The Italian Teacher(86)
Lose what exactly?
On Connor’s last day, the man stalks about the cottage, studying the paintings for the last time. He leans in for a hug, which Pinch awkwardly consents to. The journalist bids farewell, squashes himself into the Hyundai, and remains silent until he’s driving down the mountain—at which point he shouts out the window: “Got me the start of a fuckin’ book, baby!”
67
When the shippers arrive outside Jing’s house, their boss marches in and measures the painting, calling in two assistants, who wordlessly pack the artwork and lug it out to their truck. They claim there’s no seat for Pinch, so he follows in a black cab, pressing his face to the partition window to keep the delivery truck in sight. “Too late to get out of this?”
“What’s that, mate?” the cabbie asks.
“No, nothing, nothing—the traffic.”
The movers pull up on Euston Road, bundle out the painting in its protective casing, haul it into the lobby of a skyscraper. They cannot locate the service elevator, so grumblingly proceed up an emergency stairwell. Pinch hastens alongside, which irks the two grunts, who say nothing, only glower at each other. On the fifth-floor landing, their boss calls for a water break. “Hot today,” he tells Pinch, wiping a rag across his forehead. “Hope you getting yourself a pretty penny for this picture.”
“I’m giving it away to a relative.”
“That’s family for you,” he responds without interest, nodding to his crew. “Right, gents. The onward march of time. On one, two, three—hup-we-go!”
When they reach the lawyers’ office, a Petros Gallery representative awaits to check the painting and confirm its condition while a solicitor hovers with documents. Pinch sits in a deep leather chair, arms folded tightly across his midriff, squashing his gut. Too anxious, he stands, gazing from the floor-to-ceiling window overlooking BT Tower and cranes. Staring down, he chews his nails, muttering. In the glass reflection, he catches the solicitor rolling his eyes at the Petros Gallery rep—they’ve probably been warned about Bear Bavinsky’s son, the oafish teacher who arrived out of breath in white Panama hat, dress shirt untucked, armpits soaked because he stupidly took the stairs with the movers (notwithstanding a physique that cries out for automated transport). No matter—everyone here is far more concerned with the art than with the artist’s offspring.
After an hour, all is done. “Can I leave?” Pinch asks.
“Not only can you, but you must,” the solicitor responds with a fawning smile. “Enjoy your day, Charles. All is in order. Signed, dated, soon to be delivered.”
On the street, pedestrians stride past him; vehicle noise from Euston Road drowns out his frantic mumbles. “It’s done,” he says, queasy, pinching his tummy. When he rolls his aching neck, the Panama hat falls, skittering down the sidewalk. He runs gracelessly after, catches it under his shoe and stoops, dusting off the brim, puffing from exertion. He makes himself stand fully upright, forcing his spine straighter, and plonks on the hat, pulling it down as if hiding from pursuers in a Casablanca bazaar. I did this. I just did this.
He emits a little laugh, and glances up, dazzled by the shiny skyscraper, where they are right now, admiring a forgery. “It’s done now,” he says. “Done.”
68
While the sale is pending, Pinch suffers torments at work, locking himself in his office, head between his knees, sitting up only to check and recheck his email in-box, convinced that someone is about to twig. He whispers a rehearsal of excuses: “What happened is, I must’ve mixed up my copy with the original. It was a mistake.” He sits there, leg jiggling, computer keyboard bouncing. Checks his in-box again.
When an email from the Petros Gallery arrives, he goes cold. He cannot open it. Pinch speeds down the hall to the staff room, initiating a preposterous conversation with one of the German teachers regarding pencil supplies. “At the very least they should provide sharpeners.”
He stands in his office again. He opens it.
The sale went through. No problems. None.
Pinch punches the air, wincing at a twinge in his spine. But he’s okay. He hurries up the corridor, tittering like a moron. Those art-world idiots! The oh-so-perceptive critics! The empty-headed collectors! No one could tell the difference! Of course, the provenance was unimpeachable, direct from the Bavinsky estate. Plus, this is a work of mid-tier value, unlikely to merit the price of a forensic examination. And who’d suspect Pinch himself, when he isn’t profiting from the sale? Certainly nobody believes that he’d be capable of anything this skilled. Best of all, the Petros Gallery and its buyer are now implicated: Eva endorsed this as authentic, while the Abu Dhabi collector (and his high-paid team of advisers) staked their connoisseurship on the purchase. Everyone involved gained a motive to forever insist this is the genuine article.
Over the coming months, Pinch transfers ownership of his two other forgeries to two other siblings. When the remaining sisters and brothers hear of Pinch’s secretive gifts, he is mobbed with demands, threats, and offers to drop pending lawsuits. Gradually he sets about satisfying them. Many complain that he still refuses to produce an inventory of the entire estate, or let anyone select their artwork. Above all, they loathe how he distributes these paintings: with legal strictures, endless papers to sign—and how he drags it out! Clearly the guy cannot let go. What they don’t realize is that Pinch cannot act any faster—he must still produce their paintings. And with Italian classes to teach too!