Chapter 20
Claire
Jo and Isaac are through.
I made a deal with the postman to deliver the mail only to me. It wasn’t only letters that Isaac sent. The more desperate he became, the more he resorted to his art to tug at Jo’s heartstrings. He sent love poems; long, tortured soliloquies; odd drawings. I burned them all.
But my worst transgression came when I happened upon Isaac in the pub he frequented in the late hours. It was no coincidence. I knew I would find him there. Lisette kept me informed of his habits and his haunts.
I sat across from him and boldly took a sip of his drink to show that I was in control of the situation.
“I have news from Jo,” I said to him.
“Why didn’t she come herself?” He narrowed his eyes at me.
“She has no interest in seeing you.”
This was the opposite of true. Jo constantly lamented that Isaac never responded to her last letter. She was distraught that their affair had finally come to an end. But she slowly emerged from the darkness and she was beginning to let go of him.
“She has met someone,” I said, and took another sip of his drink. When I finished, he pushed the entire stein toward me and signaled the barmaid for another. “She is in love, terribly and completely. Your letters must stop.”
“Who is this man?” His face flushed crimson with jealousy, his hands curled into tight fists.
“It remains a secret for now. It is not public yet. But she wanted me to tell you before you heard it from anyone else. She believed she owed that to you, though I am not as certain that she owes you anything.” I had become as good at spinning stories as Jo.
“Does she love him?”
“Very much,” I said, and finished his drink.
It was dark in the bar so I couldn’t be certain, but I thought I saw tears gather in Isaac’s eyes.
There was never any doubt in my mind that he felt something for Jo, something similar to the obsessive lust that she felt for him.
But he would never make an honest woman out of her and he could have been her downfall.
I cared about her too much to let that happen. Selfishly, I also needed her too much.
I quite like being Jo van Gogh’s second-in-command when it comes to her mission for Vincent.
She is a generous benefactor, much like her late husband, and once our boardinghouse began running well, she paid me quite handsomely to do most of the work for her.
I do the things she cannot stoop to do, the emptying of chamber pots, the sweeping of piles of tobacco from all the floors.
Lowly work, for lowly women. I know Isaac sees me that way.
“She begged me to ask you to let her go. To never contact her again. Will you do her bidding, as one last gift to her?”
He glared at me in stony silence. For a moment I feared he would stand and strike me for being the bearer of such bad news, but his gaze merely turned into something sinister.
“I know about you,” he finally said.
“I am not certain what you mean.”
“I know who you were before you came here with Jo.”
“My past is not a secret, Mr. Israels.” I stood to leave.
In Bussum I had been able to leave my old life mostly behind me.
No one knew me as a prostitute or a beggar girl.
People respected me. I had a life I never thought I could live.
There was only one thing missing, but my dream was more out of reach than ever.
Madam finally wrote back to my entreaties for information about my daughter and told me I would do the girl and her family great harm if I were to try to enter their lives.
But she reluctantly gave me their address.
I wrote to them many times and received no response.
That remained a shameful secret I had revealed to no one.
“But your association with Theo van Gogh is,” Isaac said as he waved me away from him. “I will leave Jo be, for now. But do not think you can keep her from me forever and do not try.”
My pulse rose into my throat, and I stumbled slightly as I walked out of the pub. His threatening tone was clear, but there was little I could do besides allow my fears to fester inside me.
From then on, to ensure Isaac would no longer be a fixation for her, I have orchestrated chance meetings for Jo and a new man, young Johan Cohen.
He is an artist but is also the well-appointed son of an insurer with a sizable nest egg.
For years he took painting lessons from Jan Veth and on one occasion while he was staying with Anna and Jan he had too much to drink and confided in me that he was quite smitten with the widow Van Gogh, as well as an admirer of her famous brother-in-law’s work.
I kept this information tucked carefully away for a later date.
We continued to cross paths with him over the years as he grew older and slightly more distinguished. He was no Isaac Israels in the looks department, but handsome men are a curse to the women who love them. Ordinary men, much like ordinary-looking women, will always be easier to live with.
Johan is not perfect, by any means. His health is poor—not nearly as wretched as Theo’s had been, but he isn’t robust either.
No matter. All the important attributes are there.
He has money, he is stable, he adores her young boy, and he is committed to allowing Jo to continue to work herself to the bone in order to solidify Vincent’s artistic legacy.
He respects her for it and has no qualms about her continuing to operate within the art world, no issues with playing second fiddle to two dead men.
Strong women intrigue him. He has even petitioned the court to allow him to take his mother’s name in addition to his father’s.
But most importantly he wants to be married, and a married woman has more status than a single one, even a widow.
He is the best possible partner Jo could hope for.
Too many other men would have preferred to keep her in the home, would have taken control of the paintings that she and I have worked so hard to elevate.
Johan is content to let Jo be Jo, and that is advantageous for the both of us as we continue our work together in both art and promoting the new women’s movement.
We recently invested in bicycles so we can ride through the Dutch countryside and Amsterdam, where we glide up and down the bridges and over the canals like locals.
It is during one of these carefree rides that we nearly commit accidental manslaughter against Willem Steenhoff—the revered art critic and deputy director of painting at the Rijksmuseum.
He steps into our path without warning, and Jo, despite her best efforts, can’t swerve fast enough.
Thankfully, our leisurely pace prevents serious injury, but the man’s legs still cartwheel out from underneath him, sending him sprawling onto the cobblestones.
“My lord,” Jo exclaims, mortification coloring her cheeks. “I am so very sorry. I didn’t see you, sir. You came out of nowhere.” The recognition hits her only after she extends her hand, and he reluctantly accepts the assistance from his undignified position.
“Mrs. Van Gogh!” His eyes widen with recognition. “What an unexpected way to meet!”
His distinguished tweed coat is coated in autumn leaves, and a smudge of dirt mars his right cheek like misplaced rouge. There’s something deliciously satisfying about seeing this important man looking up at us from the street, his carefully constructed authority temporarily dismantled.
“I’m only just learning to ride,” Jo offers, an uncharacteristic apology from a woman who rarely explains herself to men any longer.
“It was my own fault,” Steenhoff insists, reclaiming some dignity. “I was lost in my thoughts.” When he stands, I notice his pants are torn at the knee.
“To be honest, I was hoping to speak with you soon, Mrs. Van Gogh,” he continues, dusting himself off.
“Why is that?” Jo asks, her business instincts immediately alert.
“The recent showing of Vincent’s drawings you arranged in Zwolle garnered much attention.”
The three of us stroll along the canal path, Jo and I pushing our bikes.
“It was wonderful,” Jo agrees with practiced nonchalance. “There were many offers we could not even accept.”
“And why not?” His curiosity is palpable.
“Because they had already been promised elsewhere, prior to the show.”
“You don’t say.” Steenhoff strokes his bristly beard, processing this information like a banker calculating interest.
“In fact”—Jo seizes the moment—“I have recently been contacted by several esteemed gallerists in Paris who have a wild notion to create a small museum entirely dedicated to Vincent. Can you imagine?” The fabrication is brilliant in its audacity.
“Surely you wouldn’t? Take Vincent’s paintings back to Paris?” He pronounces the city’s name as though it’s a communicable disease.
“Vincent loved it there. He thrived there for some time. I think that is where he did his best work,” Jo replies with strategic ambiguity.
Another embellishment. Vincent had actually suffered terribly in Paris.
I recall a particularly haunting letter he wrote during that dark period, his words practically bleeding onto the page where he told Theo that the crowded streets and frenetic pace of Paris were sapping him of all his strength.
We arrive at the Rijksmuseum’s impressive facade, clearly Steenhoff’s intended destination.
“Let us set a meeting soon? Perhaps we can discuss this absurd idea of a museum in France.”
“Surely. You know where to find me, Mr. Steenhoff.”
We walk our bikes in silence until we come to a small café along the Amstel river. And only once we have ordered ourselves a small meal do we start talking about the encounter.
“What an exquisite lie you told,” I say, complimenting her.
Jo’s smile stretches across her plump cheeks until it hits her eyes, making them glint in the afternoon sun. “Wasn’t it?”
“A museum in Paris? For Vincent?”