“I want to paint men and women with the same candor as the old masters, but with the energy of a fresh and original approach,” Vincent wrote. “I am working with all my energy to paint the peasants as they are, with the dignity and respect that they deserve, and to portray them with the same seriousness as historical figures.”
Jo and I had long discussions about what to keep and what to remove so Vincent didn’t appear condescending to the workingman. He was, after all, an incredibly privileged member of the upper middle class who was financially supported by his brother. By that point he had been asked to stop painting the workers without their permission. It made them uneasy. His words made me uneasy, as someone who also used my body in my trade. In the end I’m glad I encouraged Jo to share this one.
The sunlight filtering down from the glass skylight complements the glow of the flickering gas lamps in the cavernous hall.But it’s difficult to find anyone in the crowded room. It takes more than an hour for me to find her in one of the smaller salons. Jo is surrounded by family, friends, and the art world elite she has spent all these years courting. I grasp my daughter’s hand as we wind our way through the throngs of visitors. She spies a friend across the room and I encourage her to go and strike up a conversation. All of this will be easier to face on my own. She’s gone for only a few minutes when Anna Veth stops me and kisses me three times on the cheeks.
“I was hoping you would come,” she says sweetly. “Jo misses you terribly.”
“She does?” I say, my surprise evident on my face. “I assumed…”
“She was hurt and confused, Claire. As well she should have been.”
“So you know?”
“I know.” She nods. “And I understand why you kept it a secret. I believe that she does too, but she is so proud and emotions do not sit easily with her. But I also believe this is something she would like to forgive.”
“I do hope so. Everything about this show is remarkable.”
“Isn’t it?” Anna claps her hands. “I have heard that a group of collectors drove an actual car all the way from Paris. They broke down three times and insisted on carrying on just to make it here for the opening. It’s marvelous.”
“And there has been so much written about it!”
“It came at a high cost.” Anna leans in closer and speaks quietly. “Do not tell anyone, but Jo paid for the publicity, the advertisements, the catalogs, and all of these new frames, the kinds the art lovers are favoring in Paris, on her own. Cohen is livid! I would only tell this to you, of course.”
It warms my heart that she still considers me a confidante. “Do find her while you’re here. She truly needs you more than ever,” Anna adds.
I hug her tightly, hoping to convey my appreciation for her. Icontinue to cut through the crowds, reading the lines of Vincent’s correspondence attached to each painting. I chuckle in front of the painting of the starry night sky. Doughnuts indeed! Next to it though is a line from Vincent to Theo that I love.
And still to feel the stars and the infinite, clearly, up there. Then life is almost magical, after all.
“Life is magical indeed, isn’t it, madame,” a husky voice whispers in my ear, sending shivers down my spine.
“Hello, Monsieur Israels.”
“I should apologize again for my behavior when I last saw you,” he begins.
“No need,” I lie. His threats have lodged in my brain ever since that day, and I live in constant fear of his reuniting with Jo and revealing my last transgression to her, telling her of the paintings I stole and sold to Henrik Swanson.
He gazes longingly across the room at Jo. “But I do not plan on apologizing. She has trusted you above anyone. She loves you fiercely. You must know that. You are the most consequential person in her life after her son and the brilliant brothers Van Gogh.” His last sentence drips with sarcasm, but his meaning is a punch to my gut given the current state of our relationship.
“You intercepted my correspondence to her. I know you did. And you forged the notes that came back to me. The signatures were never the same.”
“She fell in love with Johan. She got married. It had to end,” I say weakly.
“You were incredibly skilled at keeping Jo from me.”
“You were killing her,” I argue. I could say so much more but I don’t want to tell him how I found her wandering our neighborhood in the dead of night during their affair, how I was terrified she would hurl herself into the canal in despair when things went badly over and over again.
“Incorrect. I was the one keeping her alive.”
“You are very dramatic.” My throat is coated in wool.
“I brought her back to life once.” He raises his voice, but then knows enough to lower it. “I admit we had our difficulties, but you must admit there were parts of her that were dead and decaying before me, and I believe she needs me still. I want you to confess what you did to keep us apart. If you do not, I will tell Jo that you’ve been secretly selling paintings and sketches to Henrik Swanson. I saw them when I was in New York. He bragged that he obtained them from a girl who worked with Jo who was pretending to be an ignorant widow.”
My gasp gives me away and Isaac laughs cruelly.
“You didn’t think you fooled him, do you? He is one of the most cunning art dealers in the world right now. He knows everything about Jo van Gogh and her business. We had a good chuckle over your charade, and I knew finally I had some leverage over you.”
I deserve this. I am a thief and a fraud. My reasons for doing it, to protect myself and my daughter, to secure a future for the two of us, do not justify my actions. I have given Jo so many more reasons to despise me.
