The Last Van Gogh (20 page)

He decided to invite Vincent, scripting an invitation on a piece of stationery that depicted a beautiful Japanese woman dressed in a kimono standing beside a crane and a plum blossom.

Paul looked just as perplexed as me when Papa informed us of his plans. The only sort of festivities we had on previous birthdays was Father giving us each a book.

“Perhaps this is a good sign,” I said to Louise-Josephine. “He’s both allowing Vincent to paint me and inviting him over for my birthday celebration.” I fidgeted. “He’s obviously not preventing me from seeing Vincent, so I don’t think Paul said anything to him about that day in the rain.”

She shrugged her shoulders. “Paul hasn’t said anything to me either way. He seems busier than ever with his paintings. He spent nearly three hours in your father’s studio yesterday.”

I nodded my head. “Yes, I noticed two completed canvases and one new one stretched and primed. Hopefully, he’ll be too exhausted to interfere.”

Louise-Josephine let out a small laugh.

“And your mother?” I asked. “Do you think she has any idea?”

“My mother has her own secrets. She’d be a hypocrite if she warned you against it.”

I smiled. All of us were navigating Father’s rules and manipulating them so there would be punctures of freedom where he least expected them.

“I just never thought it would be possible to defy Papa. I guess I was wrong.”

“You still must be wary of him, Marguerite. He has a vested interest in you. You run his household and he’s not about to give that title to my mother. That would only give the villagers fodder for gossip.”

“But if something comes of Vincent and me, Papa will eventually have to know.”

Louise-Josephine nodded. “Yes, he will.”

“Perhaps Father thinks I’m a good influence on Vincent.” I took a deep breath. “Or now that Vincent’s been taking the medicine Papa’s been preparing for him, maybe Papa feels more at ease about a possible courtship between us.”

Louise-Josephine shook her head. “I don’t think either of us knows exactly what your father is thinking.”

But she had that look in her eyes and I suspected she knew indeed.

F
OR
the party, I wore my yellow dress again, the one with the deep neckline, and Louise-Josephine helped me with my hair.

“Let’s make you look even more beautiful than before,” she whispered that morning as I stood in front of the mirror. She pulled up one of the rush chairs and sat me down, placing her hands on my shoulders.

She brushed my hair with vigorous strokes and then parted it down the middle. Smiling the whole time and humming softly, she braided each side and then pulled and pinned each section on top of my head.

“Now you look like a queen.” She looked at her reflection and mine in the mirror and winked.

“I made an orange cake this morning,” she said. “This way you’ll have a little extra time to gather yourself.”

I turned around and hugged her—my hands bringing her tiny frame close to my chest.

“Happy birthday,” she whispered.

“I wish you could join us,” I said as I released her.

She smiled and shook her head. “How would your father explain us at this point?”

She was right. If Papa were to introduce Louise-Josephine and her mother now, it would seem odd. He couldn’t very well introduce them as servants, as Vincent should then have already seen them serving and clearing the many lunches he’d already had with Papa. And he could not introduce them as family, because he had never introduced them that way to even Paul or myself.

For a home that had so many colors and vibrant paintings on its walls, there were still so many shades of gray between us.

V
INCENT
arrived around noon carrying not his usual rucksack and paint box but two small gifts for Paul and me.

“Happy birthday!” he chimed as I opened the door.

“Thank you,” I said as I ushered him in.

“These are for you and your brother.” He pushed the two flat packages into my arms. “I hope you enjoy them.”

“You needn’t have brought anything.”

He laughed. “My sister Willemina taught me better than that.”

I giggled back and thanked him for his thoughtfulness. My anger at him for painting Adeline the week before had vanished.

I
HAD
tried to make the garden look festive for the occasion. I strung little Chinese paper lanterns over the two lime trees. I also put a pretty red cloth with tiny yellow flowers on the picnic table and filled a vase with fistfuls of champagne-colored roses.

When Vincent followed me into the garden, both Paul and Papa jumped up from their lawn chairs to greet him.

“We’re so happy you could make it,” Papa said as he approached Vincent and patted him on the back. A peacock and one of our many cats followed at Papa’s heels.

I stood there with the two packages in my hand. “Vincent gave us these in honor of our birthdays.” I looked at Vincent. “Which one is for me and which one is for Paul?”

I looked down and saw that on one of the brown packages there was a small illustration of a butterfly done in bright yellow paint. Otherwise the two packages seemed identical. Each one was wrapped in brown paper and tied with coarse butcher’s string.

“Yours is the one with the yellow butterfly on it.”

Paul took the other gift from me and thanked Vincent.

Then when Paul wasn’t looking, Vincent reached into his pocket and retrieved a small box wrapped in blue rice paper. Nestled under the ribbon was a small folded crane.

“Open it later,” he mouthed. I nodded, and placed it in one of the front pockets of my dress.

As my brother and I began to open our seemingly identical presents, Papa smiled. “They both loved the Japanese catalogs that your sister-in-law brought from Paris. Every time I catch one of them in the parlor, they’re poring over those pages.”

Vincent seemed pleased. “Then I think they’ll like these very much.”

He was right. He had given Paul and me each a small framed woodblock print. Mine was of a beautiful woman in a kimono kneeling over a tub of bathwater. Her yellow robe was patterned with tiny black circles, and her long white neck arched over the reflection of glistening water.

“How beautiful…” I covered my mouth with my hand. I was so overcome by such a lovely and generous gift, I had to control my urge to rush over and embrace him.

My brother seemed equally pleased with his print of a Japanese actor. The large nose and vulpine eyes of the man seemed to amuse Paul. “What a face!” he said, holding it afar.

“He’s a Kabuki actor, or at least that is what the dealer in Paris told me.” Vincent wiggled his foot a little in the garden’s soil. “I hope you both enjoy them.”

“Oh, yes,” I said enthusiastically. “It’s the nicest birthday present I’ve ever received!”

“Yes, thank you so much, Monsieur Van Gogh,” Paul said and he shook Vincent’s hand. I knew he would take this opportunity to try to talk with Vincent about painting.

I offered to take Paul’s print and place it inside since I needed to go back and retrieve our lunch. But, even more important, I wanted to go inside quickly so I could peek at the secret gift Vincent had brought for me.

Paul handed his print over to me and I hurried back to the house. Instead of going straight to the kitchen, I bounded up the stairs and closed the door to my room.

I could hardly contain myself as I carefully detached the crane and removed the rice paper. Inside, tied with a piece of satin ribbon, was a lock of red hair.

It was more the color of apricots than the fiery red of strawberry. He had tied the strands together with a twist of blue ribbon, the pin-straight ends sticking out like straw.

I could hardly believe that I was holding a lock of Vincent’s hair between my fingers. As I twisted and turned it, I could see threads of gold and chestnut. Copper iridescence reflecting in the light.

I imagined Vincent clipping the lock of hair then tying the strip of cobalt blue ribbon around its center. Even I, with my lack of experience, knew that this was a sign. It was as if he had extended his hand in a dance and was waiting to see if I would accept his invitation. Such a romantic gesture was not lost on me. On the contrary, it filled me with confidence and thoughts of how to arrange our next meeting.

How I wanted to rush in to Louise-Josephine’s room and tell her everything at once. But I had already stepped away from our lunch for too long and I feared Papa would be coming up the stairs to retrieve me. I quickly folded the paper and precious bit of Vincent’s hair and placed it for safekeeping in my drawer. I would show her my most treasured keepsake, all by the day’s end.

S
HE
came to my room later that evening. It had taken me some time to clean the dishes and put away the leftover food. I was lying on my bed with my feet resting on a pillow, my journal open on my lap.

“I have a birthday present for you.” She sat down beside me and handed me a large, flat package.

“I’ve already received so much today,” I said, placing my journal to the side. I was anxious to show her both the woodblock print and the lock of hair from Vincent. But I didn’t want to appear rude.

“Open it, Marguerite.”

I placed the package in my lap and carefully untied the string.

“You shouldn’t have gotten me anything,” I said. “You’ve already given me the most extraordinary present.” I took hold of Louise-Josephine’s hand. “You’ve become my friend.”

She smiled back at me. “I feel the same way, Marguerite. But still I wanted to get you something special.” She pushed herself back on my bed. “Without being able to go into town, it was difficult…I hope you don’t mind that I made one of the gifts myself.”

I gently opened the package and found a copy of Bernardin’s
Paul et Virginie
and a beautiful paper portfolio underneath. The cover of the portfolio was full of cabbage roses and yellow jonquils that Louise-Josephine had pasted in découpage. There was a pink ribbon through two holes in the center so I could tie the folder shut.

“I am not sure if you have the novel already. It’s one of my favorites. Madame Lenoir lent me her copy during that time I spent with her family.” She paused. “I often imagine what it would be like if the two of us lived on the island of Mauritius, like the two main characters. Before one of them is coerced back to Europe, the two of them live idyllically on the island. They sleep under palm trees and climb the rocky cliffs overlooking the sea. How wonderful it would be to live like that and be able to wander freely in the wild and not care what one’s neighbors think!”

Touched by her thoughtfulness, I reached out and clasped her hand.

She smiled. “As for the portfolio, I thought you could put your sheet music in it,” she said sweetly. “Or perhaps love letters…”

“It’s so beautiful.” I took her hand in mine and squeezed it again. “I will think of you every time I use it. I already have something I can put inside.”

“What?” Her voice was now full of mischief. She could barely contain her excitement.

I went to my drawer and took out the lock of hair.

“He gave it to me this afternoon along with a woodblock print.” I pointed to the drawing on my desk.

She took it from me and examined it carefully. Like me, she took it and coiled it around her finger.

“It’s a sign, don’t you think?” I giggled excitedly.

“Oh, certainly!” she agreed. “I think we should cut a lock of yours and send it off to him. It’s only fair.”

“Really?” The thought of it delighted me. “You really think we should?”

“Absolutely. He’d be insulted if you didn’t.”

After a few seconds of pondering, I agreed. I stood up and walked to the mirror above my fireplace.

“Take a small piece in the back,” I suggested. “The color is more golden there. Plus it will be harder to notice it’s gone.”

She went over and opened the top drawer of my desk and withdrew a pair of cutting shears.

When she was done, there was a small lock of blonde hair between her fingers. “Use a lavender ribbon,” she suggested. “It will offset the color best.” She smiled. “As a painter, he’ll appreciate that.”

THIRTY-ONE

Lit from Within

I
PLACED
my lock of hair in a plain white envelope and dropped it in the postbox near the train station on my way to do my errands the next day.

Then I waited three days for him to come. During that time, I spent much of my time either in the garden or in my room wrapped up in the saga of Paul and Virginie.

The story consumed me. I closed my eyes and saw the rocky shore; the bending palm trees; the sun descending into the horizon, like a ball of oozing marmalade. I could almost taste the ocean water on my tongue. I looked at my hair after it had been washed and was still in tangles. I imagined wearing it uncombed, the long tresses saturated with salt.

I imagined climbing trees and collecting coconuts for soup, instead of potatoes and leeks. I began walking barefoot in my bedroom after my bath and imagined my toes naked and brown. I opened my window and stuck my head out between the shutters and imagined the smell of tropical flowers. Wild orchids replacing my rosebushes, fig and mango trees replacing the oaks and poplars.

It was easy to envision Vincent there with me, along with Louise-Josephine and Théophile, our children growing up together as close as kin. It would be our own utopia. I could see Vincent there with his large sun hat, his white linen shirt, his pale skin red from the sun. He would paint the sunsets, the stretches of dunes and patches of tall, wild grasses where I would run barefoot every day. Just as I had, that evening, when I sought Vincent out by the church.

After I was done reading the story, I would pass Louise-Josephine in the hall and all she had to say was “Mauritius” and I could not help but smile. It became a sort of secret code between us. At night, if either one of us had trouble sleeping, all we had to do was sneak into the other’s bed and whisper the word and we’d both fall into a deep and peaceful sleep.

P
APA
had scheduled Vincent to come paint my portrait on Wednesday, June 24. That morning Louise-Josephine helped me get dressed and, as always, helped to calm my nerves.