Freeman Auditorium, University of New Orleans
11th of February, 05:00 pm.
I had arrived at the University’s premises a couple of hours after a quick lunch in my apartment. The new town and job didn’t seem to change my old habits, not one bit. I would still find, even to this day, some alien comfort in standing next to the sink and eating directly from the frying pan, while pondering on various and work-related issues. Only that particular morning, I was more focused on my rest and going outside, than thinking about Charles or my new colleagues. Of course, I couldn’t keep myself away from the case even when I went for a quick and refreshing shower or when I threw my body on the bed. My eyes would fall defeated by the heavy weight of exhaustion; however, I could find no ease and no peace in my thoughts. Sleeping, as I had foreseen the previous night, was no longer an option, therefore meeting with Mr. Soar was an action I should immediately take.
The New Orleans University was as crowded as ever and it was a vast lot with numerous buildings scattered everywhere, libraries, auditoriums, cafeterias and of course the faculties and dorms. After I questioned a group of students and after getting lost a couple of times, I managed to find the building where their beloved substitute professor was giving a brief lecture.
Valentine was standing in front of the auditorium, speaking to a dozen students all hypnotised by his calm voice as he was trying to explain the political message behind a work of art that I could only recognize once he spoke the name of it.
“ The Raft of Medusa, “ he clicked on the small remote control in his hands and the white cloth behind him flashed, giving us a taste of a magnificent painting. “Brought both fame and controversy in Theodore Gericault’s name. The French found it revolting and just a pile of rotten flesh and bodies, perhaps averting their eyes from the painful truth, whilst the rest of the world was watching in awe the true light that emerged from those colours, the raging sea, and the desperation.” I found myself just as hypnotised as his students while he was talking. I simply found an empty seat, next to three boys and listened carefully. Why would a psychologist lecture a bunch of students about art?
“It took him one year to complete this massive project; one entire year through which he studied the deceased bodies. He went to the mortuaries, dismembered the dead bodies, and brought those pieces in his atelier, studying them as they were slowly rotting. He witnessed the different pigmentations of the corpses and the following stages of decay. He was passionate enough to get so close to death. Some called him even a madman, but was he? What purpose did he really serve?” Valentine leaned against his lectern as he continued. “Was it the momentary inspiration that sparked in the mind of a genius? A talented man who wanted to make a legacy out of his works and this god forsaken event was the chance he was waiting for?” he paused. I suppose he expected someone to answer him. A couple of students dared to raise their hands and even speak up with low voices. Some were afraid if their answers were false or not. That was when Valentine let them know that in his class there was no right or wrong; there was just perception. I watched kids, a few years younger than him, trying to explain the trail of thought of an artist. Some would even bring up the political crisis that was going through France and while I was taken aback by those young pupils who so eagerly wanted to learn and to be heard, my gaze caught his. The auditorium was filled with dozens of college students. Few seats were empty, yet somehow, I felt his eyes piercing my own. I felt him being totally aware of my presence. And as quickly as I glanced over at him, he averted his look and with a sly smile continued his lecture.
“Art can serve as a weapon of the oppressed. The mind of an artist is a beautiful, thick labyrinth with no end. There are thousands, endless dangers lurking in every corner; dangers that only the artist himself can encounter and often they are but his muses. But art can also reflect the political situation of a country…of a nation. The Medusa was not just a shipwreck, commanded by a captain that had never boarded a ship before. It was not the grave for over three hundred souls and it was not the result of an enraged sea. It was a deafening proof that the government had failed its people.”
The slide show had come to an end with the sound of the bell. But no one moved. They all seemed glued in their seats like statues which were not supposed to think or even breathe and yet there they were as if time had paused for everyone but me. And in an instance, a newborn and loud fuss pressed the play button. I moved a bit to the left, giving some space to the students of my row to pass by and leave the auditorium. They were smiling, unaware of the outside world and too focused on the lecture they had just attended. Their minds were filled with beautiful thoughts; beautiful and daring ones.
“It’s a delight to see you here, detective.”
That was my queue. I got up and walked down the stairs towards him.
“I have to be honest,” he let out a sigh, “I wasn’t expecting to meet you again.”
“I’d probably say the same, Mr. Soar” I replied and then looked over at the auditorium. “Your students seemed very focused during the lesson. It’s a rare sight to see.”
“Young people need to feel they are being understood and that you walk beside them not ahead. You gain their trust and attention, and they reward you with their honest attention and their precious time.” In the meanwhile, he started tidying up his papers and notes, pushing them inside a leather briefcase before closing its clips cautiously.
“The same thing can be said for adults.” I bluntly spoke and folded my arms.
“Quite insightful of you, detective.” He sounded impressed, but I still was figuring out my way of approaching him. “However, you haven’t explained to me why you are here this evening.” My eyes met his. My mind was a dry desert and my mouth an even worse one.
“I will try to be brief, Mr. Soar, I promise.” It was no lie, but we had to leave the premises of the University. It was a crowded place and certainly not the most fitting for a conversation about murderers and murdered people.
Valentine agreed and we walked together, trapped in an awkward silence that would soon break.
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