The Italian Teacher(68)

“Your comments leave much to be desired,” he tells them and stands by the window, darkness outside, the kitchen reflected, his eyes narrowing as if to draw a figure into focus: a tall young man in Toronto with wildly colored scarves around his neck, babbling flamboyantly, leading Pinch through underground bars, a squirrel under his bed. Gosh, that was more than twenty years ago!

On the night of Pinch’s return to London, he travels directly to Utz, arriving after hours. His dogs bolt into Jing’s office, where she is correcting homework. She emerges, a pen in each hand like tiny ski poles. “Do you eat dinner?”

“Pretty much nightly. You want to visit the sandwich bar of doom? I would love to, Jing, but I have my bodyguards to look after.” He nods at Harold and Tony.

“I thought you are on holiday.”

“I just popped in to do a little research. Actually, there’s something I wanted to ask of you. I have to call someone, but don’t want to do it myself.”

“What I should say?”

“I like that you don’t even ask who,” he responds, smiling. “Okay, here’s the situation. I’m trying to get someone’s address, and I don’t want him knowing it’s me asking.” Ever since thinking of Marsden, Pinch has wanted to find him again—their sad meeting at the St. Charles Tavern, when both were in such a desperate state, was the wrong ending. Pinch even wonders if Marsden might concoct a clever way to help him escape this constant worry about the forged painting. At the least, Marsden could be a confidant. But Pinch is picturing the Marsden he once knew, not Marsden as he left him. Anyway, Pinch is too shy to just call and ask for help. He will apologize in a letter.

He tells Jing, “I was looking up things on AltaVista on the staff computer, and it lets you read the white pages from different cities, including Toronto, where this friend of mine lives,” he explains to Jing. “The problem is, I want to write, and it shows only his phone number.”

She dials it, and covers the mouthpiece, telling Pinch, “I say ‘flowers delivery.’”

“But don’t give my name!”

While she talks, he hurries down the hall, shooing the dogs toward the staff room. He’s so apprehensive these days, as if everything were ready to careen out of control. He pulls at his fingers, fighting back an image that keeps intruding: Mallard Dwyer, slapping a scotch tumbler into Pinch’s hand.

Minutes later Jing appears, holding a scrap of paper with Marsden’s address on the back.

“Jing, you’re a genius!”

That night, he takes out Natalie’s portable red Olivetti and types a long letter, expressing remorse about the end of their friendship. He revises, striking out passages. He reads it again, crossing out still more. Finally, he is left with the opening and closing salutations. Even there, he’s unsure of the tone. He balls up all the attempts and tosses them down the living room carpet for the dogs, which give chase and chew.

After classes at Utz, he visits the staff computer again and finds the phone number of a florist near Marsden’s address—he’ll bring to life Jing’s ruse about that flower delivery. Pinch calls, ordering a modest arrangement to arrive anonymously. Soon a bouquet is presumably in Marsden’s home, sowing mystery, which much amuses Pinch. To avoid detection, he waits a few weeks, then phones.

The voice that responds, however, seems not to be Marsden’s—the man has a soft, slow delivery.

“Marsden?”

“Who is this?”

“It’s Charles Bavinsky. Sorry, I’m phoning for absolutely no good reason. Except that I keep thinking about you recently, and rustled up your number. It’s been ages. How are you? Is this a good time? Sorry, Marsden—is it okay that I called?”

“Charles.” “So lovely to hear your voice again.”

“And yours, Marsden!” he says, eyes welling up. “And yours!” Pinch coughs to disguise his cracking voice; he gives a hearty smoker’s hack. “Where’s my damn pipe?” He returns shortly and launches into loud chatter, asking for details about life in Toronto.

These days, Marsden works part time at the Art Gallery of Ontario, mostly doing photocopies for powerful people, which is fine, he explains. They know of his past problems and hired him despite all the gaps in his resume. He also volunteers at a Toronto charity for street kids, marching down the nastier alleyways with pamphlets on safe sex, shelters, needle exchanges.

“Isn’t that dangerous?”

“You haven’t seen me in a while. I’m pretty intimidating,” Marsden says, in a voice utterly without threat. For a spell, Marsden explains, he became obsessed with weights, and bulked himself up with other means too. “Lots of supplements, and injections.”

“Steroids? Really? Just to get strong?”

“To get beautiful,” he replies. “I’ve been off for ages, but my body doesn’t go back to normal.”

“But you’re doing okay now? In general?”

“Fine, yes. Given what I was up to, and when, it’s a miracle that I’m still alive. The dreaded disease has spared me so far.”

They talk and talk that evening. Pinch called for help and advice, yet he discloses nothing about his predicament, only asks questions and listens. Marsden is as candid as ever, but not showy anymore. Disturbing details emerge, and he never twists the tale to burnish himself. He feels no shame about failure—he never had that defect.