Sunflowers (9 page)

“I don’t want to be in a brothel picture,” I sobbed. “I don’t want you to paint me as a whore. Is that how you see me, as a painted whore?”

“Of course not, I thought you’d be a pretty model, that’s all. I promise I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings. I’ll paint your portrait as I do see you,
d’accord?
”

“Without Monsieur Gauguin?”

“Without Gauguin. Just you and me.” He kissed my forehead and held me until I stopped crying. “I know I’ve neglected you,
chérie
, and I want to make it up to you.”

He told me then about a Nativity play at the Folies Arlésiennes the next Saturday, about how Augustine Roulin had invited him to go with her family and said he should bring someone. He seemed excited at the idea, but I looked at him like he’d lost his mind. “Vincent, I can’t go to a play with the Roulins. Monsieur Roulin knows who I am.” So did his eldest son, for that matter. I’d been a gift to Armand Roulin for his seventeenth birthday back in May.

“Joseph wouldn’t say anything inappropriate. He knows better than that.”

“But other people might recognize me. I’d embarrass you.”

Vincent smiled and brushed my hair out of my eyes. “That’s ridiculous. Would you be embarrassed to be seen with ‘that painter,’ ‘that foreigner’?” I smiled back and shook my head. “Please come, it’ll be all right, I promise. You shouldn’t let fear keep you from doing something you want to do.” I thought about it, then nodded. “Good. We’ll have a wonderful evening.”

A knock sounded at the door, which Françoise opened before I could say anything. “Rachel, I wanted to make sure you were—What are
you
doing here?”

“Taking care of Rachel,” Vincent replied. “She’s sick.”

Françoise folded her arms and glared at him. “No wonder, as much absinthe as you gave her.” I told her it was my fault, not his, and she said, “Well, he shouldn’t be here. You know Madame Virginie doesn’t allow customers upstairs during the day.”

Vincent helped me lie down and offered to go, but I clutched his arm and pleaded, “No, please don’t.”

“Yes, please do,” Françoise said and gave him a little push so she could arrange my blanket the way she thought it should be arranged. Vincent meekly retreated to fetch his hat and jacket, then caught my eye with a smile before slipping out the door.

“I wanted him to stay,” I complained.

Françoise snatched up my clothes from the floor. “He’s nothing but trouble, that one. He’ll give you a
gueule de bois
worse than any absinthe, mark my words.”

“I think I’m going to be sick.” She grabbed the basin and held back my hair as I threw up into it.
At least he didn’t see that. Oh God, I want to die
.

She
tsk-tsked
. “No more absinthe for you.”

CHAPTER TEN

Pastorale

O

nce I recovered from my grim flirtation with the green fairy, it seemed Saturday would never come. I coaxed Françoise into helping me dress like a true Arlésienne in the traditional local costume, although she grumbled when I told her why. “I haven’t worn these things in years,” she said as she pulled a blue dress from her armoire and a dusty box from under her bed. She helped me pin my hair into a chignon on top of my head, then wrap the chignon in a white lace
cravate
trailing two ends. Finally, the white lace
fichu
, draped over my shoulders like a shawl, tucked into my belt in front and pinned into a triangle down my back. From habit my hand reached for the powder box, but I stopped myself. No powder, no rouge. Tonight Vincent would see me and only me.

He was already waiting downstairs. “How lovely you look!”

“Merci,”
I said and fiddled with the
fichu
. “I’ve never dressed like this before.” I noticed his dapper black velvet jacket and the new hat in his hand. “Look at you, so handsome!”

He smiled at the floor. “You’re the only person who’s ever told me that.”

Our walk to the theater took us through the heart of the city, where the stone skeleton of the ancient arena stood ghostly under the rising moon. This was the Arles visiting
touristes
saw, Arles of the Romans, the powerful city favored by Augustus Caesar himself. I remembered sitting in Papa’s classroom, reciting the Latin names for the towns of Provence—
Arlate, Nemausus, Massilia
—hearing him tell us how proud we should be, descended as we were from such greatness.

“Have you been to a Nativity play before?” Vincent asked. “Madame Roulin says it’s not what I’ll be expecting.”

“We had them in Saint-Rémy, although I’m sure this one will be much grander.” How excited I used to feel, when I dressed up in my church clothes and walked proudly with Maman and Papa through town to see the play. “It’s not just the Bible story—the
pastorales
have all kinds of characters on their way to see baby Jesus. There’s singing, and music, and the plays can be very funny. Sometimes they make fun of politicians and things like that. Oh goodness, I hope you’ll be able to understand, because it’ll be in Provençal, not French.” Vincent assured me that even if he couldn’t understand all the words, he’d enjoy the music and my company just the same.

We reached the Place de la République, presided over by the town hall and church of Saint-Trophime. Around the obelisk-topped fountain in the center of the square, local
santonniers
had set up their stalls for the Christmas season. Most were closed for the night, but one enterprising merchant was keeping his open to lure customers from among those on their way to the
pastorale
. Vincent stopped to admire the rows of painted ceramic figurines. “What are these?”

“
Santons
for the Christmas
crèche
,” I replied, “the Nativity scenes in people’s houses. You can have whoever you want in your
crèche
, a fisherman, cheese-seller, knife-grinder…”

“Did you have a
crèche
in your house when you were a little girl?”

“Oh, yes. I fought with my sister about who got to put in the
santons
.” The memory made me giggle. “Madame Virginie will put a
crèche
in the
maison
too.”

“This is fine work,” Vincent told the
santonnier
. “Do you have any artists?”

“I’m sorry, Monsieur, no artists. Perhaps an ink-seller? Three francs.”

“This one for the lady, I think.” Vincent held up a miller clutching a sack of grain before fishing in his pocket. “
Voilà
, three francs.”

“You didn’t have to buy me anything,” I protested as we walked away.

Vincent pressed the
santon
into my hand and closed my fingers over it. “I wanted to. So you will remember tonight, and remember me.”

Inside the crowded theater, around the corner on the Boulevard des Lices, I held Vincent’s arm tightly so we wouldn’t be separated. Most of the women were dressed like me, their gowns a rainbow of colors under the gaslights. Everyone chatted and laughed as joyous anticipation filled the air. At first I looked nervously around, afraid one of my customers would appear, until Vincent patted my arm and whispered, “Anyone who might recognize you isn’t going to admit it here. Relax and enjoy yourself.”

Joseph Roulin’s voice echoed through the hall, calling Vincent’s name, and he pushed his way through the throng to meet us. It was odd seeing him in something besides his blue postman’s uniform. Tonight he wore a black suit faded from many washings, his long beard trimmed and tidy. “
Bonsoir
, Roulin,” Vincent said, and the two men shook hands. “May I present Mademoiselle Rachel Courteau.”

Monsieur Roulin, bless him, gave no sign of having met me before, although his eyes twinkled. “
Enchanté
, Mademoiselle. And may I present my family—where’d they go? Ah, here they come. My wife, Augustine, our elder son, Armand, our younger son, Camille, and our baby girl, Marcelle.”

Madame Roulin came up to her husband’s chest, plump, matronly, the perfect Provençal
maman
with her baby in her arms. Lagging behind and gazing around in wonder, young Camille was nearly swallowed by an overcoat that probably once belonged to his brother. “
Bonsoir
, Monsieur Vincent,” he said and waved. Armand brought up the rear, trying to pretend he wasn’t with his parents while he scoped the crowd for pretty girls. Being the oldest meant his cheery yellow jacket was brand new, and his black hat was perched on his head at a jaunty angle. He’d grown a wispy moustache since I’d seen him last.

“We’re so glad you could join us, Mademoiselle,” Madame Roulin said with a pleasant country accent. Armand noticed me then and blushed crimson.

“Thank you, Madame. It was kind of you to invite me.”

The baby reached for Vincent. “May I, Madame?” he asked, and at her nod, he took Marcelle in his arms. Straightaway she tried to pull his beard. “It’s not as long as your papa’s, little one,” he said and chucked her under the chin. She giggled and hid her face in his shoulder.

As we entered the theater and found our seats, Madame Roulin asked, “Have you known Vincent long?”

She likely thought me something respectable, a seamstress or shopgirl. “Since July.”

“We met him a little before that. He and my husband have become close friends.”

I smiled at her. “I saw a portrait of Monsieur Roulin that Vincent painted. He said you’ve been posing for him too.”

“Vincent has wanted to paint pictures of all of us since Marcelle was born. He painted Armand and Camille, and he insisted on painting the baby too.” She glanced at Vincent, still dandling Marcelle on his knee. “He’s very good with her, very comfortable with children. Now he needs a family of his own to paint.” She looked at me pointedly with her gentle green eyes, and I blushed as red as Armand.

The gaslights lowered, and cheers and clapping rippled across the theater. Vincent passed Marcelle to her mother, then reached for my hand as the curtains parted. His eyes sparkled with excitement. I hadn’t seen him look so happy in weeks.

The
pastorale
was like the ones I’d known back home, although much more elaborate. Children laughed at the clownish characters and gasped at a dramatic battle between Saint Michael and a dragon, while the adults roared at the satirical speeches of the “politicians” who appeared for no good reason, except to deliver satirical speeches. Much of the humor probably went over Vincent’s head, but he was captivated nonetheless, only occasionally leaning over for a quick translation. I glanced at Camille Roulin during one of the musical interludes, and his eyes were as big as saucers. So were mine, for that matter, and so were Vincent’s, especially at the end, when the character of the reformed sorceress sang a dazzling solo at baby Jesus’ crib.

Vincent was the first among us to burst into enthusiastic applause. The entire audience leaped to its feet as the actors took their bows, a chorus of male and female voices calling out their appreciation in Provençal:
Osco! Osco!
After a round of
Bonne nuits
and
Joyeux Nöels
, handshakes and cheek kisses, the Roulins went home to get the younger children to bed. I saw Madame Roulin’s knowing smile when Vincent took my arm, her glance from me to him and back again, and not for the first time that evening, I wished I was anything but a
fille de maison
.

When Vincent and I crossed the Place de la République on our way back through town, he stopped this time in front of Saint-Trophime, gazing up at the sculptures of the Last Judgment above the doorway, illuminated by streetlamps. He tilted his head and pondered them until I began to feel uncomfortable and gave his arm a tug. The Christ with his hands poised to welcome the blessed and condemn the damned had become a stranger to me, the apostles and saints terrifying judges waiting to decide my fate. But Vincent wouldn’t move away, and he surprised me by suggesting we go inside. “Into the church?” I asked. “You and me?”

“Why not? I’d like to see the
crèche
, and I’ve never been inside.”

“I haven’t either, but that doesn’t mean I want to go now.”

He looked at me curiously, then stared at the sculptures again. “Would you mind if I go in for a minute?” I shook my head, and he bounded up the steps.

I sat down and put my chin in my hands with a sigh: what had come over him? To pass the time, I reached into my reticule and took out my
santon
, examining its cunning costume and details more closely. A miller with a sack of grain. I smiled as I remembered what Vincent had said about the wheatfields and the harvest, that day in the studio before Gauguin came. What was he trying to say in choosing this particular
santon?

I expected him to emerge with a scowl, grumbling about clergymen and self-righteous hypocrites, but he looked calm, his eyes shining. He didn’t comment about what he’d seen or done inside the church; he simply reached for my hands and helped me to my feet. Instead of heading toward the
maison
when we left the Place de la République, he turned us the other way. “Where are we going?” I asked, tugging at his arm again.

He grinned. “It’s a surprise.”

He was taking me to the café in the Place du Forum, the one in his painting. I knew it before we got there, and my excitement grew as we reached the square. I’d never been anyplace like this before, not here in Arles, not in Saint-Rémy, where there were only two cafés to speak of and neither of them fancy. Straight to the yellow awning Vincent led us, gallantly pulling out a chair at an empty table for me, seating himself opposite. The night was mild for December weather, and nearly all the chairs and tables were occupied.

I arranged my skirts and sat up straight like a lady would, not slouching, folding my hands neatly on the table. Couples around us were enjoying their own evening out, talking together and laughing. Love, not money, bound these men and women together. You could see it in their eyes, their faces, every line of their bodies. “It’s like we’ve walked into your painting,” I mused to Vincent. “It’s a whole other world.”

The waiter approached and greeted us respectfully before Vincent placed the order,
“Une bouteille de vin rouge, s’il vous plaît.”
After he left, Vincent whispered, “That’s the same waiter from my painting, but I don’t think he recognizes me.”

“No one would recognize either of us tonight,” I whispered back.

Vincent was still studying the waiter as he attended to the couple sitting next to us. Before I could ask Vincent what he was looking at, he held his finger to his lips and reached for the sketchbook and pencil he always carried. A half smile on his face, he drew for a few minutes, pencil scratching across the paper in quick strokes. When the waiter moved away, unaware that anyone had been watching him, Vincent handed me the sketchbook. There he was: neat buttoned waistcoat, crisp white apron, the drawing moving with the same controlled energy as the man. I laughed. “Do you always do that?”

Vincent pulled his pipe from his pocket and winked. “Only when they aren’t looking.”

We lingered on the café terrace for about an hour, maybe longer, after the waiter brought our wine. Pipe smoke curled lazily around our heads as we talked of everything and nothing, touching hands, smiling at each other under the yellow awning. I liked seeing Vincent’s smile instead of the frown that had often appeared lately. I liked the way the wine played over my tongue, rich and fruity, better stuff than what I usually drank at Madame Virginie’s. I liked having Vincent all to myself again.

The sky was clear enough to see the stars as we strolled from the Place du Forum toward the
maison
. Once again we passed
les arènes
, and I stared at the ancient amphitheater with the same awe I always felt. “Have you been inside the arena?” I asked. “There’s a beautiful view from the top. You can see all the way to the Alpilles.”

Vincent shrugged. “I went to a couple of bullfights back in April. One on Easter Sunday.”

“I was there on Easter too! What did you think?”

He grimaced. “I didn’t expect them to kill the bulls, they didn’t at the other games I went to. But the crowd was something to see, everyone dressed in such bright colors under the sun. All the pretty Arlésiennes in their
fichus
and caps.” He squeezed my arm. “What did
you
think? I can’t imagine a woman enjoying it, although many women were there.”

“Oh, I didn’t like the bull being killed either. I left after the first fight.” I’d cheered with the rest when the matador had appeared in his gay beaded costume and entered the taunting dance with the ebony-black bull. It seemed a game—the red cape, the glinting sword—until the sword plunged between the bull’s shoulder blades, and blood flowed across his back onto the sand. Dazed, he staggered in a circle and fell to his knees, then the matador finished him with a blow to the heart. The crowd erupted into wild shouts, even the women jumping up and down with glee. I wanted to leave, but Françoise grabbed my arm. “Don’t go yet,” she said. “Look.”