Even though she’s been waiting for his introduction, Mara gives a little grimace at his name, unconsciously touching the raised scar running up her left wrist.
“I disliked him immediately. Not because he was poor, but because he kept insisting that he wasn’t.
“It’s impossible to pretend to be wealthier than you are. You might as well plop yourself down in the center of Kenya and try to convince the Maasai that you’re one of them.
“Alastor was a terrible liar. His incompetence irritated me more than the lies themselves. After the Christmas break, he came back to school wearing a Rolex that was obviously fake. He kept flashing it at everyone, not realizing that Rolex is the McDonald’s of luxury watches. Even a real one wouldn’t have impressed at our school.
“He hadn’t yet learned to ingratiate himself with people. No one particularly liked him. He was not as you know him now. Back then, Alastor was chubby, moon-faced, awkward. Always trying to suck up to the popular students, especially me.”
“Was he really?” Mara says in amazement.
“Oh, yes. He got rid of his glasses after first semester, but he still had terrible skin, the haircut of an incel, and he’d wear tent-sized t-shirts with hideous, bright graphics all over them …”
I pause, chuckling to myself.
“Actually, those t-shirts might have been the inspiration for his entire aesthetic, now that I think about it.”
Mara frowns, the much deeper well of sympathy she possesses distracting her from the inevitable end of this tale.
“It almost makes me feel sorry for him,” she says.
“Don’t. Don’t feel sorry for either of us. At least not until you’ve heard everything.
“Alastor fixated on me from the beginning. He’d try to set up his easel next to mine. Make conversation with me between classes. Sit near me at lunch.
“It took a couple of cuts, me humiliating him in front of other students, before he backed off. Even then, he was always watching me. Always close by.
“You will probably understand that Alastor recognized something familiar in me. Those who don’t feel the normal range of emotions are better at noticing when a smile comes a second too late, or when it doesn’t quite consume the whole face. We learn to imitate sympathy, interest, humor … but like Alastor’s Rolex, some counterfeits are better than others.
“He tried to insinuate that we were like each other. That we might have interests in common. I shut him down hard. I didn’t want to think I was like anyone. Especially not him.
“Alastor hadn’t developed his own style yet. He imitated the professors and other students. The hierarchy of talent in our classes quickly became apparent: I was at the top, along with Valerie Whittaker and a few others. Alastor bounced between the middle and the bottom, depending who he was cribbing from on any given week.
“I was consumed by art school. It was the first time I had felt a sense of vocation. I couldn’t wait to get the fuck off of campus and start working full-time. I only stayed because I was aware how important it was to develop connections with professors and visiting lecturers. People in the art world who could help me once I had pieces to show.
“Professor Oswald liked me almost as much as Valerie. He invited us to private shows and introduced us to everyone. Similar to what I did when you and I first met.”
Mara nods, understanding perfectly as she just experienced the same mentorship.
“Oswald was no genius. He was competent, but he’d been making the same broken-mannequin-type sculptures for decades, and Robert Gober was already doing that better. It was clear he was burned out, frustrated, barely scraping by with his shitty Buick and sport coats with holes in the elbows.
“Still, I liked him, or at least, I found him useful and interesting to talk to. He knew an immense amount about his subject, and his suggestions for my work were helpful. I brought him a whole folder of sketches I had made for potential sculptures. Some were complex and would need custom equipment before they could be built. He went through each sketch, seeming particularly taken with a drawing I’d made for a massive figure that would look male from one angle and female from another.”
Mara leans forward on her elbows, chin cradled by her palms, fascinated by this story. I knew she would enjoy getting a peek at the younger version of myself, closer in age and stage to where she is now.
I’m not enjoying it as much. I don’t look back on that time with the same arrogance I used to.
I push ahead, wanting to get it all over with as quickly as possible.
“Professor Oswald was the first person who took an interest in my art. It meant something to me. So when he participated in a show shortly after Christmas, I wanted to attend. Even though he hadn’t mentioned it to me and I hadn’t technically been invited.
“It was Marcus York who put me on the guest list. He’s an old friend of my father’s, did I tell you that?”
Mara nods.
“It was the first time I’d spoken to him since my father had died. He was glad to do me a favor—after all, I was the one who inherited the money and the business, though I had no interest in running it myself.
“I went to the show. As soon as I got there I could see everyone buzzing around Oswald’s sculpture. I didn’t hear a word they said. I just stood there, staring.”
Mara’s eyes go wide as she anticipates what I’m about to say.
“It was an exact replica of the sketch I showed him. Almost every detail the same. The main difference was that it was smaller than I’d intended—probably because he didn’t have the means to make it bigger.”
Even though she knew what was coming, Mara lets out a groan of outrage. She understands how violating it feels to have an idea stolen before you’ve even had a chance to bring it to life.
“What did you do?” she cries.
“I walked up to him, almost in a daze. I didn’t know what I intended to say to him, which was unusual for me. I saw his surprise that I was there and his look of squirming discomfort. But then he pushed that away and greeted me with as much friendliness as usual. Clapping me on the shoulder, saying how glad he was that I had come.”
“Did you confront him?” Mara fidgets in her seat, unable to stand the suspense.
“Not then. It would have made a scene, and remember, barely anyone knew me yet. Oswald was the one with the connections and the tenure. This was his show.
“I stayed after class on Monday. I was too upset to be strategic. I just blurted it out like an idiot: ‘You copied my sketch!’ ”
“What did he say?” Mara murmurs through hands pressed to her mouth. She’s squirming with agitation, like she’s the one who stole the idea.
“He scoffed in my face. ‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ he said, ‘First of all, there’s hardly any similarity at all between your preliminary sketch of a concept and my actual piece. And second, I’ve been talking about the concept of gender perception in my classes for months. If anything, your sketch was more likely inspired by the lectures I gave as I was sculpting the piece.’ ”
“Motherfucker!” Mara shrieks, jumping out of her chair and pacing around the kitchen island.
There is no better audience for a story than Mara. Her empathy is so acute that she feels it all as if it’s happening to her.