Chapter 32
Claire
Jo hasn’t returned a single one of my letters. Johan came to move her final things out of the boardinghouse and into their Amsterdam apartment. He was warm enough. Given the distance between them I can’t imagine she told him of my deceptions.
I saw her once when I was visiting the city and I know she saw me, but she turned and sped up her gait, hustled to a side street, and when I followed her down the road she was gone. I do not deserve her friendship and yet I still long for it.
There is to be a show of Vincent’s work at the Stedelijk Museum.
It is the big one she’s been lobbying for since she arrived nearly fifteen years ago.
I only know about it because it’s been mentioned in all the newspapers and art magazines.
There will be more than four hundred works on display, paintings and drawings, along with many of Vincent’s letters, the ones I have translated and curated with Jo over the years.
I read a half dozen interviews with her about it.
She doesn’t mention me in any of them, though she used to in others.
I’ve been erased from her life, as I deserve to be.
My daughter keeps telling me to enjoy the ease I’ve earned, but there are times I fear I’ve become addicted to the struggle.
When you’re born with less than nothing and you have no choice but to claw your way to comfort, you simply don’t know any other way.
It may be why I continue to pursue Jo. My letters to her get longer, more desperate.
I only send a few of them. The rest I burn.
I have to see her, and Vincent’s show may be my only opportunity.
I’m standing in front of The Reaper, a swirling golden wheat field with a solitary figure bent over in the act of harvesting. Next to it is a framed letter from Vincent explaining how he wished to elevate ordinary people through art.
“I want to paint men and women with the same candor as the old masters, but with the energy of a fresh and original approach,” Vincent wrote.
“I am working with all my energy to paint the peasants as they are, with the dignity and respect that they deserve, and to portray them with the same seriousness as historical figures.”
Jo and I had long discussions about what to keep and what to remove so Vincent didn’t appear condescending to the workingman.
He was, after all, an incredibly privileged member of the upper middle class who was financially supported by his brother.
By that point he had been asked to stop painting the workers without their permission.
It made them uneasy. His words made me uneasy, as someone who also used my body in my trade.
In the end I’m glad I encouraged Jo to share this one.
The sunlight filtering down from the glass skylight complements the glow of the flickering gas lamps in the cavernous hall.
But it’s difficult to find anyone in the crowded room.
It takes more than an hour for me to find her in one of the smaller salons.
Jo is surrounded by family, friends, and the art world elite she has spent all these years courting.
I grasp my daughter’s hand as we wind our way through the throngs of visitors.
She spies a friend across the room and I encourage her to go and strike up a conversation.
All of this will be easier to face on my own.
She’s gone for only a few minutes when Anna Veth stops me and kisses me three times on the cheeks.
“I was hoping you would come,” she says sweetly. “Jo misses you terribly.”
“She does?” I say, my surprise evident on my face. “I assumed…”
“She was hurt and confused, Claire. As well she should have been.”
“So you know?”
“I know.” She nods. “And I understand why you kept it a secret. I believe that she does too, but she is so proud and emotions do not sit easily with her. But I also believe this is something she would like to forgive.”
“I do hope so. Everything about this show is remarkable.”
“Isn’t it?” Anna claps her hands. “I have heard that a group of collectors drove an actual car all the way from Paris. They broke down three times and insisted on carrying on just to make it here for the opening. It’s marvelous.”
“And there has been so much written about it!”
“It came at a high cost.” Anna leans in closer and speaks quietly.
“Do not tell anyone, but Jo paid for the publicity, the advertisements, the catalogs, and all of these new frames, the kinds the art lovers are favoring in Paris, on her own. Cohen is livid! I would only tell this to you, of course.”
It warms my heart that she still considers me a confidante. “Do find her while you’re here. She truly needs you more than ever,” Anna adds.
I hug her tightly, hoping to convey my appreciation for her.
I continue to cut through the crowds, reading the lines of Vincent’s correspondence attached to each painting.
I chuckle in front of the painting of the starry night sky.
Doughnuts indeed! Next to it though is a line from Vincent to Theo that I love.
And still to feel the stars and the infinite, clearly, up there. Then life is almost magical, after all.
“Life is magical indeed, isn’t it, madame,” a husky voice whispers in my ear, sending shivers down my spine.
“Hello, Monsieur Israels.”
“I should apologize again for my behavior when I last saw you,” he begins.
“No need,” I lie. His threats have lodged in my brain ever since that day, and I live in constant fear of his reuniting with Jo and revealing my last transgression to her, telling her of the paintings I stole and sold to Henrik Swanson.
He gazes longingly across the room at Jo.
“But I do not plan on apologizing. She has trusted you above anyone. She loves you fiercely. You must know that. You are the most consequential person in her life after her son and the brilliant brothers Van Gogh.” His last sentence drips with sarcasm, but his meaning is a punch to my gut given the current state of our relationship.
“You intercepted my correspondence to her. I know you did. And you forged the notes that came back to me. The signatures were never the same.”
“She fell in love with Johan. She got married. It had to end,” I say weakly.
“You were incredibly skilled at keeping Jo from me.”
“You were killing her,” I argue. I could say so much more but I don’t want to tell him how I found her wandering our neighborhood in the dead of night during their affair, how I was terrified she would hurl herself into the canal in despair when things went badly over and over again.
“Incorrect. I was the one keeping her alive.”
“You are very dramatic.” My throat is coated in wool.
“I brought her back to life once.” He raises his voice, but then knows enough to lower it.
“I admit we had our difficulties, but you must admit there were parts of her that were dead and decaying before me, and I believe she needs me still. I want you to confess what you did to keep us apart. If you do not, I will tell Jo that you’ve been secretly selling paintings and sketches to Henrik Swanson.
I saw them when I was in New York. He bragged that he obtained them from a girl who worked with Jo who was pretending to be an ignorant widow. ”
My gasp gives me away and Isaac laughs cruelly.
“You didn’t think you fooled him, do you? He is one of the most cunning art dealers in the world right now. He knows everything about Jo van Gogh and her business. We had a good chuckle over your charade, and I knew finally I had some leverage over you.”
I deserve this. I am a thief and a fraud. My reasons for doing it, to protect myself and my daughter, to secure a future for the two of us, do not justify my actions. I have given Jo so many more reasons to despise me.
Isaac continues. “Think of your daughter. She’s in school with Madame Jansen, yes?
Madame Jansen and Jo are quite good friends.
Jo will never forgive you for compromising Vincent’s work and colluding with Swanson.
She will have your sweet daughter thrown out of that school if she knows what you did. ”
He may be right, though Jo isn’t typically vengeful, simply good at maintaining her distance when she has fallen out with someone. Then again, no one has ever betrayed her as badly as I have.
“I won’t do it. You have to let her be. Please, for her own good.” I don’t move a muscle and I don’t avert my gaze from his.
“You’ll regret this,” he sneers as he makes his way through the galleries and out of my sight.
I wait and wait for Jo to approach me, giving her the space I know she needs, but she is constantly surrounded by people.
This is her night. I cannot ruin it for her.
If she wanted to speak to me, she would have come to me.
I made my presence known to her by lingering on the outskirts of her conversations many times.
When a bell rings signaling the end of the evening, I make my way to the exit.
As I’m walking out the door I see Jo and Isaac huddled in a corner.
I can’t tell if she is hoping to escape from him or with him.
Our eyes meet and then I look away, just as Isaac Israels leans into Jo’s ear, perhaps whispering my worst betrayal.