I smiled and my cheeks began to warm.
“I, too, am happy to see you again.”
But I could not help but feel nervous. I knew we were not alone. “Papa is finishing up in his studio; he’ll be down any minute,” I said. I felt the need to warn him that we needed to be careful.
“In that case, I must tell you now just how much I enjoyed receiving your gift.”
Again, I blushed. He reached out and touched the back of my head. “So no one knows about the missing tresses but me?”
“No,” I whispered. His hand dropped from the nape of my neck to my cheek. I felt his cupped hand against my jawline and the pressure felt strong, the calluses strangely comforting.
“When will you meet me again?”
There was a greediness to his voice, an impatience that I now understood to be that of hunger and desire. It was no longer something foreign to me. It was in my voice too.
“I promise I will….”
“There’s a cave not far behind the Château Léry…come tomorrow night.”
I nodded, but it was not a confident nod. I was distracted by some noise I heard upstairs. Papa’s footsteps were easily recognizable and I stiffened.
“Come, Monsieur Van Gogh, let’s set your easel up in the parlor.” I spoke loudly so Papa would hear me. This was a signal to Vincent that our privacy was threatening to be compromised.
In this case, Vincent’s ability to abandon his intimate charms so easily when work was suggested worked in my favor. Perhaps his eagerness to get back to painting was greater than his inclination for romance, for the mere suggestion of setting up his easel energized him instantly.
Within seconds, his hands had abandoned the soft flesh of my cheeks for his sturdier companion, his easel.
He brought with him his lighter one, the one he was able to strap onto his back. And with the efficiency of a soldier, he picked up my portrait and slid his hand through the handle of his paint box, bringing all his equipment inside.
“We’ll need to move the piano again,” I said. “I’m sorry, Papa moved it back last night.”
“Not to worry.” Vincent walked across the room and began to move the piano so it was situated at the same angle it had been the day before.
He was just about to retrieve his paint box when Papa walked into the room.
“Good afternoon, Vincent!” Father had on a bright green smock and his hair, having been recently rinsed with his special henna shampoo, seemed even brighter against it. “How good of you to stop by!” Papa went over and shook Vincent’s hand.
“I hope you don’t mind, Doctor, I thought the painting needed a little tweaking. I wrote to Theo about it last night and I want it to be perfect.”
“Yes, of course. Don’t worry at all, my son.”
“I just need to arrange my palette and then I’ll get started. Marguerite has been kind enough to oblige me.”
Papa gave him a weak smile. “Yes, she is a good girl, our Marguerite.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I could see Vincent rummaging through his box. Suddenly, his face seemed worried.
“Is there anything the matter, Vincent?” Papa, too, sensed Vincent’s agitation.
“I think I’ve forgotten my palette. I’ll have to go home and fetch it! How could I have done that?”
Unable to believe he had left behind one of his essential instruments, Vincent began throwing all the contents out of his rucksack. Out tumbled his spare brushes, the dirty rags, and extra palette knives. Within seconds, the room was a mess.
“How could I have forgotten it?” His voice was beginning to escalate and Papa went over to him and tried to calm him down.
“It’s all right, Vincent.” He put his arm over his back and I could see the skin peeking from Vincent’s collar was aflame. “I’ll lend you one of mine. I have a spare palette upstairs.”
Vincent put his hand to his eyes. “I am sorry to have this outburst. I’m just furious at myself.”
I shook my head. To me Vincent’s agitation was a sign of his perfectionism, the passion he held for his work. All I wanted to do was soothe him.
“It’s not a problem. Papa says he has a spare.”
“Yes, absolutely, Vincent. I’ll run upstairs and get it! Don’t worry. I’ll relish telling everyone that you used my palette to paint my daughter’s portrait!”
Papa rushed out of the room and bounded up the stairs. Minutes later, he was in the parlor again, with a palette in hand.
After that, Papa did not leave us alone. He watched as intently as he had the day before. I knew he was anxious to see if Vincent would sign the painting after he was finished. He had heard from Monsieur Ravoux that Vincent had signed the portrait he had done of his daughter, Adeline. I knew this irritated Papa. Being the collector that he was, Papa knew that the artist’s signature would only increase the value of Ravoux’s painting, if Vincent became famous one day.
Vincent, however, seemed to take little notice of Papa’s presence. From the moment he began to set up his easel, nothing else seemed to matter. His bad mood about having forgotten his palette seemed to have vanished, and his eyes now focused on the painting in front of him.
“If you would be kind enough to sit by the piano, mademoiselle,” Vincent asked me, signaling that he was ready to begin. He was now back to his old self and the shadow of his outburst seemed to be fading, forgotten by all of us.
I did as I was told. I sat down on the stool and tried to focus on something unremarkable, like the vase of peonies in the foyer. But it was of little use. I couldn’t help thinking of the novel Louise-Josephine had given me. I closed my eyes and dreamed of the two of us marooned on Mauritius. I imagined jasmine-scented breezes and warm turquoise waters.
This time it was effortless to pretend I was somewhere else. I had to concentrate on suppressing my urge to smile.
He painted for nearly a half hour without uttering another word. Then, just as the silence began to worry me, I heard him ask me to pull away my hem.
“Can you move your skirt a little, Marguerite? I want to be able to paint the tip of your shoe.”
I could feel Papa’s eyes watching me carefully, when he said that.
Ever so slowly, I pulled the material toward my ankle. My petticoat brushed against my shins as I lifted the toe of my boot and placed it gently on the brass pedal.
Vincent, however, did not notice any of this. His eyes remained firmly glued to his canvas. He hummed softly to himself as he dabbed his brush in the corner. His face was now so close to the canvas that all I could see was the tuft of his red hair sprouting between the wooden stretchers of his easel.
There was the occasional clank of his brush hitting the sides of his can of paint thinner, and the sporadic cough from Papa. But other than that, the room, just like it had been the day before, remained painfully still.
HE was finished in less than two hours. He brushed off his knees and announced that the painting was now finally complete.
“With your father’s permission, I want to give this one to you.” He looked up at Papa to see if he would have any objection to his gift. The paint was still shiny and wet in places.
“It needs to dry, and I need to have it in front of me when I write to Theo about it. But after that, I would be honored if Mademoiselle Gachet would have it.”
“That is most generous of you, Vincent,” Papa said. I could see his eyes spinning, trying to think of a polite way to request that Vincent sign the portrait.
“It would be lovely if there was some way to show that it was a gift from you.”
“Well, there it is, then….” Vincent seemed genuinely pleased and Father’s oblique way of requesting a signature seemed to have gone over Vincent’s head.
Vincent began to rattle his brushes in a jar of turpentine, wiping them clean on a spotted, oily rag.
After stretching my legs, I returned to the piano and replaced the cover over the keys. I stood up and came closer to him. I could see the pale freckl
ing on the nape of his neck, the thin protrusion of spine rising in the middle of his blue smock. I wanted to take my finger and trace the lithe ribbon of bone and feel the interlocking knots of vertebrae, the tiny pieces that, like a puzzle, made his body whole. But I needn’t remind myself that we were no longer alone. Papa was standing there looking intently at the finished painting.
“It’s a beauty, Vincent. You are a genius at portraiture.”
“She is a beauty,” he responded. “It was difficult to do her justice. There is so much she keeps hidden.” Vincent cleared his throat and looked directly at Papa. “That is why I enjoy the challenge of painting your daughter…. That is the painter’s job, after all, isn’t it, Doctor? Revealing what others fail to see…” Vincent raised his eyebrow as he looked at Papa for a reaction.
Papa, however, gave none. He ignored Vincent’s flattering comments about me and concentrated solely on the painting.
“I know you need to bring the painting back to the inn this evening, but when you return with it, we’ll hang it up in Marguerite’s bedroom,” he said as he clasped his hands. “I’m sure it will serve as a very happy memory for Marguerite over the years. Something to break up her solitude.”
THIRTY-THREE
The Beautiful Canvas
I WAS not able to sleep that night. I continued to replay our brief encounter, my promise to him that I would meet him in the cave behind the Château Léry. Strangely, I told none of this to Louise-Josephine. Not because I didn’t want to—for it took all my strength to hold it in—but because I wanted to come to the decision by myself. If I were to give myself to Vincent without a marriage proposal, I wanted to do so without having been influenced by anyone else.
Thoughts of my mother kept creeping back into my mind. If only I could have replaced the image of her near her death, angry and ashen, with one of her triumphant and without remorse. She was a woman who mourned every crack, every fissure that appeared in her precious china. Only now did I wonder if she saw those painted dishes as a metaphor for her life.
But in some way her tragedy motivated me. I did not want to end up like Mother or even like Virginie in Bernardin’s love story, stoically sacrificing my passion only to end up dying with regrets. It was easy to imagine myself with a similar fate, and I found myself yearning to create a more satisfying ending with Vincent.
By the time he arrived to drop off the painting, I had made up my mind. I would agree to meet him that evening.
He was wearing a new blue smock when I opened the door. The color offset his eyes and intensified the red in his hair. It reminded me of the effect that he had achieved when he painted the portrait of Papa.
“Vincent…,” I gushed. Surprised by my temporary lack of propriety, I tried to gather myself. His arrival had taken me off guard. I was already so far ahead of myself in imagining our imminent rendezvous that I momentarily lost my manners.
“I’ve brought you your painting,” he said as he stepped inside. “I have done a small copy for my brother, so this one is all yours.”
He handed me the beautiful canvas, my image in profile amid swirls of green and violet paint.
Although I was secretly imagining what it would be like if he swept me into his arms and kissed me right in the hallway, I could see how anxious he was to see my reaction to the painting.
I held the canvas to the light—stretching it before me as though I were grasping something that was a combination of us both. He had delineated all my features, the soft contours of my body—I inhabited the canvas because of his brush and his vision. It was exhilarating.
“Have you thought about my proposal?” he asked softly. He stepped closer. I could feel the heat rising from his body. I opened my eyes and saw the rake of red eyelashes, the tiny pores of his skin, the thin lips of his mouth protruding through his whiskers.
“Yes.”
“And will you come?”
I waited several seconds. Every inch of me was trembling.
“Yes.” The word almost caught in my throat. But, somehow, it got out.
THAT evening, I burned my first chicken. My nerves were on edge; my heartbeat was racing. I pulled out the charred bird and threw it into the garbage. Papa would disapprove if he discovered the carcass, but he would also be suspicious if he saw that my kitchen skills were not up to par. Without much time to prepare something new, I quickly began peeling some potatoes and washing leeks for a soup. Then I set about making a batter for Papa’s favorite savory crêpes.
Louise-Josephine could read the distraction on my face. Throughout the meal, I pushed my food around and could not help glancing at the clock on the mantel.
We were in the kitchen hardly seconds when she took one of the dirty plates from me and thrust it into the sink.
“What’s the matter?” she whispered. “You’re acting strange.”
“I know…I’m sorry.”
Her eyes were pleading with me to give her more information. That was typical of Louise-Josephine. She was always so impatient.
“I’m going to see Vincent tonight.” I was speaking as quietly as I could manage. I was so fearful that others might be listening.
I was nervous she’d be angry with me for not telling her earlier, but there was no disappointment on her face, only excitement about the latest development.
“That’s wonderful!” She pinched my arm. “I’ll meet you in your bedroom at nine o’clock. Everyone will be in bed by then.”
I agreed.
At nine o’clock, she was there.
THIRTY-FOUR
Shattered Marble
SHE was dressed for bed when she came into my room. Her long white nightgown flowed like a bellflower. Her brown hair was swept underneath a cotton cap.
I was so determined that evening. My long blonde hair was down, and covered my shoulders. My breastbone shone like an arrow through my skin. I turned to face Louise-Josephine.
“I should be nervous, shouldn’t I?”
“Not if you’ve already come to a decision.” She came closer. Her nightgown rustled against her ankles.
The painting Vincent had done of me was already hanging on the wall. It was the first time she had seen it up close. For several seconds she was quiet, her face studying the canvas. I had never seen her scrutinize something so carefully.
“It’s wonderful, Marguerite. He sees you. That much is clear.”
I knew she was referring to the underpaint of pink and red madder beneath the swirls of white taffeta. It couldn’t have been more accurate. I was fire encased in a tomb of white marble.
“I don’t want to end up like Maman,” I said almost defiantly. “I have these images of her so angry with Papa. She knew of his liaisons, I’m sure of it. And she hated Auvers….”
Louise-Josephine took me in her arms. The smell of tea roses permeated her skin and it comforted me. When I thought about it, she had met Théophile by chance. She had been out for a brief errand in the hope of buying a simple box of soap and her life had been changed by that unexpected meeting.
Just weeks before, I had been shocked to see a girl I had lived with for years sneaking out her bedroom window while her mother cavorted in my father’s bed and Paul slept soundly downstairs. The façade of Papa’s propriety was shattered that evening. Now I realized that every one of us was plotting to get what we wanted under the smoke screen of night.
Louise-Josephine sat with me for nearly two hours, before I finally opened up the window and slithered down the side of the house.
I felt a moment of déjà vu as I ran down the road toward the caves behind the Château Léry. Perhaps it was the sound of my dress whipping against my heels or the sensation of my unpinned hair flowing over my shoulders. I felt just as I imagined Louise-Josephine must have felt that evening I first saw her running down the road in front of our house, her entire body racing like a thoroughbred escaped from its paddock. With that rush of temporary emancipation, I couldn’t move my body fast enough to get to the cave where Vincent
was waiting.
I found it without much difficulty. There were tracks in the grass, as if he had come here when it had rained. Large necklaces of leafy vines dangled over the mouth of the cave. I pushed them back and dipped my head inside.
“Vincent?” I spoke quietly but my voice still echoed down the limestone channel.
I could see a circle of candles farther in and I followed them.
He stood there in his white hemp shirt. The flicker of the candles cast an orange glow to his skin.
“I wasn’t sure you’d come.” He came out of the light. The cave was cold and damp and I was shivering in my flimsy gown.
He didn’t speak, as I had imagined he would. Instead, he took hold of me with a strength that I was quite unused to. My body shuddered in its offering. I did not resist him. I embraced him without protest and he brought his lips to mine.
I must confess that his kiss emboldened me. I suddenly imagined myself as one of his former mistresses, someone with far more experience than I truly had. When Vincent lifted his hands, I lifted mine. As if pressing against our own reflection, our palms pushed against each other until I finally let go. With my arms at my sides, he pulled down my sleeves, revealing my naked shoulders, and planted his mouth on my bare skin.
Had he sliced through my dress with his palette knife, he would have found every inch of my body the color of cadmium red. I could feel his excitement escalating, my own rising in a rhythm that matched his. His body became tense as his hands moved my gown farther and farther downward until it fell to my knees. Naked in front of him, he felt every inch of my body. The narrow of my waist. The length of my thighbone. All the areas that had never felt another hand against them but my own. He lifted me so that my back was pressed against the limestone wall. Cool, damp powder pressed into my back along with the impression of rock. There was a sensation of pain that washed over my body. The arrow of the stone’s jagged edges knifing into my skin. I gasped for breath as Vincent took hold of me. A thousand red strokes of crimson flashed before my eyes. I bit my lip. I had never felt more alive.
The Last Van Gogh Page 17