There was half an hour to go before the introductory class began, and I was back in the men’s, trying to avoid my own gaze in the mirror and waiting for a call to go through.
“Did I not say I was going to bed? Do you know what bloody time it is?”
“Yes, I do, I’m still jet-lagged. Lakshmi, did you tell people I have anxiety?”
She’d turned her camera on, but it was dark. There were a few moments of silence on the other line, then, “Armand, pet, youdohave—”
“I do not! I get a bit nervous—”
“And tetchy.”
“—andtetchy, but these people seem to think I’m some sort of ... sort of ...”
“Artist?”
It was my turn for a few moments of silence. Angry silence. “Lakshmi, I am capable of human interaction,” I growled, finally.
“I know, that’s why I got you this job.Iknow you can teach a month-long workshop to a load of Californian children. The House thinks so too.” I heard the softclicks she lit her cigarette with an old Bic lighter, and for a moment her sharp features appeared outlined in gold. “You’re the only one with apparent compunctions on the issue. But think of it this way. Teaching will be great practice for the con.” Her eyes, glinting in the red cigarette light, narrowed. “Have you eaten anything today? Mind you, whiskey doesn’t count.”
Lucky guess.
I took a deep breath and then let it out slowly, leaning my head back against the tiles. “Am I going to make an arse of myself?”
“Probably not. You didn’t answer my question.” I heard her take a long drag of her cigarette, saw the ruby flare, and instantly began to crave one horribly.
I glanced at my watch—plenty of time for a nip outside for a nicotine fix before the execution. “I attended a luncheon. People were nice at me. I got the feeling you told them I might take off all my clothes and run around singing ‘Don’t Rain on My Parade’ at the top of my lungs.”
“That was a selling point.” She appeared to hear my scowl over the phone, and said in a reconciliatory tone, “I’m aware that you don’t like to think of yourself as a diva, Demetrio, but that whole temperamental-artist shtick really sells in America. Remember what the product is.”
“Me.”
“Achcha. Just remember to breathe.”
After about half a pack and a cold drink of water, I made my way to the classroom; it was already half-full, and Robin was sat in one of the upper rows. He looked somewhat disheveled and a little pale, which was concerning, but he waved at me enthusiastically. I gave him a brief nod and busied myself setting up my slides—which were just the text of the syllabus blown up. By the time I’d won my battle with the computer, the rest of the class had come in and taken their seats, their whispering making a soft and terrifying sound reminiscent of the ocean.
I looked up, and silence fell.
Clearing my throat, I stepped out from behind the podium, managing to do so without falling or knocking anything over.
“Hullo, er, my name is Armand Demetrio. I—” I had to battle a blush for a few moments while they applauded. “I, er, thank you, that’s—that’s sweet. Erm, what I’m here to say, er, is you don’t actually need to know how to draw to make comics. It’s not a strict requirement, you know, for your message, whatever it is, but we’re gonna learn that, because it’s nice to have under your belt—that is, it’s better to have ... that tool. Erm. Than tonothave it.”
I was suddenly confronted with the complete certainty that my zipper was down.
My hand flew to my waist but found all was fully zipped. I breathed a sigh of relief and tried to remember what I’d been talking about.
“I’m not going to teach you how to draw; there are much better places to learn that and p-people to learn from. What Icanteach you, Ihope, is quite hard to put into words. Evidently. I-I know this workshop has a bloody complicated name and all, but essentially, I think I’m supposed to show you ... how I do what I do. Er. Part of thatisdrawing, aye, and we’ll do that, but some of it is storytelling and layout and things, so—” It was down, my zipper was down.
I checked, and once again nearly slumped in relief.
“I’m also not going to teach you how to make my comic because, heh, that would be daft, wouldn’t it? And pointless. I-I’m meant to— I’m going to try to teach you how to recognize those things which—which mightmakea comic, yeah? The bits that make it more than anotherArchieFun Homerip-off.”
The class laughed, and for a moment I thought it was because I’d managed to make a joke, but then I realized it was because my zipper was, indeed, down.
No, it wasn’t.
“Erm. So, aye, th-that is what we’ll try and figure out, together, in this workshop. It—it shan’t be easy—” MY ZIPPER WAS DOWN.
No, itbloody wasn’t.
