“People discover old paintings all the time in their basements and attics, especially here in France,” Lucie asserts.
I roll my eyes. “ ‘All the time’ is a bit of an exaggeration.”
“I’m saying it’s possible. We could have found it in a locked trunk from the Fleas or in Colette’s dusty basement at her family home in Arles.”
“It’s not in a single catalog of Van Gogh’s work,” Colette chimes in. “Just like Stella said, it’s never been on the market.”
“Which means it’s worth a bloody fortune,” Lucie says.
“If we can prove its provenance. If we can prove we didn’t steal it. If we can convince a reputable auction house to even work with us,” Colette ticks off all the hurdles we have to overcome on her long, delicate fingers. “If we can convince all the experts to declare that it is a real Van Gogh…and of course the problem with that is…”
“The House of Swanson certifies seventy percent of Van Goghs in the world. They’re the leading experts on what is real and what isn’t,” I finish for her.
We stroll through the narrow passageways of the Fleas, glancing down every so often at colorful blankets spread across the concrete selling batteries, broken watches, pirated VHSs, and toilet paper. The real treasures are always further inside, but you never know what you’ll spot out here and we’re always keeping an eye out. All of us are drawn to broken beauty.
I sort through a bin of mismatched glass buttons, buying a peculiar yellow one because it perfectly matches the petals on the masterpiece back in our apartment. Colette inspects a pair of salt and pepper shakers in the shape of jolly dachshunds wearing Burberry coats while Lucie pays a franc for a broken pocket watch with the inscriptionÀ Luca, que le temps soit doux avec ton visage—To Luca, may time be kind to your face.
My skin prickles and I feel a strange sensation on the back of my neck, as though someone is watching me. The comforting chaos of the market transforms into something more sinister- feeling, though I tell myself I’m just being paranoid.
We finally stumble into Chez Louisette in the belly of the market. It’s still too early for tourists and there are plenty of tables. At night local jazz musicians perform on the tiny stage, but in the morning they make a delicious herbed omelet oozing with Brie. The decor is a mishmash of antiques from all over the Fleas. The walls are covered in photos of patrons dating back to the 1920s. I squint at them, almost expecting to see a faded photograph of a young Stella raising a glass to us.
We order coffees, eggs, a couple of croissants to soak up the butter and cheese, and sit in silence. These are often my favorite moments with Colette and Lucie, the ones where we don’t have to say or do anything, where we can just be together, alone with our own thoughts.
The unsettled feeling I’d had out in the market faded once I got my hands on some coffee, but when the little bell attached to the front door dings, it returns with a vengeance. My heart speeds up before I even see who is walking into the restaurant. The light is bright behind the small figure, but the purple silk turban is unmistakable. She glides over to our table with her shoulders back and her head held high.
“Hello, ladies,” she says as she pulls out a chair and sits across from me.
I sigh because somehow I knew. I just knew.
“Bonjour, Stella.”
16
Claire
“It’s crass.” JanVeth stares at the cover of the exhibition catalog for Vincent’s show with disgust and the certainty of a man who believes all his opinions are facts.
“It’s brilliant,” his wife, Anna, counters sharply.
“Can’t it be both?” I interject boldly, surprising myself. My own opinions come out more easily now than they ever have before, a result, I believe, of all the faith Jo invests in me. The four of us—Jo, myself, Jan, and Anna—are staring down at a wilted, decaying sunflower with a halo wrapped around its wobbly stem.
The messianic embellishments are meant to attract attention for this show, and Jan is not the only one here who is scandalized by it. The entire room is buzzing about how Vincent is being portrayed as both a saint and a martyr.
“It renders the exhibition more suitable for psychologists than art lovers,” Jan, an artist himself, spits.
“Psychologists buy art too, my dear,” Anna reminds him.“And moments ago, you were warming to several of Vincent’s pieces.” Jo’s closest friend is always quick to defend her and all her choices.
Her wretched husband rolls his eyes dramatically. “I said I found them less vulgar than before. I have begun to think that the rawness was intentional rather than mere sloppiness, but I could be wrong.”
Jan makes my skin crawl. I can’t imagine how Anna tolerates him. She’s so brilliant and gentle, while he’s perpetually cruel and narrow-minded, but there’s no accounting for taste. A marriage is almost always a mystery to outsiders. Though I’ve never had a husband, I’ve been privy to their innermost secrets and desires, convincing me that for every love match, a hundred marriages of convenience exist. I walk away, cutting through the throngs who have gathered for the exhibition. Jo has fought hard for this, weathered dozens of rejections with grace, and she’s finally convinced the establishment in Holland that Vincent is worthy of a show. It has been no small feat. Jo continues to amaze me with her own particular genius. It was her decision to turn this room into an optical illusion, to make it feel so full you must use the paintings to guide your way through the crowd. And to achieve it she gave out free tickets to art students from all over the country and even from abroad. Jo is courting the next generation of artists and critics, all of whom she believes are longing for something new to replace the old masters.
“They’re desperate for a vision of what comes next, and Vincent had precisely that—a road map for art’s future,” Jo explained to me as I helped her with the invitations.
Her newfound assurance and confidence come from the fact that she has accomplished this. But I know it also stems from her association with Isaac Israels. She never again invited me to his studio after that first visit, and she’s remained tight-lipped about their encounters. But her body language speaks volumes. There’s a lightness and an energy I’ve never before witnessed in her.
As I walk away from Jan’s grumbling, I am ambushed by the press of silken lips against my cheek.
“Thank you for including us, Claire.” Lisette looks ravishing in deep purple velvet.
