has been transformed from a garden party to something that looks more like a disaster relief shelter. The silver trays of champagne flutes have been replaced by coffee urns and Styrofoam cups. The lights are on full blaze and the curtains to the balcony have been drawn, as if the view would be upsetting to the survivors huddled in small groups clutching their hot drinks.
There’s a terrible vacancy in this room because of the one person who’s gone. I remember something that a friend told me after she gave birth to her first child attended by a midwife in her own house. “Someone new was in the room who hadn’t come in through the door.” Scanning these faces now, I realize I’m still looking for the one who left without going through the door.
Then I notice Mark talking to a uniformed police officer and a sobbing girl. It takes me a moment to recognize Robin’s friend Zoe, so transformed is she since I first saw her this afternoon, laughing and flirting in Washington Square Park.
“No, I didn’t really see what happened,” she’s saying as I approach the group. “When Orlando came out onto the balcony, Mr. Balthasar pulled me away. I think he was afraid Orlando was going to hurt me, but really it was Robin who he was jealous of—”
“Orlando Brunelli,” Mark says, ducking his head and rubbing the back of his neck. With his hair falling into his eyes and the tails of his shirt coming untucked, he looks twenty years younger than his forty-five years, but when he lifts his head I see that his eyes look old and haunted. Poor Mark. I know he blames himself for what happened. I come close enough to him so that I can surreptitiously slide my hand onto his arm without anyone seeing. I’m startled to feel that he’s trembling. “He was fighting with Robin earlier in the evening,” Mark continues telling the officer. “He accused Robin of stealing part of the script for his film, which won first prize tonight. I had assured him we would look into the matter tomorrow, but then he managed to get away from me and run onto the balcony. I only managed to catch up with him and hold him back on the balcony.”
“But that’s not right. Robin wouldn’t have stolen someone else’s work, would he, Dr. Asher?” Zoe asks, turning unexpectedly to me. I’m startled that she even knows my name. “He was in a lot of your classes, right? He was always saying that you were his favorite teacher. He worshipped writers. He’d never steal from someone else, right?”
“Is that right, Dr. Asher?” the police officer asks me. “Had this student ever been accused of plagiarism before?”
“Well, actually, there was one other incident…”
Mark tilts his head and blinks at me. “I wasn’t aware of any other incidents with this student,” he says, his voice icily formal. I wince at his tone but then remind myself that he’s in shock. Still, I’m hurt when he shifts his weight so I’m no longer able to touch his arm.
“It was his first infraction so I didn’t think it was necessary to make a formal complaint,” I say. “He was so upset, and he promised it would never happen again. As Miss—” I stumble, looking to Zoe, realizing I don’t know her last name.
“Demarchis,” she says.
“As Miss Demarchis just said, Robin was very sensitive. I think any accusation of plagiarism in the film would have been very upsetting to him, especially now. He looked very stressed today in class—”
“Yes, I think the picture’s coming together,” Mark says, shifting his gaze from me to the police officer. “The boy had a history of plagiarism, he was under a lot of stress because of finals and the film show, then Orlando Brunelli shows up and accuses him of stealing the screenplay for his film…He felt his only way out was suicide.”
“Suicide?” Zoe asks, her eyes widening. “But I thought he just fell…”
“But you said you didn’t see what happened,” the officer says. “Are you changing your
There’s a terrible vacancy in this room because of the one person who’s gone. I remember something that a friend told me after she gave birth to her first child attended by a midwife in her own house. “Someone new was in the room who hadn’t come in through the door.” Scanning these faces now, I realize I’m still looking for the one who left without going through the door.
Then I notice Mark talking to a uniformed police officer and a sobbing girl. It takes me a moment to recognize Robin’s friend Zoe, so transformed is she since I first saw her this afternoon, laughing and flirting in Washington Square Park.
“No, I didn’t really see what happened,” she’s saying as I approach the group. “When Orlando came out onto the balcony, Mr. Balthasar pulled me away. I think he was afraid Orlando was going to hurt me, but really it was Robin who he was jealous of—”
“Orlando Brunelli,” Mark says, ducking his head and rubbing the back of his neck. With his hair falling into his eyes and the tails of his shirt coming untucked, he looks twenty years younger than his forty-five years, but when he lifts his head I see that his eyes look old and haunted. Poor Mark. I know he blames himself for what happened. I come close enough to him so that I can surreptitiously slide my hand onto his arm without anyone seeing. I’m startled to feel that he’s trembling. “He was fighting with Robin earlier in the evening,” Mark continues telling the officer. “He accused Robin of stealing part of the script for his film, which won first prize tonight. I had assured him we would look into the matter tomorrow, but then he managed to get away from me and run onto the balcony. I only managed to catch up with him and hold him back on the balcony.”
“But that’s not right. Robin wouldn’t have stolen someone else’s work, would he, Dr. Asher?” Zoe asks, turning unexpectedly to me. I’m startled that she even knows my name. “He was in a lot of your classes, right? He was always saying that you were his favorite teacher. He worshipped writers. He’d never steal from someone else, right?”
“Is that right, Dr. Asher?” the police officer asks me. “Had this student ever been accused of plagiarism before?”
“Well, actually, there was one other incident…”
Mark tilts his head and blinks at me. “I wasn’t aware of any other incidents with this student,” he says, his voice icily formal. I wince at his tone but then remind myself that he’s in shock. Still, I’m hurt when he shifts his weight so I’m no longer able to touch his arm.
“It was his first infraction so I didn’t think it was necessary to make a formal complaint,” I say. “He was so upset, and he promised it would never happen again. As Miss—” I stumble, looking to Zoe, realizing I don’t know her last name.
“Demarchis,” she says.
“As Miss Demarchis just said, Robin was very sensitive. I think any accusation of plagiarism in the film would have been very upsetting to him, especially now. He looked very stressed today in class—”
“Yes, I think the picture’s coming together,” Mark says, shifting his gaze from me to the police officer. “The boy had a history of plagiarism, he was under a lot of stress because of finals and the film show, then Orlando Brunelli shows up and accuses him of stealing the screenplay for his film…He felt his only way out was suicide.”
“Suicide?” Zoe asks, her eyes widening. “But I thought he just fell…”
“But you said you didn’t see what happened,” the officer says. “Are you changing your
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