Dear Vincent

by Mandy Hager

  ‘I’ve booked you a flight for five thirty tomorrow afternoon. All you have to do is show up at the EasyJet counter with your passport. I’ll be at the other end to pick you up.’

  ‘No way. How can you afford it?’

  ‘I put it on my credit card. I’ll worry about it when I get back.’

  ‘That’s crazy. You’ll—’

  ‘Shut up! If I want a lecture, trust me, I can dial up any number of versions from Mum.’

  ‘I don’t know how I’ll ever thank you.’

  ‘You don’t?’ He starts to laugh, deep down and dirty. I feel a blush whoosh up my face.

  Once I’ve written down the details of the flight, he ends the call and I turn back to face the family onslaught. Later, when I’m touching up the final corner of Helen’s room, Shanaye comes in.

  ‘I’m happy for you, love — but I need to know you’re feeling up to this. And that this boy will take good care of you. You’ve been through quite enough.’

  ‘I’m fine. Johannes will look after me. And he’s given me his number so you guys can get hold of me if you want.’

  She leans against the bunk. Smoothes the bedcover. ‘Has your mum talked to you about keeping yourself safe? You know, with boys?’

  Jesus, how awkward is this? ‘It’s not like that with him. We haven’t—’

  ‘Tara love, the boy would have to be an eejit not to want you.’

  ‘I’ll be careful. Besides, I’m staying at his mother’s. But thanks — and yes, I do know what to do.’

  Uncle Royan is no better. When he drops me at the airport the following afternoon he eyeballs me. ‘You tell that lad that if he doesn’t treat you like a princess he’ll be answering to me.’

  ‘I promise.’ I kiss him on the nose. ‘Thank you, Uncle Royan. I love it that you care.’

  He hugs me with a fierceness borne of deep emotion. I’m guessing Van didn’t appreciate his protective ways — probably saw it as trying to control her, like our dad, when Royan’s concern comes from love.

  I’m still in total disbelief when, less than two hours later, I touch down in Paris to a warm clear evening. How can this be happening? Johannes is at the arrivals gate, smiling like an emoticon. I approach him with my heart pounding. Grin back like a bloody fool, not sure what to do.

  ‘Hello.’ I’ve never been more tempted to throw myself at anyone in my life.

  ‘Hey.’ He reaches over and tickles at my fingers until they interlink with his. My heart’s dancing an Irish jig. ‘You do realise that here in Europe it’s polite to greet each other with a kiss.’ He tugs me towards him. ‘May I?’

  I lean in for a continental peck but he has other plans. For a few too-short sweet seconds I’m in dizzy bliss.

  ‘That’s better,’ he says when we draw back. ‘You’ve no idea how much I’ve looked forward to that.’

  He takes my overnight bag and leads me through a labyrinth of corridors and escalators to catch a train. He’s right at home negotiating the evening crowd. It’s like I’ve stepped into the middle of a foreign-language film, and he’s interpreting with sub-titles.

  Once we’re settled in a carriage, his eyes meet mine. Next minute, we’re kissing. Eventually I push him off, my head spinning.

  ‘So, Ms Tara McClusky,’ he says. ‘Tell me everything.’

  His tone is so serious I’m surprised into speech. I do tell him everything — he may as well know it all so he can decide whether he wants to bother with such a flake.

  When I confess about the pills and whiskey, his jaw tightens. ‘That’s crazy.’

  ‘I can’t explain it. It was all mixed up — her anniversary, our whole history, what the place was called. I thought she’d chosen it so I’d reach her when the time was right.’

  ‘That makes no sense.’

  ‘Jesus, you think I don’t know that now? But you’ve no idea how seductive it seemed that night. I was convinced everyone would be better off. That it was my destiny. Me, Van, Vincent, Billy …’

  He makes a grab for both my hands. ‘Don’t you ever, ever pull a bloody stupid stunt like that again. You’d kill me too.’

  All I can do is nod, then rest my head on his shoulder. I watch the stations passing by, resisting the urge to cry. He slips his arm around my shoulders and kisses the crown of my head. Despite the shame and embarrassment, my heart still sings.

  Finally we reach our stop. He guides me up into the middle of a city street. The buildings are all several storeys high, with ornate stonework, fretted railings and window boxes jammed with flowers. It’s so familiar: just the kind of Paris scene Vincent would paint. Johannes takes me by the hand and tows me as I swing my head from side to side to drink it in.

  We stop outside a smooth-stoned building with a grand pink marble foyer. ‘This is it,’ he says. ‘Mum’s house-sitting an apartment here.’

  Inside, a creaky lift carries us right to the top, where we are greeted by the sound of someone playing a violin. The apartment is spacious and elegant, with high moulded ceilings and polished timber floors.

  ‘Ma! We’re back!’ Johannes calls.

  The violin abruptly stops and a woman appears through a bevelled leadlight door. She has his eyes, and grey hair cut into a stylish bob.

  ‘You must be Tara!’ She walks towards me with her hand outstretched. ‘I’m Mitzi. Welcome!’

  ‘Nice to meet you.’ Though I can’t fault her greeting, I feel as if I’m naked under a microscope. ‘Thanks for having me.’

  ‘No problem. I’ve heard a lot about you from both Johannes and my father. They tell me you’ve quite a talent for painting.’

  ‘I don’t know about talent, but it’s the thing I love to do.’

  ‘Stop being so modest,’ Johannes says. He glares at his mother. ‘She’s bloody brilliant.’

  ‘Then you must pursue it, Tara, just as Johannes insists on pursuing his hobby.’ There’s an edge to her voice even though she smiles, and I’m starting to understand what Johannes means. Hobby indeed.

  She shows me to a bedroom, making it clear Johannes is to sleep on the fold-down sofa in the lounge. But when she offers to cook us dinner, he says we’re heading out to see the sights. It’s clear she’s hankering to be included, but he doesn’t offer and she doesn’t ask.

  We end up at a restaurant with a menu that consists entirely of sweet or savoury crêpes. While we eat Johannes tells me about the marquetry course.

  ‘It’s a bit like playing Tetris, shifting tiny blocks of wood around until they form the right design and fit.’

  ‘Or mosaics,’ I say. ‘When I was in the plane that’s how the paddocks and houses looked from that perspective. I bet you could do something really amazing with those shapes.’

  I see the thought working behind his eyes. Recognise the moment when the idea falls into place. ‘That’s a bloody good idea! Can I pinch it off you?’

  ‘Let’s both do it! Me with paintings, you with wood.’

  ‘You’re on! A joint exhibition. We’ll ask Opa to open it.’ We shake on it. ‘Shit, Tara, you should see the beautiful furniture the tutor’s made. If I could produce work like that I’d die happy.’

  ‘You already make beautiful things.’

  He laughs. ‘You’ve no idea how much I have to learn.’ He checks the time and pushes out his seat. ‘Come on! Enough of this — I have another treat!’

  He hurries me through the streets to the banks of the Seine. There, on an island in the middle of the river, stands Notre Dame. It’s floodlit, a great gothic ship moored here in all its glory: flying buttresses, intricate carvings, spindle towers — and gargoyles! Wonderful, bizarre gargoyles, designed to spit the water off the roof. The big rose stained-glass window is etched into the stone like the petals of a flower.

  ‘Hurry!’ Johannes grabs my hand just as the whole cathedral plunges into darkness. We locate a bridge and cross into a plaza full of people. Find a place to stand just as the breathy notes of ancient pipes ring out. Ghostly silver light track
s over the cut facets of stone. The cathedral re-materialises line by line, painted back to life before my eyes. With the last dying note a choir rises up and sings to primitive drums. Now the architecture’s lit up red and blue. It’s a giant gothic paint-by-numbers. The whole facade erupts in a kaleidoscope of colour, as brilliant as Moscow’s onion domes. I can’t wait to tell Ms Romano. This has to be the most amazing thing I’ve ever seen.

  I can’t control myself. Throw my arms around Johannes and almost lift him off his feet. He dips his head and for several thrilling minutes everything else melts away. Then applause breaks out all around us and the show is over.

  ‘You’re beautiful,’ Johannes whispers in my ear.

  My insides flip. ‘I bet you say that to all the girls you fly to Paris!’ How is it possible to go from contemplating death to this? We walk back to the apartment hand in hand. As we glide up in the lift he kisses me again. I’m pressed into the wall; can feel his hardness up against me. My knees go weak. But when the lift doors open we step apart. With his mother waiting up, now is not the place or time.

  Mitzi forces hot chocolate on us. When I’ve finished I make excuses and stagger off to bed. Though the thought of Johannes in the next room drives me wild, my body clock is so confused it craves more rest. I drop off with a smile but wake at six the next morning and can’t drift back to sleep.

  I tiptoe out to brew myself a cup of tea. Mitzi’s in the kitchen, leaning on the granite counter top, reading a textbook while she sips black coffee from a tiny espresso cup.

  We talk about the Van Gogh exhibition and I tell her about my project for the Scholarship exams. Once I warm up to my subject, I find she’s not as scary as I first thought. In fact, despite the complications between her and Johannes, I like her quite a lot. And she’s really smart.

  ‘What saddens me about Van Gogh,’ she says, ‘is that his brilliance was so hampered by his stifling environment. When you think about it, it’s a miracle he persevered so long.’

  Her observation stays with me as I shower and dress. Hell, maybe it’s the suffering that makes us who we ultimately are. Not just the hurdles, but how we deal with them. Or don’t. Or nearly don’t, then do …

  I’m so keen for my day to start I drag Johannes out of bed. We arrive at the Musée d’Orsay shortly after nine, only to discover we have to wait till nine thirty before they open up. In the meantime I find myself telling him about Van — what she was like when we were young; how she looked after me; how she made me laugh.

  ‘You’re lucky,’ he says. ‘I used to long for a brother — or a sister. Someone to take the heat off me.’

  ‘Come on. Having Max there must’ve more than made up for it.’

  He picks at the sticker on his bottle of water. ‘Trust me, being loved too much can be as difficult as not enough. It’s a whole different kind of manipulation, like living with a benevolent version of the mafia. Family means everything. Mum learnt it from Opa.’

  ‘With his history that is kind of understandable.’ I’m such a hypocrite, forgiving Max, but not Mum — or Dad. I guess it’s always easier to be generous looking from the outside in.

  ‘It might explain it but it doesn’t excuse him. He used to be the master of emotional blackmail,’ Johannes says.

  ‘But he’s so kind. I can’t believe—’

  ‘I know, he absolutely is. But that’s only since he saw the error of his ways. His health issues forced him to take a long hard look — to practise what he preached. Unfortunately, in the meantime, Mum learnt all his tricks. She drives me bloody mad.’

  ‘She’s just finding it hard to let you go. I reckon she’ll get used to it.’

  He snorts. ‘You think?’

  ‘I thought you said you had it out with her.’

  ‘I thought I did. But then she sent the ticket and organised this course. I suspect she hasn’t heard a single thing I’ve said.’

  ‘So what’re you going to do?’

  ‘Edge my way out without purposely hurting her — or resorting to emotional blackmail myself, though it’s tempting.’

  I tip my head back and stare up at the sky. A band of cloud flows in a slow-moving river from east to west. ‘She hasn’t done too bad a job, you know. At least she raised a boy who’s kind — and knows how to talk. That’s pretty rare.’

  I take a peep at him to see how he reacts. He’s staring at my neck. Leans over and kisses it just as the doors are finally pushed open. As soon as we’re inside, he pulls a scarf out of his pocket, flourishing it like a side-show magician.

  ‘Ta da! The Great Stockhamer’s going to blindfold his beautiful assistant so she doesn’t get distracted before we reach Van Gogh!’ He laughs at my frown. ‘Don’t worry! We have all day — your return flight’s not till just after seven.’

  I have no choice but to humour him, feeling stupid as he leads me blindly through an infinity of rooms, lifts and doors. Finally we stop and he positions me before he starts to free the knot.

  ‘Are you ready?’

  ‘Yes! For god’s sake, hurry up!’

  ‘Abracadabra!’ He whips the blindfold off.

  I’m face to face with Starry Night, staring into cartwheeling stars. Hearing the echoed scratching of a frenzied brush. The rush of life, the rawness, the adoration of Vincent’s eye. It’s overwhelmingly emotional. Tumultuous. I’m sucked into the world of it, following every stroke and line, each jab of perfectly placed colour, every shot of darkness tucked behind the light.

  I’ve not been breathing and finally have to gasp. I turn to Johannes, spasms of repressed emotion shaking me. He wraps his arm around me, turns me, and there’s a whole magnificent room of them — shimmering golds, deep dream blues, oranges, yellows, greens and brooding earthy browns and blacks. It’s like standing in the middle of Vincent’s head, looking out through his unflinching eyes. Each painting is a personal love letter to the world. A story told in paint.

  I still can’t speak. I tow Johannes from picture to picture, bending in as close as I’m allowed to study how the paint squirms in the frames. I’m floating above the floor, swept up by a sense of pure transcendent joy.

  I spread my arms, encompassing this whole bloody extraordinary collection, and raise them above my head in exaltation. Spin around, the colours flashing past in vibrant bursts. I’m Julie Andrews, arms aloft, running free and barefoot in Max’s Alps. Celebrating the sound of music that springs out of the glory of Vincent’s world.

  I’m home.

  17

  Love is something eternal; it may change in aspect but not in essence. And there is the same difference between someone who is in love and what he was like before as there is between a lamp that is lit and one that is not. The lamp was there all the time and it was a good lamp, but now it is giving light as well and that is its true function.

  — VINCENT TO THEO, THE HAGUE, MARCH 1883

  AFTER NEARLY FOUR HOURS I’m in sensory overload. There are so many amazing works: the giant pointillist paintings of Seurat; Degas’ sculpture of the pert-faced ballerina; Rousseau’s haunting snake charmer … they’ll stay with me forever to light the dark.

  All the same, we mutually decide to call it quits. We have one more destination in mind before I have to leave. Hand in hand, we stroll beside the river, making our way towards the Eiffel Tower.

  ‘You know, I think I’m going to head home after this course.’ Johannes’ smile is wide with relief. ‘If I can’t get an apprenticeship, I’ll do some courses at polytech — so long as they involve actually making things.’

  ‘How will your mum take it?’

  ‘Like someone seeing her son off to war.’

  I playfully punch his arm. ‘Come on. I’m sure once she sees how other people value what you make she’ll come around. You really have to show your stuff around the galleries. I bet they’d sell.’

  ‘Only if you take your paintings!’

  ‘But yours are—’ I’m stopped in my tracks. Above us looms the Eiffel Tower. It’s tr
uly awe-inspiring. We walk right under the centre of its base and gaze up through the lattice-work of woven steel.

  ‘It’s like a spider-web on steroids!’ Johannes grins. ‘Are you game enough to go up to the top?’

  I crane my neck, scared I’ll tip backwards. ‘Do I have a choice?’

  He laughs and shakes his head. ‘Don’t worry. If you pass out I promise I’ll do mouth-to-mouth.’

  We pay the fee and climb into a crammed glass elevator that hauls us skywards. From the viewing deck the city reveals itself: stone buildings laid out in medieval grids around the river, with strategic roads and parks. We’re nestled in the fraying clouds, the world below reduced. I take photo after photo, soaking in the novelty of this bird’s-eye view. I love the way patterns recur: clouds reborn as freshly fallen snow or froth at sea; fields as chequerboard collages; rivers snaking across the landscape like human veins. Like Gustav Klimt’s mosaic paintings. Give me a canvas and brush!

  We’re both fooling around, posing for photos, when Johannes’ cell phone rings.

  As he listens he starts to frown. He holds the phone out. ‘It’s for you.’

  Dear god, it has to be either Royan or Shanaye. ‘Hello?’

  ‘Tara darlin’.’ Shanaye. ‘I’m so sorry to disturb you but Kathleen just rang. She says the doctor’s warned that poor Paddy’s fading fast. She thought you’d want to know.’

  Cold sweat breaks out all over me. ‘Did they say how long?’

  ‘Only a matter of days — if that. I’m so sorry, love.’

  ‘I’ll ring you back when I’ve had a chance to think.’ What’s there to decide? I have to go. I’ve been expecting this for years — and yet it’s still a shock. I hand the phone back to Johannes. ‘It’s Dad. Sounds like he’s going to die.’

  ‘Shit. What do you want to do?’

  ‘I’ll try to change my tickets and go right back.’

  He groans. ‘I don’t believe this.’