The Italian Teacher(79)
Everyone assumed that Pinch would take over as the Italian department chief. But the promotion went to Francesca. Briefly, this stung. But he accepted her suitability: bright, popular, organized. Also, Pinch hasn’t stepped foot in Italy since his teens (though he sometimes claims otherwise to students). His sense of modern Italy derives from reading La Repubblica most days, which enables him to speak journalese about bribery scandals in Milan or the burlesque of Berlusconi, though he remains prone to comically outdated slang, which entertains Francesca immensely.
“Scusa, perdonami,” he responds for having startled Francesca, and touches her arm in apology, amazed that he’s doing so. Pinch commands himself to channel Dad: chin up, a wink. For weeks he has wanted to make an advance. Alone at Bear’s cottage, dealing with the French bureaucratic consequences of death, Pinch contemplated her daily, seeing himself driving Francesca around the area, explaining the local language groups, showing her the market, providing tasting boards of local cheeses, matching them with local wines (“Of which I know a tad too much,” he joked on his own in the car). When walking into the woods, he wondered whether, as a botanist, she could give a proper tour of his land. She’ll stay in the cottage, and I’ll take the studio. Unless. Unless.
But each morning back at home in London, the bathroom mirror has dissuaded him, a reminder that he’s so much older than she, chubby, bald, frumpy. So today, he forwent his reflection, which explains the mussed hair and bad shave. The pretext for standing in her classroom door this evening is a long-standing promise. Francesca is moving into a larger office—that of the departed Salvatore. Pinch pledged to help her move her furniture, and he has kidded about lifting dumbbells to prepare. She keeps demurring, worrying that it’d be too heavy. Perhaps the janitor should do it?
“I will not be deterred, Fra!” he tells her now, and marches toward her old office, where he stands before the bookcase, estimating dimensions with his arms.
“We should take down the books first, no?” she notes.
Grinningly, Pinch waves this away—he’s all bravado tonight, not least because of something amusing he’ll show her: a dried lump of paper in his pocket. At the cottage he picked wildflower buds to show her, folding them into a sketchbook page on which he jotted questions as a conversation-starter. Once home, he stupidly laundered those trousers, flowers and all! He’ll show her the lumpen result, adding, as if in passing, “You have to come see the place yourself. It’s amazing. What do you think?” For now he smirks at her bookcase. “Not too hard for a tough guy like me!” He rolls up his sleeves, jokingly flexes an aging bicep.
“Don’t hurt yourself, Mr. Schwarzenegger,” she says, grinning, taking a step closer.
He meets her gaze. Switching to English, he says, “I’ve been busting to do this,” and leans in to kiss her.
“Oddio!” she cries, recoiling as if he were contagious. She hooks the thick curls behind her ear, unable to look at him, adjusting a framed picture of a man on one of the shelves. “I’m sorry, Charles. I’m engaged.”
“What? Oh, you completely misunderstood,” he insists ridiculously, throat flushing crimson. “I was reaching past you to take down some of the dictionaries. After all, you’re far too tall for me to kiss—I couldn’t reach, even if I wanted to!”
“Don’t worry about it.”
“I wasn’t worrying. Just as point of fact.” He gives a nervous cough. “I’m here to move furniture.”
“Forget that, Charles. The janitor will do it. Really. Thank you, though.” She fills a Bankers Box with papers as a way to conclude the excruciating exchange.
“Isn’t even heavy,” he says, legs apart, grasping one side of the bookcase, then the other. As if to tighten his grip, he shifts about, unsure how to give up.
“Charles, it’s much too heavy with the books still in. I’m not joking.”
“Oh, it’s not even full!” He tries again, vein bulging in his forehead. “I’m going to get this.” He holds his breath, straining, grunting, then slaps both hands underneath a shelf for leverage.
“That’s not stable!”
But he is lifting it; he’s managing—until the shelf flies up and volumes of the Enciclopedia Zanichelli crash down, bashing into him, her desk, the floor. She squeals, for the entire shelving system is coming apart. A vase falls, smashing on the carpet, glass shards everywhere, water seeping from downed irises. Dictionaries on the higher shelves shower down. Pinch raises one arm to sustain the falling bookcase, the other to protect himself, hardcovers cascading onto him.
“Charles! Stop! Please!”
Finally, to save himself, he darts away, inadvertently barging her into the hallway, the shelving clattering down behind them, her possessions smashing onto the floor, an office wrecked in seconds. He lands on his knees, and pain shoots from his spine. He clasps the sweat-soaked back of his shirt. He cannot breathe.
Above him, Francesca holds her breast, which he inadvertently elbowed. She hurries into the office to collect the smashed photo of her fiancé. Pinch tries to stand, but the back pain knocks him back down.
“Charles, I think you must go,” she says, in English. “Okay? I must clean.”
He tries to rise. Another bolt of agony. “Sorry,” he says, wincing, “I can’t move. Something with my back. I’m in serious pain.”