Now he is the perfect buyer for the small painting I took from the collection. This one was simple to steal. It had been sent to Jo by a friend of Vincent’s who thought she should have it. As I am the one who opens most of the correspondence, she has no idea it even exists.
I am certain Henrik Swanson will give me the highest price. Of course he has no idea who I am. I’ve been Jo’s shadow for many years, always there but never noticed. It has suited both of us. Still, I put on a costume to meet with Swanson, one I borrowed from Lisette. I appear to be a wealthy lady of leisure visiting Paris from the countryside. My story is sound. I tell him I am a recent widow and that my husband supported Vincent during his stay in Auvers as a patron of sorts.
I fidget with the tiny pearl buttons on my visiting dress. The dove-gray silk taffeta rustles with each nervous movement. My corseted figure has maintained the proper silhouette after all these years. The diamond-and-pearl brooch at my high collar might be too formal for lunch, but I wanted every advantage for this meeting.
We don’t waste any time. I take the painting from the case I have been carrying around the countryside with me.
“This is spectacular. Not dissimilar to one that I recently acquired when I was in Rotterdam. But this is more detailed,” he says.
“I will take your word for it. I know very little about art,” I murmur in response. He is correct, of course, though the large brushstrokes in this piece make it also appear unfinished. It is a simple field with two rabbits in it. There are three others nearly exactly like it, which is how I know Jo will never miss this particular one. And in this way it feels like a victimless crime, or so I keep telling myself.
“But I do have other offers, Mr. Swanson. You are not the first I have met with.” I have learned many things from Jo, but also many things from Madam and Jo when it comes to stoking fervor in men. Whether they are buying a woman or a piece of art, they want the piece to be desired by others.
“Who?” he asks sharply.
I smile seductively. “They have asked that I keep their confidence. I am sure you can understand. I would not reveal to them that I am meeting with you.”
“What have they offered you?”
“What are you offering me?”
I am fairly certain he isn’t used to women speaking to him in this manner, or maybe he is. I’ve heard rumors that his wife is quite the shrew, though I hate that word being assigned to a woman. It typically just means “assertive.”
“I would give you six hundred francs for this,” he says. It is more than I expected, which means he is eager. “And you said there are more? I would very much like to see them.”
“I can get you more,” I say, repulsed at how eager I am.
“I can offer you six hundred fifty for this, then, if it would mean establishing a good relationship between us and thepromise you will come to me again. You aren’t the only woman who is willing to let go of these paintings now that they are increasing in value. Let me show you my latest acquisition.”
I can hardly keep my expression neutral as he pulls it from inside his large satchel. He can’t know I’ve seen it before, that I know this woman well.
“I was able to procure this for a very good price. I don’t think Van Gogh ever painted another nude. The owner practically gave it away; she was so desperate for money.”
I miss her impudent smiles and her gravelly laugh. I can hear it now as I gaze down at Vincent’s portrait of her naked body. Her voice from long ago is so clear in my ears.It’s the ugliest nude I’ve ever seen and it’s exactly the way I look.
Swanson’s gaze burns into me as I fight back tears he cannot see.
I know Agostina fell on hard times in the years after we left Paris. Her business declined and she was forced to take on heavy debts. The restaurant and much of the art that hung on the walls were repossessed. Swanson likely acquired this for a very good price. I return the man’s gaze.
“I accept your offer, and we can meet again.” I am seeing Marie-Celeste once more before I return to Bussum. I want to have a good sum to give her to approach her parents. She will buy her way out of the marriage, or at the very least buy herself time. Her parents are hoping for the union to secure a future for her, but also for themselves. They are not greedy. They are practical people, struggling to survive. Her potential husband has money and position in their town and a connection to him means security for them all. But money can do the same thing. If she can offer them a large sum in return for her freedom, if only to continue her schooling for another couple of years, they might agree to it.
I’ll do anything to make it happen. Even make a deal withthis devil. “We can meet in two months. I will have more for you then.”
The train is delayed untilmidnight because of engine problems, but I stay close to the tracks, warming my hands over a fire the conductor lit in a barrel on the platform.
“Why is a lady like you traveling alone?” he asks me. There is nothing predatory in his question, only curiosity. I would have wondered the same thing if I’d seen myself, a solitary woman, accompanying a train of mostly cargo in the middle of the night. It happens every time I make a journey. Six months ago, when I met with Henrik Swanson and Marie-Celeste in France, I counted the number of odd looks I received each time I boarded a train on my own. But in the end the journey was well worth it.
“I work with Mrs. Van Gogh. She is transporting artwork done by her brother-in-law for an art show.” More than fifty paintings and about a dozen drawings are going to Munich and then on to Frankfurt, Cologne, and Chemnitz. Jo was terribly worried about the impact the many train rides would have on the works. The vibration alone could cause damage, to say nothing of the wear and tear from all the packing and unpacking. Jo has always been staunchly opposed to restoration, even though it is becoming quite normal these days. I promised to accompany them. I will oversee the packing and unpacking by the staff members of the various museums and galleries. She is paying me well, perhaps out of guilt for abandoning our shared business and not loaning me the money when I begged her to, but spending thousands on yet another show. I remain frustrated with her choices, yet I never reveal it. I have endured worse and she remains a friend, despite how I am betraying her.
The conductor is more interested in the cargo than I expected he would be.
“I went to the Vincent van Gogh show at the Rijksmuseum. I’d never seen anything like it,” he tells me. “It felt like the paintings were swimming in front of my eyes. I didn’t think art could do that.” He takes a swig from a canteen and passes it to me. I gratefully accept it, my lips parched. As the whiskey lights the back of my throat on fire, the great iron beast in front of us finally huffs to life.
“There’s only one passenger compartment on this train, and the accommodations are sparse,” the conductor apologizes, finishing the last drop in his flask.
“I will ride with the paintings,” I insist.
“With the cargo? I can’t allow it. You’ll freeze.”
