After a short while, they all drifted off in various directions to paint, read, or snooze as they waited patiently for word about their friend.
Arianna found Maximus curled up on her window seat. She sat beside him, stroking his back and taking in the view she loved and knew she would miss. Barbara’s accident had been a jolt in this period of such peace and serenity. It felt like a reality check that life wasn’t always going to be as idyllic as her days had been here.
Another reason to wake up grateful each morning and make the most out of what is before us. “Isn’t that right, mon petit chat?” she mumbled out loud to her furry friend. “I’m going to miss you.”
Maximus kicked his purring up a notch and settled back to sleep.
After a few hours, Juliette texted them all that Barbara was in with doctors for tests and observation. She was awake and groggily alert. However, because of her age, there were concerns.
The doctors were not taking any chances and would do some additional tests before discharging her. They would definitely keep her overnight.
Cheers resounded through the mas. That was better news than was anticipated, and they would continue to hope for the best.
Arianna continued working on a watercolor she had begun of the view out her window. As she painted, she sent out a prayer to the universe that Barbara would be well and back with them soon.
She is such a kind soul who loves life so much right now. Please let that continue. I’ve learned some important lessons from her and look forward to a long friendship.
Juliette was making arrangements for Cecilia to stay with Barbara at the hospital. Then she and Maurice would come home for a quiet night.
This had been more than enough excitement and stress for everyone.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
The first announcement of the morning was a text from Cecilia to everyone. Barbara had a restless night but is feeling better this morning, except for a headache. They are considering medication now.
By the time they were gathered on the terrace for breakfast, Cecilia had phoned and given diagnosis details to Juliette.
“Cecilia reports they are releasing Barbara before noon today,” Juliette told the group. “She had good test results, and the doctors are all praising her for being in such great shape. Her tests show a minor concussion, and she needs to take it easy.”
“There will be no wild tango dancing for our Barbara tonight!” John decreed. Everyone chuckled and murmured their relief.
“Maurice will pick them up when he takes you into town and bring them back here. I’m sure Barbara will want to rest,” Juliette said. “We will see whether Cecilia will join you.”
Maurice announced that this was to be a “wingy” morning, a favorite term of his. “On improvise!”
Laughing at the quizzical looks Maurice was receiving, Juliette explained, “We will wing it . . . play it by ear! Oui?”
Some were going into Arles to do the van Gogh walking tour. Arianna was glad she had walked that route by herself. It had been so special for her to pause where he saw beauty and created lasting images through his work and also to gain a sense of where he lived his daily life.
Arianna put her plan together. There was one place to which she wanted to return.
The only requirement was for all of them to meet at the Fondation Vincent van Gogh by two p.m.
Where and when they ate lunch was up to them. How they got to the Fondation was also their choice. The van would leave from the mas again at one thirty with anyone who had stayed behind.
Everyone’s relaxed level of comfort with their surroundings, and each other, was evident. Arianna was sure their hosts were pleased with how the course was going.
“It’s beginning to feel like home,” Marti had said just that morning, followed by a chorus of agreement from John and Joan, who were standing nearby. Some had eaten breakfast together, and others had wandered off with a coffee and a croissant to sit in the garden or olive grove on their stools and contemplate their next steps.
Around nine thirty, Maurice drove Arianna, Bertram, and the Mitchells to Arles. Marti and Lisa would go in later.
Arianna’s first stop was to spend some time sitting quietly on a bench in the midst of the colorful garden in the courtyard of Espace van Gogh. A plaque nearby indicated that it was originally the Old Hospital of Arles and was also known as Hôtel-Dieu Saint-Esprit, built in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries.
She found herself alone in this garden, having slipped in as soon as the gate had opened. A print mounted there caught her eye. It was of Vincent’s painting of the courtyard and garden when he was a patient. It pleased her to see the town had restored the space in great detail, down to the colorful plantings.
Today she could see that the town was proud of the fact that Vincent had lived there, although only for sixteen months. He was lauded in Arles now, but it had not always been that way.
Arianna had read that with all his bad behavior, he had not endeared himself to the townspeople. She knew most had considered him a terrible nuisance. They had called him “fou roux,” the redheaded madman, and had basically run him out of town.
An overwhelming melancholy came over her, thinking how troubled Vincent must have been during the months he stayed at that hospital intermittently.
There was a sad irony to it all. Now everyone wanted to be in van Gogh’s space.
That melancholy briefly transferred over to Arianna’s own situation. She considered how she was making her dreams come true by coming to Arles. But it was about more than realizing her van Gogh fantasies. Bit by bit, she was accepting that.
She filled several pages in her journal with drawings of the gardens, doors, windows, and the arched yellow colonnade. Before hordes of tourists flooded in, she left.
As she strolled the surrounding streets, Arianna was reminded of a book of letters Vincent had written to his brother Theo. At one point he described Arles as pallid and shabby, but then conceded that after a little time one saw the charm.
She felt there was no question the old charm was everywhere. It certainly appeared that way to her.
Next, Arianna headed back to Les Arènes, the ancient amphitheater that had so captivated her on her earlier visit. She was eager to sketch there before the morning grew too hot. She was also hopeful the singer would be around again. John and Joan bumped into her and decided to go along, but were soon sidetracked by a gallery along the way. Arianna promised to text them if the singer was performing.
But it was quiet when she arrived, and she was happy to see no school tours had turned up yet. Checking with the woman in the little office that sold entrance tickets, she was disappointed to learn that the singer did not usually arrive until midafternoon.
The stones were beginning to warm in the morning sun. Just enough to feel comfortable as Arianna settled on them. She had double-checked the print of van Gogh’s Spectators in the Arena at Arles and now positioned herself at an angle where she speculated he might have sat. Closing her eyes, she pictured him sketching as he was surrounded by a crowd watching a feria. She wondered if anyone paid attention to him. They probably thought he was an oddball for not watching the excitement in the ring.
As she worked on her own drawing, capturing the lines and angles in the empty stadium, she was sorry she would not experience the music, costumes, and noise of the crowd that must fill that space during the festivals. She had been drawn to the photos and posters around town. She could feel the energy.
Then her phone signaled a text. Surprisingly, Bertram was inviting her to join him at noon for lunch, at a bistrot that Juliette had recommended near the Fondation.
Had she received such a message a week earlier, Arianna knew she would have resisted accepting. However, all week he had continued to reveal a different personality than she had first assumed, and his drinking had lessened. Their day together in the Camargue had convinced her he was actually a good man. He had been thoughtful, interested, kind, and—even mor
e unforeseen—he had been fun!
See you there, she texted back. Thanks!
The time passed quickly at the arena. When she was satisfied with her work, she still had another hour before her lunch date. So many places in town beckoned. The dark, mystical cloisters had been closed the last time she stopped by, so she decided to go there.
From the first night she was in Arles, when Maurice had brought them to the Place de la République, she had promised herself she would come back there. When she purchased her ticket, she decided to pay for a tour that was about to begin.
There was a different feel now without the eeriness of moonlight creating cryptic shadows in this once holy space. Even so, it was easy to imagine the chanting of hymns and prayers ringing through the passageways so many centuries ago.
Arianna walked through the peaceful courtyard, the quiet broken only by the cooing of pigeons. As she stepped into the surrounding cloisters, the tour began with just her and a couple from Wisconsin. She was glad to have someone explain the details of the twelfth- to fourteenth-century sculptures. It was one thing to feel the mysterious ambiance and quite another to understand some of the meaning imparted to pilgrims so long ago.
She had just enough time to sit for a few moments on a stone bench on the roof to contemplate all she had seen. Arianna felt that whenever she stood on all these ancient grounds in Arles, something touched her spirit. She was growing in many different ways on this trip.
Hopeful her photos would turn out, she noticed the time on her phone.
With a start, she realized she would have to hurry to be on time to meet Bertram. Turning down the wrong side street did not help, and she was breathless by the time she reached the restaurant.
She recognized it as one she had passed on her wanderings the previous week. The cream-toned building had pale-pink shutters and a large terrace with a vine-covered pergola stretching its entire length. Arianna noticed bunches of grapes hanging that looked like they needed a little more time to ripen.
A blackboard leaned against the wall at the entrance with the day’s specials on it. Wrought-iron tables and chairs with striped pink cushions lent a sense of dining in a secret garden.
Arianna spotted Bertram and waved. “Sorry I’m a few minutes late!”
“No worries, my dear girl!” He leapt to his feet and pulled out a chair for her. An open bottle of rosé was on the table, and Arianna was happy to have him pour her a glass.
“I’m so pleased you accepted my invitation. Santé! And let’s toast to Barbara’s health while we are at it. What a relief she is all right.”
“For sure!” Arianna said. “Santé to Barbara and you. You rose to the occasion. I was worried.”
“So were we all! How was your morning?”
“I had a very satisfying morning, thanks! I finally went inside the cloisters and am so pleased I did. It exceeded my expectations, and I pretty much had the space to myself . . . at the arena, as well. If you haven’t been, Bertie, you should . . .” She caught herself in midsentence.
He stared at her, waiting for her to finish.
“Sorry, do you mind if we call you Bertie? You insisted we all do so on the night of our group dinner . . . but there’d been a certain quantity of wine involved. And I don’t want to be rude. I felt a bit uncomfortable saying it without checking.”
The Englishman smiled, almost shyly. “To be honest, I like it very much. No one has called me that since I was a child. Now finish telling me how you felt about the cloisters.”
Arianna described her experience in detail, ending by saying, “I could go on and on about what a mystical charm it has, but I’m sure it affects everyone differently. The intricately carved capitals atop the stately columns are each a work of art—such detail! The interior is so dimly lit, the statues take on lives of their own. I could almost hear the echoes of the pilgrims gathering there all those centuries ago.”
Bertram rubbed at a slight tick that had appeared at the corner of his left eye. “I spent some time in the church and the cloisters when I was in Arles working on the boat recovery years ago.” He took a sip of his wine. “However, I’m ashamed to say I was so inebriated at the time, I barely recall anything about it.”
Raising her eyebrow, Arianna said nothing as she looked at him. The waitress arrived in time to end the awkward moment.
They both ordered the plat du jour from the blackboard: pâté en croute, a baked whitefish topped with a hot butter meunière sauce, and a lemon tart. Mouthwatering aromas wafted out from the kitchen.
“I never eat a rich meal like this for lunch at home,” Arianna confessed. “But it just seems so right here . . . along with the fact the food is all so delicious.”
Bertram licked his lips lightly and dabbed them with his napkin. “There’s no question we Europeans somehow eat better without making a big deal about it. I guess it comes from centuries of practice!”
They chuckled and raised their glasses in a toast.
“Fine,” Bertram said. “No more circumambages. I called this meeting for a specific reason.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Arianna looked puzzled. “Circum-what-ages?”
Bertram chuckled. “Sorry, can’t help myself . . . no more beating around the bush.”
A faint bead of perspiration appeared on his brow. He took a linen handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his forehead. “Excuse me, Arianna. I’m feeling rather nervous about this. It’s not my usual modus operandi.”
Reaching out, Arianna touched his hand as it gripped the stem of his wineglass.
“What’s wrong?”
“To be precise,” he began, his proper British accent causing the conversation to sound of the utmost importance, “nothing is wrong. Now. Quite the opposite, my dear girl. There are some things that are more right . . . for me . . . than they have been in eons. I want to share them with you.”
He took a large sip of rosé, and then beckoned to the waitress. “Une carafe d’eau, s’il vous plaît.
“Do you mind tap water, Arianna? I should have asked you first . . .”
“Oh, that’s perfect. I’ve finally learned how to order local water by saying ‘une carafe.’ Before that, I kept ending up with bottles of mineral water, and I much prefer this.” She chuckled, hoping to lighten the atmosphere that had suddenly become a bit tense.
“I tend to drink a lot when I’m feeling anxious—usually wine—and then, well, you’ve seen what happens to me. I’m a terrible drinker . . . no tolerance.”
He held her gaze. Arianna blinked and nodded, feeling uncomfortable. “Um . . . yes, I have noticed.” She shifted awkwardly in her chair.
Once the water was poured, Bertram immediately gulped down half a glass. Then he began to speak quickly, his sentences tumbling together, as if he wanted to make certain he said everything before something stopped him.
“Arianna, this past week has been quite an unimagined experience for me. I’ve never participated in a group ‘thing’ before, always been a bit of a loner. I have to believe it was extremely fortuitous for me to land here with all of you. After this short time together, I feel like a changed man, or perhaps I’ve just rediscovered the person I once was. Sounds rather phantasmagorical, perhaps?”
He paused, mopped his forehead, took another long drink of water, and continued before Arianna could respond to his question. She had no idea where this conversation was going, but she recognized there seemed to be something important he wished to say.
“Let me give you a very brief history. I came from a lovely childhood and good education. A privileged background, veritable Brahmans. Went to all the best schools and was a reckless party animal. The downside was that I married a girl I impregnated thanks to one of my regular youthful booze-ups . . . but we were never in love with each other. The good news about that was the birth of my twin daughters, Rachel and Rebecca. They are now married with children. I have grandchildren!” He stopped and beamed.
“The unfortunate news is on
e lives in Indonesia and the other in Australia, so I rarely see them except on Skype and FaceTime. God bless them! Back to my story. One thing I will say is that my wife was a good mother, in the early years. And, if I do say so myself, I am a good father. However, as a couple we are hopeless, and yet Miranda—that’s my wife—refuses to divorce me. And I don’t take the bull by the horns either . . . a somewhat appropriate analogy in this area . . .” He paused and rolled his eyes as he took a long sip of wine this time. “So we live in a horrible mess of a marriage. Why, you ask? Well, you didn’t, but I’m sure you are wondering . . .”
He stopped. The waitress placed their starters on the table.
“Bon appétit, chérie!” he said to Arianna, picking up his knife and fork.
“Bon appétit, Bertie! Would you like to take a break from your story?”
Chewing a mouthful slowly, he shook his head.
“Now that I’ve started, do you mind if I carry on my true confessions? Quite frankly, I can’t believe I’m even telling you this. But this is what this week has done to me.”
“Bertie, whatever you want.” She felt genuine empathy for him now. “You certainly have my attention. Oh goodness, this pâté is delicious, isn’t it?”
He smiled his agreement before his eyes clouded and the tone of his voice dropped. “So, since the girls went off to live their own lives, I’ve buried myself in my work. Traveled a lot for business. Meanwhile, my wife lives a life of luxury, lunching with her friends, all of whom apparently have foreheads that do not move. Cosmetic surgery is her hobby, as she hasn’t responded well to aging. When we are home together, she berates me constantly, and I drink, which exacerbates the berating, and it becomes a vicious circle. Oh, I should add that she is a raging alcoholic and addicted to pills. And I keep trying to help her. You’ve heard about the battered wife? Well, meet the battered husband.”
He sat back in his chair, lifted his wineglass in a toast, and drank deeply. Arianna noticed a slight tremble in his hand as he set his glass down.
Drawing Lessons Page 23
