Chapter 29
Emma
Maybe it’s the fact that I walked out of that castle with a half million dollars nestled between my thighs, or that this canvas I am working on will hang in the Musée d’Orsay, but I’m alive in a way I haven’t been since Pascal crushed both my heart and my pride beneath his thick black boots, since he told me I was worthless as an artist and as a lover.
Vincent lives rent-free inside my head. His genius, his joy, his madness, his ego, and his insecurities all become mine.
The morning after I return from the chateau, painting is like a balm soothing all the things that have broken me over the years.
I stay awake for three days. The beauty of working in oils is having more leeway to fail.
You can scrape off a mistake or simply paint over it.
The layers give a piece more character. First, I finish the Renoir nude because it is the easier of the two.
It’s calmer, the contours smoother. The female form with her perfect fleshy belly comes easily to me, as does the slight exasperation on her lips.
I spend the most time getting the colors just right, the bright red flush of her cheeks, the royal blue of her slippers.
Then I move on to Vincent’s. He and I are now firmly also on a first-name basis. And once I start, I become obsessed. I ignore each of Lucie’s and Colette’s knocks on my locked door, but accept the food they leave me in the hallway. I’m determined to finish before I close my eyes.
I know better than anyone that mental illness is often not caused by anything, but rather a disease that lives inside a person, lying in wait. Theo van Gogh once wrote, “Genius roams along such mysterious paths in the mind that a spell of dizziness can bring it hurtling down from its heights.”
But there have to be triggers. I saw them in my mother, the things that sent her into a psychosis over the years, and I think about her periods of illness as I try to enter Vincent’s brain to replicate his art.
I relive the times she would suddenly suffer one of her attacks, staying awake for a week, eating nothing, and composing unsolvable equations on our rental apartment walls.
She’d whisper to me about her religious hallucinations, the devils inside the torn wallpaper, the angels in the water of the toilet.
I’ve been trying for so long not to become her, and now I feel my sense of reason flaking away.
When I hear Vincent’s voice in my head, it’s nothing like I expect it to be. It’s softer, friendlier, slightly high-pitched and feminine.
“The great doesn’t happen by impulse alone. It is a succession of little things that are brought together. There is safety in the midst of danger. What would life be if we didn’t dare to take things in hand?”
He is so clear, as though he is whispering directly in my ear.
“Note the certain blackness enveloped in blue moving in great circulating currents of air. What do you think, Emma, is there a lullaby in there?”
There are dozens of lullabies, and also entire symphonies.
I can hear them as I throw more paint on the canvas and then painstakingly scrape it away and reapply it with the precision of a surgeon.
Vincent was obsessed with the ways complementary colors played off one another.
He referred to it as a sort of color gymnastics and ascribed a sublime power to their union.
When I’m finished, there is no grand revelation. I simply hear his voice telling me to put down the brush.
Sleep is my sanctuary. I don’t stir or dream for at least twenty-four hours, and when I open my eyes Stella is perched on the edge of my bed, same as she was that first morning in the cottage.
“What time is it?” I murmur.
“A little past noon. I rode over with one of the fishermen at dawn. Claude. We’ve grown close over these past few weeks.
” There’s a sultry curl to her lips. She picks up my hand, which bears her massive diamond ring.
I’ve been wearing it while I paint. “How did you feel walking out of there with all this?”
I want to tell her about the thrill as I discovered the safe, followed by the calmness that emerged as the jewels fell into my sweaty palm, the strange sense of security that washed right over me, but I don’t have the right words.
“I felt like I was high.”
This makes her laugh. She looks absolutely fantastic, healthy and carefree. She radiates energy, even more so than after her resurrection when she found us at that jazz café in the Fleas.
Only then do I remember the letters from the safe. I’d fallen asleep reading them but was certain I had mistaken a lot since they were written in a mix of French, Dutch, and even English. Bits and pieces float back into my consciousness.
“How did your grandmother get Vincent’s paintings from Jo van Gogh, Stella?”
She looks at me with a raised eyebrow, as if she knew this question was coming, and allows me continue asking questions.
“Jo didn’t give her the paintings as gifts, did she?”
Stella pulls in a deep breath and reaches for my hand. I think she’s about to hold it, but instead she slides the ring off my finger and onto her own. It’s much too big for her now. Her hand looks like that of a child trying on their mother’s jewelry.
“You read the letters?”
“I did. You must have wanted me to find them.”
“I did. And yes, Claire did steal several paintings, though she had good reasons, not that theft is ever justified, but she did it to survive, same as we are doing. She needed to support herself and we know very well that there were few ways for women to do that on their own without a man back in those days. In my day as well. And she needed to take care of my mother and eventually me, so I do not begrudge what she did.”
“Does anyone else know that she stole them?”
“Maxwell knew. It was his father, Henrik, who she sold several paintings and sketches to. It’s how he knew I must still have the Sunflowers, but I believe he is the only one, and the secret died with him.”
“But that is another reason you didn’t want to personally sell the painting. You have letters between the two women, but those letters prove that your grandmother stole them from her best friend. What else happened between the two of them? There are hints of other betrayals in the letters.”
“Half a lifetime of companionship, of working together, there were bound to be secrets, don’t you think?” Stella asks me sharply. “Both women struggled. Life wasn’t easy and I believe they did the best that they could.”
“What was Claire’s relationship with Theo?”
With this answer she doesn’t mince words. “He was a client when she worked as a prostitute.”
“And Jo found out eventually?”
“Yes. She did not take it well.”
“What did your grandmother tell you about all of it?”
“She left that part of her life behind when she came to America. And when my mother died in childbirth with me, my grandmother buried anything that was left of that life with her. What you read in those letters is what I learned when I found them after she passed. She only gifted me our Sunflowers right before her own death. You have to understand that in those days women were not taught to see the value in their own stories. And like I told you, the painting was always meant to be my insurance policy.”
“But was it stolen?”
“It doesn’t matter,” Stella snaps.
As I think on this, Stella is clearly concerned with other things. She approaches my easel.
“Absolutely gorgeous. You captured everything so well, especially the uneven browns in the floor of Vincent’s room, the thick wrinkles on his pillows.
They look slept on. Even the mistakes.” She points to a few globs of paint in the right-hand corner of the canvas that Vincent didn’t bother to wipe away.
“Thank you.”
“And what about your own work? Are you ready to return to it? In earnest?”
“Sometimes I don’t know why I bother.” I sigh.
“What you do is wonderful. I wouldn’t have chosen you if it weren’t.”
“You chose me because I’m an excellent forger.”
“That…and. There are plenty of reproductionists out there. You are talented. Incredibly so, and you will make a name for yourself in your own right.”
Why can’t I believe her? I know it’s because of all the bile Pascal fed me at the end of our affair, about how my work didn’t have any critical or commercial appeal, how I was worthless as a painter.
“I want to paint things people see, that they live with, paintings in galleries,” I admit. “It’s bold and narcissistic, but I want to have an impact and change people. I want my work to be desired and wanted.”
Her voice softens like that of a mother trying to soothe a small child. But she says all the right words. “It’s what most artists want, and most will never achieve it in their lifetime. Vincent is lucky he had Jo to carry on his legacy. Most people are not so lucky.”
“It’s impossible for me.”
“No, it is not. You will have resources. I’m going to help you.”
“It’s a shame you’re dead.” This elicits a smile.
“The art matters, but your story matters more. Vincent is the best example of that. Jo not only shared Vincent’s story, but she shaped it into something that people wanted to own a piece of.
A misunderstood genius, a man who conquered his demons to create, someone beaten down by the critics and the establishment. Jo made him a legend.”
“And hardly anyone knows she’s the one who did that. Barely anyone outside a very small circle of art historians even knows her name.”
“Maybe we could change that as well,” Stella says slyly. “We do have a batch of letters between her and Claire. We could publish our own compilation. Perhaps leaving out a few unsavory details. And we’ll find a way to tell your story as well.”
“There is nothing interesting about me.”
“Now you’re being quite stupid. What you wrote to me in your application for the scholarship. Your mother’s illness and deterioration, how you kept the two of you alive and learned to paint in the midst of it. You thrived despite all your burdens. Aren’t you as fascinating as Vincent?”
“Maybe I should cut off my ear.”
“Terribly messy. And besides, I like your ears.” She smiles at me. “You know most people don’t know the real story of how Van Gogh lost that ear, or why.”
“Do you?”
“Indeed I do. But it’s for another day. Jo never even told the whole story publicly.
She chose what she wanted people to know about Vincent.
His story has been well curated. She was very cunning in that way.
She molded the narrative until he became a celebrity of sorts.
You can choose how to tell your story and you will have every resource at your disposal when we are finished. ”
“Thank you for saying that,” I whisper, truly grateful.
“I say it because it is true. Write your own story. Be your own Jo van Gogh.”
After Stella leaves for her hotel, I flee my room for some sustenance.
The red blinking light on our answering machine catches my eye. I think both Lucie and Colette stayed out last night. They might have called to check in on me.
“Hello, duckling. Sorry I haven’t called.
My new meds are working and I’ve been able to focus enough to start a little bit of work again.
” I dive at the phone as I hear my mom’s voice, even though I know the message was more than a day ago.
“I got the plane tickets you sent me to come there for Christmas, but I don’t think I can…
” Her voice trails off. “Call me and we can talk about it, but I think it will be too hard.”
I’m desperate to see her but there’s no way I can fly home for the holidays.
My student visa is about to expire and if I leave, I’m not sure how I’ll be able to come right back.
It was Stella’s idea to fly my mom here, have her meet with some high-end specialists.
She purchased the first-class ticket for her and found someone who could expedite a passport.
I never thought it would be possible, but I’m still disappointed. Christmas Eve is tomorrow.
The machine beeps; another message plays.
“Emma? It’s Matthew.” His voice, tentative and slightly slurred, fills the apartment.
“I’ve called a few times. I guess you’re busy.
I, uh…I wanted to apologize for the party.
I have no idea how the night ended. I’m so embarrassed.
I was in a terrible place after what my father did.
” He pauses, and I can hear ice clinking in a glass.
“The thing is, I can’t stop thinking about you.
” Another pause. “I’m not making sense. I’ll try again tomorrow when I’m sober. ”
The next one’s from him too.
“Me again. Matthew. It’s morning now and I’m positively mortified about that call last night.
Please delete it if you haven’t heard it yet.
” He laughs nervously. “Listen, I’ve been given an assignment in Tokyo.
Father’s way of getting me out of Paris after humiliating me, I suppose.
I’m leaving tonight.” His voice softens.
“I’d really like to see you before I go. Just coffee?”
I stare at the phone, paint-stained fingers hovering over it.
Shame wells up in my throat. I used Matthew and cast him aside, much as I’m sure his father has done to him many times.
But I can’t feel guilty about any of it, and I also can’t think about him right now.
I’m doing what I have to do to survive, just as Stella said Claire did.
It’s a weak justification for deceiving someone, but I will keep repeating it until I believe it.
Matthew is better off if we don’t speak again.
I open the window to get some air, to let the breeze calm my frenetic breaths.
I feel guilty about Matthew, and I miss my mom more than ever.
The two emotions rip into me, leaving a jagged shame.
Beneath the building, outside the front entrance, a Rolls-Royce idles.
There are more than a few of these in Paris, but I swear this one looks exactly like the one I took home from the chateau the other night.
Maybe Matthew’s flight hasn’t left yet, or more likely he’s taking a private plane and he can leave whenever he pleases.
The door opens and a long, lean leg steps onto the pavement.
I quickly sink to the floor, out of view of the window.
The person stepping out of the car isn’t Matthew.