Sunflowers (3 page)
“Perhaps if I learned to speak Provençal, folks would like me better, no?”
I ignored his teasing attempt to imitate my accent and pretended to consider this. “I suppose I could teach you. But you’ll need to visit more often if you’re to make any progress.”
“So speaks the village schoolteacher. Yes, ma’am.” He took my hand again and played with my fingers. “Might I suggest we commence my tutelage upstairs?”
“Let’s go, then,” I said, trying not to sound too eager.
“Anen aro, Vincèns.”
And that began a most entertaining lesson.
Le café de nuit
There are colors which cause each other to shine brilliantly, which form a couple, which complete each other like a man and woman
.
—Vincent to his sister Willemien,
Arles, June 1888
J
uly passed pleasantly into August, August into September, as Vincent came to see me whenever he could afford it. I always knew when Theo had sent a new letter with new francs, for Vincent appeared unannounced, fingers streaked with new paints, the familiar gleam in his eyes. Those nights he bought extra drinks, which pleased Madame Virginie, and those nights I usually found an extra franc hidden someplace after he left—a franc he always denied giving me and refused to take back.
If it wasn’t busy, we talked over our wine, and he told me about his paintings. Everything about him changed when he spoke of his work—he came alive, prattling with a rat-a-tat rhythm and waving his hands until he almost spilled his drink. He tried to tempt me into posing or at least visiting his studio, and tempted I nearly was, many times. “You should see it,” he’d say as he described a portrait of an old cowherder or painting of oleanders in a jug. When I asked whether he’d painted the sunflowers, the sly answer was always the same. “Perhaps.”
He fascinated me with his accent and his stories and all the things he knew. I’d never met anybody who’d read as many books, who’d been as many places, who knew as many languages—not even Papa. When I spoke, he listened intently, and he treated me with respect, as if I’d been a decent lady, not a
fille de maison
. I taught him some Provençal, Vincent repeating the phrases over and over until he got them just right. He tried teaching me some Dutch, but I had such a hard time wrapping my mouth around the words that we wound up laughing instead. When he took my hand and played with my fingers, that meant he wanted to go upstairs, and I’d be lying if I said I didn’t enjoy his company there too.
“I’ve got an idea for a new study,” he said one September evening. “I’m going to paint the Café de la Gare.”
I wrinkled my nose. “That tacky place?”
“It’ll be a very modern subject. I want to paint it in the middle of night, when no one is around but the derelicts and vagabonds.”
The Café de la Gare, owned by Joseph and Marie Ginoux, was one of the cafés around the train station that stayed open all hours, a
café de nuit
. During the day it was nice enough, all sorts of folks gathering there for a drink or a meal, but under the gaslights in the wee hours, you’d find those who had no place to stay, or anybody who’d rather spend their francs on absinthe than on a bed. The habitués of the night café wiled away the hours drinking, smoking, shooting billiards, or staring into nothingness. I ought to know—once I’d been one of them.
“It’ll take two or three nights to get it right, I think,” Vincent continued. “I’ll sleep during the day and paint after dark.” He wound a lock of my hair around his thumb. “You could keep me company part of the time, if you want.” I didn’t answer, and he said, “All this time, and you will not see me outside this place. At least think about it.”
I did think about it, and the last night Vincent was painting at the café, curiosity got the better of me. The Café de la Gare wasn’t far, a brisk few minutes’ walk through Place Lamartine, but at that hour it was far enough. Pimps and pickpockets lurked in the mist rising from the river, along with drunken sailors and desperate whores, occasionally a
gendarme
whistling and swinging his nightstick. Even the public garden changed from a sunny, innocent spot to the sort of place where you heard moans and giggles in the bushes. As I passed by, a prostitute with missing teeth and a black eye called, “Half a franc, kitten, the
mecs
can’t do you like I can,” and I walked faster.
The café doors stood open on such a warm evening, and the eyes of the men slumped over the tables stalked me like hungry animals. One of them tried to get my attention, but I stuck my nose in the air and pretended not to see. Only the man with palette and paintbrushes interested me, the one frowning at his canvas, pipe hanging from his mouth.
“Rachel! You came!” Vincent exclaimed when he saw me. “Let me buy you a coffee.” He motioned for Monsieur Ginoux, his delight making me bashful. I waited for him to ask why I’d changed my mind, but he didn’t. When I asked if I could see his picture, he declared, “Of course, of course” and sprang up so I could sit in front of it.
I had imagined his paintings to be sweet and calm and gentle, like he was with me. Not sinister and brooding like this. Bright colors shouted from the canvas—red walls, green ceiling, yellow floor—yet the mood in his café scene was anything but bright. The clock in the background read ten minutes after midnight, and most customers had gone home. Empty chairs and mostly empty glasses said they’d been there, but only dregs of absinthe and the dregs of society remained. Faceless figures hunched over tables; a pimp chatted up a whore. The billiard table sat ready, but no one was playing. Monsieur Ginoux stood there instead, staring out from the painting, and the gaslamps overhead watched too like unblinking eyes. The gay pink bouquet on the sideboard struck the only note of innocence, the only note of hope.
“What are you playing at, Vincent?” Monsieur Ginoux had brought the coffee and was scowling over my shoulder. “You’ve made my place look like a—”
Vincent waved his hand good-naturedly. “I told you, you shouldn’t have made such a ruckus over being late with the rent. Don’t worry, it won’t sell, nobody will see it.”
Monsieur Ginoux muttered something under his breath in Provençal and went to the billiard table, where he grabbed the cue to stab at billiard balls.
Clack!
Vincent ignored him, and so did I—I couldn’t take my eyes from the painting. I saw myself in that room, as clearly as if Vincent had put me with the rest of the night crawlers: a frightened young woman whose money had run out, who couldn’t afford the simplest inn and was tired of fending off sour-breathed men offering centimes to lift her skirt. Who regretted she’d ever boarded the train to Arles and missed her papa so much it hurt. “I can help you,” Françoise had said when she’d found me there at the café. How could I have said no?
Vincent was watching my face, waiting for me to speak. “You got the mood of the place,” I said, trying to be nice.
“It’s not supposed to be a happy picture,” he said, and he actually sounded pleased. “I wanted to show that this
café de nuit
was a place where one could ruin oneself, go mad, or commit a crime. It’s so different here late at night, filled with the terrible passions of humanity.”
“The ceiling’s not green,” I said skeptically. “The walls aren’t as red as that either.” He’d made the walls in the painting crimson as blood, instead of a faded brick color that hid the dirt and smoke stains. “No wonder Monsieur Ginoux—”
“Red and green are what we call complementary colors,” Vincent interrupted, sounding like my papa teaching at school. “When juxtaposed, they vibrate and clash against each other, but ultimately they belong together and form a strange kind of harmony.”
I squinted at one of the figures sitting at a table, wearing a big yellow hat with a bit of red hair sticking out. “Is that man supposed to be you?”
Vincent smiled. “Do you want it to be me?”
“Maybe,” I replied with a wink.
Now his smile reached the crinkles around his eyes. “Let me sit for a second,” he said, then dabbed his brush in a smear of brown paint to sign “Vincent” and “
le café de nuit
” at the bottom of the picture, below the man in the yellow hat.
“Why ‘Vincent’? Why not your whole name?”
“Because no one can pronounce it.” He wiped his brushes and palette clean with a stained rag, shut everything in a wooden box, and yawned as he collapsed his easel. “Sorry, I’m not used to staying up this late. I was about to go to bed, but why don’t I walk you to the
maison
first? I’d invite you upstairs, but I’m afraid I wouldn’t be good company.”
“You must be so tired. It’s silly for you to do that when you live right here.”
“There are rough characters about, and I don’t want you walking alone. Just let me put my things away.”
I agreed and waited for him by the door, still ignoring Monsieur Ginoux and the absinthe-sodden drunkards.
We didn’t speak as we walked across the square, through the garden and past the pond, where moonlight tickled the water. The toothless prostitute was sitting under a streetlamp now, and she called, “Found yourself a redhead, eh, kitten? You know what they say about redheads.” Vincent reached for my hand at her cackle. Such a liberty, to hold my hand—yes, I took his hand to lead him upstairs in the
maison
, but this made my heart race in a different way, made me wish we had further to go than the Rue du Bout d’Arles.
“
Bonne nuit
, Rachel,” Vincent said when we arrived at Madame Virginie’s doorstep.
“I want to pose for you,” I blurted.
He stared at me, eyes wide. “Truly?”
I nodded. “But you won’t make me look…you know…”
“Ugly?” He chuckled and took my chin in his fingers. I thought he might kiss me, but instead he turned my head to examine my profile. “The night café is one of the ugliest pictures I’ve done. It’s unfortunate you saw that one first. You—you I cannot make ugly. I only hope I can paint you as I feel you.”
“Feel me?” My heart began to race again.
His reply was quiet. “You are extraordinary. Like something by Delacroix.”
“Is that good?”
“Delacroix was among the best.” He turned my head the other way, to look at the other side of my face, then let go of my chin. “Meet me at the Café de la Gare in two days, around nine in the morning. Then I shall take you to my studio.”
“I’ll be there,” I promised. “
Bonne nuit
, Vincent.” He gave me one of his awkward bows and, with a last stifled yawn, disappeared into the mist.
Someone must have seen us. At luncheon the next day Minette asked about my rendezvous, and everyone else stopped talking to listen. I tried to make it sound as if my meeting Vincent at the café had been an accident, and I tried to describe his painting, although I said nothing about agreeing to pose for him. “Sounds like he’s a lousy painter,” Jacqui sneered. “No wonder nobody wants his pictures.”
I shook my head. “No, he made it ugly on purpose. He wanted to show—”
“Ugly on
purpose?
What kind of fool would do that?”
I frowned at my plate and gave up. I could feel the other girls swapping glances around me, and I could read their thoughts:
Of all the men who come to Madame Virginie’s, why did Rachel choose him?
Françoise pulled me aside after we cleared the table. “You must stop spending so much time with him. It’s dangerous.”
“Dangerous?” I scoffed. “Don’t be silly. He wouldn’t hurt a flea.”
“You know what I mean. You’re playing with fire.”
“You’re the one who told me to find some regulars.”
Her nostrils flared. “To have regulars is fine. To have someone special who brings you presents and treats you good, is fine. But once you start running around outside the
maison
, you invite all kinds of trouble. Do you see me going anywhere with Joseph? Or anybody else?”
“Monsieur Roulin is married and has three children. Vincent—”
“He could take advantage of you, get you to see him for free.” Before I could fire back, she ranted on, “If you fall for him, you won’t want to screw anybody else, and Madame Virginie will sack you. That painter doesn’t have a franc to his name, he can’t take care of you. You could lose your post, lose him, to end up where? On the street?”
“He told me about his painting, and he walked me here. That’s all.”
“I’m not blind, Rachel. And I’m not stupid.”
A flush colored my cheeks. “Why should you care?”
“I don’t want you getting hurt.” The sudden tremble in her voice made me stare. “Years ago, I met this
mec
. Oh, what a sweet talker he was. I sneaked out, saw him for free, he strung me along for months. Then I got pregnant. When I told him I loved him and wanted to get married, he was gone, poof! The other girls warned me, but did I listen?”
I laid my hand on her arm. “What happened to the baby?”
“What do you think happened?” she said harshly and shook off my touch.
It wasn’t hard to guess. Madame Virginie had told me months before about the old woman who lived out the road to Tarascon, who had herbs
filles de maison
might want. “It won’t be like that,” I whispered. “I’m not in love with him.”
Tears swam in Françoise’s eyes, thick-skinned, barb-tongued Françoise who always seemed untouched by anyone. “Be careful, Rachel. I only want to save you.”
The Yellow House
I want to make it really an artists’ house—not precious, on the contrary nothing precious, but everything from the chairs to the pictures having character
.
—Vincent to Theo, Arles, September 1888
B
e careful. Be careful.
Françoise’s words kept me awake that night and haunted me the next day. I couldn’t concentrate on anything, not the mending I needed to do or the book I wanted to read, and when I gave up and went to the market, I wandered aimlessly among the stalls, looking over my shoulder for a yellow straw hat. When the
maison
opened for the evening, Françoise watched every move I made, and when I broke not one glass but two, cleaning up the bar at closing time, she hissed, “Get your head out of the clouds!”
I did not meet Vincent at the Café de la Gare. After breakfast that day, I went upstairs and sat on my bed, listening to the clock in the hall chime nine and trying not to think about him sitting alone at an empty table. Part of me hoped he would visit the
maison
that night to learn where I was; another part of me hoped he would stay away. And he did. For over a week there was no sign of him. Joseph Roulin came to see Françoise during that time, and when I passed by their table with a tray of drinks for a customer, he said gruffly, “Vincent waited for you at the café. For two hours.”
I nearly dropped the tray. “I don’t want to talk about it,” I said, ignoring the accusation in his eyes and the curiosity in Françoise’s face.
One sunny afternoon, the kind of day that held the last gasps of summer, my restless thoughts and footsteps led me to the place in the Place Lamartine garden where Vincent and I met. The oleanders were in full bloom, their pink and white petals seductive, but I knew better than to touch them, for inhaling their perfume too deeply could make you faint. Instead I picked a dandelion and blew away the seeds like a schoolgirl, uncertain for what I was wishing.
I stopped walking as I rounded the last corner and let the empty stem drop from my fingers. Vincent was there, standing in front of his easel and painting, a young boy with a basket beside him. I ducked behind a tree before they could see me.
“But the sky’s not green, Monsieur Vincent, why’d you make the sky green?”
I bit back a laugh at the childish voice and listened as Vincent explained his picture. His voice was patient, even affectionate, as if he didn’t mind being bothered and knew the boy well. Finally he said, “Isn’t your Maman waiting for those eggs?”
A sigh loud enough for me to hear. “I want to stay. Maman makes me do chores.”
“I think you should run along, or we’ll both be in trouble with your Maman. Tell her I said hello, won’t you?”
“I will, Monsieur Vincent,
salut
!” With that the boy scampered off.
I stood a little longer behind the tree, watching Vincent touch his brushes to the canvas, or take off his hat to run his hand through his hair. I could have slipped away, but my shoes seemed stuck to the grass. “Are you going to stay back there all day?” he asked without turning around.
“I’m sorry to eavesdrop,” I said sheepishly and walked toward him. “I didn’t think the boy should see me. Who is he?”
“Camille Roulin, Joseph’s middle child. A kind family, the Roulins, all of them.” He tossed his hat to the ground and gave me the same look Camille’s father had. “You didn’t turn up. I waited for you.”
I avoided his eyes to stare at the dandelions by my feet. “I know. I’m sorry.”
“Where were you? Why didn’t you send word?”
“I—I changed my mind. I can’t pose for you, Vincent. Please don’t ask me again.”
He did not speak for what seemed an eternity. I was afraid to look at him, but when I finally did, his expression had softened. “What happened to you,” he asked, “that you still cannot trust me?”
I did not answer and instead walked closer to the easel to see his painting. It couldn’t have been more different than the picture of the night café. All kinds of yellows and greens lit up the plants of the garden—the weeping beech, cedar bush, pink-flowered oleanders—while patches of sunlight warmed the grass. Over the trees peered Saint-Trophime’s stone tower, the only reminder of the surrounding city, and only I was missing, sleeping under the cedar in my pink dress and waiting for Vincent to find me.
“You’ve painted the place where we met,” I said. “Why?”
A blush turned his face as pink as the oleanders. “Yes…well…it’s a lovely spot. A garden like this makes me think of Boccaccio or even Petrarch. Petrarch lived near here in Avignon…” He babbled on about poetry and troubadours, but I heard,
“He’s been thinking about me,”
and I felt more guilty than ever.
“Rachel, is something the matter?” He’d stopped talking about the garden. “Are you feeling unwell? Let’s get you out of the sun.” He gave a quick wipe to his paintbrushes with a rag, then led me to the beech tree before I could object. He spread his jacket on the ground so I wouldn’t muss my dress and handed me a glass bottle before sitting opposite. “Water from the pump behind the café. Drink slowly.” The water was warm but tasted fresh.
“Why are you so nice to me?” The question burst from my lips, and Vincent stared with raised eyebrows. “I’ve never had a man be as kind to me as you, except Papa. You used to be a preacher, and yet…?” I fluttered my hand toward the painting, unsure how to explain.
He threw back his head and laughed. “You wonder why I treat a fallen woman like a human being, when good society shuns her.”
My cheeks burned. “I don’t see why that’s funny.”
“It’s not funny, I’m sorry.” His voice shifted, serious yet kind. “I don’t give a damn about good society, Rachel, and it’s not my place to judge you. Oh, it’s easy for the high-and-mighty to say it’s immorality, or laziness, or lust that drives women to prostitution, but I’ve never thought that way. No matter how good or noble a woman may be by nature, if she has no means and is not protected by her family, she is in great danger of being drowned in the pool of prostitution. Such women should be pitied and protected, not condemned.”
“I don’t need you to pity me. I don’t need anybody to—”
He held up his hand. “I don’t mean that in a bad way. I mean, I won’t—I can’t—condemn you or anyone else for the circumstances in which you’ve found yourselves. Besides, you’re not like other
filles
I’ve known. You’ve picked up the rough language and all the rest, but it’s not who you are, not really.”
“Who am I?” I asked and clasped the glass bottle tightly.
“One of the few people who treats
me
like a human being instead of some odd foreigner.” He changed position to sit beside me, so close that his arm touched my shoulder and I could smell the paint on his clothes. “One of the few people here I like spending time with. That I’d like to spend more time with.”
“I like spending time with you too,” I said, and meant it. “I truly am sorry, Vincent, about what I did. I’m sorry if I—”
“It’s nothing,” he interrupted. “I’ve been busy anyway, too busy to be working on a portrait. I’m moving into my new house, and it’s taking up my time and money.”
“Your new…?”
“The yellow house here in Place Lamartine, on the corner next to the grocery shop.” He pointed to the other side of the square. “I’ve been renting it since May, using one room as a studio, but there wasn’t any furniture and it needed repairs I couldn’t afford. My uncle Cent died recently and left Theo an inheritance, so Theo sent me three hundred francs. I’ve bought some furniture, begun fixing it up, and I’m hoping to move in a few days.” He sighed happily. “It’s one thing to roam from place to place as a free-spirited lad of twenty, but a man of thirty-five should have his own house.”
“Is that how old you are?”
“You thought I was older, didn’t you?” He was right: the lines on his face and the creases around his eyes had fooled me. “You’re just
une petite
yourself.”
“I’m not that young. I’m twenty-one.”
He reached for my hand with another sigh. “I remember twenty-one. I was a different man then. You have years ahead, but one day you’ll wake up and wonder where they went. Don’t let the things you want escape you.”
I resisted the urge to pull my hand away. “Your new house—is it a big house?”
“Not very, but there’s good light, that’s the important thing. Not a bad price, either, fifteen francs a month.” He paused and looked shy. “I was wondering, would you mind helping me settle in? The house could use a woman’s touch. I could show you all my paintings, too.”
Françoise’s voice muttered in my ear: “First he says he’s short of money, then he invites you to his house. That’s how it starts.”
All I’d be doing is cleaning and tidying things up
, I told the voice.
I’d be back for the evening business
.
“I think you owe me that,” Vincent added with a teasing glance, and I had to smile. I told him I’d love to help, and he exclaimed, “Splendid! Are you feeling better? Shall I walk you back?”
Now I did pull my hand free, as politely as I could, and I stood to brush grass from my skirt. “I’m fine, thank you, stay and finish your picture.”
“Until next time, then.” He climbed to his feet and gave me a swift kiss, his nose bumping mine.
“À bientôt,”
I stammered and made a hasty retreat.
“Rachel?” he called after me. “You didn’t say whether you like my painting.”
I turned at the hedges to call back my answer. “I love it.”
A yellow envelope appeared at the
maison
a few days later, my name written in a loopy scrawl. Inside was a sketch of Vincent’s house and the single word “Today?” with its bold and insistent question mark. I would not fail him again—this time I would keep my promise. I tucked the note into the bosom of my dress and fetched an apron, a basket, and clean cloths for dusting.
“Where are you going?” asked Jacqui, lounging in the
salon
with a fashion gazette, the only girl about.
“The market,” I lied over my shoulder as I walked out the door.
I must have passed the house a thousand times since coming to Arles, when I walked up the Avenue de Montmajour to the bathing-house, or when the girls and I dressed respectably to enjoy an afternoon coffee at the Café de l’Alcazar across the street. Madame Virginie had registered me as one of her
filles
at the
gendarmerie
, also across the street; I’d had to fill out a long form, answer questions about my family, and let the police doctor examine me in a back room. I remembered looking toward the little dilapidated house on the corner that day, thinking someone should live there and take care of it. It had seemed lost among the other buildings of the Place Lamartine, as lost as I’d felt. But today, with fresh paint the color of fresh butter, the house shone, and the shutters were bright green now, too. It wasn’t lost anymore.
Vincent threw open the door with a cheery greeting and didn’t stop talking as I walked inside. A slender corridor stretched ahead, two doors on the right leading to the studio and the kitchen, a flight of stairs rising to the second floor. He chattered about what would go here, what would go there, flinging his arms left and right. “A house of my own! I got some beds for the upstairs and a mirror…I still need a dressing table for the guest bedroom, though…and I need to hang up my pictures and Japanese prints…. I’ll eat here and I’ll save so much money…just think of the work I’ll be able to do with all this space!…
Et voilà
, the studio…” He opened the first door and waved me inside. “I took down the shutters so there’d be plenty of light, and I’m having gaslamps installed so I can work late.”
“Don’t you worry about everybody watching you?” I asked, glancing at the large windows facing onto the busy street.
Vincent shrugged. “I have nothing to hide.”
I wouldn’t want anyone to see such a mess. Half-squeezed paint tubes and black stubs of charcoal littered the red-tiled floor. Stained cloths were piled on the worktable, together with wilted flowers, empty ink bottles, bouquets of pencils and reed pens. A stack of drawings and prints lay on a chair, others were tacked to the walls, a piercing smell of turpentine perfuming the chaos. My fingers itched to clean, and I had to stop myself from finding a broom.
But the
paintings
. I clapped my hands at Monsieur Roulin in his uniform, face wise and serious with his bountiful beard, cap emblazoned with the proud word
“Postes.”
In another picture stood an old man in a straw hat, careworn eyes in a careworn face, and I knew this had to have been Patience Escalier, the former Camargue cowherd Vincent spoke about with such respect. A sunset scene with coal barges by the Rhône, beyond it the public garden, the night café, and Vincent himself, dressed up in a brown suit and gazing from a canvas with tranquil eyes. So many more, more than I could absorb all at once, and I felt almost dizzy.
I looked at the painting on the easel and smiled. “That’s one of the cafés downtown in the Place du Forum.” The café’s terrace glowed yellow from a single gas lantern, and under the awning a white-aproned waiter bustled among the tables. A finer establishment than the cafés of the Place Lamartine, the sort of place where
filles de maison
dared not go.
Vincent had been standing silent in the doorway, but he came to join me. “I’ve wanted to try a starry sky for some time,” he said. “In the dark I may take a blue for a green, a blue-lilac for a pink-lilac, but I can fix it in the studio if need be. Soon I’ll try a night painting by the river.”
“They look so happy.”
“Who?”
“The people in the painting. You can tell they’re happy from the way they’re sitting. Not like in the night café. It’s two different worlds.” I nodded toward the painting of the Café de la Gare.
“You’re very perceptive,” Vincent said.
“It’s not hard to see things if you only look.”