L’ORIGINE DU MONDE by Annalisa Mastronardi

“Guys, he’s coming,” shouted Laura running away from the door.

I rushed to my desk and dropped into the chair.

“Good morning, guys,” said the teacher, walking into the classroom.

“Good morning, Mr. Kelly,” we all answered in chorus.

I reached into my bag for my book. The teacher placed his stuff on the desk and began to examine the attendance sheet.

“Today we’ll talk about Impressionism,” Mr. Kelly lifted his gaze. “You, Luke. What does the term Impressionism make you think of?”

“Mm... Munch? ‘The Scream’? That funny guy with the wide-open mouth begging for help?” Luke swallowed.

“Incorrect. That’s Expressionism. Mind your words, Luke. Words are important,” Mr. Kelly reprimanded him.

“Here! Here!” Lisa yelped, waving her hand.

“Go ahead,” said Mr. Kelly.

“Manet,” she answered with satisfaction.

“Exactly!” He got out of his chair and began walking through the space that separated our desks. “It was Édouard Manet who produced the first Impressionist painting, ‘The Luncheon on the Grass.’ The painting was first exhibited at the Salon de Refusés in 1863…”

“Why wasn’t it exhibited in an official Salon?” Richard interrupted him.

“Certain subjects were deemed immoral at the time,”replied Mr. Kelly with irritation. “You know, a naked woman sitting among bourgeois men…”

“Well, I think there are more immoral paintings than this one, Mr. Kelly. How about…” Richard leafed through the book quickly, “This, for example. Page 143. This is definitely far more scandalous.”

I browsed through my book and got to page 143. A massive vulva appeared before my eyes. The painting showed the torso of an undressed woman lying on a bed.‘The Origin of the World’ read the caption next to the image.

“Revolutionary,” I said. “No Venus. No Virgin Mary.”

“Seriously? I don’t understand what you find revolutionary in two labia majora thrown just in your face.Outrageous, I’d say. Ugh,” Victoria objected, sticking her tongue out.

“Sure. This was definitely more scandalous,” snorted Mr. Kelly, leaning against a desk. “In any case, you’re too rash, guys. One step at a time. We’ll discuss Realism at a later stage.”

When the bell rang, the students poured into the corridors like a herd of crazed animals.

“Clear the way! Clear the way!” I shouted, pushing through the crowd. When I came to the gates, the 209 sped past before I could stop it.

“Shit.”

I walked home, desolate. In the shop windows, a host of mannequins scrutinised me from behind their absent eyes. I’d been walking that road for many years now. The streets of Cork had watched me growing up, witnessing all my joys and sorrows. I thought back to the class on Impressionism. It would be cool to be part of a Salon deRefusés myself. Under one condition, though: I’d be the one who refused, not the refused one. Refusing what? Well, I didn’t know yet. Maybe the world was born out of an act of rebellion. Decisive. Unavoidable. As if each single particle had revolted against the laws of the universe themselves.

“I won’t stay in here any longer. Compressed, trapped. I won’t!” I imagined the first particle shouted.

“I won’t! I won’t!” All the other particles followed it,shouting with all their strength, until the universe finally expanded.  

Yeah. That’s how the world was born. Forget the Big Bang.

As I approached the Bank of Ireland, I glimpsed a group of men who were talking to each other. I loosened my uniform blouse, looked down and walked past them. They fell into a silence that was soon followed by some whispered giggles. Walking in front of a man had always made me feel uncomfortable. I hated the thought of his eyes on me. It was worse than being frisked from head to toe. Was it possible for a woman to walk in the street without a man sizing up her body or turning back to look at her ass? I wanted to charge at them and smash their faces in. Morons.

Back home, I didn’t talk much. I had a sandwich and went straight to my bedroom. I grabbed my phone and typed: Listen, all or nothing. I don’t like doing things by halves. Are you willing to get serious with me? I shut my eyes and sighed. My phone beeped a few seconds later. See. You answered your own question. I gritted my teeth before replying: Yes, that you’re an asshole.

I did it. I said to hell with him once and for all. Like Sisyphus I had let the rock roll down but, unlike him, I wouldn’t go back to start over, let alone let myself be overcome by grief. Not a chance. I refused to do so. But then how did I manage to be with someone like that? With. That’s a big word. “Keep a low profile,” he said when we walked in his area. What, you’re ashamed of me, you stupid idiot? I’m the one who should be ashamed of carrying around such a prick. Like the time I called him ‘love’ and he looked at me disgusted, or when he said I didn’t have a personality. Who, me? I’ve got plenty, honey.

I had an idea: in order to cut off all contact, I blocked him on all social media. Block Daniel? Block.

I pushed my hair back behind my ears and left my room.

In the living room my father was sitting on the sofa staring at the television. Man charged following woman's murder in Passage West, the headline read.

“Ashley O’Riordan was found dead at her home in Passage West, County Cork, by her young daughter,” said the anchor-woman enveloped by a low-necked spangly sheath dress. Her swollen cheekbones stood out against a thick layer of orange foundation.  

“Have you ever broken up with someone?” I askedmy father, sitting next to him and pretending to search for something among the folds of the couch cover.

“Never. Why?” He looked at me inquiringly.

“No reason.”

“You know it. Your mother was the only one.”

“Yeah,” I whispered, resting my head on his shoulder.

As a student, my mother moved from Midleton to Cobh to attend secondary school. One day, while my father was sitting with his friends in a café in Pearse Square, my mother walked past his table. He was immediately struck by that fresh-faced young woman and, after saying a hurried goodbye to his friends, followed her. My father had always been a shy guy but that day he managed to muster the courage to ask her out. She accepted his invitation straight away and ever since they had never been apart.

“One God, one love,” my aunt Rose once told me. Yeah. Pity that those were different times. They don’t make men like that anymore.

I stood up and returned to my room. On the desk, my phone lit up. I unlocked the screen. 4 pm. Fellini Café. Chloe is coming. Are you in? It was Victoria. Sure, I replied.

I got ready and left, slamming the door on the way out.

“Where are you going?” I heard my mother asking. Too late. I was gone.

In the café Victoria and Chloe were chatting cheerfully. I ordered a coke and placed my phone in the centre of the table. On the screen, my last conversation with Daniel.

“No way! You did it!” Victoria exclaimed, bringing the phone closer to her face.

“Thank God!” Chloe peeked out from behind Victoria’s shoulder.

“Yeah. I’m sick of half relationships,” I replied, sipping my coke.

“C’mon! Let’s take a selfie and celebrate this moment with an Instagram story,” Chloe suggested.

I rolled my eyes and withdrew immediately. “You know, Chloe. I want to make history, not stories.”

“You never change!” said Victoria, staring at the camera with a wink.

I wondered if we were still capable of acting genuinely. Or perhaps our actions were all dictated by our thirst of showing off on those stupid brain-sucking platforms? Maybe I was the weird one.

​“What about today’s class? The one on Expressionism, I mean,” Chloe inquired after returning to her seat.

​“Impressionism, ignorant! Words are important,” Victoria intervened, mimicking Mr. Kelly’s voice.

​“Great stuff,” I answered.

“Yes, not bad,” added Victoria.

“Speaking of words, what’s your favourite one?” Chloe asked.

“Mine is ‘caterpillar.’ Who knows, it might become a butterfly one day,” said Victoria with a dreamy expression.

I laughed, almost choking on my coke.

“Let’s listen to yours then,” she said huffily.

“You’re too touchy, Vicky,” I told her while placing my glass on the table.

She exhaled noisily and shook her head.

“Bullshit,” I paused, “my favourite word is bullshit.”

The two of them gave me a puzzled look, their mouths half opened.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” I leaned backagainst the chair. “Try to listen to its sound. Bull-shit. Hear it? A bounce and then a rustle. Yeah. Bullshit once said, you should get rid of it, or at least, you’d better forget it straight away.”

​“I’m beginning to seriously worry about ya,” said Chloe, staring at me.

​“I see nothing weird about that, Chloe. If you think about it, most of our daily conversations are bullshit. Look at us, right know,” I pointed to our table, “This is bullshit.”

​Victoria changed the subject and began to talk about her new date who was actually an ex of hers. I said I would never get back with Daniel. Well, not for now at least. Would I really stand firm on my decision? Even if he crawled back to me? It’s hard to say. Around five, we left the café.

On my way home I met an old neighbour and said hello to him. He waved back to me nicely. It was lovely to see a gesture of kindness. It still made me trust human kind. At the end of the day not everyone was rotten.

I turned the corner. A billboard showed a woman in a white bikini on a couch, her legs crossed. It was an advert for sofas. Don’t miss your chance and take your seat, it said. A flash of lightning suddenly lit up the sky. It was going to rain. I could feel the first few drops. I picked up my pace.

When I reached my front door I was already soaking wet. I heard a vibration, so I sheltered in the porch and took out my phone. It was a text from a guy I had met at a gig in Kinsale some months before. He invited me for a coffee. He looked great but we didn’t talk much that night.He was probably interested more in my appearance than who I was beneath it. Knowing me better wasn’t in his plans, I guess. As for me, I’ve never been drawn to a boy just for his looks. Just think of Daniel. Fat and not an Adonis. Still, his wit drove me crazy.

If you want that thing, forget it! I cut it short. He made it clear that it would be just a simple chat, that’s all.You seriously want me to believe that Jesus Christ froze to death? I replied.

I dried my eyes with the sleeve of my jacket and then got the key in the lock. When it didn’t unlock, I tried with another. What was it my cousin said when we were children? Oh, yeah. One key can open many locks. Right. Look here, little Michael. Bullshit.

I was struggling to open the door. The lock needed some lube. Always something wrong with these holes. Too narrow, too wide, too dry, too… immoral. Yeah, a vagina: the origin of the world. What if it had teeth? Like in that movie I watched in secret at my grandparents’. I can see it all. A bloody valley. The origin, yes, but also the end.

I giggled while trying to turn the key with more strength. The lock abruptly made a weird noise.

“Fucking hell!”

The key was broken