Many Faces

The University was small, the class even smaller.

About six of us left. The course was unorthodox, a blend of every subject relating to the laws, all kinds of laws, the laws of life, the laws of court, the laws of society. A trio of professors who alternate based on days of the week. Now, this may be intriguing, but it is hardly the best part.

The story truly starts with him.

A cold, fall afternoon, with the sound of birds chirping out the open window on the seventh floor in the Artes Building. I was sitting in the second row, right in the middle. It is where I’ve always sat since the first day of the semester. It was particularly windy that day, enough to make Professor Shultz stop mid-lecture and shut the window. He knocked over his coffee mug as he reached forward, the tip of his elbow barely brushing the handle of the white cup, and all five of us watched in silence as it spilled all over the gray carpet.

I remember Jane was the first to jump to her feet, always eager to please. She maneuvered around her desk, which was in the front row, and knelt to help our professor clean up the mess. She wore a pleated skirt that day. And a dark blue blazer with a white trim. I think the cuffs had silver buttons. Jane tucked her skirt beneath her as she lowered herself to the ground, bundles of towels in her hands, sleeves rolled up carefully. I glanced at August and Caesar, half-wondering if they’d take the chance to look up Jane’s skirt, something I knew must have crossed her subconscious; why else would she fold her skirt beneath her?

In any case, neither of the boys paid her any mind. It was a knock at the door that we cared about.

Four knocks. Rushed, and of different volumes.

We spun in our chairs collectively; nobody knocked on that door, not while class was in session, and especially not so rapid and sloppy. There was a small window carved into the oakwood door, but our professors had it painted over. None of us had looked at each other, I recalled, we couldn’t seem to tear our eyes away from that single door, and whoever waited behind it.

“Here, Jane, would you keep pressing this down—yes, wonderful. Thank you. Now, I believe someone is knocking,” Professor Schultz said to Jane, rising to his feet. He was wearing black trousers and a cream-colored sweater. I noticed Senna’s eyes follow him as he swiftly moved to the door. She sat beside me, her expressions obvious on her narrow face.

I held my breath when Professor Schultz twisted the doorknob. He did it slowly, and I thought it had to of been on purpose; he loved drama and gravitas. I was on the edge of my seat, wishing he’d open the door, swing it wide open to show us. Yet at the same time, I desired the complete opposite. I did not want anyone else to see our classroom, the blackboard, the tea tray, or even the dozens of plants spreading around the small space. It was ours; it was mine. I pressed my fingers into the wooden desk below me, burning a hole in the door with my eyes, as my professor opened it just enough for only himself to see.

A voice came, full and breathy. “You opened it! Wow, ah, I’m interested in taking this course...” The voice of a male. He trailed off, as if only now realizing he was interrupting a class in session.

“I am currently teaching.” Professor Schultz said, rather coldly. I found myself smirking at the tone, at the face I was sure the Outsider was making; crestfallen and defeated.

“I see, yes. Would you mind giving me a moment of your time anyways?” The Outsider asked.

“I am afraid not, Mr....”

“Judas Fiore, sir.”

”Fiore...You are Italian?”

“Amongst other things,” I heard the stranger say. More quiet conversation ensued, and I could no longer hear it. Discomfort had begun settling into my clothes, the longer the two talked, which must’ve been only five minutes, perhaps less, but it was world-record length for my professor and a simple nobody. An outsider, a stranger.

I bit my tongue when Professor Schultz laughed. It was loud and abrupt; a laugh he reserved for his students after a well-made joke. The five—Luka was sick that day—of us glanced at each other. Even Jane had stopped cleaning. August choked on his tea, Caesar grimaced, and Senna scoffed. I went ramrod straight when the door opened.

Opened.

Fully, welcomingly, wide and revealing.

And there he was. He hadn’t even checked inside; he kept talking with my professor, smiling and nodding along, paying us no attention. It was blasphemous. How could one have Pandora’s box wide open with all the secrets of the world served to you on a silver platter, and not take a single peek?

I was instantly angry.

It only grew as Professor Schultz invited the Outsider inside. That was when he finally absorbed every detail, every intentional choice of décor. It was my home. To have this outsider enter the most precious place to me, walking with his chin angled high, shoulders back, like he was crown royalty and we were simple peasants, was maddening. I tried to ignore his appearance because I immediately despised him, but found it rather difficult.

He was a miscreant. Tan skin, disheveled hair, wire headphones hanging from a messenger bag, in a black button up; suit jacket nowhere to be found, nor a tie. I nearly exploded when I saw his ears. Pierced. With silver studs. He pulled at the collar of his shirt, loosening it at his throat. His smile was disarming—sparkling white against his warm skin, bold smile lines falling into place as he scanned the room. A sheen of sweat made strands of his messy hair stick up and against his forehead; I studied his thin fingers as he pushed his hair back and adjusted his wire framed glasses.

He was entirely foreign. Nothing about him belonged in this room, and above all in this course. Though a part of him also seemed out of place on this planet as a whole. He spoke animatedly, in Italian, to Professor Schultz. Who conversed fluidly and at great length and speed, eager to revert to his mother-tongue.

“I do not see why not, hm?” Professor Schultz mused in English. A comfortable smile settled on his face. “We were in the middle of discussing the laws of power.”

I watched his face light up. His lenses gleamed as he stalked further into the room; he passed the bookshelf, and I attempted to smother the satisfaction of seeing his height in comparison to the age-worn shelves. He was only a head taller than I was, reaching the third shelf. Short and small; his limbs sway the way reeds do in a strong wind. The Outsider seemed to know nothing of weight, has never felt the burden of responsibility, and clearly lacked any experience in fitness. The class collectively stared at the anomaly as he leaned against one of the vacant desks comfortably. He was a picture of casual grace.

I loathed him for it.

“Menesky’s Food Chain?” The Outsider asked. He had the intonation of a question, but his face only showed complete sureness. His eyes scanned the blackboard with scribbled plot points. “I never agreed with his stance, personally.”

“Oh? Would you like to elaborate on that, Mr. Fiore?” Professor Schultz asked, voice dripping with a strange affection he reserved for those he particularly liked. Like me.

Fiore shrugged simply, as if having our professor’s attention was a daily occurrence for him, easy, simple, and it irked me. I had yet to figure out why his existence was so...irritating. Even his name.

“Menesky is bias. He grew up in Germany after his parents immigrated from Asia. I believe—correct me if I’m wrong, of course—his father was German and Russian, his mother Japanese. Shinjuku, to be specific. I hadn’t read the book in so long, sorry if I’ve made any mistakes, though nothing could make me forget his egregious position. He was bullied, alienated, abused, in his youth. That fueled his hatred for the hierarchy and stereotypical systems that existed in Germany—Berlin—which in turn caused him to begin his journey of self-discovery. It is a classic origin, really, and I suppose if it gains success and recognition then, props to him. The Food Chain had over 3 million copies sold. Wasn’t bullied again, that’s for sure.” He breathed out a quick laugh, realizing that professor Schultz was no longer smiling. In fact, our professor was pressing a hand to his chin, which meant he disagreed.

I knew he would be discarded easily. Professor Schultz loved Menesky’s work. Truly, he’d told us at one point in his adolescent years that his whole life fell into place after reading one of Menesky’s earlier works, The Cardinal. I sat up straighter at my desk, pressing my shoulders back; from my seat, I only saw Fiore’s profile as he pushed his glasses up his face with the inside of his wrist. An elegant gesture, I thought. As much as I despised him, there was no denying his allure; the same way a person is drawn to a peculiar puzzle.

“Interesting take. So, you do not agree with his ideals?” Schultz asked innocently. We all knew this was him giving the outsider another chance at redeeming himself. I heard him huff a laugh—an exhale, more than anything—and clear his throat.

“He isn’t wrong, I never said that, it’s more the way he presents his views. ′Understand that the world will rip you to pieces if you do not have the armor of status and intelligence, and better yet, money.′" Fiore held back a chuckle. “He sounds like a petulant child.”

I scoffed, despite myself. Our professor narrowed his eyes, and I waited for him to lead him straight out the door. “Perhaps, but have you thought it may be a frame of rhetoric? A ploy to incite passion and empathy from his readers?”

“Rhetoric? Nah, Menesky had no prior knowledge of English and literature, much less rhetoric. His family had no money for education. I suppose he could have gone to the Regional Library in Berlin, but in his memoir didn’t he say he’d been banned from it? Something about a complaint by the staff, which he used as more fuel for his sob story.” The outsider paused for a moment, rubbing a hand through his messy hair. It was tacky from dried sweat.

“And honestly, he wasn’t as courageous as his fans claim him to be—or what he painted himself to be. He didn’t care about his readers. He didn’t publish another book after that one, not after he was exiled. Menesky wrote all these pretty words but in reality he was using it as a catalyst for everyone else. He wanted an outlet for his feelings of being oppressed as a child. I can’t say it’s even plausible that he was thinking of anyone but himself when he wrote the Food Chain, or even his third take, Jahreszeiten, really, that book was completely subjective, and...I’m rambling.” He laughed stiffly, and I noted his increased uncertainty, an observation that could have brought a smile to my face.

Schultz smiled; it was tight, an expression reserved both for Luka, and answers that he considered to be very, very unsatisfactory. “Bold, auspicious, and wonderfully unfiltered. I see your posture on such matters are unequivocal.”

The outsider blinked, as if questioning if he had misheard. Our professor sat back patiently, offering nothing else but charged silence.

“Unless you can convince me otherwise, yes?”

Professor Schultz laughed and I hated it. The Outsider answered well. “Indeed. Mr. Fiore, would you mind if I ask a few more questions? Academically tailored, if you do not mind...”

“List the three archaic laws of old civilization.”

“Ancient Greece, or Mycenaean?”

Professor Schultz pressed his lips together, not quite frowning, but something more than his pensive face. “Whichever is more prevalent.”

“Alright.”

The Outsider turned and began scrawling out a list on the blackboard, back towards his audience. I sat, hands folded on my desk and legs crossed, wondering what vengeful god possessed this boy to give him such a smug attitude. I had the acute desire to roll my eyes or sneer at him after every comment he made. It was a strange, annoying, ritual; each question professor Schultz asked, the Outsider asked a follow-up. If only to prove his point of knowing the material. Not because he wanted any specification.

He hummed, turned on his heel, and showed his answer to the professor. More nodding. I wanted to throw my desk when the Outsider shrugged for the eighteenth time, it seemed, and erased the chalk, preparing to answer Schultz’s next question.

“What were the original, orthodoxical beliefs of Russia in the 15th century?”

I narrowed my eyes, confused at the change in topic. Professor Schultz looked vaguely amused; I could see the clever twinkling in his brown eyes, the buzzing of plans in his head, as he stared at the Outsider.

“There wasn’t any true orthodoxy—as far as beliefs go—around that time period. Russia wanted the world to see them as a federation from the ground up, and so, if you were to check textbooks and history books, I’m sure you’d find nothing about Russia being a republic,” he paused and adjusted his glasses. “Emil Lebedev, the chairman at the time, covered up any media reporting about the status of Russia as a republic or even communist country. Became an official law, in fact. Tells you something about power, doesn’t it?”

I did not disagree with his answer, it seemed true enough, from the passion by which he spoke of it. We did not cover major historical time periods regarding Russia’s government status, nor did Schultz care about orthodox views as a whole—Russian or otherwise—so it made no strategic sense for him to ask such a question, and it made even less sense that the Outsider was knowledgeable on the topic. More than knowledgeable, really. I thought he was holding himself back from lecturing for several hours more. The precocious peacock.

“Except, there are textbooks about Russia being a Republic.”

The first voice other than the foreigner and professor Schultz, and it belonged to Caesar, the dullest in our class. A waste of space and money. I gave him a sidelong glance, not surprised to see him lounging low in his chair, legs spread with his 24 karat gold necklace sitting between his teeth. Fiore turned to him, a lazy, unimpressed look on his face.

Then he smiled, almost condescending, but not quite.

“Not in Russia, there isn’t.”

“Yes there is.”

I knew Caesar was wrong, as Russia had enforced laws since the 18th century for the destruction of any form of media that mentioned the wordRepublic.It was unlike America in that way, with democracy seen as a weakness. The Russian Leader ruled with an iron fist, despite preaching about freedom and compassion for his people. The Outsider turned towards the blackboard and began scrawling a rough timeline, marking names and dates, murmuring under his breath.

“You see,” he turned and pointed at his work, staring at Caesar. “1409. Establishment of National Filtration, beginning with libraries and drafted works. Schools and Companies and Country records. 1534, replaced Republic with Federation by the largest media transcriptors. 1682, same thing. 1754,Yakov Kuz’min published his work underground, inciting an uproar in Moscow—sparked the rebellion, by the way—yet it lasted no more than 3 years. And 1872, surprising, but not really, another Foundation of Licensing, Ivanin Co. ,was given free reign of Moscow and St. Petersburg Historical Documents. 1903, Inciting curfews, I.D.’s, occupation checks, and closing up underground hotspots. Fun, huh. And 1976, a background check was performed across all of Russia, killing and imprisoning anyone affiliated with Misinformation. A law was passed five years later.”

I was in awe of several things: the speed in which he drew up such precise points, his lack of stutter, and the way he weaved authentic Russian into his explanation. I was sure Caesar could not understand a handful of the words that had been used, but I did. Jane must have as well, and August. Senna, most likely not. It was an influential language and the most meaningful authors were Russian; I was not forced to learn it like Jane and August, I simply had to.

Everyone was silent for two beats longer, especially Caesar. He grumbled in his seat. “Whatever.”

Fiore laughed lightly. “Hey, you asked.”

Professor Schultz cleared his throat, smiled wide, and stole the boy’s attention from Caesar. “You are Russian, are you not?”

The Outsider straightened, shutting his mouth. He looked like a soldier all of a sudden, shoulders back, arms at his sides, and face rather stern. “Born and raised in Kirov, sir.” He said the name fluently, perfectly. A glimpse of his upbringing and foreign roots surfacing in front of us with a single word. “Until we moved, that is.”

“I knew it. You proved me right, young man, with such explicit answers and flawless pronunciation. Why hide such a thing? Why, that is some mix right there. Quite fortunate.”

The boy shrugged a shoulder, his face as indifferent as his actions. “Too messy.”

Professor Schultz chuckled lightly, leaning backwards against the bookshelf. He shooed Jane away when she offered him his mug; freshly refilled and steaming hot.

“Russia, or Italy?”

“Italy.” Was all he said.

“Were you not born in Russia? Raised there, as you said?”

“Russia is my home, yes. But I do not prefer it.”

I could see Fiore’s discomfort. Our Professor didn’t seem to notice, or he simply did not care. He leaned forward in anticipation. His curiosity was an insatiable thing, we knew that well after being here for a year.

“Why not?”

“It’s—let’s just say it isn’t friendly. It is cruel and harsh, as are the people who live there. I never understood the social construct that strangled the towns, cities, streets. Russia was always hungry for more; never satisfied. Control, manipulation, exploitation, those values originated in Russia. Dictatorship spread because of the ruthless Russian leaders.Диктатор.Dictator,came from the Russian root for total control. Sure, it was originally developed from the Roman Republic’s term for a single man judicially having power over the entirety of the empire, but it became much more than that. Some things that died centuries ago should stay dead, and—”

“And you are rambling.”

“Fuck I’m—” He slammed a hand over his mouth, face flushing immediately. Senna giggled and I crossed my arms at his vulgarity. “Shit. Sorry, excuse me...”

Schultz waved a hand, smiling pleasantly, finding this whole exchange amusing. I was bothered by the relaxed nature in which he held himself. Had he already decided to accept this...Stranger?

“Mr. Fiore, you find fault in leaders taking power, seizing control? Or is it by the means in which they do so? Force and violent measures are not for the faint of heart, I understand. A disdain for those with ambition is nothing new to me, I have experienced plenty in my lifetime. Condemnant quo non intellegunt."

The boy snorted a laugh. “I understand plenty. It’s just foolish to me, and wrong.”

“So you believe.”

”Qui totum vult totum perdit."

He who wants everything, loses everything. A clever retort. A sensible one, considering his argument. And yet professor Schultz looked less than pleased; I did not understand. Wit would usually win him over.

“Nothing comes without risk, my boy. The best empires and republics came with fear and determination. Russia does it better than the rest of us now. Greece and Rome let it slip away into the past, letting their old values collect dust and fade into history books. We study and observe the way laws shape our world, applying them where we can and critiquing existing works. We’ve had a wonderful conversation and I can see you are very fortunate with your background; it would be a shame to turn you away from this class.” Professor Schultz folded his hands in front of him, mannerisms closed off and stiff.

The outsider turned and grabbed his bag off the back of our professor’s chair, shrugging it on roughly. “Yeah, got it.”

He made his way towards the door with wide strides. My brows furrowed. He was leaving?

“You are leaving, Mr. Fiore?" Schultz followed the boy with his eyes, unmoving.

“Seeing as you don’t fucking want me here, yes, I am.” He was not nearly as bothered with his cursing as he was before. I did not watch him go, even as Jane and Senna turned their heads to watch. Caesar did the same, though his entire body was twisted in his seat, face expressing such brazen shock that I wanted to scold him. August was the only other one who kept his head.

Then a moment of silence, before the stranger turned and stopped in front of our professor, hand outstretched. I glimpsed at his face, the warm smile that graced it now, and saw no signs of anger or hatred. Not an ounce of animosity. An easy asymmetrical grin, with raised brows and sparkling eyes.

“It was a pleasure, sir.” The Outsider let his fake accent fall away and Professor Schultz regarded him curiously, taking his hand in his own.

“All mine, Mr.

Fiore."

“Actually, my name is Alexander. Thought you should know.”

Alexander Fiore. Intriguing individual. I did not like him, but I could see he was adept, well-informed.

“Alexander, hm? After the Great?”

He laughed loud and open, a pleasant sound, I might have thought, if it were coming from anyone else. “The one and only.”

Professor Schultz mused aloud, giving one last shake before releasing his hand. “Charmed. I hope we meet again, AlexanderFiore.”

“Oh my, I’ve forgotten our little incident this morning,” he chuckled. “Jane? Would you mind putting the kettle on?” Jane shot up from her desk at his request and rushed over to the small, adjoined room once more. Schultz hadn’t even recalled her attempt to give him a fresh coffee during his conversation. I rested my chin in my palm, tapping a finger against my cheek.

I was offended that the Outsider hadn’t tried to make eye contact with me that entire time. I’d noticed how he gazed around the room, looking at the faces of my classmates, but never me. It tore at me, a single frayed strand on a scarf, and he had pulled it, tugging and tugging and tugging until I could do nothing but stare at the pile of string at my ankles. I was tangled in it. Surely it was on purpose, a response to my malice. Fiore...

I hoped I would never see him again.

Odd enough that he sounded American, extremely American, in his speech, even in the way he pronounced his surname. Slipping out of his accent like a silk glove; I was curious why he’d bother, since we have all heard his fluency. All that effort to hide himself and blend in with us, for nothing.

I could no longer keep the smirk from my face.

He didn’t pass the test.