Sunflowers (17 page)

Sitting around the table with the Roulins? Watching her hold Marcelle as the baby giggled and cooed? “
Non, merci
, that’s kind of you, but—”

“You can’t stay here forever, dear.”

“I feel close to him here,” I said numbly. “I can’t leave.”

Françoise was the next to find me. Roulin had told her the whole story too. “Making yourself sick isn’t going to help matters,” she said, sounding more like a bossy big sister than a soothing mother. “Come back to the
maison
and leave this place.”

“I can’t go back there, Françoise. If I see Jacqui—”

“Jacqui’s gone.” Françoise told the story with relish: how furious Madame Virginie had been after I’d left with Vincent, how she’d slapped Jacqui and called her an ungrateful bitch. I smiled with grim satisfaction as I pictured Madame flinging Jacqui’s things down the stairs, Raoul pushing her into the street—my first smile in days. “She’s working for old Louis,” Françoise said. “Good riddance, although as far as I’m concerned that’s too damn close.” Her voice softened. “Madame and the girls are worried about you, Rachel. Please come home.”

I agreed to return with Françoise to the Rue du Bout d’Arles. Everyone treated me with kindness, like I was some fragile, wounded bird, but I felt no peace. I sat awake in my room every night as I’d sat awake in his, waiting, waiting.

On the fifth afternoon, Roulin brought news. For three days Vincent had heard voices and hadn’t been able to recognize anyone, not even Reverend Salles or Dr. Rey. He wouldn’t eat—had said he was being poisoned—and he wouldn’t sleep. On the fourth day, he’d been calmer and had recognized people again, and Dr. Rey had moved him from the isolation room to the main ward. Roulin had gone to see Vincent that morning, and he seemed much better. “He asked if you were all right,” Roulin said. “He’s worried about you.” That was all I needed to hear, and I started toward the stairs to fetch my shawl. “Wait until tomorrow, Mademoiselle Rachel,” Roulin called after me, “when he’s feeling even better.”

“No, Monsieur Roulin,” I called back. “I’m going now.”

I paid for a carriage to the hospital and took the familiar route to Dr. Rey’s office, this time without anyone trying to stop me. He didn’t appear at all surprised when I turned up at his door and announced, “I want to see Vincent.”

“Good afternoon, Mademoiselle,” the doctor said calmly, pulling a pair of spectacles from his nose. “Monsieur Roulin has spoken with you, I presume.”

I felt myself blush: where were my manners? “I mean—Good afternoon, Doctor, I’m sorry to disturb you, but I really must see—”

“And you shall, Mademoiselle. Vincent’s much improved. The hallucinations have stopped, he’s been eating, he’s much better. Monsieur Roulin’s visit cheered him considerably.” While Dr. Rey walked me to the main ward, he continued, “Vincent felt well enough to get out of bed this afternoon, so you might find him near the stove. You may stay longer this visit, because I think it will cheer him even further.”

I walked past the rows of beds to the potbellied stove in the back, where Vincent sat alone, engrossed in a book. “What are you reading?” I asked as I sat beside him.

He looked up, and his face brightened. “It’s Dickens, the Christmas stories. I know it’s not Christmas, but they comfort me.” He held the book to his chest, suddenly looking all the world like a boy who thought he was in trouble. “I frightened you again. I’m sorry.”

“It’s not your fault, dearest,” I said. “You’ve had a terrible shock.”

“Are you all right? Truly all right, you’re not—?”

“You mustn’t worry about me,
mon cher
. Let’s worry about making you better.”

His gaze moved from me to the book in his hands. “Dr. Rey thinks that even when I do feel better, perhaps I should sleep and eat here at the hospital. I could go to my studio or out to paint during the day, then come back here at night.”

“That might be a good idea, until you’re stronger,” I said with a smile and reached for his hand, toasty warm from sitting near the stove. “I can look after the house while you’re gone, have it ready when you come back.”

“You don’t have to,” he murmured. When I told him nonsense, I wanted to help, he fidgeted in his chair. “I mean, if you’d rather end things, I’d understand.”

My smile faded, and I let go of his hand.

“The doctor says I should improve,” he rushed on, “but what if I don’t? I’d understand if you don’t want to see me anymore, we can just—”

“Is that what you want?”

“Of course not. But I can’t ask you to give up your life for me.”

I tried to take him in my arms, to show him what I wanted, but he shied away, carefully keeping his left side hidden. It took me a moment to realize what was upsetting him. His bandage was missing.

His hand went to his ear when he saw the direction of my eyes, and his voice became a whisper. “Dr. Rey made me take it off. It’s hideous. I’m hideous.”

“May I see?” I asked, as gently as I could. “I promise I won’t hurt you.”

He didn’t say yes, but he didn’t say no. He didn’t say anything. I circled to his side and knelt beside him as he pulled his hand away. The wound had healed, but what he’d done was there for everyone to see. He’d cut the lobe in a sharp diagonal, leaving behind a ragged flap of raw flesh at the top. The rest was gone.

I felt a wave of revulsion, not for how he looked so much as for the forces inside that had driven him to do this. Revulsion at the memory of that night, of his blood on my hands. I blinked and glanced away, then forced myself to look again. That night doesn’t define who he is, I told myself, this does not define who he is. He is still my Vincent, who paints beautiful pictures and smiles at me with crinkles around his eyes and holds me and kisses me and calls me his little one. Nothing has changed. Nothing has changed.

It’s what happened to you, but it’s not who you are. I know who you are
.

I reached out my hand to lightly trace the outline of the remaining skin. Every muscle in his body tensed, and he shook under my fingers. I gently—so, so gently—pressed my lips to him. “There’s your answer,” I said. “I’ll never leave you.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

The Petition

This so-called good town of Arles is such an odd place that it’s with good reason that old Gauguin calls it “the dirtiest hole of the south.”

—Vincent to Theo, Arles, February 1889

A

mere ten days after his collapse, Vincent had improved enough to return to the yellow house. But only to use the studio—he accepted Dr. Rey’s suggestion that he sleep and eat at the hospital, at least for a while. I believed he would feel better at home, but I kept my opinions to myself. Monsieur Roulin whitewashed the studio wall so the splattered paint was no longer visible, and I went searching for new brushes, carrying Vincent’s ruined ones with me for the shopkeeper to compare. Their quality wasn’t as fine, but I hoped they would do for now. When he saw them standing in a jar next to his easel, Vincent kissed me on the cheek and told me they were perfect.

The first afternoon he drew quietly in his sketchbook, practicing with things lying around the house. He spoke little—ever since he’d gone back to the hospital, he’d spoken little, and his silence worried me. He never mentioned the baby or anything that had happened, but sometimes I’d catch him watching me, and the grief and regret in his eyes were plain to see.

The second afternoon I arrived to the smell of turpentine. “You’ve started painting again,” I said as I walked into the studio. “What are you working on?”

“The fourth
répetition
of Madame Roulin’s portrait,” he said, frowning at the canvas on the easel. “The fourth
Berceuse
.”

“Are you sure that’s a good idea?”

“Why wouldn’t it be?”

“You were working on the first one when you got sick the first time,” I said hesitantly. “You’d finished the third one and started this one when you got sick the last time…”

“I didn’t get sick because of the painting,” Vincent said. “This is a comforting image, the kind of picture that lonely men would see and remember their own wives and mothers. I imagine it hung between two of the sunflower canvases to form a triptych of musical color—don’t you think that would make a fine effect?”

“Yes,
mon cher
,” I gave in.

“You shouldn’t be so superstitious,” he added, and I let the matter drop.

He worked on the portrait a few days, then set it aside to make another copy of the sunflowers. Aside from the occasional grumble, he seemed satisfied as he worked, but something was missing: some fire, some passion that he’d never lacked before. The high yellow note, as he called it.

A week after he left the hospital, I told him he could paint me.

He was fiddling again with the fourth
Berceuse
. “Damn it, I can’t get her hands—what did you say? Right now?”

His eagerness made him stumble over his own feet as he scurried around the studio to find a length of canvas and tack it to a stretcher. Then he dug in his jars and boxes. “I can’t believe you’ve said yes,” he said, a new flame blazing in his eyes. “I’ve waited for this since the day we met!”

He brought the armchair that he used for posing from the kitchen and positioned it between the windows to catch the afternoon sun. Taking a deep breath, I sat and arranged my skirts as he circled me and studied me the way he had Dr. Rey: crouching, standing, muttering to himself. I wasn’t Rachel anymore. I was a collection of lines, curves, and colors, his challenge to capture in paint.

At last he nodded with approval and started to pose me, moving my hands and arms like a doll. “You’re too stiff,” he scolded. “I can’t paint you like that.”

“I’m sorry, Vincent. I’m very nervous.”

“Don’t worry, I promise I won’t hurt you.” He touched me under the chin, and I was his Rachel again. “Drop your shoulders. Place this hand in your lap and drape the other over the arm of the chair. Now you’re relaxing too much. Don’t slouch.” He pressed his hand against my spine to force me straighter, then backed away, still giving instructions as he steadied the new canvas on the easel and prepared his palette. “This will be the most beautiful thing I’ve ever done, you’ll see. It makes such a difference when the painter—”

“—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. You’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!”