Sunflowers (24 page)

“If you didn’t want me spending time with her, you shouldn’t have brought her,” Vincent replied. “We were about to take a walk in the garden. Alone.”

Vincent took my arm and led me past Félix into the corridor, where Monsieur Trabuc watched and waited. “Are you allowed to go without Monsieur Trabuc?” Félix asked, to Vincent’s scowl and Trabuc’s shrug. “Rachel, you left your hat in Vincent’s room,” he added. I doubled back to take it from him, refusing to look at him as I did so.

Vincent made no comment as I caught up with him, and we continued down the hallway. “We don’t have to do this,” I said. “We can go back to your room, or—”

“I want to do this,” he said tersely. “To live out in the world, to win my life back, I must do this.”

But his footsteps slowed as we reached the vestibule and the doors to the outside stood before us. With a determined sigh, he pulled one of them open, reaching behind him for my hand as we walked into the sunlight.

“Let me show you something,” he said as he brought us before a tall pine tree. His voice had softened. “During my
crise
there was a terrible storm, much thunder, much lightning. Not until I felt well enough to return to my studio and look out the window did I know this tree had been struck. They had to cut the trunk, leaving this gaping wound.” He touched the bark of the tree. “But look! That smaller branch curling upward, it’s still alive. This giant is defeated, he’s somber, but he’s still proud. He’s still here.”

“He’s still here,” I echoed, a lump rising in my throat.

Beyond the pine tree and a row of pink rosebushes, a path led into the midst of the garden, passing a stone fountain that today stood silent, the dirty water filled with leaves and pine needles. How different this garden was from the lovingly tended flowerbeds of the Arles hospital—the grass here overgrown, ivy crawling up the trees, weeds bartering with wildflowers for territory and attention. “How much farther do you want to go?” I asked after we’d crossed one terrace and reached another. “Are you feeling all right?”

Vincent looked at my dress and smiled. “How much farther do
you
want to go? We wouldn’t want to muss you.”

“I’ll go wherever you go.”

We wound our way to the corner of the garden, where a stone bench stood among the pines, the very one he’d told me about, and the hospital building was barely visible. I suddenly longed for my own clothes, not this ridiculous dress with its tight bodice and choking collar. I wanted to toss the satin hat over the wall and all the hairpins with it, cast off the pinching shoes to touch the earth between my toes.

“I’d forgotten how beautiful it is out here,” Vincent said as we sat. “I’ll have to write Theo for more paints before autumn arrives.”

He put his arm around me, and I nestled myself into the crooks and crannies of his body, as comfortably as if I’d never left. The branches of the pine trees arched over our heads like the vaults of a church, and I closed my eyes to listen to a persistent pair of birds, twittering to each other across the air. Once monks in their solemn robes had walked under these trees, saying the rosary and whispering prayers. Asking for forgiveness.

“Vincent, there’s something I need to tell you.”

He didn’t speak, and I wondered if he’d heard me. Then, very quietly, “There’s nothing you need to tell me.”

“Yes, there is. I—”

“There’s nothing you need to tell me,” he repeated, his voice both tender and sad.

He already knew.

I wanted to ask how he’d guessed, how long he’d known. I wanted to protest that Félix meant nothing to me, and his silly presents were just that, silly presents. He can never take me away from you, I wanted to say. Instead I wrapped my arms around his neck, breathed in his pipe-smoke, turpentine scent and said, “I love you, Vincent. Only you.”

He kissed my forehead. “I’m sorry I left you alone, I’m sorry I haven’t taken care of you the way you deserve. Someday I will show you how much I love you—for I do love you, with everything that is in me. And I will look after you. I promise.”

“Vincent knows about Félix,” I told Françoise after I returned to Madame Virginie’s.

Her fingers paused over the buttons on the back of my dress. “Are you sure?” After I told her what he said, she asked matter-of-factly, “Well, he didn’t tell you not to see Félix anymore, did he?”

“He doesn’t like it. I can tell.”

“What the hell does he expect you to do? Starve while you sit around waiting for him?” She tugged at the stubborn buttons. “Until he ‘takes care of you the way you deserve,’ you have to think of your future. Félix pays you well, brings you presents, and in case you haven’t noticed, looks at you like you hung the moon.”

“Are you saying Félix will ask me to marry him one day? You know better than that.”

“Of course I know better than that,” she snapped as she freed me from the dress and I pushed it to the floor. “But he could set you up in your own place and give you a nice little life. Get you out of here like you’ve always said you wanted.”

“Until he tires of me and pushes me aside.” I went to the washbasin to sponge my neck and arms, sticky from a day beneath the muslin. “Vincent loves me.”

“From behind the walls of an asylum! He may never get out, Rachel. Love could leave you alone and very hungry.” Françoise snorted as she shook out the dress to hang it up. “I’ve told you that from the beginning.”

I frowned at her in the mirror. “You never did like Vincent.”

“It’s not about liking him. It’s about wanting you to be happy. I see it in your eyes, you’re not the girl you used to be.” Before I could retort, she sighed and said, “I don’t want to fight with you. I’m telling you to use your head. Screwing Monsieur Félix is no worse than screwing any of these other
mecs
, and only a fool would throw him away.”

Minette appeared at the door. “Rachel, this came for you.”

I opened the box she handed me—fine Swiss chocolates—and the note, written in Félix’s well-educated hand.

Dear Rachel,

I did not have the opportunity to speak to you on the train with Reverend Salles accompanying us, but I am sorry for how I acted today. It was wrong of me to be so presumptuous and rude. I hope you can forgive me. May I come to see you tomorrow night?

With regards,
Félix

I handed the note to Françoise, and she gave an indifferent shrug. “Do what you want. I’ve told you what I think.”

Dear Félix,

I accept your apology. Yes, you may visit tomorrow night. I’ll be waiting.

Rachel

CHAPTER THIRTY

Invitations

2 November 1889

Mlle. Rachel Courteau
c/o Mme. Virginie Chabaud
Rue du Bout d’Arles, no. 1
Arles-sur-Rhône

Ma petite
Rachel,

The weather has been changing, the days becoming dreary and the rain growing more frequent. Theo offered to pay Dr. Peyron more so that I might have wood for the stove in my studio, otherwise my fingers would get so chilly that it’d be hard to paint.

Because of the bad weather, I have been working on translations from Millet into color, based on a bundle of prints Theo sent me. It teaches me and consoles me, for I long to paint figures. One I have just done you would like very much. A country man and woman sitting together before a fire and under the light of a lamp, a color scheme of violets and tender lilacs. His back to us, the man works busily weaving a basket, and his lady sews contentedly while their baby sleeps in his cradle just behind. It moved me to paint it. Johanna will enjoy it, for Theo wrote me recently that she begins to feel the child stir within her. Theo must himself feel deep in nature at this time, and I am very glad things have changed so for him.

Millet’s
Angelus
sold for half a million francs at a sale in Paris this past July. Half a million francs for the work of a dead painter paid nothing of the sort when he was alive. It is extraordinary.

Still nothing from the Vingtistes in Brussels. It is of complete indifference to me whether I am remembered, although Theo remains hopeful. A Dutch critic named Isaäcson has written a short note about me in a journal called
De Portefeuille
, and I include a translation. No need to tell you I find what he says extremely exaggerated.

[then, in different handwriting as if he’d left the letter and come back—]

My dear girl, I have splendid news. Dr. Peyron has given me leave to return to Arles, alone and for an overnight visit. I’ll have to wait for Theo to send money for the trip, but I plan to arrive on the morning train from Tarascon on 14 November. I count the days.

With a kiss in thought,
Vincent

Had it been nearly a year since we’d last sat on this café terrace in the Place du Forum? Vincent had arrived that morning on the train, and I’d met him at the station, wearing Françoise’s Arlésienne dress and cap. Vincent thought I’d arranged for a room at the Café de la Gare, but I surprised him by steering him through the winding medieval streets to an auberge on the other side of town. I hadn’t wanted to risk seeing anyone in the Place Lamartine who might bring bad memories and ruin our day.

He looked further surprised at the cheery greeting of the bespectacled spinster behind the desk—“
Bonjour
, Madame Courteau, I see Monsieur Courteau’s train arrived on time”—but didn’t give us away. She offered to bring us tea, and I bit back a laugh as I said, “No, thank you” and pulled at Vincent’s arm to lead him up the stairs. We were both cursing all the pins securing my hair and the lace
fichu
shawl not long after that.

I woke from a doze to the smell of Vincent’s pipe filling the room. “You shouldn’t smoke in bed,” I said with a yawn and stretch. “Fine way to set yourself on fire.”

“The best ideas come when one is smoking one’s pipe in bed.” He touched me under the chin. “You were smiling in your sleep.”

I glowed under his eyes. “How can I help it? Oh, dearest, I don’t want you to leave. You don’t need that silly hospital—you need me!”

He smiled and kissed me. “We have tonight and all day tomorrow. Now, where shall we go to eat? You must be hungry, I certainly am. What of the café in the Place du Forum?”

“I’m not sure…,” I began, then stopped myself.

“Being around all the people won’t bother me. That’s over and done with. I’m so tired of lentils and chickpeas, I think I’ll actually have a
bouillabaisse
.”

I wasn’t thinking about his illness, I was thinking about Félix. On the way to the auberge I’d avoided walking past the Hôtel-Dieu and taken us the long way round, for that very reason. I had no notion where Félix’s family lived, but it would be our misfortune that they lived near the Place du Forum.

And yet here we were, with no sign of Félix. The café was as lively and sociable as I remembered, waiters scurrying, customers chattering over the clanking of plates and clinking of glasses. No one gave us a second look, no one seemed to recognize Vincent or me. “It’s odd to come back and know the Roulins are gone,” Vincent was saying as he attacked his
bouillabaisse
. “Did you see Madame Roulin before they left?”

“Yes, we arranged to meet in the Place Lamartine garden. You should see how big Marcelle has gotten. She was able to say all kinds of words—” I stopped myself again. I didn’t want to tell him how Marcelle had climbed into my lap and tried to pluck the feathers from my hat before her
maman
had whisked her back. How she’d smiled up at me and babbled as if she’d been telling me something very important. “Madame Roulin sent her kind regards,” I said simply.

“I had a good letter from Roulin a few weeks ago. They’ve hung the portraits and painting of oleanders I gave them in the new house.” Vincent looked up from his plate and tilted his head. “
Ma petite
, I’ve felt better lately than I have for a year. You don’t have to worry about things upsetting me anymore.” He speared a prawn with his fork and, as calmly as if he’d been saying we’d be having good weather tomorrow, he added, “I’ve received an invitation to the Brussels exhibition.”

I let out a shriek that made the other diners turn to look. “We’ve been together the whole day, and you’re only just telling me? Oh, I knew they’d invite you this year! How many pictures?” He replied there’d be room for six of his large paintings, and I clapped my hands. “Which will you choose? Oh, the sunflowers, please choose the sunflowers!”

He laughed. “I think you’re more excited than I am.”

I leaned across the table and grabbed for his hand. “You must be excited too!”

“I’ll be more so when I settle my choice of canvases. The Belgians have tremendous talent. They make me feel my inferiority.”

I waved my other hand, as if fending off scores of imaginary Belgians. “Nonsense. How many other painters will be in the exhibit?” He rattled off half a dozen names, some of whom I recognized as his friends from Paris: Paul Signac, Henri de Toulouse-Lautrec, Lucien Pissarro. He mentioned a painter named Cézanne from Aix, and pride filled me at the thought of a Provençal artist in the exhibition. Another man, a Monsieur Renoir, must have been very important, judging from the respect in Vincent’s voice when he said that name.

I asked if Gauguin was invited, and Vincent raised his eyebrows. “No. Even if he had been, he probably would have declined. Our friend Émile Bernard did.” I asked why, and he said, “They don’t get on with Signac. They don’t like the neo-Impressionist style he advocates, and they refuse to exhibit with him or others working in that style.”

“Does Gauguin get on with anybody?” I mumbled.

Vincent set down his fork. “Rachel, you should have forgiven him by now—I have. What happened was as much my fault as his. I’ve been corresponding regularly with him and with Bernard about the work they’re doing. I don’t like all of it, but it’s interesting, and I think it a shame they aren’t showing at Brussels.”

I shoveled the last bite of my
poulet rôti
into my mouth without comment. I couldn’t help but think of Gauguin tonight. When we’d last come to this café, he’d been living in the yellow house, and we’d been a few weeks away from disaster without knowing it.

I glanced up to find Vincent gazing pensively at me. “Do you suppose I should send only the yellow-on-yellow sunflowers,” he asked, “or the ones with the blue background too?”

“Oh, both! Both!”

After we finished our meal and Vincent paid the bill, he suggested we walk along the river before returning to the auberge. I didn’t know this
quartier
well, and neither did he, so we got turned around twice and laughed at our poor navigation. When we found the river, we climbed the steps to the high stone embankment, turning downstream toward the Trinquetaille Bridge before crossing the bridge itself, with its iron railings and trusses. Other couples were sneaking kisses in the moonlight, and we smiled at each other as we stopped to take in the view. Vincent draped his jacket around my shoulders before putting his arm around me to warm me up.

“Will your paintings be for sale at the Brussels exhibition?” I asked.

He’d fallen quiet as we’d walked, and his answer now was brief. “They always are. They just never sell.”

“How much would they sell for, if they did?” Vincent explained that Theo set the prices, and they’d probably be marked at four or five hundred francs each. “Why, that’d be three thousand francs if they all sold!”

He made a face. “I’ll consider myself fortunate if one sells.”

“But what if they did? What would you do with three thousand francs?”

He thought for a moment, and when he answered, his tone was serious. “Stop taking Theo’s money. Rent, maybe even buy, a house.” He paused and gazed across the water. “Marry you.”

I fumbled for the railing. “What did you say?”

He smiled and said it louder. “I’d marry you.”

“But…but…you wouldn’t have to.” We’d never mentioned marriage before, not even once. “I’m…I’m not…good enough for you to marry.”

“If I’m a good enough painter to exhibit in Brussels,” he said solemnly, “you’re a good enough woman to be Madame van Gogh.”

Madame van Gogh. I’d never dared to think the name. “But your family—”

“If I earn enough money, I can tell my family to go to blazes.”

I stared into the dark river, uncertain how to ask the question I needed to ask. “Why are you talking about this now? Before you always said it wasn’t the time.”

He turned me by the shoulders and made me look at him. “I’ve been selfish and cowardly far too long, that’s why. I want a home with you, I want a family with you, I want
you
, Rachel. You and no other. Will you marry me in the spring when I leave Saint-Rémy?”

All the words I wanted him to say. The words I had longed to hear in the studio of the yellow house, his blue-walled bedroom, my own room at the
maison
. Right here, under the stars, over a year ago. I covered his face with teary kisses to the amusement of a passing
gendarme
. “Yes—oh, yes!”

“Then I must concentrate on doing well in Brussels, no?” He pulled a handkerchief from his trouser pocket and wiped my eyes. “Listen, even if nothing sells, we’ll find a way. Maybe I can organize an exhibition in Marseille, Roulin could help with that, or try harder to get some portrait commissions—”

I thought of Félix’s francs piling up in my bureau. By the spring…“We’ll find a way,
mon amour
,” I agreed. “We’ll find a way.”