The Italian Teacher(66)

“Humbled?” Connor ventures, and everyone laughs. “Can I be humbled?”

As Bear is led off by the starstruck journalist, Pinch nearly rushes forward to chaperone his father. But this should be safe: The Mallard painting wasn’t included, thankfully—Eva is still trying to woo the collector back. And Connor himself knows nothing dangerous. When the two return from the impromptu tour, Pinch asks his father how it went.

“Tell you what, kiddo. A helluva set of pictures they rustled up. Damn fine.”

Bear never did invite his other children. When Pinch realizes, he is highly annoyed. But guiltily, he is flattered too—he is the chosen child. He just hopes none of them hear about this event, which will convince them that he’s trying to monopolize their father. Birdie has hinted that several siblings envy his access to Dad.

The gallery fills fast with guests, a sweaty jazz quartet bopping hard, the saxophonist’s neck engorged as he rips a solo, although it’s barely audible over the jabbering. The crowd—white faces, asymmetrical haircuts, interesting glasses—includes a group of youths, art-schoolers who scammed tickets and are making a rebel display of sitting on the floor, their hands around big glasses of free wine. One after another, renowned guests seek an audience with Bear, each of them raving not only about the paintings displayed tonight but about his contribution, how his art had inspired them. Most of the encomiums conclude with a version of “What are you working on now? And won’t you put any of it into the market? Please do.”

“Satisfy your public, darling!” Eva adds, handing Bear another flute of bubbly.

“Trying to bribe me with booze?” he says. “Because you can!”

She stands on tiptoes—a short woman in silver stilettos—and gives him a peck on the lips. “To buy you off, Bear, I’d try anything,” she says, to whoops all around.

“They say Petros is an all-service gallery, right?” quips a snarky Village Voice columnist, everyone cackling, clinking champagne flutes.

Pinch stands a step apart, monitoring the scene. He takes out his pipe, feels for his Zippo. Everything is going far better than he feared. After all these hours of dread and vigilance, he allows himself a break, leaning against a bare white wall, sipping iced pinot grigio, surveying the crowd, noting that more than a few people are looking at him, knowing who he is: the middle-aged son—like a shorter, uglier version of Bear—who works as a teacher in London. If he had been born to another father, they would consider Pinch’s achievements perfectly respectable. But relatives are judged relatively.

A sixtyish man in blue Oxford button-down, khaki trousers, and Rockport boat shoes, one hand drumming a fanny pack, the other gripping a glass of scotch, pushes through the crowd in the direction of Bear. An uneasy feeling suffuses Pinch. He delays lighting up, pockets his pipe, and hastens into the throng, cutting off the man’s path. “Hi there. Can I help you?”

“You work here?”

“I’m assisting during this show, yes.”

“The name’s Mallard Dwyer.”

After an instant, Pinch makes himself stand tall, forces a smile, heart racing as he shifts subtly to block the route toward his father. “What can I do for you?”

“Get out of my way for a start.”

“Is there something that you needed?”

“I need to speak with Bear Bavinsky. Can you help with that?”

“Definitely,” Pinch says, chest tightening. “What may I say it’s about?”

“Just get the man’s attention, will you?”

“But your question?”

“How is that your concern? All right, fine. I bought a painting of his. It shows some girl’s hands. Now, I got this theory. Those hands are more than hands. Because I know art has meanings that aren’t what you see. And there’s that saying, ‘Let me give you a hand.’ Is that what Bavinsky meant?”

Pinch nods double-time, as if listening intently, sweat trickling down his brow. He wipes his upper lip, searching for any logical reason why Mallard may be disallowed from addressing the artist.

“I understand that the subconscious is important to artists,” Mallard continues. “So is that what my painting is about? I want to hear it from the man himself. I paid good money for the thing. I got a right.”

“All of Bear Bavinsky’s portraits are painted from life, so I’m not sure the subconscious was central.”

“Take my word, Bavinsky’s highfalutin assistant. It’s all the subconscious.” He downs his scotch, places the empty glass in Pinch’s hand, and pushes past.

Pinch launches himself before Dwyer again. “I’m sorry—it’s not possible to just approach him. He doesn’t like it. He’s very shy.” Bear’s laughter booms from across the room.

“Take your hand off me before I snap it!”

“I’m not touching you.”

“You just did. Out of my way.”

“Wait, wait. Hang on. Let me arrange something exclusive for you. Okay? Privately with the artist, away from this crowd. I don’t want anyone butting in when you’re having your talk. I’ll set it up, and be back to you in a few minutes. Okay? That’s a promise, Mr. Dwyer.”

Mallard, sucking his teeth, grunts as if to say, I guess this is how leftie New York homosexuals operate. He pushes back through the crowd to his trophy wife, who nibbles mousily around the crust of a tiny pizzetta.