The Italian Teacher(89)
So absurd, Pinch thinks, his fists clenched. If Bear were present, standing beside these paintings, everyone would love them. That is the problem. It’s me here.
71
Back at Utz he writes a cordial email to Connor, trusting that the journalist had a comfortable voyage home—and ensuring that they’re on the same page about not publishing anything about these works.
Connor Thomas <[email protected]> wrote:
Charles,
Talking to a bunch of publications.
—CT
Charles Bavinsky <[email protected]> wrote:
Connor,
I’m sorry to read this. Even if you didn’t love these paintings, I hope you’ll be kind about my father’s last works. He wasn’t young then, and his sight wasn’t great. But I must leave it to you.
Regards,
Charles
Connor Thomas <[email protected]> wrote:
Charles,
I still love Bear. Just not sold on these . . .
—CT
Pinch rereads that reply. What is Connor implying? He’s not sold on them? He can’t be questioning the authenticity, can he? On the verge of panic, Pinch types out a response.
Charles Bavinsky <[email protected]> wrote:
Dear Connor,
I would be most grateful to see a copy of this article in advance of submission. If there are factual errors, I can let you know.
Sincerely,
Charles
Pinch keeps checking his in-box. Later that day:
Connor Thomas <[email protected]> wrote:
It doesn’t work that way. No peeking. Ciao.
In his room at Jing’s house, Pinch paces, shaking his head. He has lost control of this—that is what petrifies him. He digs up a phone number for the Petros Gallery, cringing at the idea—any interaction with Eva makes his skin crawl, especially when he needs her.
“So great to hear from you!” she responds, voice fading as she leans off-mike to steal a drag from her assistant’s cigarette.
Pinch responds with insincere warmth of his own before moving to his purpose. Thrilling news: Bear left behind other artworks; a series painted toward the end of his life that Pinch has recently shown for the first time.
“To another dealer?” she asks with revulsion, as if handed a sandwich of live pigeon.
“I showed Connor Thomas. That’s all.” Hesitating, he adds: “But, Eva, how do you feel about this? To know there’s another Bavinsky series around.”
“Delighted!” she says, meaning “furious,” because Pinch approached that tin-eared typist before her. “I do wish you’d let my team handle the reveal, dear! We’d generate a way bigger splash. We’ve got a publicity department for things like that!”
“But, Eva, you don’t represent the estate,” he says, softening this with: “Plus I wouldn’t want to impose on your team. I can only imagine how busy you are.”
“Next time, just call! No expectations. Even to say hi. You could never impose on me, dear.”
He bristles to be patronized as “dear,” especially by someone so much younger. But he must play along. “The reason I’m calling,” he proceeds, girding himself for this, “is that Connor has me concerned. He seemed oddly negative about these works. No idea why. I’m afraid that I made a mistake, that I should have locked them away forever.”
“Well, that is not the answer. Anything by your papa—a spitball, a paper airplane, for Christ’s sake—bedazzles me. I mean, the Life-Stills are the American masterpiece of the twentieth century.”
For the first time in weeks, he bursts out laughing. “You think that, Eva?”
“I worship the Life-Stills without equal. But I’m going to love this new series the same. How to choose? I’m Solomon now? As for Connor, screw that a-hole. Show me the stuff, not some hack. My job is to look and love. And will I ever! Truly, madly, deeply.”
How she flatters! As if vanity trumps reason. Perhaps it does with artists. In truth, her pseudo-enthusiasm boosts Pinch a little.
“Why can’t people just celebrate greatness?” she continues. “That is what’s wrong with our culture. I’m almost serious about that.”
“But if Connor is casting aspersions,” Pinch goes on, mouth dry, “then what I worry is that people might take a second look at the Life-Stills you sold on behalf of my siblings.”
“A second look?” Suddenly icy. “How?”
He clears his throat, a fake cough to buy a few seconds. “Connor won’t let me read his piece, so I have no clue. But I’m worried that his article could be pretty nasty. And if he says your gallery sold bad Bavinskys, he’s accusing you of bad judgment. Almost implying that you misled clients. That’s insane, obviously. But I know how important credibility is to your job.”
“Oh, please. I have credibility coming out of my ass.”
“I just thought you might want to check in with him,” Pinch says, feigning calm, “so he’s not saying something wildly incorrect. Or libelous. Or just stupid. He should know there are consequences.”
“What consequences do you have in mind?”
“That’s not for me to say. But if someone smears you, I imagine your friends in the art world might turn their back on that person. If his article dents the resale value of Bavinskys, that’s sure to affect you in the future. Right? Which’d be so unfair, given how much you’ve helped raise his reputation. But I’m just talking, Eva. I don’t understand that world.”