I hid in the gallery, in the furthest and darkest corner of the huge auditorium, turning my seat into a small island of alienation. Here, under the hum of the projector and the lecturer's monotonous droning, I methodically folded paper modules. My hands, already accustomed to this strange craft, moved on autopilot, while my consciousness desperately tried to erect a wall between itself and surrounding reality. A lecture on theater history... Lord, what useless, life-detached, common-sense-divorced, concentrated bullshit.
I, a thirty-eight-year-old man whose hands were accustomed to the weight of a hammer, the roughness of wood and a computer mouse, trapped in the scrawny body of a snotty student. In a world where at any moment a Chitauri armada or a purple titan with a mania for total genocide could descend upon the city, I'm forced to listen about catharsis in ancient Greek tragedy. The absurdity was so thick and viscous that it seemed you could cut it with a knife and spread it on bread.
Around me spread the sleepy kingdom of student apathy. Everyone existed in their own little world, only physically present in this room. The guy on the left, a typical geek in glasses and a T-shirt with a faded logo, hid behind his laptop screen. Judging by periodic quiet snorting and shaking shoulders, he was watching some sitcom, completely ignoring the lecture. The girl next to him, with acid-pink hair and a nose piercing, was conducting a fierce text conversation on her phone. Her fingers fluttered over the screen at such speed, as if she was tapping out a Morse code telegram about the end of the world. And the hulk in front, whose bull neck occupied half my view, was shamelessly dozing, covering his face with a thick tome and emitting barely audible snoring. Against this background, my quiet hobby that bothered no one, producing practically no sound or smell, somehow attracted unwanted attention.
"Mr. Thompson, would you be so kind as to tell us what the key difference is between Stanislavski's acting method and Strasberg's method?" The professor's voice, dry and creaky as an ungreased door hinge, ruthlessly tore me from my paper meditation.
He stood at the lectern, a gray-haired man about fifty, fit, in a strict tweed jacket. His piercing, intelligent gaze over glasses in thin metal frames promised nothing good. He wasn't an old man, no. You could sense the old school in him, breeding and complete intolerance for sloppiness. And he had obviously long ago noticed my quiet factory for producing paper modules.
"No idea, professor," I answered in an even, indifferent tone, purely on autopilot, not looking up from another careful fold. And only when a barely noticeable chuckle swept through the auditorium did I realize how bold and defiant that sounded. I slowly raised my head, meeting his expectant, slightly narrowed gaze, and decided to urgently backpedal. "Sorry. I've been sick the last few days and didn't attend classes, so unfortunately I missed this topic."
Well yeah... Sick. With alcoholism. And I didn't lie, essentially. The World Health Organization quite officially recognizes alcoholism as a disease. And the fact that for John Thompson this was the first and, alas, last drinking bout in his short, inglorious life... these are already insignificant details that the lecturer doesn't need to know.
"I see," the professor didn't look impressed by my excuse. His gaze dropped to my hands, in which rested an almost finished module. "And now, Mr. Thompson, you're so diligently folding origami in my lecture to... what? Improve fine motor skills for therapeutic purposes after your illness?"
The questioningly ironic raised eyebrow promised nothing good. I definitely liked this man, straight as a rail, without detours and underhanded games. He clearly outlined the problem, and now waited for an equally clear, intelligible answer from me, not student babbling. Had to improvise fully.
"Making a gift for a nurse who, you could say, pulled me back from the other side," I concocted a pitiful but plausible story on the fly, putting notes of sincere, genuine gratitude into my voice. "We got talking while I was laid up, and it turned out she's into origami. So I decided to make her a kusudama as a token of appreciation. They say it can be used as a vase for dried flowers. But I'm listening to your lecture, professor, don't doubt it. The last thing you were talking about was innovations in stage lighting introduced in European avant-garde theaters in the late twentieth century. Specifically, about the work of Josef Svoboda and his concept of 'living scenography.' I can list his main productions if necessary."
John's memory, it turns out, wasn't so useless after all. Yeah... First full social outing, and I'm already lying like a rug. But hey! I'm sitting quietly, not bothering anyone and even managing to filter information with half an ear! How am I worse than these slackers openly staring at their gadgets?
To my relief, Professor Weekley seemed satisfied. He grunted, gave me a long, studying look, as if deciding whether to continue the execution, but in the end just nodded and returned to his lecture. In the next two classes I prudently hid in an even more distant corner, concealed behind the broad back of one of my classmates and kept a low profile. By the end of the school day my modest backpack was packed to the brim with neat stacks of paper modules, exactly two hundred seventy pieces, enough for nine full kusudamas.
Exiting the stuffy college walls onto the sun-drenched street, I processed the information received during the day as I walked. And I'm not talking about study materials. What do I need "Film Theory" for when outside the window a Michael Bay blockbuster could unfold in real time? I was interested in people. Specifically, one red-haired girl who, in a sense, became the cause of my predecessor's untimely demise. Mary Jane Watson.
She stood at the entrance, surrounded by a retinue of girlfriends, and laughed. The life of the party, informal leader, alpha female in her little pride. Moderately beautiful, though her brightness was largely due to skillfully applied makeup hiding pale skin and freckles. Moderately sociable, moderately curvaceous. Overall, objectively, a solid seven and a half out of ten. I sincerely didn't understand why John was so hung up on her. Although... everything is relative. Against the background of gray mice and frankly unkempt girls from our course, she really did look like a Hollywood star. But step out onto Manhattan's streets, and in half an hour you could meet a dozen girls no worse, if not better. Alexander, the thirty-eight-year-old man inside me, looked at her and saw not a goddess, but simply a girl who knows her worth too well and skillfully uses her attractiveness.
I didn't know how much this version of MJ corresponded to her canonical images, but in most of them she was... an ambiguous character. Flighty, rushing between men, often creating problems out of nothing. And here? I squinted, watching as she said goodbye to her friends and headed toward a black Audi polished to a mirror shine.
Next to the car a black-haired young man in an expensive suit waited impatiently for her. Their embrace was somehow... showy, rehearsed for an invisible audience. Her smile was dazzling, like a camera flash, but gave no warmth whatsoever. His hand on her waist lay rather possessively than tenderly. The kiss was quick, almost formal, a peck on the cheek. And for a split second, when Mary Jane pulled away, before pulling the mask of adoration back on her face, I saw in her eyes something unmistakable. Boredom. Ordinary, all-consuming, dreary female boredom. Interesting. The guy, on the contrary, looked tense, as if afraid she would dissolve into thin air right now. Expensive car, brand-name clothes straight from the boutique, but in his gaze, gaping insecurity and fear of losing this bright trophy.