Chapter 3
I retreated to the gallery, the farthest, darkest corner of the enormous auditorium, turning my space into a tiny island of isolation. Here, to the hum of the projector and the monotonous drone of the lecturer, I methodically folded paper modules. My hands, already accustomed to this strange craft, moved automatically, while my mind desperately tried to erect a wall between itself and the surrounding reality.
A lecture on the History of Theater... God, what useless, detached-from-reality and common-sense, concentrated nonsense.
I — Alexander Cole, a thirty-eight-year-old man whose hands were accustomed to the weight of a hammer, the roughness of wood, and a computer mouse — was trapped in the puny body of a snot-nosed college student, John Thompson. In a world where a Chitauri armada or a purple titan bent on total genocide could descend upon the city at any moment, I was forced to listen to tales of catharsis in ancient Greek tragedy. The absurdity was so thick and viscous that it seemed it could be cut with a knife and spread on bread.
A sleepy realm of student apathy spread around me. Everyone existed in their own little world, barely even physically present in the room. The guy on the left, a typical geek in glasses and a T-shirt with a faded logo, was huddled behind his laptop screen. Judging by the occasional quiet snort and the trembling of his shoulders, he was watching some sitcom, completely ignoring the lecture. The girl next to him, with acid-pink hair and a nose piercing, was furiously texting on her phone. Her fingers fluttered over the screen so fast it seemed she was typing out a Morse code telegram announcing the end of the world. And the big guy in front, whose bullish neck took up half my field of view, was dozing shamelessly, his face covered by a thick tome and emitting barely audible snores. Against this backdrop, my quiet, undisturbing hobby, which produced virtually no sound or smell, somehow attracted unwanted attention.
"Mr. Thompson, would you be so kind as to tell us the key difference between Stanislavsky's acting method and Strasberg's?"
The instructor's voice, dry and creaky as an unoiled door hinge, mercilessly pulled me out of my paper-based meditation.
He stood at the lectern — a gray-haired man of about fifty, trim, wearing a formal tweed jacket. His piercing, intelligent gaze over his thin-framed glasses boded ill. He wasn't an old man, no. He exuded an air of old-school class, pedigree, and a complete lack of tolerance for sloppiness. And he'd obviously had his eye on my quiet paper module factory for a long time.
"I have no idea, Professor," I replied in a flat, indifferent tone, completely on autopilot, without looking up from my next neat fold. It was only when a barely perceptible chuckle rippled through the room that I realized how brazen and provocative it sounded. I slowly raised my head, meeting his expectant, slightly narrowed gaze, and decided to back off immediately.
"Sorry. I've been sick for the last few days and haven't been attending class, so unfortunately I missed this topic."
Well, yes... He was. Alcoholic. And he wasn't lying, really. The World Health Organization officially recognizes alcoholism as a disease. And the fact that this was John Thompson's first and, alas, last drinking binge of his short, inglorious life... those are irrelevant details, unnecessary for a lecturer to know.
"I see," Professor Weekley didn't seem impressed by my excuse. His gaze dropped to my hands, where the nearly completed module rested.
"And now, Mr. Thompson, you're so diligently folding origami during my lecture to... what? Improve your fine motor skills for therapeutic purposes after an illness?"
The questioning, ironic raised eyebrow didn't bode well. I definitely liked this guy — straight as a rail, no backstabbing or underhanded maneuvers. He'd clearly outlined the problem, and now he expected an equally clear, coherent answer from me, not some student babble. I had to improvise completely.
"I'm giving a gift to the nurse who, you could say, pulled me back from the brink of death," I concocted a pitiful but plausible story on the fly, infusing my voice with a note of sincere, genuine gratitude. "We got to talking while I was recovering, and it turned out she's into origami. So I decided to make her a Kusudama as a token of my appreciation. They say it can be used as a vase for dried flowers. But I'm listening to your lecture, Professor, rest assured. The last thing you talked about was the innovations in stage lighting introduced in European avant-garde theaters at the end of the 20th century — in particular, 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. Hmm... My first full-fledged social outing, and I'm already lying like a horse. But hey! I'm sitting quietly, not bothering anyone, and even managing to filter information out of the corner of my ear! How am I any worse than these idiots who stare openly at their gadgets?
To my relief, Professor Weekley seemed satisfied. He chuckled, gave me a long, searching look, as if deciding whether to continue the torture, but ultimately merely nodded and returned to his lecture.
For the next two classes, I prudently retreated to an even further corner, hidden behind the broad back of one of my classmates, and remained out of sight. By the end of the day, my modest backpack was filled to the brim with neat stacks of paper modules — exactly two hundred and seventy of them, enough for nine full-size Kusudamas.
Stepping out of the stuffy college walls onto the sun-drenched street, I processed the information I'd acquired that day. And it wasn't just the course materials. What good was Film Theory to me when a Michael Bay blockbuster could be unfolding in real time outside my window? I was interested in people. In particular, a certain red-haired girl who, to some extent, was the cause of my predecessor's sudden death: Mary Jane Watson.
She stood at the entrance, surrounded by a retinue of girlfriends, laughing. The life of the party, the informal leader, the alpha female of her small pride. Moderately pretty, though her flamboyance was largely due to skillfully applied makeup concealing her pale skin and freckles. Moderately sociable, moderately curvy. All in all, objectively — a solid seven and a half out of ten. I sincerely didn't understand why John had been so heartbroken over her. Although... everything is relative. Against the backdrop of the gray, mouse-faced and frankly unkempt girls from our year, she truly looked like a Hollywood star. But go out on the streets of Manhattan, and in half an hour you can meet a dozen girls no worse, if not better.
Alexander Cole, the thirty-eight-year-old man inside me, looked at her and saw not a goddess, but simply a girl who knew her worth all too well and skillfully used her appeal.
I didn't know how closely this version of MJ matched her canonical portrayals, but in most of them, she was... a complex character. Flighty, darting between men, often causing trouble out of the blue.
And what about this one? I squinted, watching her say goodbye to her friends and head toward a black, mirror-polished Audi.
A dark-haired young man in an expensive suit waited impatiently next to the car. Their embrace was somehow... ostentatious, rehearsed for an invisible audience. Her smile was blinding, like a camera flash, but not at all warm. His hand on her waist was more possessive than tender. The kiss was quick, almost formal, a peck on the cheek. And for a split second, when Mary Jane pulled away, before pulling her face back into a mask of adoration, I saw something unmistakable in her eyes. Boredom. The usual, all-consuming, wistful female boredom. Interesting.
The guy, on the contrary, looked tense, as if afraid she would vanish into thin air. An expensive car, brand-new clothes, but in his gaze — a gaping uncertainty and a fear of losing this shining trophy.