White Room Virgin (Room #1)

12 - Jonah

12

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Jonah

Frustrated, I glanced at one of Lucien’s paintings and felt annoyed at being at an exhibition again. It was all because Martin had left the stupid flyer on the kitchen table when my parents were visiting. My mother insisted on making a detour to the gallery before our planned visit to the restaurant, and it felt like my punishment.

Lucien had stolen my first kiss and I had even liked it too. As a consequence of my failure to resist temptation, I found myself seeking forgiveness from God for days, and I continued extending my running route—Lucien had recently dubbed it self-flagellation.

All around me, people were swirling glasses of wine and having sophisticated conversations. To top it all off, my parents were embracing the role of art connoisseurs amid the modern, youthful art scene. They proudly discussed our original Hans Erni painting, which adorned the wall above our dining table at home.

Since no one seemed to be paying attention to me, I ventured into the next room, feeling anxious and hopeful about encountering Lucien. There was a picture of him in this room too. It was unmistakably dark and confusing. The angels, appearing to clash like monsters, were downright grotesque and evoked a sense of confinement within me. After all, angels were a symbol of goodness, grace, and hope for me. They were God’s messengers, the protectors of mankind. But what Lucien had depicted here seemed to be evil personified, trampling on people with all its might and bringing them hell on earth. I let my gaze wander over the other pictures in the exhibition. Lucien’s art definitely stood out and was distinctive from the rest. I looked at Lucien’s paintings again.

It’s hard to believe he painted that.

I stood there for a while, feeling a sadness welling up inside me, heavier than the weight of my insignificant problems. Who was I to take myself so seriously? Yes, I messed up, but I was back on track. There were much worse things in the world than my mistakes.

Suddenly, Lucien appeared next to me. I caught a glimpse of him from the corner of my eye, but some strange force made it impossible for me to look at him as I stood transfixed, stubbornly staring at the painting. It had been two weeks since the night he kissed me, and we hadn’t seen each other since then. I was grateful for that because it gave me time to digest the situation. But at that moment, I wasn’t so sure I was really over it. I would have loved to turn to him and look him in the face. I had secretly been looking forward to our reunion. I wanted to look into his green eyesand the lips that had kissed me.

… that I had kissed … Oh damn!

“Do you like it?” Lu asked in a soft voice.

“I … don’t know.”

“Would you like to see more of it?”

Is he still talking about the paintings?

After all, he only had two on display.

Lucien was standing so close that our arms were touching. I suddenly felt very hot. My heart was beating in my throat, but I didn’t dare take a single step away from him. I nervously bowed my head and took a deep breath. Summoning all my courage, I met his gaze. He pressed his lips together, noticeably struggling to maintain his attention on the painting. His breathing was shaky as he gave me a brief, shy look, which he averted again. I had never seen him so tense before.

Is it because of the exhibition or … because of me?

He was pale and appeared sleepy.

“Are you all right?” I asked.

He turned to me so slowly, as if he had to force himself to do so, but his gaze softened as soon as he looked at me. He tried to smile and wrapped his arms around himself as if he were freezing cold.

Behind him, I saw Martin and my parents enter the room. When my mother saw me and waved to me, I stepped back from Lucien and stroked my hair sheepishly. He glanced back at his painting, his expression resembling someone caught in a downpour.

“Lu!” Martin said when they were only a few steps away from us. “May I introduce you to Jonah’s parents? Auntie …”

But Lucien simply lowered his head and hurried out of the room, looking like a defeated dog, without uttering a word.

“Uh … Anyway,” Martin said. “That was our roommate.”

“And this is his painting?” my mother asked with interest, stepping closer to the picture.

“What happened to him?” my father grumbled.

“What do you mean?” I asked, irritated.

“Well, looking at it, he seems to be a pretty unbalanced young man.”

“Yes, that’s just Lu,” Martin replied, trying to grin away the tense mood.

“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, the theater, 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.”

“Ah, Luuu,” she said with a transfigured smile. “Just follow the music.”

Not quite as energetic as on the way here, I descended the stairs. At some point, music did indeed reach my ears. The further I walked down the dimly lit corridor, the louder it became. It came from the last room at the end of the corridor. As I stood outside the door and heard the angry shouting, distorted guitars, and rolling drums, I grimaced.

You can hardly call that music.

I hesitated.

What am I doing here anyway?

But then I remembered the poem and pulled the sheet out of my jacket pocket. Just seeing it again made me angry enough to crumple it up and walk into the studio with determination.

I entered a large, brightly lit room. During the day, the upper windows must have let in a lot of sunlight. Brushes, paint cans, tubes, and spatulas lay on a long wooden table, and there was also a laptop with a stack of newspapers and magazines next to it. There was a printer under the table and a sink and fridge next to the entrance. Canvas of all sizes and several easels leaned against it. On the wall in front of me were three paintings that were probably still being worked on, and a large one was lying on the floor. Aggressive metal music blared from a nearby CD player as I spotted Lucien. He lay sound asleep on a dark green sofa, with his face turned toward the wall.

I switched off the music and kicked the couch. Lucien turned around, startled, and opened his eyes. He looked so innocent in his dirty painter’s pants and white shirt. His hair stood up in all directions, and when he blinked at me, he looked strangely cute in his confusion. Before he could say anything, I held out the piece of paper to him. “Why are you doing this?”