“I can visit another time?” Jo offers.
“No. Come in now,” he insists with strange urgency. “I will put on tea, and I cannot wait to show you my newest painting. I was hoping to finish it before you came, but as you know, a painting is never truly finished.”
His last words carry a trace of sarcasm. Vincent’s many “unfinished” paintings have been an excuse for collectors and dealers to drive down Jo’s asking prices. She battles this constantly but is quite persuasive in her arguments about how Vincent’s style might appear incomplete to untrained eyes, but every brushstroke was placed with a near spiritual intention. I’ve watched her defend this position until her voice goes hoarse. I once asked her if she believes it.
“No. Not always. Some of them may indeed have been unfinished,” she had said. But when it comes to defending Vincent, her assertions grow more confident with every meeting.
I pinch Jo’s arm now, our secret signal that we can still escape, but she’s already following him across the threshold, still clutching those ridiculous tulips like they might shield her from whatever awaits inside.
“Do you have a vase for these? I don’t want them to wilt,” she says, though they already have.
Isaac’s intimate things are scattered all over the room: a rusty razor on a windowsill, undergarments tossed carelessly over a chair. Canvases are piled on every available surface, some of them still wet, leaving smudges of paint on the whitewashed walls. Silvery paint tubes litter the floor, their caps carelesslystrewn about. Some are perched on easels, as if waiting for admirers. Almost all the subjects are women, one applying lipstick in a mirror, two chambermaids gossiping.
“I tidied up for you,” Isaac jokes. “I can make you tea. I may also have some biscuits somewhere.”
“We ate before we came,” Jo lies politely. “But tea would be lovely. I don’t think we can stay terribly long, but I am happy we could make the time for a visit.”
“Me too,” he says, producing a chipped vase from a creaky cupboard.
I take a knife from the table and begin chopping the stems. Before I know what is happening there is a crash. One of the rickety table legs gives way with a sudden crack. Water cascades over Jo’s skirt and streams toward a nearby painting of two women gazing longingly at children’s clothing in a shop window.
“Oh no!” I lunge for the painting, grabbing a rag from the floor to dam the flow. Jo stands frozen, watching dirty water seep into the fabric of her good dress.
“It is not the first time.” Isaac shrugs. “I must fix that table. Or buy a new one. Do not worry about it.”
“Your painting,” I protest, still dabbing frantically.
“You saved it. No damage is done. Except to your dress.” He gestures toward Jo. Her outfit was selected for our meeting after this. She has an appointment later with Simon De Jong, the owner of a large gallery who is finally showing an interest in Vincent’s work. And now this carefully chosen outfit bears streaks of paint and filthy water.
“Oh no,” she whispers, examining the damage. “I am meant to meet De Jong after this.”
Isaac’s laugh fills the small space. “That ancient knob. Whatever for?”
Jo hesitates, and I watch her calculating how much to reveal. “He has promised to do a showing of Vincent’s paintings.”
“Oh yes. I have heard that you inherited all of them whenyour husband…” His awkward pause betrays a man who’s never truly lost anything irreplaceable. “That you inherited them from Theo. And you are representing them now. That must be quite difficult.”
“I am sure you have heard more than that. Lips are very loose around here,” Jo replies, her tone sharpening.
An idea forms in my mind. “Let me go fetch you a new dress.”
Jo startles. We don’t buy new things, but I have connections in this city that Jo doesn’t know about and wouldn’t understand. I don’t plan on buying anything.
“I can be back in an hour’s time,” I continue, already calculating the route. “The two of you can catch up. Jo, you can still make your meeting.”
Jo’s eyes dart around the studio and then down to her spoiled dress.
“It will be fine,” I assure her. “No one knows we are here.” I shoot Isaac a look then. I am trusting him to take care with her.
“Please sit with me, Jo,” Isaac pleads almost sweetly. “I may be helpful to you in preparation for meeting with De Jong. I know how these men operate, and I can make some suggestions. I would be honored to help you get a show of Vincent’s work. As you know I was a great admirer of what he did. I think about him often.”
His kind words about Vincent soften Jo, who doesn’t hear enough of them. She turns to me. “Claire, you really think you can find me a dress?”
“I do.”
“Then, Isaac, we have an hour to talk.” She settles in.
I hustle quickly through the city streets, crisscrossing canals and tripping over the uneven bricks. I know a woman here. I wrote to her when I knew we would be moving. Though I have come to trust Jo, women like me must always have a secondary plan. Lisette moved from Paris to Amsterdam because she heard it was easier to launch a new business in Holland. Paris was toocrowded with workers like us and she was an entrepreneur at heart. We have exchanged several letters over the past year, and she told me I would always be welcome to visit. I have no intention of buying Jo a new dress we cannot afford, but I know I can borrow one.
