Chapter 24
Claire
I must tell Jo about Theo and me. The truth shouldn’t wait any longer. I think about it each and every day and I can almost hear Theo’s gentle voice speak the words in the letter Gachet gave me.
I have become enchanted by a young prostitute named Claire these past years.
She is quite remarkable, witty, intelligent, and fascinated by the same things as me.
She is the sort of woman you long to take care of.
If I had not already promised myself to sweet Jo, I would be tempted to make her my own.
It is more romantic than any sentiment he ever expressed to me in life, and I blushed to read it and then grew horrified to think of Jo turning those words over in her mind. There may very well be more letters like it, and Jo could find one or be sent one any day.
The other letter Gachet gave me was equally heartbreaking. It was from Jo to Vincent himself soon after she married Theo. Her naked vulnerability in it, her desire for her brother-in-law to like her, breaks my heart as I read it.
Finally the time has come for your new sister to talk to you instead of just asking Theo to give you her best wishes. Now we are really brother and sister. I would be truly pleased if you got to know me a little better. If you could learn to love me a little.
I should give her both of these, knowing both will tweak her heart and perhaps break it in a different way. But I cannot do it today. First I must ask her for the money to help my daughter.
When I approach Jo in the grand four-story reading room of the Rijksmuseum, she glares up at me. Could she already know why I’ve come?
“The stars in The Starry Night resemble doughnuts? Doughnuts? The gall of them to write that!” I breathe a sigh of relief. She’s reading Vincent’s reviews again. Her ire has nothing to do with me. “This one is even worse. He says that daring to exhibit such shoddy work is scandalous!”
I stifle a laugh. The stars in Vincent’s rendering of the night sky do look a bit like puffy pastries. I wish Jo could laugh along with me at the ridiculous description, but she sees every criticism of Vincent as a slight against her.
“You can’t keep reading these. You’re always telling me that the critics are rubbish.
That most of them will only be remembered for what they don’t understand.
When you put on this many shows you are bound to get a variety of opinions,” I tell her.
“And you don’t do yourself any service by focusing on the negative ones. Remember all the wonderful reviews.”
“You are right.” Jo sighs, rubbing her tired eyes. “As usual.”
“Most of what is now being written about him comes directly from your lips. Your ideas about Vincent have crawled into their brains and taken root.”
“If you say something enough to the same people, it does become gospel.” She finally smiles wryly.
I glance around the silent room. “I thought Johan was coming with you.”
“He left for the country to paint. It will be a relief. He’s been terribly neurotic lately.”
“Where will Johan go?”
“Somewhere on the sea. It will be good for him, for everyone. He thinks I am spending too much on the upcoming shows, and it has been a point of contention between us. I don’t want to discuss it with him any longer.
What’s done is done. And there will be more income soon.
We have increased the price of some of the paintings by fourfold already, and I am starting to consider reproductions. ”
“Reproductions? Copies?” I gasp because it is something she has long been opposed to.
“Willem van Meurs in Haarlem is doing high-quality isographic reproductions. They are useful for publicity and for recordkeeping and they will allow more people to surround themselves with Van Goghs. It is a photographic reproduction, so it is very obviously not a painting. And the income stream could be formidable, perhaps five to ten guilders apiece. It has been done with several Monets. I haven’t made up my mind, but I think it could be quite lucrative.
Imagine being able to send photographs to American museums and American buyers.
How much easier that could make things.”
The wheels never stop turning in her mind. It is a beautiful thing to watch. I tell her so.
“I couldn’t have done this without you, Claire,” she says, taking my hands in hers. “Any of it. I’m so grateful you’ve been with me on this journey. Outside of my family, you have been the longest relationship of my life.”
It is difficult to meet her eyes as she lavishes her praise on me.
“I need to ask something of you, Jo.”
“Let’s get out of these stacks and stroll as we chat.” Jo stands. “I could stretch my legs.”
The air outside is crisp and redolent with the smell of burning leaves.
“Have you finished the Claudine series?” Jo asks me.
We have been trading books back and forth for years now, but this is the first time she has managed to scandalize me, with the tales of a precocious French schoolgirl’s sexual awakening.
“I had to put the last one down several times. Some of the prose was too real. In a good way. But it made even me blush.”
“I love it. Every word,” Jo says. “I wish I’d been so free as a younger woman. Things may have been very different for me. Perhaps I would have enjoyed life more. What is it you wanted to tell me?”
I choose my words carefully. I have been with Jo for more than ten years.
I have helped her raise her son, built her business alongside her, and shared in her obsession over the legacy of a dead man.
I’ve fulfilled my long-ago promise to Theo to watch out for her, and our relationship has taken a shape he never could have imagined.
I don’t just need something of my own, I want something of my own, and it is more than acceptable to ask for it.
“I have a daughter.” It is strange to say those words out loud to another person, even to Jo.
But she has misunderstood. “You’re with child?” She moves her hand as if she’s about to touch the lower part of my belly. I cover my stomach protectively to stop her.
“No. Oh no. I had a daughter. Many years ago. Before we met. When I was working in Paris.” I keep going as quickly as possible; otherwise I will never get the words out. “I gave her up. Madam helped. A family in the countryside. They took her in and raised her.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?” The hurt on Jo’s face is clear. We have kept things from one another over the years. She did not confide in me about everything having to do with Isaac and I know there are secrets in her marriage with Johan, but by and large we have been very forthcoming with one another.
“I did not want you to think less of me for giving up my girl. You are such a good mother to Vincent. You never would have made the choice that I did.” I see in Jo’s quick glance away from me that this is true.
Though she did not exactly find herself in my circumstances either.
“I was ashamed. I never thought I would have the ability or the means to be with my daughter again, but I have recently reconnected with her.”
“How old is she?”
“Sixteen. And the family needs my help. She is promised in marriage to a terrible man and needs to leave their village. I offered that she could come live with me. We have room at the boardinghouse. She can help us with the renters.”
Jo looks stricken as I tell her this. A small part of me had hoped she would welcome the help.
She steers us out of Vondelpark. “I have to show you something.” Within a moment we stop in front of a modern-looking brick building not far from the museum.
“Claire, this is my new home.” Jo gestures toward the apartment on the second floor, above a grocer.
“What?”
“Johan and I will be leaving Bussum for the city.”
“But what about your new house?” I sputter in disbelief. “And the boardinghouse…” My words, my question, taper off. What about me?
Jo sighs. “I can immerse myself in the art world much more fully if I am here. I need to commit myself even more to the socializing necessary to continue to elevate Vincent. We are so close, but I can be doing more. I know I can be doing more.” I think back to the reviews spread across the table in the library.
For every bad review she will work ten times harder.
As Agostina predicted all those years ago, Vincent is an obsession for her, though I still don’t entirely understand what drives it beyond wanting to fulfill Theo’s dreams. Agostina had hinted at some dark incident in her past with Vincent, but even though I know so much about him, I have never learned the details of it from all the letters.
Jo is still going. Rambling. “We will keep that house. I found a tenant already. We need the money from renting it for the upcoming shows. I have to put out funds for the frames and the transport.”
I place my hand on top of hers, hoping to calm her trembling fingers. “You have done so much, Jo. What if you let someone else take over Vincent’s legacy?”
“Who?” she practically spits.
“There continue to be offers for the whole collection.”
“A fraction of what they are worth, and who knows what will happen to Vincent if I sell off the whole lot? I am the only one who can do this.”
“I am here to help you. I’ve always been here.”
“Perhaps you will consider a move too,” Jo finally says. “With your daughter.”
“I like it in Bussum.” I never want to live in the city again.
I feel safe in Bussum, despite being a woman alone.
I do not want to have to keep my wits about me at all times.
People know me in Bussum and they respect me.
There is a school for Marie-Celeste where I know the instructors.
We have the boardinghouse. I try to explain this to Jo.
“I also need to remove my name from the lease of the boardinghouse,” she finally admits, sighing.
“What? Why?”
“Because we will be leasing this apartment here and my lawyers worry it is too much for me to carry. And I may need to take out a loan if a big exhibition is secured.”
“But it is just your name on the lease. The rent is always covered.”
“They do not think the bank will look kindly on me leasing multiple properties.”
Without her name on the boardinghouse lease I cannot continue running it.
I have nothing to secure a lease of my own.
Jo was able to get it because of her family’s standing.
The bank will not give me, a single woman, one on my own.
With the boardinghouse gone, I will lose my income, my home, the place I expected to bring Marie-Celeste.
“I can help you secure an apartment in Amsterdam,” she says, her eyes beseeching.
“I don’t want to move here,” I say, with more coldness in my voice than I have ever used with her. The fact that she has made this decision without me feels like an outsize betrayal. I have grown too comfortable in this life, and I should have known better. “How long until this move?”
“Soon, I hope. But the lease on the boardinghouse will expire in six months.”
This means I have six months to make a plan.
“I do hope you will consider Amsterdam,” Jo says when I don’t respond. “We still have much work to do together to support Vincent, and I will continue to compensate you. There are schools for your daughter here.”
“I need money,” I whisper.
“I will continue to pay you.”
“I need a loan. To help me bring my daughter here.”
All the color drains from Jo’s face. “Oh, Claire. Now is not the time. I have spent everything on the upcoming shows. Johan is already livid with me, and he has no income coming in either.”
I don’t know how to respond. Before the words leave my lips, I know what her answer will be. “Is there a way you could perhaps spend less on the next show?”
She looks as though I have slapped her across the face. “That is not an option.”
“But this is my life,” I say, my irritation turning to anger. “It is the only thing I have ever asked of you. Please, Jo. Help me.”
Her face hardens then. “I am so sorry. I do not have anything to spare.”
“I understand.” But I don’t. Not entirely.
My mind is jumbled and foggy. But the one thing I know is that I need some security of my own.
I cannot follow Jo van Gogh around forever, begging for scraps.
I could ask her for a painting as a gift that I could sell, but my biggest fear is she will tell me no.
Other friends and confidants have asked for paintings in the past and Jo was annoyed by them and cut off all contact.
“Don’t they see this is my business and livelihood, not a charity?
” she would scoff to me, and only to me.
She does not even like donating to the galleries for free. It took forever for her to donate two pieces to the prestigious Rijksmuseum, but she finally gave them Road Behind the Parsonage Garden and Farmhouse in Provence.
Her demeanor relaxes and she grasps my hands in hers. “I knew you would understand. You always do.”
It is times like these that I wish I didn’t. Isaac’s words to her years ago at the show come back to me, how he refused to play second fiddle to two dead men. Despite how I have supported her in everything, I too will always be second fiddle to Vincent and Theo.
I’ve already thought about what I would do if she said no, but I was hoping it wouldn’t come to this.