“I’m only just learning to ride,” Jo offers, an uncharacteristic apology from a woman who rarely explains herself to men any longer.
“It was my own fault,” Steenhoff insists, reclaiming some dignity. “I was lost in my thoughts.” When he stands, I notice his pants are torn at the knee.
“To be honest, I was hoping to speak with you soon, Mrs. Van Gogh,” he continues, dusting himself off.
“Why is that?” Jo asks, her business instincts immediately alert.
“The recent showing of Vincent’s drawings you arranged in Zwolle garnered much attention.”
The three of us stroll along the canal path, Jo and I pushing our bikes.
“It was wonderful,” Jo agrees with practiced nonchalance. “There were many offers we could not even accept.”
“And why not?” His curiosity is palpable.
“Because they had already been promised elsewhere, prior to the show.”
“You don’t say.” Steenhoff strokes his bristly beard, processing this information like a banker calculating interest.
“In fact”—Jo seizes the moment—“I have recently been contacted by several esteemed gallerists in Paris who have a wild notion to create a small museum entirely dedicated to Vincent. Can you imagine?” The fabrication is brilliant in its audacity.
“Surely you wouldn’t? Take Vincent’s paintings back to Paris?” He pronounces the city’s name as though it’s a communicable disease.
“Vincent loved it there. He thrived there for some time. I think that is where he did his best work,” Jo replies with strategic ambiguity. Another embellishment. Vincent had actually suffered terribly in Paris. I recall a particularly haunting letter he wrote during that dark period, his words practically bleeding onto the page where he told Theo that the crowded streets and frenetic pace of Paris were sapping him of all his strength.
We arrive at the Rijksmuseum’s impressive facade, clearly Steenhoff’s intended destination.
“Let us set a meeting soon? Perhaps we can discuss this absurd idea of a museum in France.”
“Surely. You know where to find me, Mr. Steenhoff.”
We walk our bikes in silence until we come to a small café along the Amstel river. And only once we have ordered ourselves a small meal do we start talking about the encounter.
“What an exquisite lie you told,” I say, complimenting her.
Jo’s smile stretches across her plump cheeks until it hits her eyes, making them glint in the afternoon sun. “Wasn’t it?”
“A museum in Paris? For Vincent?”
“Planting the seeds. And once he thinks Paris could have one, he will tell everyone we must have one here. Same as with those early shows.”
“Of course he will. It’s almost as if you had planned to hit him with your bike.”
“If only I were that devious.”
“Do you really want that? A museum?”
Jo nibbles on the edge of her croquette before answering me.
“Not yet. I want Vincent’s paintings to travel around the world, to hang all over Western Europe and America before they are ever brought back together in a single place. They will spread out like a fan around the globe. But I want those men to want amuseum. Because if Steenhoff thinks it is a good idea, he will talk about it to all the others. He will write about it. They will mention it every time there is a show, and it will become lodged in people’s minds, the idea that Vincent is an artist deserving of his own space. But now I want the paintings to continue to grow in value. There is new money pouring into Europe for art. The rich industrialists in America need to fill the walls of their mansions and there are not nearly enough old masters available for them to spend obscene amounts of money on. They have been purchasing many pieces by Claude and Edgar. It is a way for the newly wealthy to assert their cultural sophistication.”
“Where are you hearing all this?”
Jo gazes out at the river. Her reluctance to answer can only mean one thing.
“Have you seen him recently?” I hold my breath as I wait for an answer. I keep tabs on Isaac as best I can through Lisette and the other girls.
“No. I have not. We are finished. But these are the things we used to discuss. I miss those conversations. I have also heard this over and over from Jan Veth. He has spent much time in New York and has even advised some of the rich men there on what to purchase.”
