Chapter 16
Claire
“It’s crass.” Jan Veth stares at the cover of the exhibition catalog for Vincent’s show with disgust and the certainty of a man who believes all his opinions are facts.
“It’s brilliant,” his wife, Anna, counters sharply.
“Can’t it be both?” I interject boldly, surprising myself.
My own opinions come out more easily now than they ever have before, a result, I believe, of all the faith Jo invests in me.
The four of us—Jo, myself, Jan, and Anna—are staring down at a wilted, decaying sunflower with a halo wrapped around its wobbly stem.
The messianic embellishments are meant to attract attention for this show, and Jan is not the only one here who is scandalized by it. The entire room is buzzing about how Vincent is being portrayed as both a saint and a martyr.
“It renders the exhibition more suitable for psychologists than art lovers,” Jan, an artist himself, spits.
“Psychologists buy art too, my dear,” Anna reminds him. “And moments ago, you were warming to several of Vincent’s pieces.” Jo’s closest friend is always quick to defend her and all her choices.
Her wretched husband rolls his eyes dramatically. “I said I found them less vulgar than before. I have begun to think that the rawness was intentional rather than mere sloppiness, but I could be wrong.”
Jan makes my skin crawl. I can’t imagine how Anna tolerates him.
She’s so brilliant and gentle, while he’s perpetually cruel and narrow-minded, but there’s no accounting for taste.
A marriage is almost always a mystery to outsiders.
Though I’ve never had a husband, I’ve been privy to their innermost secrets and desires, convincing me that for every love match, a hundred marriages of convenience exist. I walk away, cutting through the throngs who have gathered for the exhibition.
Jo has fought hard for this, weathered dozens of rejections with grace, and she’s finally convinced the establishment in Holland that Vincent is worthy of a show.
It has been no small feat. Jo continues to amaze me with her own particular genius.
It was her decision to turn this room into an optical illusion, to make it feel so full you must use the paintings to guide your way through the crowd.
And to achieve it she gave out free tickets to art students from all over the country and even from abroad.
Jo is courting the next generation of artists and critics, all of whom she believes are longing for something new to replace the old masters.
“They’re desperate for a vision of what comes next, and Vincent had precisely that—a road map for art’s future,” Jo explained to me as I helped her with the invitations.
Her newfound assurance and confidence come from the fact that she has accomplished this.
But I know it also stems from her association with Isaac Israels.
She never again invited me to his studio after that first visit, and she’s remained tight-lipped about their encounters.
But her body language speaks volumes. There’s a lightness and an energy I’ve never before witnessed in her.
As I walk away from Jan’s grumbling, I am ambushed by the press of silken lips against my cheek.
“Thank you for including us, Claire.” Lisette looks ravishing in deep purple velvet.
“It’s the least I could do,” I say with genuine warmth. “Jo might never have accomplished this if you hadn’t lent us that dress for her meeting with De Jong.”
“Your employer impresses me,” Lisette confesses, watching Jo navigate a circle of critics with effortless authority. “She moves through these men as though she belongs among them. That’s no small feat.”
“She’s transformed since her husband’s passing. She has a distinct purpose outside of being a wife and a mother, and that seems to have changed her.”
“And is her purpose to become an art dealer?”
“Not exactly,” I say with certainty. “She has no interest in representing other artists, only in making Vincent’s art as well-known as she possibly can.”
“And earn some money.”
“The money is nice too,” I admit, though the boardinghouse is doing well enough that I have been able to save some of my own coin for the very first time in my life, perhaps enough to one day realize my own dreams, the ones I don’t whisper even to Jo, the dreams of reuniting with my daughter.
But I believe it is something so much bigger for her.
“I knew Vincent in Paris, you know,” Lisette says with a cheeky grin.
“Oh?” I respond, unsurprised. Our circle was small.
“Briefly. He once offered me a painting for my services. I refused—told him I preferred the coin. Perhaps I should have taken the painting.”
“Perhaps you should have.” I glance back toward Jo, who appears to be searching the crowd. “Would you excuse me? I should see how she is doing.”
Lisette’s fingers catch my wrist before I can leave; her voice drops to a conspiratorial whisper.
“I have told you this before, but it bears repeating: If you have any influence, warn her about Israels. No good will come from that association. He is a libertine through and through and is certainly not seeking a wife.”
“Thank you for the counsel,” I say, genuinely grateful for her concern.
“One more thing,” I add, before departing.
“Yes?”
“If you hear any talk about this exhibition in the coming weeks—any serious interest in the paintings—would you be kind enough to let me know?” Women like Lisette hear every whisper, and her continued intelligence could prove invaluable.
“Consider it done.” We exchange kisses, and I navigate toward Jo.
“Are they selling?” I ask once I have her alone.
“Some,” Jo whispers. “We’ve received offers, though far too low.
I’ve told a strategic fib here and there—claiming most paintings aren’t for sale, that they’re already promised elsewhere.
As we’ve talked about, the inability to have something right away always increases the desire for these kinds of men. ”
“It truly does.” I laugh ruefully, remembering the price my old madam was able to procure for my virginity at least three times over.
“Sometimes men are so simple.” Jo’s eyes continue to scan the room. She starts to speak, but the words catch in her throat for a moment. “And sometimes they are not.”
My gaze falls on Lisette with two much younger women. One appears to have been crying, her eyes ringed red. I silently pray I won’t regret inviting them. Jo doesn’t need scandal tonight.
Then I see him—Isaac Israels—standing just beyond Lisette’s circle.
His gaze locks on Jo, though he’s not alone.
A third young woman clings to his arm, one of the models I recognize from his paintings.
As he leans to whisper in her ear, their intimacy is unmistakable.
I wonder what other services she provides him.
It wouldn’t be surprising if she’s one of the many prostitutes who work as artists’ models during daylight hours.
The betrayal in Jo’s eyes when she finally spots him tells me everything I need to know.
“Jo,” I whisper. “Let me take you for some air.” But her feet are frozen to the ground. Isaac and the girl are soon upon us.
“Isaac, thank you so much for coming. I wasn’t sure you could attend,” Jo manages.
“I would never have missed it. Have you had much interest from buyers?” he asks, his eyes burning into her.
“Quite a bit, in fact,” I chime in. “And the critics have had good things to say. I believe there is a journalist over there waiting to speak with Jo. He has been asking after her all evening. Enjoy yourself, Isaac.” I pull Jo away.
“You did not know he was coming,” I whisper once we are out of earshot.
“Not with a guest.”
“Oh, Jo. Isaac Israels is infamous for being a scoundrel. He is not worthy of you. You must believe that. This is not you. You are not inclined to be impulsive.”
“That is the problem. With him I am.” A tear slides down her cheek. “I lose myself and it is not rational.”
“Lust is never rational,” I say with conviction. She looks at me in surprise at the choice of my words, but I know that I have to be straightforward with her. “Go speak to the journalists. Make your rounds. I will ensure that Isaac and his girl are far from your line of sight.”
“How?”
“I have my ways. Go. This is your night.”
“Vincent’s night,” she corrects me. It’s moments like this when I want to shake her and remind her that he’s eight feet beneath the dirt in Auvers. But I don’t. I can’t.
“Vincent will have many nights after this. Enjoy this victory as your own.”
When she walks off, I steal over to Lisette and ask her if she has any power to convince Israels to leave the gallery.
“That is a man who does not take direction from women,” she says. “But I can do my best.”
Her best is good enough. We do not see him again until the evening is drawing to a close. Jo’s spirits are buoyed from receiving several solid offers for paintings, likely the result of her convincing the buyers that many of the pieces have already been promised.
It isn’t until we are preparing to walk out the door that Isaac emerges again. He is alone this time. Lisette took care of the girl.
“Congratulations on such a wonderful event,” he says. I refuse to leave Jo’s side even though I sense she wants to be alone with him.
“Thank you,” I say, and push past him. The door is nearly closed behind me when he props it open with a foot and leans over to whisper in Jo’s ear quietly, but loud enough that I can hear.
“The best thing I can advise you is this: Let me go to blazes. You have to understand, Jo. I will never play second fiddle for anyone, and with you I will always be third, next in line to two dead men.”