I must make it seem as though I came here from Paris becauseI have much more respect for the art market here, not because we could not find buyers there, Jo explained.
“I am preparing many of them for exhibition currently,” she continues now.
“And where will that be?” the gentleman next to Verkade says with interest.
“You must do it in Holland,” the third gentleman interjects. “In Amsterdam.”
“Perhaps. But I have also been in discussions with galleries in Paris.”
Anna interrupts. “Jo, have you met Jan Wijsmuller? He is the secretary for the Arti et Amicitiae in Amsterdam.”
“I have not. But what a pleasure,” she says.
“We can arrange for a showing just as grand as any in Paris,” Wijsmuller brags.
“But I am getting so many requests from France.” I am shocked by how well Jo is playing at the deception. I remember what she told me, one of the lessons she learned very well from Theo:Demand makes an artist, demand and scarcity. You must make him believe that someone else wants it more than he does, that someone else, in fact, already has it.
Jo explained it more simply for me.Art only has value if people think it is worth something. I am now in the business of changing minds, not hearts. That is my mission.
I can see the group of men getting agitated. They shimmy their shoulders to stand a little taller. Nothing is more fragile than a Dutchman’s ego when Paris is invoked.
“Nonsense. You must do it here first. This is Theo and Vincent’s birthplace, and we have many, many collectors and critics coming through our halls,” Wijsmuller insists. Others in the room have ceased their own conversations and are listening to our group.
“I would need to think about it,” Jo says, so nonchalantly, it is as if I am listening to a stranger.
Anna knows when to end things to create the maximum amount of intrigue.
“If you will excuse us, gentlemen, there are many others here who are eager to meet Mrs. Van Gogh. I will make sure that you have the proper information to contact her in the coming days.” With that, Anna ushers the two of us up the stairs to her own bedroom.
“I told you it was worth you being here. They’ll be arguing over how to wrestle a show for Vincent away from the French for the rest of the evening.”
“You were not wrong,” Jo says breathlessly, sinking onto Anna’s bed. “I am so clumsy in these situations. Theo always knew what to say.”
“Stop doubting yourself. You were excellent. Those men are now eager for an exhibition, especially since they have so much competition with Paris.” Anna smirks. “That was very clever, dear girl. You have absorbed much of your husband’s prowess in intriguing people.”
“I thought I heard his voice, Anna,” Jo whispers. I don’t want to chime in during their private moment, but I thought I heard it too.
“Maybe it sounded like him, but it was all you. Do you think you can manage a couple more conversations or was that enough practice for the evening?”
“I would love nothing more than to retire to my bed,” Jo says, looking at me beseechingly. “Perhaps we could head home?”
“I’ll sneak you out the back,” Anna says. “But, Jo, please remember something and, Claire, please remind her when she gets home before she falls asleep. You deserve every good thing that comes your way. And one piece of advice.”
“I will listen to anything you tell me.”
“Get started on organizing those letters and figure out how to tell Vincent’s remarkable story. You’ll need to sooner than you think.”
11
Emma
I raise myhand to knock and then lower it, suddenly shy in the vestibule of Stella Swanson’s penthouse.
The door swings open and for a breathless moment, I assume Stella sensed me standing here.
“Madame,” I start, but it isn’t her. Matthew stands in front of me. His mouth is set in a grim line.
“Bon-bonjour,” I stammer.
