Page 15 of White Room Virgin

He’s up to something.

“Why are you doing this?” I asked suspiciously.

“I want you to learn to have fun for once.” He looked at me so seriously that I felt I had missed something.

Perhaps I had missed the joke, and he was about to reveal that he was teasing me. But instead, he patted me on the shoulder. “Just have a bit of fun,” he said gently. “You won’t lose anything.”

An hour later, we were sitting at the bar laughing and I told him how Martin and I used to hunt mice and set them free during Sunday Mass at church. I got more and more into it and told more stories from my childhood, and when I wanted to ask Lucien about his, the bartender threw us out. “We’re closing up, boys. Come back tomorrow. Thanks.”

“Feeling good?” Lucien asked as we stood on the sidewalk.

“Great!” I was a little tipsy. “Why?”

“Come on.”

By now it had also become quiet as we walked down Langstrasse, and once we reached the river, the city seemed deserted.

“Aren’t we going home?” I asked, following him.

“Yes, we are. We’re just taking a little detour.”

Beneath the bridge where I frequently jogged, he eventually halted and glanced around cautiously.

“We’re not doing anything illegal, are we?”

“Hmm …”

What does that mean?

Lucien unzipped his bag, retrieved a stack of sheets and a roll of sticky tape, and started papering the wall under the bridge.

“1 welcome

5 perfect

13 confused

18 adult

23 outcast

completely degenerated”

“You wrote those?” I exclaimed in surprise.

“Don’t say that so loudly!” he hissed. “Only a few people know about it, and I want to keep it that way. Do you understand?”

“They’re great. People read them. How did you come up with the idea of doing something like this?” I asked with interest, taking a sheet of paper.

“Oh … it’s just art,” he replied modestly and stuck the last sheet on the wall. He then cracked open a can of beer and surveyed his work with satisfaction. “But maybe it will make people think.”

“Without a doubt. I’m convinced of that.”

Lucien regarded me with an inscrutable expression, his demeanor suddenly uncertain. His jaw tensed as though he contemplated saying something, but he chose to remain silent and headed home. I followed him in silence, a sudden sense of displacement washing over me once more.

“Why do you believe in God?” Lucien queried, halting midway through our stroll.

“Everyone believes in God,” I replied and turned to him. “Or at least in …some kind ofGod.”

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