Page 6 of White Room Virgin

“Are you coming home today?”

The question caught me off guard, and although I wanted to say yes, I faltered. Not because of the pictures I had to hand in, but because of Martin … or rather because of Jonah. Martin cared so much about his cousin that I could hardly keep up. And why should I? Jonah had already made up his mind about me and I left a rather unfavorable impression. Playing the nice roommate now wasn’t my style. I didn’t care about Jonah anyway, and the more I found out about him, the more I realized that we lived in completely different worlds. Martin was obviously struggling to find a balance between his past and his current life, and the only way to support him was to stay away from the apartment. Besides, I was doing really well. “Maybe it’s better if I go back to the studio,” I said, pondering.

“When do you have to hand it in?”

“Tomorrow evening.”

“All right, then. But don’t forget to eat.”

I put on my best smile. “You know me, don’t you?”

“Exactly. If you haven’t contacted me by tomorrow evening, I’ll have a pizza delivered to you.”

“That won’t be necessary.”

“And by the way, I gave Jonah the address too.”

“The address? What address? The studio’s address?” I asked in surprise. “Why would you do that?”

“For emergencies,” Martin responded before shutting the locker. “We both know that you overdo it from time to time. And as your personal physician, I thought it best to give Jonah the address.”

“You’re not a doctor yet.”

“But I will be soon.” He patted me on the shoulder and left the changing room.

“Hey! Wait!” I shouted as I slammed the door to my locker and hurried after him.

4

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Jonah

On Saturday, Martin dragged me to an art exhibition. To my surprise, my parents held a deep appreciation for art, which led to my early visits to a museum or two during childhood. But this was my first time attending an exhibition opening in a gallery, and I felt completely out of place. Everyone appeared so sophisticated as if they had an innate comprehension of art. I felt like a hillbilly trying not to attract attention. Even from a distance, it was obvious that I didn’t fit in. I was astonished by how effortlessly Martin integrated with the crowd, casually interacting and engaging in small talk with ease. I, on the other hand, walked through the white rooms in awe, admiring the works of the various artists.

One painting—measuring nearly seven feet in width and height—caught my attention. I stopped and frowned at the bizarre artwork. It depicted a strange world filled with sprawling plants around a ruin in a gloomy forest clearing. I could see monsters hiding in every corner with cat-like eyes and lizard-like tails. It was a captivating picture you could look at for a long time—there was always something new to discover. Intrigued, I leaned forward and read the name tag.

Lucien Gilliéron:The Hiding Place Of The Demons; acrylic on canvas

I hadn’t expected that. Impressed, I took a few steps back and viewed the painting again with a fresh perspective.

“Do you like it?” Lucien suddenly asked as he stood next to me.

“What is it?”

“You’ve never been into art, have you?”

“I … uh … well … I don’t know,” I stammered, my uncertainty palpable in my voice. “And you painted this?”

“Come on. I’ll show you another one of my works.”

I followed him into the next room and found myself in front of another wall-sized painting. “Good God.”

It was a collection of monstrous figures which, despite their grotesque appearances, reminded me ofTitania’s Awakeningby Johann Heinrich Füssli. Lucien’s painting was full of cruelty, yet I was fascinated by it. My eyes fell on a small red dot affixed to the nameplate.

Sold?

“Can you make a living from it?”

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