Sunflowers (8 page)
Absinthe
I have done a rough sketch of the brothel, and I quite intend to do a brothel picture
.
—Vincent to Theo, Arles, November 1888
V
incent and Gauguin’s painterly partnership seemed to flourish over the next few weeks. They worked together nearly every day, rising with the sun and continuing into the night with the help of the gaslamps Vincent had installed in the studio. Some evenings found them at Madame Virginie’s, although Vincent’s visits weren’t as frequent as before. He apologized and insisted it was nothing to do with me, that he was just busy. I insisted I believed him.
Even when he did visit, things were different. Before Gauguin came, Vincent and I had been in our own world, talking over the wine and sharing things lovers share. But with Gauguin seizing attention for himself, I felt like an afterthought. They talked of art and Paris and things I knew nothing about; most of the time I sat and listened like a mute china doll. Vincent tried to draw me into the conversation, but I suspected Gauguin excluded me on purpose, thinking me too ignorant to keep up with them.
I visited the yellow house once a few weeks after Gauguin’s arrival, and although he was out for the evening, his invisible presence was everywhere. He’d taken over half the studio with his paintings and things, and even the tidiness of the house spoke of him rather than Vincent. Vincent told me Gauguin did all the cooking and was surprisingly good at it. I hated to think of him using the same pots and pans I used, setting the table the way I always did, treating my kitchen as if it belonged to him.
Unfortunately Gauguin returned early from wherever he’d gone that evening and strolled into Vincent’s bedroom without knocking, catching us at an embarrassing moment. I shrieked and grabbed for the blanket. “Sorry, Brigadier, thought you’d be finished,” Gauguin drawled as he crossed the room toward his own, kerosene lamp in hand. As if nothing had been going on, as if he hadn’t been the least bit sorry to see us like that.
When Gauguin’s door shut, Vincent chuckled and tried to resume what he’d been doing, only to protest when I pushed him away. “Where are you going?”
“Back to Madame Virginie’s.” I didn’t bother with my corset; I pulled on my chemise and dress as fast as I could. “You think I’m staying after that?”
“It was funny, he didn’t mean to—”
“He knew exactly what he was doing,” I hissed, not caring if Gauguin heard me through the thin wall. “Who opens a closed door without knocking? He wanted to ruin our evening.”
Vincent sighed and leaned back against the pillows. “Well, it’s ruined now, isn’t it? You’re acting like a child.”
“I am not. I’ve never been so humiliated, and I’d rather sleep in the street than stay here with him. Goodnight, Vincent.” I darted down the stairs, pausing at the front door to tug on my shoes and see if Vincent would come after me. He didn’t.
The weather matched my mood as it rained for days at a time, and the waters of the Rhône churned against the stone embankments. In the
quartier reservé
we were safe behind the city walls, but the Place Lamartine lay vulnerable to the river’s wrath. Two years before, Françoise said, the embankments had been breached, and the square had flooded beyond the Café de la Gare. If the river invaded again…I hoped Vincent and Gauguin were taking precautions, but knowing Vincent, he was irritated that he couldn’t paint outdoors and gave the matter no thought beyond that.
The skies cleared and the waters receded as November dragged on, and the Arlesians heaved a sigh of relief. Business at the
maison
picked up, the unceasing rain having kept many customers home, then Vincent and Gauguin made their own way back to the Rue du Bout d’Arles. I was so happy to see Vincent that I forgot all my annoyance and threw my arms around his neck. “I’m sorry about before,” he whispered in my ear, and I kissed him with an “I’m sorry, too.”
“Two absinthes, please, Mademoiselle,” Gauguin interrupted. “And one for you.”
I tried not to think about the last time I’d seen him, how he’d caught me naked in Vincent’s bed. “
Merci
, I’ll have wine,” I said, and I knew I’d turned as red as the
vin rouge
.
“What kind of
fille
doesn’t drink absinthe?” Gauguin asked with raised eyebrow and slightest emphasis on the
“fille.”
“They all do in Paris.”
“I’ve never had it,” I admitted. “Papa always said it was the devil’s drink.”
Gauguin burst out laughing, and Vincent said, “One won’t hurt you.”
“No, thank you,” I repeated. I saw how completely some of the other girls were controlled by
la fée verte
, the green fairy, and our customers too, how greedily they guzzled the absinthe and how glassy-eyed they got. It bothered me enough that Vincent was drinking it in Gauguin’s company, but I figured he wouldn’t listen if I tried to stop him.
When I returned with our drinks and the accoutrements for preparing the absinthe, Vincent and Gauguin were deep in discussion. “I painted you the other day,” Vincent told me cheerily as he poured absinthe into his glass.
I was about to reply when Gauguin broke in, “It’s a brothel picture.”
“It’s a
pochade
,” Vincent said, “an oil sketch to work out the composition. Next I need you to pose for me so I can begin the actual painting. Maybe you can persuade other girls to pose too. It’ll be the most ambitious figure scene I’ve tried since I left Holland.”
I frowned. “You want to put me in a brothel picture?”
Vincent whipped a sketchbook and stub of pencil out of his pocket. He explained his idea as he drew: girls and customers talking in the
salon
in couples and trios, maybe some Zouaves playing cards, lots of color, lots of gaiety. The more he talked, the less I listened, and when he showed me the sketch, I refused to look. “I don’t care. I’m not doing it.”
“But if you don’t pose for me, I won’t be able to get anyone else.”
“You should be flattered he wants his favorite
fille
in the picture, Mademoiselle,” Gauguin said with a chuckle. “Don’t you want to be made immortal?”
Vincent scowled at Gauguin and shoved the sketchbook in his pocket. “It wouldn’t really be you,
ma petite
, you’d just be the model,” he wheedled. “Once we’re finished, I’ll paint your portrait all by yourself, how about that?”
“I could paint her also, like when Madame Ginoux posed for us,” Gauguin said eagerly.
“Would you want me dressed like a whore then too?” I asked.
Vincent said, “No,” Gauguin said, “Yes,” Vincent glared at Gauguin, and I glared at both of them. “Maybe I’ll have an absinthe after all,” I muttered. Gauguin leaped up to fetch a third absinthe glass from the bar, and to Vincent’s concerned look I said, “You heard him, all the whores in Paris drink absinthe. If you want to paint me as a
putain
, I have to play the role.”
“Rachel, you’ve misunderstood me, I didn’t mean—”
Gauguin plopped an empty glass in front of me. “
Faites attention
, Mademoiselle. The ritual of preparing the absinthe is as important as the act of drinking it.” He extended the absinthe bottle to Vincent. “Since our little Mademoiselle is a virgin, you should have the pleasure of deflowering her.”
Vincent sighed as he took the bottle from Gauguin. He poured enough green liquid to fill the reservoir at the bottom of my glass and reached for a slotted spoon lying on the table. Balancing the spoon across the mouth of the glass, he placed two cubes of sugar on top, then poured water over the sugar.
“Too fast,” Gauguin scolded, “just like your painting. Don’t pour it, let it drip.”
Vincent ignored him and kept pouring. As the sugary water hit the absinthe below, the color started to change. “Observe, Mademoiselle,” Gauguin said. “The emerald green turns citron yellow, then cloudy white. You must have very cold water to achieve the right effect, three to five parts, depending on your preference. Ah, is there anything more lovely than that swirl of color?”
Vincent finished pouring the water as the sugar melted. He dipped the spoon into the glass for a quick stir before handing it to me, and I took a cautious drink. It was
dreadful
. Too bitter, too strong—it made me choke, and Vincent had to slap me on the back.
Gauguin laughed as I pushed the glass toward him. “No, no, I insist you try again. Maybe you need more water, since Vincent didn’t do it right.” He poured a splash of water in the glass and pushed it back to me.
“I prepared her drink just fine,” Vincent snapped, then added, to me, “you’ll taste the sugar more the further along you get.”
It didn’t taste as bad on the second sip—rather like the licorice candy Papa used to bring me when I was a little girl. Gauguin asked if it was better, and when I nodded, he smirked, “Seems I know best how to satisfy you, Mademoiselle.” I ignored him and kept sipping.
Gauguin turned to Vincent. “Have you seen those big spigot carafes in Paris, where you can leave your glass and let the water drip as slow as you want?”
“Yes,” Vincent said, focused now on preparing his own drink. “Agostina Segatori got one for Le Tambourin while I was there.”
My ears perked up. Agostina Segatori? Was she the Italian
signora
he’d mentioned our first night together, the one who’d taught him how to kiss and who knew what else?
“La Segatori!” Gauguin hooted. “Before or after she threw you out on your ass?”
Vincent looked at him sharply. “She didn’t throw me out, one of the waiters did. It wasn’t my fault. I gave her some pictures to hang in the café, they weren’t selling, and I wanted them back. She was being obstinate.”
Back and forth they went, Gauguin proclaiming that’s not what he heard, Vincent retorting he’d heard wrong. “Everybody knew you two were having an affair,” Gauguin said. “I don’t know why you think it’s a big secret. I heard she let you paint her in the nude, you rascal.”
“Damn gossiping Lautrec,” Vincent mumbled.
“So it’s true!” Gauguin bellowed. “Mademoiselle Rachel, you should see this woman. Used to be an artist’s model, posed for Corot and Manet. The blackest eyes, and even at her age the juiciest pair of…” He whistled, then laughed at Vincent’s expression. “She’s what, twelve, thirteen years older than you,
mon ami? Oh là
, you were a lucky man to get a screw like that. Welcome to Paris!” He guffawed and slapped the table, while I frowned at Vincent over my absinthe. The color rising in his cheeks, Vincent was trying not to look at either of us. Gauguin elbowed me and added, “Don’t let the dewy-eyed Dutchman fool you. He’s been around.”
“How the hell would you know?” Vincent demanded. “Only time I ever saw you up there was at my brother’s gallery.”
“People talk, Brigadier,” Gauguin said smoothly. “People talk.”
Vincent tossed back his absinthe and reached for the bottle. “Too much damn talking, that’s why I left.”
“Young lady, you’re drinking awfully slowly,” Gauguin observed with a glance to my glass. With a glance to Vincent, he said, “La Segatori can
really
knock ’em back, can’t she?”
I drained my absinthe in a gulp, just as Vincent had, and slammed the glass on the table. “If she can, I can! I’ll have another, Monsieur Gauguin, if you please.”
“Rachel, are you sure this is a good idea?” Vincent asked.
“Don’t tell me what to do, Vincent. Now, shall I fix it myself?” Under Gauguin’s watchful eye I steadied the spoon on the glass, the sugar on the spoon, and mixed my second glass of absinthe. Not long after that, my third. After
that
…after that I don’t remember much.
Oh, God. I want to die
.
Where was I? My own bed. Where were my clothes? I was wearing my chemise and drawers, but everything else was piled on the floor. What time was it? Morning, the sun streaming through the window to reveal Vincent sleeping in my armchair. “What are you doing here?” I asked, and he woke with a start.
“I stayed to make sure you were all right,” he said and walked to the bed to sit beside me. “How are you feeling?”
“How much did I drink?”
“Three glasses full. I tried to stop you, but you told me to mind my own business. You sang too.” He chuckled despite himself. “You couldn’t walk, so I carried you up here.”
My legs wrapped around his waist, my arms around his neck, giggling into his ear, saying his name over and over,
Vincent, Vincent
: I remembered that. “But we didn’t…?”
He shook his head. “I put you to bed and slept in the chair in case you needed me.” He went to the washstand and brought back a damp cloth. “You don’t have to prove anything, Rachel,” he said gently as he wiped my face. “Not to Gauguin, and certainly not to me.”
“But—Paris! You had a very exciting life there with very exciting women. You must be bored silly with Arles and a country bumpkin like me.” I snifffled.
“That’s the absinthe talking. Paris was killing me. Another month and I would have been completely mad.”
I sniffled again. “Did you love her?”
“Who, Agostina? I felt a great deal of affection for her, but I didn’t love her. That was about”—he coughed and blushed—“having fun. I was lonely, and she…” He coughed again. “I’m sorry you had to hear about her from Gauguin. Do you want to try sitting up?”
When I nodded, he slid his arm behind my shoulders to help me and plumped the pillow so I could sit back. The room rocked and swayed. “Oh, God,” I murmured. “I feel dreadful.” Vincent returned to the washstand for a glass of water, then tipped it to my lips, steadying my head so I could drink. He’d taken care of sick people before, I realized. Back when he was a preacher, perhaps? I pictured him looking after a sick child or old man with a soothing touch and kind smile. The vision made me love him even more. Then it made me cry.
“
Tiens
, what’s this?” He set the glass on the floor and cradled my head against his shoulder. “Poor little one, no more absinthe for you.”