Page 26 of White Room Virgin

“I would have loved to have a chat with an artist. Somehow that was very rude of him just now.” My mother rarely made a secret of her indignation.

“Maybe he didn’t hear me,” Martin started again.

I was amazed that he was trying so hard to get Lucien out of the line of fire. In an instant, I felt compelled to support Lucien. He looked as if he hadn’t slept for several nights. “He’s probably just exhausted,” I said nonchalantly.

I hadn’t expected all the attention turning toward me. My father narrowed his eyes suspiciously and my mother frowned.

“Well, I haven’t seen him once in the apartment in the last two weeks,” I said. “He’s probably been in the studio working around the clock.”

God! Help me! What am I doing?

Defending Lucien felt like I was lying. He was the one who upset me so much. But instead of being angry with him, I now felt like I’d undressed for him in front of my parents.

“Yes, that’s probably it,” my mother said and moved on to the next painting.

I silently followed them through the exhibition and kept catching myself looking out for Lucien. The whole situation made me so nervous that I finally went to the bar and got my first glass of wine. I drank it in large sips and returned to my parents with a glass of water. Relief only came when my father nervously glanced at the clock and said it was time to go. I knew the restaurant was only a ten-minute walk away and we were way too early, but I was happy to get out of here.

I spotted Lucien near the checkroom. He was standing under the stairs with Jessica, a glass of wine in his hand, while Jessica smiled in front of him, gently playing with the collar of his shirt and whispering something in his ear. Lucien seemed bored as he leaned against the wall, sipping his wine.

As soon as he noticed me, he couldn’t take his eyes off me. I found it difficult to look away, and when he finally disappeared from sight, I was overcome by an unsettling feeling that I had done something wrong. I thought about turning back, but what should I say to him?

***

My parents stayed in Zurich for the whole weekend and I was their tour guide. Our itinerary included visits to museums, thetheater, the zoo, and leisurely strolls along the lake. To top it all off, I wasn’t even spared a boat ride.

The visit was exhausting, with each day involving justifying my decision to pursue my studies in front of my parents. After attending church on Sunday, they finally departed for home, leaving me feeling relieved and utterly exhausted as I collapsed into bed. I envied Lucien, who obviously couldn’t be bothered to do such things.

On Monday, I was running around the city like a madman again, trying to relieve the pressure that had built up inside me over the last few days. When I got to the Kornhaus Bridge, I saw that the wall had been papered with new leaves—green paper this time.

After Lucien didn’t show up at the apartment after the exhibition, I was glad to see this sign of life, especially since he hadn’t looked particularly well. It was only later that I remembered what I should have done when I left the exhibition: I should have gone to him and taken his wine glass. I should also have sent Jessica away and sent him home so he could get a good night’s sleep. But I didn’t even have the courage to look at him again.

When I was close enough to read the words on the sheet, my breath caught in my throat.

“I will

Try with my lips

Believe with my eyes

Behave naturally

According to the laws of nature

And resist

The prohibitions of culture”

“What …” I angrily ripped a sheet off the wall and pulled out my phone. Martin had given me the address of Lucien’s studio as well as the phone number in case of emergencies.

“What kind of emergencies?” I had asked and the response was “He hardly has any signal there.”

This might not qualify as an emergency, but I wasn’t willing to wait around indefinitely for him to return home. Who knows how long that could take. So I tucked the paper into my pocket and dashed through the city to the given address. I found myself in front of a large factory building. There were a few company signs at the entrance for the offices on the upper floors, but there was no sign of artists’ studios. As I entered the building, a young woman approached me.

“Excuse me, I’m looking for the studios.”

“In the basement,” she replied. “Who are you looking for?”

“Lucien.”

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