Chapter 3: C2: 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 around 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 transfixed 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 did this. They better do it right here and right now for me to believe they actually did this piece of junk."
"Jeez, stop getting 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 with 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 on 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 submit. "However, he is an 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 of 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.
"Hello, Sir Rafael," they greeted the man. His slicked-back hair and wire-rimmed glasses perched on an aristocratic nose, as if carved by Greek sculptors—the perfect ones, after all, are meant to enhance everyone's features, unlike the old Romans, who sculpted whatever they pleased. This man really can wear everything he wants, and it suits him, and with that, he's quite distinguishable and very cool. Diaz assumed.
"I'm impressed with your art displays. Your art students seem exceptionally gifted this year!"
"They are indeed talented, Sir Rafael."
"Yet they are seldom given the opportunity to shine," interjected the female teacher with a slight frown. "To be frank, if I may speak freely," Mr. Diaz glowered at her menacingly for being silent, yet she disregarded it. "The corporate world has little need for artists. There are limited career prospects for art or creative writing graduates, even if they graduate as top achievers. Ultimately, grades matter and connections matter; companies hire whoever they prefer, but mostly because of that." She glanced at Rafael's piercing brown eyes and smiled apologetically. "Please do not mistake my words as criticism of the school or department. I merely wish to be honest, sir." Her awkward laugh did little to dispel the tension. Rafael smiled sympathetically, heaving a deep sigh as he gazed at the paintings, replicas of Renaissance masterpieces, adorning the hall.
"I understand your viewpoint and fears. Ms. Geronima is right to be pragmatic. Finding employment after graduation is undoubtedly challenging." His eyelashes fluttered pensively. "Yet that is why we are here—to equip them with knowledge and skills to pursue careers, if not the exact thing they aspire to, then at least a proximity to their passions." He emitted a short bout of chuckle. "Neither we nor the higher-ups can compel owners to hire them, much as we desire it. We can only guide them to achieve anything of the best of the openings available on the market." He slithered a hand into his pocket, fiddling with a pink gel pen as his rings caught on the cap.
"So, Mr. Diaz, where are your budding artists? Specifically, the ones responsible for the La Pietà and Mona Lisa replicas?"
Diaz was taken aback by Rafael's query after making such a shameless statement in front of him.
"Del Cielo is in the school's press office."
"So... she's making school articles again. She's that multi-talented, huh?"
"Yes, sir, she's pretty.
"Mr. Alessio, who painted the Mona Lisa you see, is in the hospital presently."
"Oh dear, what happened?"
"He was found injured at a crime scene. His hand was severed, and his eye was scraped. At least that's the latest update I've heard about him."
"Can Alessio's hand be reattached?" Rafael pressed his lips together in disappointment, which made Rafael feel weirded out because of his query.
"I have not contacted him since, so I do not know if his hand can be saved, regrettably." Diaz shuddered at the thought of the gruesome injury. He doesn't know the full details of the crime, but Alessio—that guy—has been through a lot and I bet he wouldn't like to miss any opportunity to " And my art club students are likely in my advisory room now, sir, though club activities continue despite the Foundation Day celebrations."
"What a tremendous loss it would be to lose such a talented artist." Rafael ceased fidgeting with the pen and sighed heavily as if worried by something. "Please convey my hopes for his swift recovery. Also, inform your students of the inaugural international arts competition to be held in Italy, with a stopover in Paris and other places, so I can finalize the arrangements. I need participants." He quickly pulled a handkerchief onto his mouth and yawned away. "It will be a long but rewarding journey. Select your most outstanding artists, Alessio especially, to participate." His gaze returned to the paintings. "I am certain he wouldn't miss the opportunity."
With a few parting steps, he turned back. "Ms. Geronima, kindly revert to your natural black hair. A woman's crowning glory looks loveliest in color intended by nature." Rafael's countenance remained impassive as he offered his unsolicited opinion and a scolding that every school in the Philippines prohibited students from dyeing their hair, even private institutions, though most strictly enforced by Catholic schools ostensibly to promote propriety and naturalness. Rafael strode off, leaving his subordinates.
"Psh, why must he always be so fastidious and opinionated? He "appreciates" art yet—" Geronimo's eyebrows knitted in annoyance.
"Let's just relay his messages."
[Activated SOS]
Rafael's gold and silver rings glinted in the sunlight. The silver ring on his thumb was recently resized to fit. He cherished these two rings as mementos from the two most significant women in his life. The gold ring with three small yellow diamonds and a red and blue gem at its center, worn on his pinky, was from his mother. The gold band etched with a small cross, nicked but still lustrous, was from his lover, sparkling as he saw his memories like a film from it.
*Ping*
[We need to talk.]
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