Chapter 26 #2
“I would give you six hundred francs for this,” he says. It is more than I expected, which means he is eager. “And you said there are more? I would very much like to see them.”
“I can get you more,” I say, repulsed at how eager I am.
“I can offer you six hundred fifty for this, then, if it would mean establishing a good relationship between us and the promise you will come to me again. You aren’t the only woman who is willing to let go of these paintings now that they are increasing in value. Let me show you my latest acquisition.”
I can hardly keep my expression neutral as he pulls it from inside his large satchel. He can’t know I’ve seen it before, that I know this woman well.
“I was able to procure this for a very good price. I don’t think Van Gogh ever painted another nude. The owner practically gave it away; she was so desperate for money.”
I miss her impudent smiles and her gravelly laugh. I can hear it now as I gaze down at Vincent’s portrait of her naked body. Her voice from long ago is so clear in my ears. It’s the ugliest nude I’ve ever seen and it’s exactly the way I look.
Swanson’s gaze burns into me as I fight back tears he cannot see.
I know Agostina fell on hard times in the years after we left Paris. Her business declined and she was forced to take on heavy debts. The restaurant and much of the art that hung on the walls were repossessed. Swanson likely acquired this for a very good price. I return the man’s gaze.
“I accept your offer, and we can meet again.” I am seeing Marie-Celeste once more before I return to Bussum.
I want to have a good sum to give her to approach her parents.
She will buy her way out of the marriage, or at the very least buy herself time.
Her parents are hoping for the union to secure a future for her, but also for themselves.
They are not greedy. They are practical people, struggling to survive.
Her potential husband has money and position in their town and a connection to him means security for them all.
But money can do the same thing. If she can offer them a large sum in return for her freedom, if only to continue her schooling for another couple of years, they might agree to it.
I’ll do anything to make it happen. Even make a deal with this devil. “We can meet in two months. I will have more for you then.”
The train is delayed until midnight because of engine problems, but I stay close to the tracks, warming my hands over a fire the conductor lit in a barrel on the platform.
“Why is a lady like you traveling alone?” he asks me.
There is nothing predatory in his question, only curiosity.
I would have wondered the same thing if I’d seen myself, a solitary woman, accompanying a train of mostly cargo in the middle of the night.
It happens every time I make a journey. Six months ago, when I met with Henrik Swanson and Marie-Celeste in France, I counted the number of odd looks I received each time I boarded a train on my own.
But in the end the journey was well worth it.
“I work with Mrs. Van Gogh. She is transporting artwork done by her brother-in-law for an art show.” More than fifty paintings and about a dozen drawings are going to Munich and then on to Frankfurt, Cologne, and Chemnitz.
Jo was terribly worried about the impact the many train rides would have on the works.
The vibration alone could cause damage, to say nothing of the wear and tear from all the packing and unpacking.
Jo has always been staunchly opposed to restoration, even though it is becoming quite normal these days.
I promised to accompany them. I will oversee the packing and unpacking by the staff members of the various museums and galleries.
She is paying me well, perhaps out of guilt for abandoning our shared business and not loaning me the money when I begged her to, but spending thousands on yet another show.
I remain frustrated with her choices, yet I never reveal it.
I have endured worse and she remains a friend, despite how I am betraying her.
The conductor is more interested in the cargo than I expected he would be.
“I went to the Vincent van Gogh show at the Rijksmuseum. I’d never seen anything like it,” he tells me.
“It felt like the paintings were swimming in front of my eyes. I didn’t think art could do that.
” He takes a swig from a canteen and passes it to me.
I gratefully accept it, my lips parched.
As the whiskey lights the back of my throat on fire, the great iron beast in front of us finally huffs to life.
“There’s only one passenger compartment on this train, and the accommodations are sparse,” the conductor apologizes, finishing the last drop in his flask.
“I will ride with the paintings,” I insist.
“With the cargo? I can’t allow it. You’ll freeze.”
“I have plenty of blankets to warm me and it is my duty to make sure they remain safe.”
What I don’t say is that by bearing witness to the paintings’ safety, I will also bear witness to their destruction, which will come by my own hand.
My plan is to steal a single painting during this trip from Amsterdam to Munich. I will report it missing when we arrive. These things happen all the time.
For months, Marie-Celeste and I have been writing to one another in secret.
Each time a new letter arrives I feel the way I imagine I would seeing a missive from a new lover.
My stomach erupts with the fluttering of a dozen hummingbirds, and I eagerly rip the envelopes open.
She has given her parents the money I sent to her.
They’ve been surprisingly amenable, having had their own doubts about the union but being in such a poor position to say no.
I asked her again if she would like to continue her schooling in Holland.
And to my utter surprise my daughter said yes.
Now I am faced with coming up with the funds to both bring her here and support her once she arrives.
Gazing on the cargo feels like looking into my future, and my daughter’s, and I quickly get greedy.
I select an entire crate, three paintings, one of a misshapen crab against an emerald-green background that has several duplicates, two landscapes of Auvers, and three sketches. I’d only planned on taking one, but I can’t help myself.
I carefully remove the canvases from the frames and roll them in parchment paper before depositing them in my suitcase.
Then I deal with the frames themselves. I stamp down on them hard to break them apart and put them back into the crate, which I then hurl on the track behind the caboose.
As we pull into the next station I begin to scream.
“The door came unlatched! An entire crate fell onto the tracks as I slept,” I cry out in horror when the conductor comes to attend to me.
“How did it get unlatched?”
I shake my head in disbelief. “I do not know. You must not have secured it properly. I was nearly thrown from the car in my sleep.” I did not know how good an actress I could be when it suited me.
“You have my word we will conduct a complete inspection,” the dismayed conductor informs me, anxious to get this hysterical woman off the platform.
Jo will file an insurance claim. The railroad will likely give her a settlement.
I chose subjects that she is not particularly attached to that Vincent painted many copies of.
And since so many new ones have started appearing on the market over the past year or so, Jo is lacking in sentimentality even more than usual.
This will be a business loss for her, but not a large one, and she will likely be well compensated.
The conductor is concerned, but he has seen this happen before.
Cargo is damaged or goes missing on every trip.
He doesn’t spend more than twenty minutes talking it through with me and directing me on how to file a complaint.
With that finished, I oversee the unpacking of the remaining pieces to go to the gallery in Munich, my heart pounding out of my chest the entire time.
As I expect, Jo is disappointed about the loss, but it doesn’t consume her.
She is much more concerned with getting the Germans to come to the events, with making sure the right critics will be at opening nights, and with negotiating prices with some of the rich Americans who are traveling across the Atlantic for the exhibits.
In Germany she asks me again if I would like help moving to Amsterdam and again I refuse.
Bussum will be less expensive for both Marie-Celeste and me and I have already found an apartment for the two of us.
The money from this next illicit sale to Henrik Swanson will be enough for the deposit and at least a year of my rent.
By the time the first show commences in Munich, I am able to slip away to France, where I have plans to meet both my daughter and Henrik Swanson again.