Illicit Canvas: political romance and stand alone romance Read Free Page B

with them, but the other keeps going back to the painting and the guy from the gallery. I have to stop thinking about my own crazy emotions and that enigmatic stranger. My life needs sorting out before I can deal with what’s going on in my heart.
    In the morning I wake up in my own bed not remembering much from the night before. I’m still in my jeans and top, so it looks like I fell asleep while watching the film. I have a class at nine and some free time in the afternoon, which gives me enough time to look around for the next gallery.   I swallow my meds quickly. It’s been three years and so far I haven’t missed a single tablet. Mummy should be proud.
    Some days I’ve been waking up at five and searching for studios, private collectors and all the exhibitions, hoping to come across Dad’s painting. After two weeks I’m still stuck in the same place with nothing to go on. The artist that created the piece, Eugene D’Orsay, had been quite well-known in Belgium when he was alive. His paintings had been purchased by major art dealers and museums. My father had one of his paintings, the portrait of a woman, a very rare and priceless piece. D’Orsay created only three copies, and I know that two had been stolen years ago. Dad has the last one in his possession. I know that if I find the painting I will also find him.  
    After some intensive research, I locate a gallery situated on the other side of town. This way I don’t have to worry about anyone interrupting me. I can be alone with my thoughts. I reach the university library, get a few books that I need, and then find my next class. This morning we are painting a young Italian model with a pretty hot body. Most of the girls are happy with this arrangement. The class goes on for two hours, followed by an hour of sculpture and graphics. By the time I’m able to think about the gallery, it’s time for lunch.
    I eat as fast as I can, risking bad indigestion, and then grab the Metro to the other side of town. My next lecture is at four, so I have another two spare hours.
    Dark heavy clouds are hanging in the sky and it starts raining when I find the right building. Inside I pay six euros for the ticket. This time around I’m going to see a very famous impressionist painter, Albert Baertsoen. He’s from a period similar to the artist whose painting I’m trying to track down. I decide to give it a go and ask an older Flemish woman about him.
    “Excuse me, I’m not sure if you can help me, but have you ever heard about Eugene D’Orsay, a painter from the same period as Albert Baersoen?” I ask in French.
    “Eugene D’Orsay,” she responds, thinking about it for a moment. My heart thumps faster. Maybe I’m finally getting somewhere. “I’m sorry, no, I have never heard of him.”  
    The disappointment washes over me, but I don’t know what I was expecting. My father used to guard this stupid painting like it was worth a million euros.
    “Okay, thank you,” I add. “In that case, maybe you could recommend any art dealers or studios that might help me?”
    I know that’s a lame question and I’m aware that I can easily find this information online, but I don’t want to just go to anyone at random.
    “No, I’m sorry. To be honest I’m not into art at all. I’ve been working here only for a few weeks, but why don’t you ask a curator? I’m sure they would know more than me,” she suggests politely.  
    “Yes, right. Thank you.”
    I smile and start walking towards the exhibition. The first room is empty, so I stay admiring a few pieces that present a landscape with a river. I can’t seem to concentrate on the style and colours today, instead scanning for any curators. I manage to spot one in another section.
    “Hey, I’m sorry to bother you, but I was wondering if you’ve heard of Eugene D’Orsay? I’m searching for one of his missing paintings.”
    “Eugene D’Orsay?” she repeats.
    “Yes, yes, it’s one specific one. A portrait of a