The Italian Teacher(62)

“I hear where you’re coming from, sir, but I do need to reach out to him.”

“I’ve told you. There’s no reason to bother him.”

“Don’t be abusive, sir.”

“How was that abusive?” Pinch snaps, cornered by this twit, mind scrambling. “Look, call some other time.”

“And you’ll have his number then? I could call Monday.”

“Fine. Fine.”

For days, Pinch can barely sleep. He should’ve handled that better. Do they already suspect something? Will they track down Bear regardless? Pinch has never explicitly claimed that the painting was by his father. But that’s how it was sold, and he took tens of thousands of dollars based on this. And he’s inadvertently implicated Birdie too, by giving her the profits. He shakes his head, hand over his eyes. “What have I done here?” Would it be possible to buy back the painting from Mallard and hide this whole mess? But Pinch couldn’t possibly afford a Bavinsky. Priced out of his own painting! He wipes sweat off his upper lip, the dogs watching.

“If I tell the truth,” he informs Harold and Tony, “nobody will be understanding. This won’t be okay.” His only chance is to keep lying, and hope that closes the matter. He must confirm directly what he previously implied—that this was an original Bear Bavinsky, gifted to Pinch by the artist himself. It’s better to gamble on that and hope Bear never hears of it than to let them ferret out Dad.

Blood pressure rocketing, Pinch signs the affidavit and faxes it to a law office in L.A.

“Coming through the machine as we speak,” the paralegal confirms by phone. “Great, good. They can move ahead with liquidating now.”

“Liquidating?” Pinch goes cold.

“Selling the work.”

“I thought you just needed to confirm provenance for a valuation. You said this was just paperwork. Why didn’t you mention it was for a sale?”

“Sir, you’re being abusive again.”

“How have I abused you? How?”

“I’m putting down the phone now.”

For weeks Pinch jumps if anyone taps him on the shoulder. When the light on his answering machine blinks, he is terrorized, just circling it for days. When he finally listens, he finds a message from an American journalist who wants to speak in person; he’s coming to London. Hands on hips, Pinch envisages his impending catastrophe. “Stay calm,” he tells the dogs. Just keep lying. What does this guy know?

Pinch calls in sick, saying he’s undergoing tests and won’t be back at Utz until the following week. He drives through the night to the cottage, where he stares at the touched-up original of Natalie’s hand, whose replica is now awaiting sale. Pinch glances at the other Bavinsky originals around him. He pulls out three more, turns them around—so powerful, Dad’s art, so perceptive and honest. As trying as Dad can be, as egotistical, he understands people, better than I ever have, better than Mom did, better than anyone I know. What if I just tell him? Might he understand? Would he say nothing, to save my skin? It’s too much of a gamble. If Bear becomes enraged, all manner of disasters follow—not least, this studio taken from Pinch’s life. His heart sinks.

He turns on the kiln, heat emanating from the open doors, and drags over the original Hands IX, shoving it inside the inferno. He slams the doors, locks them. Pinch feels deathly ill. Back at the cottage, he avoids the sight of himself in the mirror, as he avoids the sight of smoke rising from the studio chimney. He turns the spigot on a wine box in the kitchen, fills a pottery mug to the brim, downs it.

What better option was there? If Dad were to learn of the Mallard deal, he’d go apoplectic, saying Hands IX was never sold—it’s at a private storage location in Europe! If he came here and found the original, Pinch’s affidavit would amount to criminal fraud. On the other hand, if Bear were to ever hear of the sale of Hands IX, and find that it’s gone, everyone will assume Mallard’s was the original. Provided that Bear never inspects the copy himself. Pinch grabs his own ears, shaking his head. If this falls apart, Bear will probably track down the name of the seller of Hands IX and find it was his own son. At least then, he can throw himself on Dad’s mercy, explaining the mess Birdie was in—while making it clear that she had nothing to do with this. Better to plead before Bear than before a jury. Still, a dismal situation. He shuts his eyes, sickened. Hey—there’s no certainty Bear ever discovers this.

Upon returning to London, Pinch arrives at the Ritz Hotel café to meet with the journalist Connor Thomas. The man’s answering machine message had thrust Pinch into panic, but he proves a less intimidating presence in person, less newshound than artsy youth, a redhead with gelled spiky hair, a black waistcoat worn over a Nine Inch Nails T-shirt, torn jeans, burgundy Doc Martens. He clutches his Dictaphone as if it were an autograph book. “It’s okay to tape this, Mr. Bavinsky?”

“Let’s have a normal conversation first. Then we’ll see. All right?” Pinch is curt, establishing himself as the adult. “You said on the message that you’re researching my father. It’s something specific?”

“So I’m hoping to confirm a couple of things. Nothing too tough. We love Bear Bavinsky at Artforum. I shouldn’t say ‘we,’ like I’m on staff. I’m just hoping to contribute at this point. Technically I’m still in grad school. I believe you know one of my professors, Priscilla Barrows?”