Borders of Fiction

Chapter 2: Benedict Alessio

A human-size copy of La Pietà, like Michaelangelo's pristine white Carra marble masterpiece in the Vatican, stood prominently next to a replica of the detailed oil painting of the Mona Lisa in the art lobby of the College of Arts and Sciences at a university. People flocked to La Pietà and the Mona Lisa, enthralled by their lifelike resemblance to the revered originals they had only seen in libraries or on the internet. One could say those renowned works of art were the star attractions of the art club's creations, overshadowing the other paintings and drawings that sought to emulate Picasso's eccentric style or the amateurish sketches of beginners.

"Stunning," the woman breathed, gazing transfixedly at the Mona Lisa. Her friend nodded fervently, speechless, before the vision of beauty. Da Vinci's masterpiece emanated mystery and melancholy even in a replica as if Leonardo's soul had poured into the work. Every subtle curve of Mona's lips and every enigmatic gleam in her eyes hinted at wisdom far deeper than the everyday.

"Extraordinary," the man found words at last.

"The skill and artistry put into this is unparalleled. Even the shadows evoke something profound." His companion only squeezed his arm, sharing ponderings too immense for utterance.

"You're just here for that "aesthetic thing" for your damn board," one said.

"They didn't do this. They better do it right here and right now for me to believe they actually did this piece of junk."

"Jeez, stop getting a hard on just for the Mona Lisa, dude. It wasn't even the real one!" They were like pilgrims at a holy altar, sensing sanctity in each masterful brushstroke and dents of clay. For a fleeting moment, they saw not mere copies but glimpses into the genius and grief of the original. A club moderator was approached by a woman who had freshly dyed her hair blonde and proceeded to ask him some questions: "Sir, who created that?" The workmanship is exquisite." Despite being in their late twenties, worry lines were already etched on their foreheads and around their noses from the stresses of teaching.

"Which of the two pieces are you referring to?" he replied, brushing his bangs off his forehead as he leaned against the wall with his back.

"Both, sir."

"Ah, the La Pieta you're seeing was crafted by Maria. The copy of the Mona Lisa was painted by Benedict."

"Maria wasn't a surprise, but Benedict Alessio, really?"

"Yes, sir. What's on your face? Didn't you teach them, ma'am? Are you not aware of his talents?"

"I am aware that he frequently doodles on papers and in his notebooks, but I never realized he had such a high level of skill. I teach mathematics and science, not art. I don't really get a hold of their artistic skills that much," she said with a sheepish smile that said it did not matter to her and ignorance of the creativity of the projects they submitted. "However, he is Italian, and it is possible that he has a natural talent for art." He frowns and huffs, disagreeing with the trope.

"Good day, Mr. Diaz and Ms. Geronima." The teacher quickly composed herself as the impeccably dressed man approached them. The male teacher stood up straight as he was greeted by a well-dressed man in a chocolate brown silk coat with fur trim, a pink cashmere sweater over a crisp formal shirt and tie, and tailored slacks—all from the prestigious brand Gushi. Two rings adorned his manicured hands: a gold one with a cross motif on his middle finger and a silver one on his thumb. Their eyes noticed that he was dressed very distinctively and in detail, not like he doesn't do it every day. Mr. Diaz thought the click of the man's designer heels was muted by the surrounding artwork, which was unusual to him; probably it was his first time not noticing it.

Sweater? In this tropical country. How absurd. She thought.

The math teacher, Rose, smiled cordially in kind, finding honor due regardless of surname, bank account balance, or her thoughts on his clothing. For some, status was proclaimed through loud labels, lavish excess, and even the titles on their names, yet she thinks it's unideal for this climate. For this one, it seemed to emanate from within too.