Nebraska.”

“What do you mean?”

“You ever heard of Mallard Dwyer?”

“Is that a kind of duck?”

“You! Are! Hilarious!” she says, not laughing. “Mallard Dwyer is a muy rico businessman from Omaha, or some such pointless berg. But here’s the what: This guy—loaded as a result of his family’s Big Ag holdings—turns up on my doorstep last month for guidance on buying. The reason for his sudden interest is a certain Judy-Lynn Mendez, whom you’ll likely recall from The Six Million Dollar Man, where this highly talented young actress spoke two unforgettable lines in the role of switchboard operator. Afterward she tragically quit the business for holy matrimony to aforementioned old man Mallard. She brings the good looks, he brings the good life, including pretty pictures for their Omaha mansion.”

Pinch—throughout the course of this discussion and several to follow—is meticulous never to state that this painting is actually by Bear. That much is assumed, but Pinch won’t be caught on record saying so. When it comes to documenting the provenance, he acts haughty and impatient, playing the artist’s weirdo son, declaring that he’s had enough of all this absurd red tape. “Look, take it or leave it. I’m sorry.”

Eva objects so strenuously that she hikes her commission to 50 percent. “Take it or leave it,” she says.

He takes it, she takes it, and Mallard does too, informed that this is completely normal. After all, he’s got the imprimatur of one of the galleries in SoHo. That’s all you need, surely.

“How’d you do this, Charlie?” Birdie says on the phone, flabbergasted to find her bank balance rising to almost thirty thousand dollars after a mysterious transfer from a London bank account in her little brother’s name. “What did you do?”

“Maybe squiggles on a napkin are worth something.”

“Wait, this is from Dad? Why’d he do this? Shit, I don’t even have his phone number to thank him.”

“This isn’t for talking about with Dad. Not with your children either. Not with Riley.”

“Why would I tell him?” She adds in a whisper, “He nearly broke my nose last week.”

“You serious, Bird? You need to go to the police.”

“He’s my sons’ daddy. We just need to leave.”

“And you will now. Right?”

“With this money, we’re outta here. But wait, this is from you, Charlie? Or from Dad?”

“Does it matter?”

“It matters.”

The transfer was the entirety of Pinch’s cut of a $75,000 private sale, minus Eva’s huge commission and expenses, plus bank fees and taxes. He explains none of this, replying only, “It’s from Dad,” wanting her to love the man again—or rather, knowing that she can’t stop doing so, and that maybe this renders it less painful. “But you’re not discussing it with anyone. Ever. Or I take it back. Okay?”

“However you’re doing this, you saved me.” She chokes up. “But Charlie, you’re not exactly rolling in it. You don’t need some of this yourself?”

“Hey, if I had cash like that, I’d only end up squandering it on my big sister.”

She smiles, sniffs. “Love you, Charlie.”

Afterward he sits on his bed, fizzing from gratification, excitement, fear. Could I get arrested for this? Fortunately, Nebraska isn’t bristling with art appraisers who’d spot a questionable Bavinsky. Also, Mallard didn’t buy this to flip it—he’s establishing a collection, not dismantling one. The painting won’t reappear on the secondary market for years. What’s more, it was convincing enough to fool Eva and her staff. And none of them knows the original, so Pinch’s copy didn’t have to be perfect.

But what if, when Dad next visits the studio, he notices the patched-over damage to the original? He still won’t know it was me. And even if he figures it out, maybe I’d welcome that. I could point a finger in his face and say, “I did that, Dad. What’s more, someone bought it for seventy-five grand. Yes, that’s the record for a Bavinsky. And I hold it!”

He yelps, drums on his knees. A painting by me hangs in Omaha, Nebraska! He shakes his head. To calm down, Pinch takes down an old Latin textbook and runs through verb tables, intending to dampen his thoughts by translating them into another language. But he keeps looking up from the page, preferring to hear his own mind for a change, petrified and electrified at once: I even helped someone.

In his closet, he finds the old orange jumper of Julie’s, which he has adopted and wore on his recent venture to France. He presses his face to the wool—it’s not her anymore, but the smell of charred firewood, paint, turpentine. And he is determined in a way unknown for years.





1985




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