Chapter 555

“Can you go by yourself, Luise?”

“No. I can’t.”

“You can.”

“No!”

Ulrike kept covering my eyes with one hand while pushing me forward with the other. After going back and forth over something so pointless, I eventually gave up.

I had no idea which corridor we were walking through, but it was clear that we had come to the Munich Residenz. At six in the morning, after leaving the Mimesis, I had gone straight to Bavaria. Since my residence was being moved to the Imperial Central Hospital starting today, I had negotiated with the Imperial Family to retrieve the belongings I had left at the hospital in Bavaria myself.

It hadn’t been long since I came to Bavaria with my friends, and I had seen everything up until the point where, after stopping by the hospital, Ulrike brought me to the Munich Residenz.

“How much longer are you planning to walk like this…?”

“Just a little farther…!”

Ulrike spoke in a soothing voice, so I had no choice but to continue walking awkwardly beside him until we finally came to a stop.

Creak.

I heard the heavy sound of a door opening. Ulrike carefully pushed me inside.

“Ah.”

I knew where we were from the change in the sound of my heels against the floor. It was a banquet hall. Ulrike had brought me to the banquet hall that had been used as an art studio. He took his hand away from my eyes and shouted, “Ta-da!”

I squinted and looked around. It didn’t take long. A familiar face caught my eye. I called out the name of the French painter standing there with an expressionless face.

“Sir Lamour?”

“Lukas.”

That wasn’t Sir Lamour’s voice. I turned toward Ulrike standing beside me.

“I’m hoping you managed to sort out your thoughts while having some fun.”

Ulrike said with a serious expression.

Sort out my thoughts. It was only a few words, but I could guess why Ulrike had brought me here. It had worked, of course. The turmoil that had remained with me until yesterday afternoon was gradually fading. Not completely, but enough.

Ulrike took hold of my arm and spoke softly.

“Still, none of us have been through what you’ve been through. Before you start working in Prussia in earnest again, I wanted to give you some time to talk to someone who could understand how you feel.”

“I see.”

“You know how people say that kind of thing helps. That feeling that you’re not alone.”

Ulrike spoke while fidgeting with both hands, waving them about restlessly. He seemed worried that he might have gone through all this trouble for nothing.

“Of course. I wanted to talk to Sir Lamour one last time anyway. I wanted to sort out my thoughts, too.”

“Right?!”

“Yeah. It’s almost like you read my mind. Thanks.”

I smiled as I thanked him. Ulrike patted me on the back with an expression that seemed to say it was nothing. Then he cast a soundproofing spell and whispered, “And… when you’re done talking, could you ask him if he has any thoughts of coming back…?”

I burst out laughing at that. With a gentle smile, I walked over to Eugène Lamour.

Much to Ulrike’s disappointment, Eugène Lamour would never paint again. I held out my hand to him.

“Good to see you.”

“I thought you’d be dead. I’m surprised to see you alive.”

Lamour took my hand, then released it almost immediately.

Harsh. The death he was talking about wasn’t physical death, but the death of the mind. I lowered my eyes before looking back at him.

“I was hoping to be surprised myself.”

Lamour’s mind was not yet alive. He was one with his paintings, and he was someone who couldn’t live without them. At least, if I had properly understood what he meant by an artist’s nature.

Eugène Lamour gave a slight nod and left the banquet hall. He moved into the sitting room beside it and sat down on the sofa first. Raising an eyebrow, he clasped his hands together and settled into a relaxed position.

“You took a different path from mine. You did well. If you had urged them to change as honestly as I did, you would certainly have died.”

This time, he meant physical death.

Eugène Lamour knew that I hadn’t said everything I could have said to the public. Unlike the Eugène Lamour who had poured out all the anger boiling inside him on the day he retired, I had carefully chosen every word for strategic reasons. He knew that.

Even so, Eugène Lamour didn’t seem inclined to criticize me for taking a different approach. I lowered my eyes, rubbed my chin, and asked, “Why do you think I did well?”

As if he knew that I had been struggling with the compromise between conviction and reality, Eugène Lamour seemed to deliberate for a moment, as though deciding that there was something he ought to say for my sake, before speaking.

“There is no single right answer to what happens on a canvas. If there were a correct style of painting, then there would be no such thing as the genealogy of art. Everyone would have to remain in the style of cave paintings. But Sir Vernell Guéret believes there has to be a right answer.”

“That’s right.”

“I understand why he holds that opinion. Neither he nor I is entirely wrong, but he forced his beliefs upon me, and now he is forcing them upon the art world. He says that ‘art,’ that ‘painting,’ that ‘a painting submitted to a salon’ must be a certain way. To say that something must be a certain way means refusing to allow any counterargument, and the moment you refuse counterarguments, criticism ceases to be criticism. Until public opinion in the newspapers changed, people condemned you under the pretense of criticism, yet they refused to hear any argument against them. It was only after the press intervened and fed them information several times that they finally accepted a counterargument.”

Eugène Lamour had clearly been there as well. Everyone had been there. I smiled faintly and tilted my head.

“Still, fortunately, they did accept it.”

“You’re optimistic.”

Eugène Lamour didn’t seem satisfied with my answer. He seemed to think I was being too complacent. Taking a sip of the tea that had been prepared beforehand, he said, “Criticism is only criticism if it can accept criticism from a third party in response to my own.”

“I suppose that’s true.”

I couldn’t tell where he was going with this, but I answered calmly for the moment. It was clear enough that this was connected to what he had been saying earlier.

“If you cannot tolerate criticism from a third party in response to your own criticism, then it can only be condemnation, not criticism. Criticism exists for discourse, after all, and discourse is a discussion aimed at improvement. That is why, by its very nature, even a criticism of one’s own regarding a particular canvas must allow room for a counterargument. The same applies on an ideological level. If someone says that my right to speak freely in this salon was violated simply because someone challenged my argument, then they were not criticizing me in the first place. They were condemning me. Those liberals value their own freedom so much that, ironically, they infringe upon other people’s freedom to criticize their criticism. The problem is that the moment Sir Vernell Guéret heard my position, he became furious.”

“Furious. He certainly did.”

“He had no intention of criticizing me. Sir Vernell Guéret would never admit it, but he wanted to be able to kill me over and over with his words and his writing.”

You won’t admit it, either—the hundred million people you’re going to have to face. He was saying as much to me with his eyes. He was telling me that, just as those ‘one hundred million critics who condemn while believing they are criticizing’ had done until recently, they would one day kill me, too. Eugène Lamour seemed to have wrapped himself in his characteristic indifference, but what he was really asking was whether I could endure a future like that.

Eugène Lamour hadn’t come simply because Ulrike had asked him to. There was something he wanted to tell me. And so I could only listen to him more carefully with each passing word.

“Even so, Sir Guéret firmly believed that what he was doing was right. He believed that because my paintings were problematic, he had to correct what was wrong with them, even if that meant attacking the artist. And, remarkably, in the same way… people imposed their own beliefs on your life and said that you had to die. If you had said what you believed was right at that moment, the citizens would have reacted just as Sir Vernell Guéret did and continued to insist that your death was unquestionably the just thing to do. They would never have believed that they themselves were wrong. They would have tried to find something—anything—wrong with you. There would have been no way for you to win. Because even something that isn’t wrong can become wrong if three people say it is. It would have been left to your descendants, after you were already in your grave, to reveal that it had been the injustice of the times, a condemnation rather than criticism.”

“That’s probably what would have happened. Most people can’t recognize that they’ve become caught up in the heat of the moment while something is happening. Even if they do recognize it, they’d probably stay silent.”

“You have quite a nerve, being able to give that speech even knowing that.”

Sir Eugène Lamour said it with a genuinely curious expression, without any ulterior motive.

He wasn’t being sarcastic. Hadn’t Eugène Lamour himself said at his retirement announcement that, as fellow citizens, he hoped they wouldn’t turn against one another and that he wanted reconciliation? He may have been angry at Sir Vernell Guéret’s words and actions, but he did not hate him. He merely stated the facts—he did not condemn Sir Guéret as someone who knew nothing about art and ought to go to hell. In that sense, Eugène Lamour could understand me, and I could understand him as well.

“Speculation is easy. So are jokes, and so is agreeing with others. Silence is easy, too. All those people were trying to lead you to a firing squad, yet the reason behind it was laughably flimsy. That is how controversy begins. Something that isn’t a problem becomes one. When people think about something they themselves have done, they don’t think it deserves that much condemnation. But when someone else does the same thing, it suddenly becomes something worthy of condemnation. You’ll have to endure that in the future as well.”

“I suppose so. Even after I’m dead, people will still talk about me. Because I’ll already have been remembered and recorded…”

Eugène Lamour nodded at my words. Just as I had seen my own situation reflected in what Eugène Lamour said, he saw his own situation reflected in my words. He murmured with an expressionless face.

“If I’d known it would turn out like this, I never would have pursued a career as an artist.”

“You said that before.”

“That’s right. What I regret most is ever starting to show my paintings to other people. And what I wish for more than anything is the chance to turn back time to the day I first submitted a painting to the Salon.”

“I understand. I’ve wished for something like that myself.”

“Have you?”

Eugène Lamour answered dryly. Then he lowered his eyes and rested an arm on the back of the chair.

“At least I was fortunate in that regard, don’t you think? If I were an opera singer, for example, it would be difficult to retire unless I died before finishing the performance schedule for the work I had taken on. But with me, each canvas marked the end of a work, so I was able to retire the moment I made up my mind to do so. And what concerns me now is that I see no sign of the work you’re creating ever coming to an end.”

Eugène Lamour straightened in his seat and asked me, “Won’t you regret it?”

“…….”

“You’ve decided to step forward before the public. Do you really think you won’t regret it?”

“There are still things I need to see for myself.”

Eugène Lamour nodded. He closed his eyes, wearing an expression that seemed to say he didn’t care what happened to someone else. But that was only on the surface. He kept staring at me, taking several slow breaths.

“I hope you’ll be a little more careful. Do you remember? My scoop.”

“Of course I do. I thought they were about to publish some sensational article, but then…”

“That’s right. The article said I had started painting in the Academic style again.”

Eugène Lamour burst into hearty laughter. I could practically feel how absurd he found the whole thing. I smiled in the same way and waited for him to continue.

“Then do you remember what the critics said? Their belief that ‘Eugène Lamour finally returned to painting in the Academic style after listening to our opinions.’”

“Of course I remember that, too.”

“Yes. After I announced my retirement and went home, the more I thought about it, the more ridiculous it seemed, and the more anger I felt welling up inside me.”

I swallowed carefully and looked at him. It had not been long since his retirement, so there was still a chance he was going through considerable emotional turmoil. I had to be careful with my answer as well.

But contrary to my concerns, Eugène Lamour smiled as he said, “You know the painting I did in the Academic style? That was proof that I had finally become able to fully accept my memories from the time when my wife was still alive. It meant that I could finally remember those days when I dreamed of a happy future with my wife, and that I had only just begun to move past the aftermath and hold those memories in my hands again.”

“…….”

“But what did the critics say? I should never have listened to them. The fact that they could think that way is chilling beyond words. From my perspective, it is an utterly shocking way of thinking. First, it is an insult to me as a person. Second, it is an attempt to restrain me as a painter. Perhaps that is why I had no choice but to retire.”

“Why?”

“Because in the face of such profound disrespect, I am left with no freedom at all. My free will as a painter would be reduced entirely to imitation. And if, to prevent that, I had to avoid everything they had ever spoken of, refuse to paint still lifes, and refrain from using any techniques derived from the Academy style, then in the end, there would be nothing left for me to use—not a single subject or technique.”

I nodded. Eugène Lamour had no regrets whatsoever about retiring now. That answered Ulrike’s question.

“That isn’t what I wanted to say. What matters is what comes next. Suppose you place an apple in someone’s hand in the dark and ask them what it is. What do you think they would say?”

“They would call it an apple, or perhaps some other similar fruit.”

I smiled as I answered, amused that this blunt man was going out of his way to tell such a childlike story for my sake.

“Exactly. One person might call the apple a subspecies of pear, while another might say it is a fig. Once enough people who believe it is a pear gather together and their discussions about what kind of pear it is, what it tastes like, and what it smells like begin echoing back and forth, that apple becomes an unequivocal pear to them—so much so that you could search high and low and never find even the slightest possibility that it is an apple. There was nothing in it but themselves. They saw their own habitual thoughts reflected in my paintings, so they presumed to know even my intentions and what I meant to express. Do you understand what I mean?”

I slowly nodded.

It was a new experience for me. Eugène Lamour was worried that I might not understand because he believed I had never experienced what he had. But I understood perfectly well. This was something that happened everywhere, regardless of the era.

“Yet just as people looking at the same Earth can discover that one person calls it a rectangular solid while another calls it a sphere, the conclusions people draw from the same phenomenon and clues can vary tremendously. And there are countless possibilities—and very high odds—that their own answer is not the correct one. Yet even the critics never once considered that they might be wrong. They simply imposed their beliefs on the world, on those around them, and on me without filtering them in the slightest. And the people you will have to deal with aren’t even critics.”

“…….”

“From now on, no matter what you do, people will believe the absurd echo they create among themselves is the truth. Even if you tell them over and over that it’s actually an apple and put the apple in their mouths, they’ll say it tastes like a pear because they already believe it’s a pear. And to you, what they’re saying will sound completely foreign and utterly ridiculous. But to the world, that echo alone will be treated as the truth.”

I fell silent at his words. Eugène Lamour did not speak again, either. He seemed to believe he had said everything he needed to say. I looked into his eyes, worn down by exhaustion, yet perhaps colored by a sense of liberation that was only half complete, and answered.

“Sir Lamour. I’m happy right now.”

“Why?”

“I’m relieved to know there is someone else in this world who understands what I’ve been through.”

At that, Eugène Lamour gave a faint smile before his expression returned to its usual blankness. He held out his hand to me once again.

I held his hand for a long while before letting go. Eugène Lamour respected my decision. He genuinely hoped I would not walk the same path he had, but he respected my decision now, too.

And I was simply grateful that there was someone willing to warn me with all his strength about the path I intended to take. The same went for Ulrike, who had even brought the Mimesis out for my sake and arranged for me to meet Eugène Lamour before doing so.

Even though so much of this seemed to overlap with the 21st century, it wasn’t the same. So much was different from back then. It was only after coming here that I truly understood the difference. I didn’t know whether I should keep a blank expression or smile.

But one thing was certain: I resolved to show Ulrike a little more gratitude when I went back.

From now on, what I needed to do was clearly separate the matters concerning my Nikolaus identity from those concerning my Lukas identity.

As Nikolaus Ernst, I had to deal with the remnants of Pleroma. With all their routes of entry blocked, I had no idea where I should go to attack them, but the Kingdom of Bavaria would be able to extract information from the hundreds of thousands of Pleroma brains collected at six in the evening on Easter and use it to deal with the remnants. Until the kingdom gave me something useful, Nikolaus Ernst would issue statements and remain out of sight.

“What about as Lukas?”

Leonard asked beneath the soundproofing spell. After meeting Eugène Lamour, I had been sitting down with Ulrike and Leonard in Bavaria for a meeting. We would have to leave for Berlin soon, so we couldn’t keep it going for long.

After I spent quite some time thanking Ulrike for arranging my meeting with Eugène Lamour, he seemed a little more excited than usual. Seeing him looking so smug beside me, I let out a dry laugh and answered.

“That is the most urgent thing, though. Nikolaus Ernst is safe for now, but Lukas Askanien isn’t. I need to build a brand.”

“That sounds like something you’d say. Image-making?”

Leonard asked without looking up from his notebook. Once we had returned to a topic that was worth properly discussing together, I dropped the soundproofing spell and spoke.

“Something like that. Recently, whenever people hear ‘Lukas Askanien,’ the focus has been on how abnormal I am. So it’s important to make them recognize that I’m not fundamentally different from them.”

“That’s cruel.”

Leonard answered simply. Ulrike frowned and asked, “Why can’t you be abnormal? Why can’t you just be yourself?”

“That’s kind of you to say. I’m lucky to have a friend like you.”

I smiled as I said it. Ulrike narrowed his eyes for a moment before patting me on the back. I shook my head.

“But the disrespect I’ve received came from the fact that I’m different. So I think I should emphasize my image as a student first. And perhaps establish an image of being a good child, too. A good daughter, a good son, a good grandchild, a good nephew… That sort of image.”

“That’s specific. You used an Old Human word.”

Ulrike’s eyes lit up as he said it.

“Exactly. Most of this country is made up of Old Humans. The voters are Old Humans, too. Since humans look like humans, they may not feel much of a sense of alienation from us at first glance, but in reality, very few people share the same family circumstances or social status as us. Old Humans place great importance on the family unit, and they have a clear idea of what qualities and duties they expect from their children. If I want them to see me as a human like themselves rather than some bloodsucker or whatever, I need to make myself familiar to them.”

Leonard gave a small wave of his hand.

“Politicians all do more or less the same thing. Set up some volunteer work. I doubt you’re planning to do it just for show, either, so pick something you can keep up for a long time.”

Ulrike’s eyes lit up.

“How about volunteering in places where Rampager incidents are frequent?”

“Good idea. Two birds with one stone. I should go through the letters.”

“I wanna do it too!”

I answered with a nod and picked up the basket of letters beside the table. Leonard had brought it from Prussia to Bavaria.

“Thanks for bringing them. Before we send anything out ourselves, let’s see if there’s anything useful here.”

Leonard smiled at that. I opened one of the letters that had already been slit open with a letter opener and read it. Then I placed it back on the table with a satisfied look. Ulrike picked it up first and asked, “Can I read it?”

“Yeah. It’s good.”

“Oh~”

Ulrike happily took the letter.

By the time I opened the fourth letter, all my friends gathered around the table were already reading my letters. Everyone had been mentally drained by everything that had happened recently, and now they were relieved to know that there were people who believed in and supported me—not Pleroma.

Seeing the smiles on my friends’ faces made me happy, too. Ulrike tapped the table and said, “Next one!”

“Jeez…”

I handed the letter I’d finished reading to Ulrike and opened another. I had been reading it with a faint smile until I reached the third line.

“…?”

But the moment I moved on to the next line, I had to read it again to make sure what I’d seen was actually real. I stared down at it for a long while, my mind refusing to process what I was looking at, before finally making up my mind.

I couldn’t let them see this.

Feeling a chill run down my spine, I folded the letter and slipped it into the pocket on the opposite side. Then I opened another letter. I thought I’d done it naturally enough…

“What was that just now?”

Ulrike fixed me with a hawk-eyed stare before placing a hand on my shoulder.