Joan Miró painted The Birth of the World while he too was hallucinatory with hunger. The canvas is unevenly primed: the colours saturate some parts and fall away at others. The dark painting is all storm. When I look at The Birth of the World I see a visual reminder of the migraine after my inconclusive fast. The promised vision – that I would clasp an as yet uncomprehended truth – was gone. The fast had got me nowhere. Instead, this is what I had won from my fortnight’s labours: hallucinated friends; polluted smells, flashing lights. I was much too gone for thought. I was too gone for anything aside from the sickness which came at me in waves. All weekend I spent in bed.

All pain must end, and eventually the migraine lifted. No more flashes in my vision, and each limb again was free. I was surprisingly euphoric; I hadn’t died.

By the time I arrived at the cafeteria (it was somehow Monday) I’d put together a theory about my friends’ absences: they’d been working at the studio all weekend to pay for Jenö and Walter’s fines. Even Irmi and Kaspar would have been there, joshing with Ernst Steiner and painting in the nymphs’ breasts. Love would set them hard to work. The question would not be: why did no one visit me? But: Paul, where have you been!

That morning I feasted on a delicious breakfast of porridge and coffee. My heart was gladdened to be here, waiting for the friends I loved. And then I saw her! Tricked from the air, Charlotte in trousers and blouse, walking over. She looked so carefree and happy. There was a black case swinging from her hand and I remembered: today we were to present our life drawings. I hadn’t done mine, but Itten would forgive me: the Master was good; the world beneficent; Jenö and Walter were free from trouble, and they’d make a happy couple.

And after this week, Charlotte could come back to me.

She waved as she picked up her breakfast, and Jenö came in minutes later, and Irmi and Kaspar too. Everyone was in high spirits as food was fetched and coffee poured. Charlotte told me about the celebrations on Saturday – after the Swan they’d ended up at Kaspar’s girlfriend’s (I didn’t even know he had a girlfriend) until she’d chucked them out the following morning. Then they’d spent the whole day mopping the school floors (the Director’s punishment) but they’d shared a bottle of schnapps and it hadn’t been – all agreed – too bad.

Charlotte’s laughter, naked and rich, was lovely to hear. I savoured what would be. Spring was here; summer soon. We would celebrate the new warmth at the Ilm, and up in the woods, and we’d forget all about the fasted havoc of these weeks.