semesters. And he hadnât liked it, okay? What business was that of this idiot nobody? He had to put down the brush and focus for a while on the monkey. His heartbeat slowed. A thin paint will stick to a thick paint , Robin.
â We have drawing classes here pretty often, said the technician. Most of the time theyâre in the conference room, everyone sits in a circle . . . But they donât usually ask for monkeys. More for the mice.
â With the ear on their back?
â What?
â Oh, I just . . . , said Robert. There was once this article in a magazine, which my biology teacher gave me at the time, about a hairless lab mouse with a human ear on its back.
â Ah, said the technician. The Vacanti mouse. That wasnât a human ear, thatâs a misunderstanding. That was just cartilage they grew there and they just molded it into this special form, so that . . .
â Art, said Robert.
â Yeah. In a way.
â Where might the mouse be now? asked Robert.
And he felt a slight twinge in his chest. So soon.
â They donât live long, said the technician.
â Where do you think the mouse is buried?
Another slight twinge, this time higher, just under the Adamâs apple. There was a pause. The technician drummed his fingers a few times on his knees.
â And youâre doing a whole series of these? he asked.
â Yes.
Painting sounds, brush on canvas. The softest scraping in the world. Like the scratching of clawless paws on a closed door.
â Hm, said the technician. Is it okay if I . . .
Robert looked up briefly to see what this was about. The technician was holding up a cigarette. Robert nodded. Relieved sounds of a lighter, deep drag, silence. Why is the smell of a freshly lit cigarette so good? Cigars are an entirely different matter. Principal Rudolph. As if someone were carrying around a factory chimney in his mouth.
â I have nothing against it, said Robert.
â Thanks.
Silence. The monkey had fallen asleep.
â And youâre really doing a whole series of these, huh?
â Yes, said Robert.
â What will that look like?
â Excuse me?
â Ah, I donât want to bother you. But I was just wondering, will they all be animals?
â Mainly, yes.
â Crazy.
â Do you think so?
â Oh, Iâm sorry, that sounded worse than I meant it. Honestly. Sorry.
Robert liked it when people put up their arms as if they were being held at gunpoint. That gesture helped him imagine what it would be like to actually fire a gun at them. The cloud of smoke, the recoil of the weapon, the suddenly bursting abdomen, the reverberation of the shot.
â Youâre just doing your job, Robert said in a conciliatory tone.
â Um, well . . . yeah, I guess . . .
Robert had to restrain himself. A small window in the technicianâs attention had opened. He could have played with him now. This attention window, he was familiar with it, felt the draft coming from it. Just one or two well-placed sentences, and the guy might even start to cry.
Maybe another time.
â Do you think it looks like him?
â What?
â The painting. Here, take a look.
Robert turned the canvas slightly to the side so that the technician only had to crane his neck. Just donât show too much, maintain control. The window was still open. The technicianâs features looked intimidated, like the face of a child asking an adult stranger the time or the way home.
â Mm-hmm, the technician said with a nod.
â Looks like him?
â Yeah.
â But not photorealistic, right? Because thatâs not the way I paint.
â Like a photo? No, I wouldnât say it looks like a photo.
â Wonderful, said Robert.
He enjoyed the growing unease the technician was exuding. It was like that extremely high, buzzing sound that turned-on TV screens made. When he had passed a whole wall of those devices for the first time at the age of
â We have drawing classes here pretty often, said the technician. Most of the time theyâre in the conference room, everyone sits in a circle . . . But they donât usually ask for monkeys. More for the mice.
â With the ear on their back?
â What?
â Oh, I just . . . , said Robert. There was once this article in a magazine, which my biology teacher gave me at the time, about a hairless lab mouse with a human ear on its back.
â Ah, said the technician. The Vacanti mouse. That wasnât a human ear, thatâs a misunderstanding. That was just cartilage they grew there and they just molded it into this special form, so that . . .
â Art, said Robert.
â Yeah. In a way.
â Where might the mouse be now? asked Robert.
And he felt a slight twinge in his chest. So soon.
â They donât live long, said the technician.
â Where do you think the mouse is buried?
Another slight twinge, this time higher, just under the Adamâs apple. There was a pause. The technician drummed his fingers a few times on his knees.
â And youâre doing a whole series of these? he asked.
â Yes.
Painting sounds, brush on canvas. The softest scraping in the world. Like the scratching of clawless paws on a closed door.
â Hm, said the technician. Is it okay if I . . .
Robert looked up briefly to see what this was about. The technician was holding up a cigarette. Robert nodded. Relieved sounds of a lighter, deep drag, silence. Why is the smell of a freshly lit cigarette so good? Cigars are an entirely different matter. Principal Rudolph. As if someone were carrying around a factory chimney in his mouth.
â I have nothing against it, said Robert.
â Thanks.
Silence. The monkey had fallen asleep.
â And youâre really doing a whole series of these, huh?
â Yes, said Robert.
â What will that look like?
â Excuse me?
â Ah, I donât want to bother you. But I was just wondering, will they all be animals?
â Mainly, yes.
â Crazy.
â Do you think so?
â Oh, Iâm sorry, that sounded worse than I meant it. Honestly. Sorry.
Robert liked it when people put up their arms as if they were being held at gunpoint. That gesture helped him imagine what it would be like to actually fire a gun at them. The cloud of smoke, the recoil of the weapon, the suddenly bursting abdomen, the reverberation of the shot.
â Youâre just doing your job, Robert said in a conciliatory tone.
â Um, well . . . yeah, I guess . . .
Robert had to restrain himself. A small window in the technicianâs attention had opened. He could have played with him now. This attention window, he was familiar with it, felt the draft coming from it. Just one or two well-placed sentences, and the guy might even start to cry.
Maybe another time.
â Do you think it looks like him?
â What?
â The painting. Here, take a look.
Robert turned the canvas slightly to the side so that the technician only had to crane his neck. Just donât show too much, maintain control. The window was still open. The technicianâs features looked intimidated, like the face of a child asking an adult stranger the time or the way home.
â Mm-hmm, the technician said with a nod.
â Looks like him?
â Yeah.
â But not photorealistic, right? Because thatâs not the way I paint.
â Like a photo? No, I wouldnât say it looks like a photo.
â Wonderful, said Robert.
He enjoyed the growing unease the technician was exuding. It was like that extremely high, buzzing sound that turned-on TV screens made. When he had passed a whole wall of those devices for the first time at the age of
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