The waitress set their main courses in front of them.
Arianna stared at her lunch companion in disbelief. She was flabbergasted he would divulge such intimacies, and she was still uncertain as to his purpose. Her heart broke for him.
“Bertie, I don’t know what to say. I’m so sorry you have to live like this.”
“Mmhmm,” he replied, tucking his napkin into the top of his shirt, under his chin. “Oops, my apologies. Does me wearing my napkin like this embarrass you?”
Arianna wondered if he had done that for comic relief, because the sight of him with his tucked napkin did make her laugh. It was so unlike his very proper British comportment.
She shook her head and said, “Whatever works for you.”
“You see, Miranda would be aghast if I did this in public. She never even let me do this at home. Get the picture?”
Arianna smiled weakly and felt glad that type of criticism had never been part of her world. “I’m kind of surprised you’re sharing all these details with me.”
Bertram’s face relaxed as he savored his fish. “Crikey! They know how to cook fish to perfection in this country, n’est-ce pas? No wonder there’s not a seat left in here!”
“Magnifique,” Arianna agreed in between bites.
They ate in silence for a few minutes. Arianna worried about losing her appetite, in spite of the delicious meal. Bertie seemed to be a decent man trapped in an abusive relationship. She felt sad for him.
“Well, I’m surprised too,” he said, getting back on topic. “But there’s a reason I want to tell you this. Oh . . . just keep reminding me to drink water too, or I’ll slurp back this entire bottle of rosé before you have a chance to finish your glass. Here, let me top yours up.”
“And that’s fine. Enough for me or I won’t make it through the Fondation later without having a catnap somewhere.”
“So,” Bertram continued, “I’ve had three epiphanies—well, major ones—in my life. The first was when my daughters were born, and I felt that new dimension of love one feels as a parent. I already knew I had a shitty marriage, but I committed myself to being the best father I could be. The second was working on the restoration of that amazing boat. That experience gave me a renewed lease on life; it was almost a religious experience. Working with materials two thousand years old. Feeling connected to something so ancient. I vowed to try to become a happier person.”
He gestured with his fork as he said, “You know, I always credited Gaius Julius Caesar with that change in me. Like I told you at the museum, he was really responsible for the recovery of the boat. So I decided he brought about my recovery too.”
“Perhaps you’re right, Bertie. Why not?”
He chuckled before becoming serious again. “Part of that recovery involved taking up art again after a long absence, as I slipped into semiretirement.”
“Did you spend more time at home then?” Arianna asked, adding hopefully, “Did things improve with your wife?”
“In fact, the response to both of those questions is a resounding no,” he replied. “And I have to say, alcohol became a crutch for me. I’m fortunate it didn’t become an addiction, just a very bad habit.”
Arianna’s face showed her sympathy. She had grown fond of him. She reached over and took his hand. He held her fingers gently for a moment. His eyes reflected gratitude for her caring.
Pursing his lips, he squinted his eyes as he looked directly into Arianna’s. “In fact, the relationship only got worse. I got tired of her hurling abuse at me and even throwing things, with amazing accuracy . . . But, still, I did not leave the marriage. You know, after so many years it can be complicated, but that’s a poor excuse, and I know it. There’s the London town house and the country estate. We go for weeks without seeing each other . . . or even speaking. We just text now.”
“Do your daughters know about all this?”
His eyes filled with such sadness, Arianna thought he might cry. Her heart went out to him. “They are another reason I haven’t pursued divorce. The girls don’t realize how catastrophic things are at home. And then there’s me being a coward. But . . .” His voice tapered off.
“I can’t imagine being caught in such a terrible relationship,” Arianna said softly. “How heartbreaking to live your life in such despair.”
“I just kept painting and drinking more and more once the girls moved away. I never really touched alcohol after the girls were born. Mainly because my wife drank enough for both of us. Believe me, I’ve tried to help Miranda many, many times. She refuses it all.”
“Not unusual,” Arianna murmured. She thought back briefly to when Faith was rebelling with drugs during her teenage years.
“I’ve been treading the slippery slope to becoming an alcoholic myself . . . as you may have observed. Somehow I always manage to catch it in time. But only after having made a fool of myself more times than I care to recall.”
“You seem to be drinking far less this week than last,” Arianna said, hoping to bring some positivity to the conversation and lift her friend’s feelings a bit.
“Yes, that’s true. And it is because of this group and the time we’ve spent together. This probably sounds hokey, but I feel this is a very special mix of personalities, and it has been my good fortune to be amongst all of you. I’ve spent a lot of time observing, listening, and thinking. I’ve also been aware of the kindness, genuine interest, and even, dare I say it, respect that everyone has shown to each other. I feel it’s quite remarkable. In fact, this time together in Arles has brought about my third epiphany.”
“Bertie, that’s wonderful. I’m happy to hear that. Of course, I had no idea you were carrying such sadness and frustration in your heart. You’re right. I’ve felt the same as you about the time we have all spent at the Mas des Artistes. I’ve never done anything like this before either.”
“I made a few mistakes in the beginning. When I first met Joan, I immediately pegged her for a brash American, and I rudely insulted her. The next few days, as I drank way too much to cover my insecurities of being in this group, as is my wont, I added a few other derogatory comments.”
“Oh, Bertie . . . You must feel awful. They are the nicest couple.”
“I did feel awful. She’s so forgiving, she let it slide and never mentioned it to John. She told me that when I apologized to her the day of our cooking adventure during the mistral. She said she was determined to work on me and charm me until I changed my attitude and became her new best friend!”
“Good story!” Arianna said, happy to feel their conversation move forward on a good note and to see Bertram’s composure return and his despair fade.
“And now forgive me if I am intruding too much into your personal situation. Please hand me a cease-and-desist order, if that is the case.”
Arianna tried to hide the surprise in her expression. She had not expected this turn in the conversation.
Bertram reached across tentatively, his expression sincere, and this time he took her hand in his. “In our time here, I’ve seen you begin to blossom from a closed, solemn, and perhaps sad woman. I’ve heard you share bits of your tragic crisis concerning your husband. I’ve understood why you have emotional obstacles in your life. I’m so sorry for the tragedy you and your family are living.”
Arianna began to comprehend that this conversation was not so much about Bertie as about her. She felt genuinely touched, but unable to speak.
“My dear girl, I wanted to tell you about my pathetic situation to express how some of us get stuck in life. Stuck, where we lose love, dignity, hope. Stuck, and for whatever reason, can’t move on. I hope that somehow my sharing my story helps you discover impetus to move on with your life. I know your circumstances are completely different, but I think our solutions may be somewhat similar.”
She nodded and still said nothing, swallowing hard.
“Watching you and listening to you when we were discovering the Camargue was a beautiful thing. You seemed to enj
oy every moment, as did we all. I’m not certain that would have happened a week ago. Are you?”
Arianna shook her head. She took a long drink of water. Little did her friend know that he was reaffirming the realization growing in her. She was learning to let go and perhaps finally giving herself permission to move forward. To become, as he suggested, “unstuck.”
“Bertie, thank you for telling me your story. I am so appreciative of you being this open and frank. It’s kind of you, and your words do help me. Truly.”
He touched his wineglass to hers. Their eyes met with an intensity that might have taken years to forge . . . or simply a few meaningful days of honest interaction.
Bertram said, “I’m very glad . . . and relieved. I wasn’t certain it was proper of me to touch on something of such sensitivity.”
Arianna’s expression was calm as her lips turned up in a soft half smile. “I’ve come to realize there aren’t any rules for honesty and caring.”
Bertram told her, “You said something a few days ago that really hit home with me. You said you felt you were stuck in the ‘now’ of your life. That is my problem too. I’ve stayed in the ‘now’ far too long, and I’m going to get unstuck. In fact, before I went to sleep last night, I looked up airfares to Indonesia and Australia. I plan to go on an extended trip. Alone.”
The lemon tart was served by the waitress, who asked if either of them would care for Chantilly.
“Whipped cream, but the most divine ever,” Bertram translated, giving Arianna a look that said, “Let’s do it.”
They both said yes.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
Arianna and Bertram strolled to the Fondation Vincent van Gogh, just down the street from the restaurant.
She told him she had read quite a bit about it before the trip. “I was so excited when I realized this exhibit would be on while we were here. Vincent was my first major influence when I was old enough to appreciate art. I had posters of his sunflowers and fields in my bedroom as a teenager.”
Within minutes, they had walked through the sliding gates, on which was painted van Gogh’s characteristic signature, and into a spacious courtyard. Arianna pointed to others of their group already in the two-story, glassed-in entrance area.
“The Fondation only opened this beauty in 2014,” explained Bertram as they walked toward their group. “When I was here before, there was some van Gogh information displayed next to the amphitheater. It was an old building equipped with neither the security nor the climate control proper for showing van Gogh’s masterpieces.”
“Imagine!” Arianna exclaimed. “But you know that’s not unusual in Europe, where so much priceless art was often in attics and barns for centuries.”
Bertram looked around in delight. “Now this fifteenth-century mansion has undergone an eleven-million-euro transformation! I’m excited!”
After they joined their group, Juliette offered a brief preamble before they went upstairs to the paintings. “While the Fondation showcases and promotes van Gogh’s art, it also constantly is searching to discover the ongoing impact of it all. They hope to achieve this by ongoing exhibits of promising new artists.”
They could see that the space was intimate but well laid out to exhibit the thirty-one originals. The masterpieces were on loan from museums around the world.
Juliette explained they would have an hour to explore the exhibit as they chose, then they would meet in a conference room on the main floor for a presentation before a guide would take them on a private tour.
“So make a note of questions you might have about any of these pieces. We have a unique opportunity here.”
Everyone wandered off on their own but frequently came together studying one piece or another. It had been a long time since Arianna had even gone to a gallery or an exhibit, and she beat herself up a bit about that. No excuses . . . I promise this is going to become an important part of my life again.
The remainder of the afternoon was like an intensive immersion into all things van Gogh. The presenter and guide were knowledgeable, articulate, and entertaining in bringing so much information to life.
Everyone appreciated having time to simply stand in front of original works and absorb the experience however they wished. It was all very personal.
There was shocked silence when Barbara appeared with Cecilia, who told them, “I couldn’t keep her away.”
“And the doctors said I could go out if I wanted. I just have to take it easy. I mean, how could I miss this? I know you are almost ready to leave, so I will be quick.”
Everyone gently hugged her and expressed their concern. She thanked them all. “I’m fine. Don’t worry. The care I received was excellent.”
There was complete agreement that this was a rare opportunity when they thanked Juliette for arranging the visit.
Arianna felt a lifetime dream had been realized, immersed as she was in the life and art of this man whose work had always been an inspiration. She wished she could share this joy with Ben.
More and more, she was able to accept that Ben would want her to keep living. He would be happy for her. At this moment she knew.
Thank you, Vincent. And thank you, Bertie, too.
It was seven o’clock when they finally left the Fondation, debating what to do next.
“Well, here’s what I’m going to do, and anyone who wants to is welcome to join me,” Arianna said, surprising herself by taking charge. “I admire how Arles keeps the story of van Gogh alive every day. I know some people consider it touristy and tacky, but I like the frequent references to him . . . even the souvenirs.”
There were chuckles at her last comment. “I bought some,” John said, “and I’m not ashamed to admit it! Even a pair of van Gogh boxers . . . for those, he-he, special artistic occasions . . .” He ended with his now-familiar Groucho Marx eyebrow waggle at his wife.
Joan punched him in the arm. “Gawd, John! You don’t have to blab everything!”
Marti added, “What’s wrong with tourists learning about van Gogh and wanting to buy those souvenirs? They’re showing an interest in his art and helping the town’s economy. Tacky or not, I support it too!”
“And let’s face it,” Bertram said, “I bet every one of us had coffee or a drink on the terrace of the Le Café La Nuit in Place du Forum, right?”
All hands shot up.
“Okay, I didn’t intend to start a debate about it,” Arianna said with a chuckle. “What I wanted to say is that I’m truly besotted with Vincent, and I’m going to stay in town until after sunset. I want to sit by the river near where he painted Starry Night Over the Rhône and watch the sky. It was from this work that his more famous The Starry Night evolved. Call me crazy, but I just feel the need to go there.”
It turned out she was not alone. Everyone said they wanted to stay with her. Juliette shook her head as she looked at them all with admiration. “You’ve definitely morphed into a family . . . or the Vincent van Gogh fan club. Since I don’t want to miss the party, I’m going to stay with you too.”
There were cheers all around. Then they all looked at Barbara with concern. “We don’t want to leave you out. But we don’t want you to push yourself too much. Are you sure you are feeling up to this?”
Barbara nodded resolutely. “I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”
Juliette continued, “Well, we will all go with you and have a bit of a rest, my dear. Why not? I’ll get Maurice to meet us. A friend of ours owns a very casual bar just down the street in the La Roquette district. I’m sure he can squeeze us all in for dinner . . . and it will be our treat, since we’re not going back to the mas to eat.”
More cheers erupted now. Juliette led the way to this other distinct area of Arles.
At 8:37 p.m., as the sun set, they were all sitting on stone steps leading to the walkway along the banks of the Rhône. They weren’t too far from where the little yellow house once stood, where van Gogh had famously lived with Gauguin.
Bertram
was talking about Vincent’s love of painting at night. “I read more than once where he expressed the sentiment that the night was more alive with color than day.”
Juliette agreed. “And by painting from this vantage point, he also captured the effect of the newly installed gas lighting reflected in the river. With the growth of the town and the addition of electric lighting, we won’t see anything close to the same sky he did.”
“And, of course, he painted it in September,” Bertram added. “But never mind, we’re here as much to pay homage to him as anything else, poor tortured soul, aren’t we?”
Murmurs of agreement were interrupted by beautiful music as the voice of Don McLean floated up around them, singing “Vincent (Starry Starry Night).” Lisa held out her phone, where she was streaming that emotional anthem to the painter.
Not a word was spoken until it ended. “Please play it again,” several voices chimed together. So she did.
“I’ve never heard that,” Bertram told her. “That was wonderful.”
“It’s on iTunes with a slide show of his paintings. You should take a look at that, Bertie,” Marti said. “I think you would enjoy it. We’ve been playing it for years. It’s Lisa’s favorite song.”
“This has been a remarkable day,” Barbara said to no one in particular.
In more ways than one, Arianna said to herself. And not for the first time.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
Arianna awoke after a relatively sleepless night.
The reality that her stay at Mas des Artistes would soon be over was suddenly causing her to feel conflicted. She didn’t want to leave. She didn’t want the transition that was slowly awakening within her to end.
Maximus moved up to her face and rubbed his head under her chin. His whiskers tickled her neck, and before long she felt the velvet pads of his paw gently tap her cheek. He seemed to know she could use some tenderness. Arianna was going to miss him.
Less than two weeks earlier, she had boarded the plane in Toronto with trepidation. Then she had struggled for days to find her place here, to feel like she fit in, and to feel her artist’s soul come back to life.
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