Sunflowers

by Sheramy Bundrick

  “—is in love with the model?” I prompted with raised eyebrows. He blushed and told me not to smile so big.

  His eyes flickered between me, paints, and canvas. His hand swept up and down, returning to his palette for a daub of color, then back to the painting as he outlined my figure and the shapes in the picture. There was a lot of blue on his palette, I noticed, the same rich blue he used for skies, and his favorite yellow, too. I wondered if he’d paint me wearing the yellow dress he liked so much instead of the pink one I was wearing today.

  After a while my arm started to ache and my back to stiffen, but I hardly noticed. I could never tire of him looking at me like that, his gaze gliding over my body then meeting mine to send an electricity through me. With every stroke of his paintbrush it felt like he was touching me, making love to me right there in the studio. We were connected as one, and I was completely his at last.

  A pounding at the door made us both jump. “Who the hell is that?” Vincent mumbled. “If that’s Soulé, I’ll—Hold the pose, I’ll get rid of them.”

  His footsteps. The door opening. “Oui? Why, bonjour, Superintendent d’Ornano.” I dropped my pose, sitting up straighter and straining to listen. “I’m working at present, but is there something I can do for you?”

  “I’m afraid this isn’t a social call, Monsieur van Gogh,” the police superintendent said. “May we speak inside?”

  “Of course. Come into my studio.”

  Superintendent d’Ornano removed his bowler hat with an uncomfortable “Bonjour, Mademoiselle” when he saw me in the armchair. I’d met him once or twice before in a nonofficial capacity; the maison was legal, after all. “Perhaps Mademoiselle Rachel should wait outside,” he suggested.

  Vincent and I exchanged glances, and Vincent said, “Anything you say to me she can hear as well. Qu’est-ce qui se passe?”

  Superintendent d’Ornano produced a notebook while avoiding our curious faces. “Some of your neighbors, Monsieur van Gogh, have submitted a petition to the police about your behavior.”

  “What behavior?” Vincent asked as we looked at each other again.

  The superintendent leafed through his notebook pages. “It’s said that you drink heavily in public and become unruly.”

  “I haven’t had a drink since December,” Vincent said. “A glass of wine on occasion, but no absinthe, nothing like that. Mademoiselle Rachel and Joseph Roulin can attest to it, as can Monsieur and Madame Ginoux at the Café de la Gare.” I nodded from the armchair.

  “There is concern about you being in the house after your most recent hospitalization,” the policeman continued. “It’s said you suffer from hallucinations.”

  Vincent drummed his fingers on the worktable. “I come here only to work in the studio. I sleep and eat at the hospital under Dr. Félix Rey’s supervision. I’ve had no hallucinations for nearly two weeks, and I have no reason to think they will return. I’m certain Dr. Rey would gladly discuss my condition with you and verify what I have said.” His firm, almost haughty, tone filled me with pride.

  The superintendent made a few notes, then cleared his throat. “It’s said that you—assault women.”

  “What?” Vincent and I both exclaimed.

  Superintendent d’Ornano’s cheeks flushed. “One of the ladies in the neighborhood reports that you seized her around the waist and made obscene remarks the day before yesterday. Another lady reports that you touched her inappropriately.”

  I leaped up from the chair. “That’s a lie!”

  “Mademoiselle, please allow Monsieur van Gogh to respond for himself.”

  “I can assure you that’s not true,” Vincent said. “I would never—”

  “Indeed it’s not true,” I interrupted, crossing my arms and glaring at the policeman. “The only woman he touches is me.”

  “Mademoiselle, I beg you.” The superintendent looked embarrassed. “The crux of the matter, Monsieur van Gogh, is that certain of the townspeople believe you unfit to live among them. In the petition they ask that you be returned to the hospital immediately or to the care of your family. The mayor has authorized me to escort you to the Hôtel-Dieu, where you will be confined until some permanent arrangement is made.”

  I rushed forward and grabbed Vincent’s arm. “You can’t do that! It’s all lies!”

  “May I know the identities of the townspeople who signed the petition, so that I can address these ludicrous charges more effectively?” Vincent asked. He was shaking a little under my fingers, but his voice remained steady.

  Superintendent d’Ornano cleared his throat again. “Their identities are being kept confidential because of the delicacy of the case.”

  “You mean they’re cowards!” I cried. “Self-righteous, hypocritical cowards!”

  “Excuse us for a moment,” Vincent said to the policeman and steered me into the hall. “Fetch Roulin as fast as you can,” he whispered to me. “He’s probably at the station.”

  “They can’t take you away. I won’t let them.”

  “Will you take a broom to the police superintendent, chérie?” He smiled and chucked me under the chin. “It’s all a misunderstanding, and I can resolve it with Roulin’s help. Don’t worry. Now go.”

  Joseph Roulin was not at the station. The other postman there told me he’d gone home for the afternoon, to nearby Rue de la Montagne des Cordes. “I need to see your husband,” I gasped to Madame Roulin when I found the house and she opened the door. She asked no questions but disappeared inside, calling for him. I told Roulin the story as quickly as I could, and together we hurried down the Avenue de Montmajour to the yellow house. About two dozen people had gathered outside since I’d left, and two gendarmes were posted by the front door. News traveled fast in the Place Lamartine.

  “Out of the way! Move!” Monsieur Roulin shouted as he pushed through the crowd. “Haven’t you got anything better to do?”

  “That’s the putain the painter gave the ear to,” I heard a man say as I followed Roulin, and from a reedy-voiced woman, “They should lock her up, there are too many whores in this town.” I spotted Marguerite Favier from the grocery shop and Bernard Soulé from the hotel, women I’d seen around the Place Lamartine, men I’d seen in the Rue du Bout d’Arles. Those boys who’d heckled Vincent and me through the studio window. But what about the rest of Vincent’s friends—why wasn’t anyone else here to help him? Where were Monsieur and Madame Ginoux? The Café de la Gare was steps away, surely they saw the commotion.

  Roulin had just walked into the house when a woman said, “That foreigner grabbed me and picked me up in front of Marguerite’s grocery shop. Quel fou!”

  I couldn’t keep quiet and whirled to face her. “That’s a lie!”

  A man loomed over me; I recognized him as one of Minette’s regulars. “Who do you think you are, calling my wife a liar?”

  “Does your wife know you come to Madame Virginie’s every Saturday night, or are you a liar too?” I retorted. “You’re all hypocrites! Pretending to be such good citizens—you’re nothing but vultures!”

  The cackles and taunts got louder. “She’s a spitfire, that one!” “Crazy as he is!” One of the gendarmes gave a halfhearted “All right, folks, let’s settle down,” but he was laughing with the rest of them.

  I started to flee inside, but the door opened and Superintendent d’Ornano emerged, followed by Vincent and Roulin. “What’s going on out here?” the superintendent barked. “You officers are supposed to be keeping order. The rest of you, move along!”

  The crowd ignored him to jeer at Vincent. “It’s the fou rou!” “You gonna give your whore your other ear?” “Go back wherever you came from and take her with you!”

  “Hypocrites!” I shouted. “Bastards!”

  Vincent took my arm and pulled me toward the house. “Wait, wait, yes, yes, just a minute,” he told the frowning superintendent before leading me inside and slamming the door. “Rachel, acting like this won’t help me, and it certainly won’t help you. Y
ou’ll only get yourself hurt or arrested.”

  I wiped away furious tears with my sleeve. “How can you be so calm? Why aren’t you fighting back?”

  “I have to stay calm so the police will see I’m not a madman. I’ve agreed to go with them to the hospital.” I started to protest. “Listen to me, ma petite. Dr. Rey will talk to them and everything will be fine.”

  “Monsieur Roulin can send Theo a telegram,” I said. “Theo can help!”

  Vincent shook his head. “I’m not worrying my brother with this foolishness. I’m telling you, everything will be fine as long as I go without a ruckus. And you need to let me. I don’t want anything happening to you because of me. You promise?”

  Hard knocks came at the door. “Monsieur van Gogh?”

  “You promise?” he asked again. I nodded, and he kissed me on the forehead. “D’accord, let’s go.” He took my hand and opened the door.

  “That was quick!” a man shouted. “She’s got hot drawers, boys!”

  Vincent clasped my hand harder at the roars of laughter, and I held my chin high as we walked to the gendarmes. Roulin was speaking with—more like speaking at—the superintendent, pointing his finger into the smaller man’s chest. “Roulin, it’s all right, mon ami,” Vincent said. “Please look after Rachel.” I blinked away tears as I watched him vanish among the mocking faces to climb into the police carriage. The crowd began to scatter as they drove away.

  I realized I’d forgotten my shawl in the studio, but as Roulin walked me back to the house, a gendarme blocked our path. “I have orders to lock up this house, Monsieur. No one goes inside.” Behind him another gendarme was latching a thick padlock on the door.

  “This is outrageous!” Roulin roared. “You can’t do this to an innocent man!”

  “I’m sorry, Monsieur, those are my orders.”

  “Your orders be damned! Come, Mademoiselle Rachel, I’ll walk you home.”

  The sunflowers under lock and key. I felt sick and didn’t speak until we’d crossed Place Lamartine and passed through the Porte de la Cavalerie. A few of the lingering townspeople gave me nasty looks, but no one dared say anything with burly Roulin beside me. “What’s going to happen to Vincent, Monsieur Roulin?” I asked.

  Roulin explained the procedure. First, the gendarmes would interview Vincent and the doctors at the hospital. The townspeople who’d signed the petition must file a formal complaint at the gendarmerie for it to be legally binding, then some of the same petitioners must give personal testimony to the police for a procès-verbal. The mayor would decide what to do after all the evidence was gathered and reviewed. I felt sicker and sicker. “Will Vincent have to stay at the hospital all that time?”

  “It seems so,” Roulin sighed. “I wanted to telegraph his brother, but he insisted I not.”

  “Who would say such dreadful things about him?” I hugged myself, chilly without my shawl. “It’s not true, not a word of it.”

  Marguerite Favier and Bernard Soulé, definitely. That woman I’d heard saying things about Vincent and probably her husband too—how they knew him I had no idea. But who else? The widow Vénissat, owner of the restaurant where Vincent used to eat? I’d thought she liked him: she’d been sympathetic when he hadn’t been able to pay his bill, and she’d made him special dishes to tempt his appetite. His former landlords at the Hôtel-Restaurant Carrel, almost certainly. Vincent had told me about the dispute he’d had with them over his room charges, how he’d won the case with the magistrate before moving to the Café de la Gare. I couldn’t guess who else would sign that petition. Vincent had never hurt anyone. Only himself.

  “I was just coming to find you,” Françoise said when Roulin and I walked into the maison. News traveled as fast in the quartier reservé as it did in the Place Lamartine.

  The other girls gathered around too. “Rachel, you poor thing!” “How could they?” “Did the police really arrest him?”

  “Shush, all of you,” Françoise ordered. “Give her room to breathe.”

  “Mademoiselle Rachel, if you need anything or if there’s any trouble, come to my house, you’d be safe there,” Roulin said. “Vincent’s friend is our friend.”

  “Thank you, Monsieur Roulin,” I said with a grateful smile.

  “Come have some tea,” Françoise urged, taking me by the elbow to lead me to Madame Virginie’s parlor. Minette plumped up the pillows on the sofa so I’d be comfortable, Claudette threw another log on the fire. I let them fuss over me, but I thought only one thing: how much more could Vincent endure?

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Persuasion

  Unfortunately, the crazy act which necessitated his first hospitalization has resulted in a most unfavorable interpretation of anything out of the ordinary which this unfortunate young man may do.

  —Reverend Mr. Salles to Theo,

  Arles, 2 March 1889

  I

  t’s an abomination!”

  I lost count of how many times Joseph Roulin said that in the first weeks after Vincent’s arrest. Each time accompanied by a fierce bang on the table, usually followed by grumbling about policemen and bourgeois doctors.

  What Vincent thought a simple misunderstanding was nothing of the sort. Instead of being interviewed at the Hôtel-Dieu, he was put into an isolation room and kept there. Dr. Rey had gone to Paris to complete his degree, and the other doctors denied Vincent any distractions, whether books or pen and paper to write letters, or any visitors save Reverend Salles. Nor would the doctors accept letters for him, so I and his other friends couldn’t send even the briefest note.

  The inevitable happened. He relapsed again, and his hallucinations returned. Roulin didn’t want to tell me, but I made him: Vincent had tried to wash himself in a coal bucket and smeared soot over his face, babbling in Dutch all the while, then he’d chased a nurse when she brought his dinner. Reverend Salles told the doctors it resulted from how Vincent was being treated, but they’d hear none of it.

  The investigation triggered by the townspeople’s complaints continued. Roulin learned from a friend at the gendarmerie that Superintendent d’Ornano completed the required interviews with some of the petitioners, although Roulin couldn’t find out who any of them were. The superintendent, the mayor, and the doctors of the Hôtel-Dieu concluded that Vincent belonged in an asylum, and it only remained to decide where to send him.

  I kept waiting for Roulin to deliver the news that Theo had come to Arles to settle the matter, but no such news came. Theo and Johanna’s wedding was rapidly approaching, but why wouldn’t Vincent’s own brother come to help? Perhaps Vincent himself insisted Theo stay away. Perhaps Theo didn’t even know.

  “Dr. Rey has come back,” Roulin told me one day after his usual tirade. Vincent had been in the hospital nearly a month. “I spoke to him when I met with Reverend Salles at the Hôtel-Dieu.”

  “What did he say?”

  Roulin sighed into his beer mug. “He insists the other doctors are his superiors, and he can’t change their orders. Vincent has to stay in the isolation room until he’s moved to another institution.” At my cry of dismay, Roulin added, “Vincent carried on a fairly long conversation with Reverend Salles yesterday, and he’s feeling much better. He’s pissed about being stuck there, though, and even more pissed about this petition business. Another month in that room, and he really will be mad.” He glowered from under bushy eyebrows. “I’ve learned something else. The name of one person who signed that petition.”

  “Who, that fellow Soulé?” I said absently.

  Roulin spat the name like a curse. “Ginoux.”

  “Monsieur Ginoux from the Café de la Gare? But Vincent is friends with them, he painted Madame Ginoux back in the fall!”

  Roulin shrugged. “Well, he must want Vincent gone now, because he sure as hell signed that petition.” Roulin had run into Monsieur Ginoux at the gendarmerie while making a delivery. Roulin had said bonjour and given the latest news of Vincent, but Ginoux had seemed anxious to ge
t away. “Gave me a bad feeling,” Roulin said, “so I went to my friend and asked right out if Ginoux signed the petition. My friend’s no liar. Ginoux did, and he gave personal testimony to the police for the procès-verbal.” Roulin clenched his fists. “All the times Vincent and I sat drinking in his lousy café, all the money we spent! Wait until Vincent hears about this.”

  “Monsieur Roulin, you mustn’t tell him,” I said. “He considers the Ginoux his good friends, it would hurt him terribly to think he’d been betrayed.”

  “Don’t you think Vincent should know the truth about these so-called friends?”

  “I think it’d do more harm than good. If the complainants’ identities will be kept confidential, then Vincent would have no reason to find out. We should keep it that way, for his sake.” Roulin reluctantly agreed.

  After he went upstairs with Françoise, and for the rest of the night, I thought hard about what could be done. Defy Vincent’s wishes and write Theo? Go to the gendarmerie, speak to Superintendent d’Ornano myself? There must be something, there must be…

  Then I knew what I could do. I alone, and nobody else.

  The next morning, I drew from my armoire the brightest red dress I had, the one that showed ample décolletage and blazed like fire. I slipped a clean chemise over my head, hooked my corset, and studied myself in the mirror. This would never do. I needed more cleavage.

  Quietly, so as not to wake the girls still sleeping, I tiptoed across the hall to Francoise’s room and asked her to lace me tighter. “What are you up to?” she asked suspiciously, and when I told her my plan, she arched an eyebrow. “I see. Turn around.” She tugged at the corset laces, and I winced as the steel frame nipped in closer around my waist. “How’s that?”