⌚ New Experiences

8. Mixed Media

The Vitruvian Gallery was one of the greatest works of art on the continent. Spanky wasn't normally such a big fan of seeing other artists' works, because painting was something he enjoyed doing more than learning about. He'd studied famous artists in school in order to secure his admission to college on a course in something that came so easily, but they weren't something he really got excited about. He could shoot the breeze with other artists, argue the merits of one style or artist versus another, but it didn't matter that much to him what the answer was. He always felt, when those discussions came up, like Ned and Warty discussing football. Somebody would start an argument about which of two players was more skilled, and those two would join in, usually on opposite sides. They could quote some stats maybe, or refer to conspicuous examples of skill or luck in some match they'd seen on television. Maybe they'd bring up some mistake or foul from a few seasons back. But they'd never really be animated, because neither of the players up for debate was on the teams they cared about. Warty and Ned supported a local team perpetually one step away from relegation, and nobody else thought their players were noteworthy, so they had no investment in those debates.

That was art for Spanky. That was life for him, except for a few special moments with his girlfriends. Everything was good enough, but never exciting. But visiting the Vitruvian was still something he could get a little excited about. Not for the canvases that lined the halls, showing off skill and talent so many times greater than anything he'd be able to display. But the building itself was something that took his breath away.

There were one hundred corridors, all numbered, in a complex three-dimensional web. No corridor linked to one that it shared a digit with. It was written that way in the original architect's blueprints, and the designers had chosen to put large signs denoting the number of every corridor. It was a strange floorplan with sloping corridors replacing staircases, so that reaching some of the central levels involved either traversing a complex helical path, or physically climbing from sculptures whose creators had marked them suitable for the purpose. It was like wandering around inside a sculpture based on the works of Escher, and Spanky had always wanted to see how the gallery compared to the pictures he'd seen.

Of course, he had no excuse to visit. He was an art student, but a famously lazy one, and none of his research projects involved artists who were exhibited here. And for someone who had spent almost his whole life on autopilot, indulging whatever activities his friends were into, he was starting to realise that he was more than a little apprehensive about the thought of going somewhere on his own. Would that mean the end of his supposed popularity?

The answer came in the form of Paper. She wasn't an artist, nor was she a student. She was just someone his friend Lulu had introduced him to, and the two had immediately hit it off. That was before Lulu had jumped him herself, of course, but he still relished the time he could spend with Paper. She was demure and soft-spoken, shy like she was afraid of her own shadow. But when she found something she wanted, she was always willing to fight for it. And a lifetime of discrimination – for being quieter than most of her peers, for her white coat, for being an apex predator of an almost-extinct race – had left her caring very little for what other people thought until they were willing to act on their words. Insults bounced off her now, until they came with fists attached.

So when Spanky had told her about the strange numeric complexity of the Vitruvian Gallery, her imagination had been set on fire. That was one of the unexpected things they'd had in common; a technician at a video games studio and a student of fine arts. They both loved puzzles, the strange and the obscure. And hearing about the various numerological rules that seemed to govern the layout of the gallery, they'd both had the same thoughts: they had wondered whether the designer had come up with the rules first and then solved the puzzle, or if merely made an odd shape that seemed to have a lot of symmetry without actually displaying any, and then come up with a set of rules later to describe it.

They walked through the endless corridors hand in hand. They stopped to look at some of the pictures – Paper had an eye for good art, as much as she liked to deny it. More often, she pointed at something that reminded her of Spanky's work. At times he wondered if she thought more of his paintings than he did, or even if she knew his own work better than he did. To him, a painting was a way of getting a grade that was relatively easy and quite fun to achieve. But to Paper, they were works of art, with meaning and emotional attachment. Sometimes, when she compared his work to the masters, he could almost see it himself.

And then they were up on the roof, one of the less accessible areas of the gallery.

"Wow," Paper breathed, panting just a little from the last section of the corridor. Both of them had found their balance tested to the limit trying to reach this exit, and he'd been able to see the whole way that Paper could really use the muscles her demure-bookworm persona tried to hide.

"Wow," he agreed, though his eyes weren't pointed out toward the horizon.

"Did you know you can see the Arch from up here? I couldn't believe it, but there it is."

"Really?" he looked away from her heaving chest despite himself. He tried to follow the direction she was pointing, but he couldn't see it. Some things, he thought, just weren't for his eyes. Paper never tried to make him feel small, though. She described the sight in detail, trying to help him to see what she was so entranced by. And then he knew, he'd told Lulu many of his secrets days before, but he'd not even thought about letting Paper know the truth. She was fit and strong, enough to surprise anyone who took her at face value. But she'd been hurt one time too many, and her own self-image wasn't so rugged. He couldn't bear to hurt her again, even if she didn't take him to the edge and take him away from himself like her friend did.

"I'm sorry," he whispered eventually.

"What for? You've brought me somewhere marvellous. It's a beautiful gift, and I noticed you got first class tickets even though the price you showed me was only for standard. That's not how it works when you're splitting the bill, you silly fox."

"I can afford it," he shrugged, "But that's not what I wanted to... I mean, I'm not sure how to..."

"You're breaking up with me?" her voice was so low he could barely hear it above the breeze, even as she leaned in closer. "Was this like... a goodbye kiss or something?"

"No!" he yelped, and then got himself a little more under control, "No! I don't want to leave you, you're the most wonderful, sweet, honest... you're everything I ever wanted. I don't want to leave you. I don't want to hurt you, but I've not left myself much choice there. But I've set up a dilemma for myself, and I have to... I don't want to lie to you any more. I've been cheating on you. I wish I hadn't. I never let myself think about how it would make you feel. I tried to tell myself that if you didn't know, then it wouldn't hurt you, but that's just..."

"I know," she answered. He could hear the tears that she wasn't letting herself shed. He could hear from her voice that his words had hurt her already. But this was something he'd chosen to do. It wasn't telling her that was making her cry, it was the things he'd done over the last few months, for his own selfish needs.

"I'm sorry," he said, "I thought I'd never hurt you. I shouldn't have ever considered it. I thought it was different... like, with you I can be tender and romantic, but with someone else i can be wild and vicious, let my feral side out and make it a fight for control. And I couldn't choose. I..."

"Have you chosen now?" the words were getting softer still. He stared at the gentle movements of her jaw, but he couldn't be sure he'd heard her right.

"I'm so sorry," he said, "I slept with Lulu. Your friend, our friend. I didn't intend it to happen, but... no, I'm lying again. I want to be honest with you. I found out how much it makes me feel alive to be helpless. There's a thrill to it, like a roller coaster, or like... I wanted to feel that again, and I knew someone who'd be into that kind of thing, and I just never stopped to think about your feelings. Can you–"

"I know," she said again, a little louder this time. "You think I didn't notice a bite mark on the back of your neck? The scratches on your skin? I'm naïve maybe, but I'm not stupid. And I recognise feline tooth patterns. I worried, I thought I wasn't satisfying you, or you just hadn't got around to telling me it's over. But then, you still have these occasional romantic gestures, that you never seem to notice yourself. Like bringing me up here to watch the sunrise. And that convinced me you still care. So..."