“He won’t act strange. He’s nice. He drew a picture of me.”
I left Françoise standing openmouthed among the wine bottles and ventured to the painter. “This gentleman seeks your company,” Madame Virginie said with the lofty tone she saved for new customers. “Enjoy your evening, Monsieur.” She bustled to the door to greet a trio of Zouaves, and I escorted the painter to an empty corner table.
“Qu’est-ce que je vous sers?” I asked. “Wine? Absinthe?”
“Red wine, please.” His voice was deeper than I remembered. “Not too expensive.”
I couldn’t resist a sway to my walk as I fetched two glasses and a carafe of house wine from the bar, couldn’t resist setting down the tray and leaning over to fix my shoe before making my way back. Had he been watching me the whole time? No, he hadn’t. When I returned and poured our wine, he shoved his sketchbook in his pocket. He’d been drawing the Zouaves instead.
He thrust the wildflower bouquet at me before I could sit down. “Thank you,” I said, laying the flowers on the table and pulling my chair close to his. “So you found me.”
“Your directions were excellent.” We sat with our drinks for a moment, then his brow furrowed. “Rouge makes you look different.”
“It makes me look pretty, I hope.”
“You’re prettier without it.” I must have looked as taken aback as I felt, because he flushed and said, “But you smell good, and yellow’s my favorite color.”
“And I see you left that straw hat at home. It’s a good thing, otherwise Raoul might have taken you for some vagabond and not let you in.”
The painter looked taken aback himself, then smiled when he realized I was teasing. He settled more comfortably in his chair, eyes roaming over the salon as he pulled a pipe and matches from his pocket. The three Zouaves had chosen one of the center tables and were busy with girls and drinks; Jacqui sat on the lap of one of them, his tasseled chechia perched coquettishly on her head. “Feels like a village school with the whitewashed walls and plain furniture,” the painter said after the first puff on his pipe. “No velvet drapes, no gilt mirrors?”
I laughed. “You won’t find velvet drapes in this street, Monsieur.”
“It’s much cleaner than that maison around the corner in the Rue des Ricolets.”
“Oh, Leon Batailler’s place.” Leon’s house was the cheapest and dirtiest in the quartier, and I couldn’t keep the snobbery from my voice. “Is that where you usually go?”
The painter flushed again and didn’t reply. “And less gloomy than the maisons of Paris.”
“Paris!” I gasped. “I’ve always dreamed of going to Paris. The cafés, the dance halls, all the grand buildings…it must be the most magical place! And you’ve been there? Are there really stores like in Au Bonheur des Dames, filled with everything you could possibly want?”
“You read Zola?”
“I can read,” I bristled. “I’m not some—”
“No, I meant—” He stopped himself and puffed on his pipe. “I lived in Paris for two years before I came here, and it’s not what you think. Too much noise, too many temptations. That’s what Au Bonheur des Dames is actually about, isn’t it, how easy it is to be seduced by such fripperies.”
“What kind of temptations—women? Is that why you came south, a doomed affaire?”
He scowled at me. “Do you always ask so many questions?”
“Why, I just want to get to know you better, Monsieur. That’s all.”
His mouth twitched at my smile. “Please don’t call me Monsieur. Vincent will do.”
“That’s a nice name. What’s the rest of it?”
“Van Gogh.”
It was hard to say. “Van Gogue?”
“No—Gogh. Gogh. It’s Dutch.”
“Gogh. I’ve never met anybody from Holland before.”
His mouth twitched again. “I don’t suppose you have…. Rachel, is it?” I nodded. He said it like a Parisian would, choking on the r instead of letting it glide across his tongue.
Our glasses were nearly empty, and Madame Virginie watched us from the bar. She didn’t like the girls to linger too long with customers on a busy night, especially not if the customer bought the cheapest wine and only one drink at that. When I stood and gestured toward the stairs, the painter tossed some centimes on the table for the wine and rose from his chair. I remembered to pick up the wildflowers before reaching for his hand; he squeezed my fingers and gave me a look that calmed the fluttering inside. Jacqui snorted as we passed her table, whispering something in her Zouave’s ear to make him laugh heartily.
Upstairs, while I lit the lamp and found a vase for the flowers, the painter ambled around and peered at things. The blue and yellow flowery wallpaper Madame had gotten at a bargain, the worn blue rug with a cigarette-singed hole, the rose-colored shawl folded neatly over the footboard of my bed. “You’re very tidy,” he said as he studied the bottles and brushes on the washstand.
“You must not be, or you wouldn’t notice. Please, Monsieur…” I took his hat and waved him to a chair.
“Vincent,” he corrected and took a seat, watching intently as I pulled the pins from my hair to let its darkness ripple down my back. A spark ignited in his eyes when I strolled toward him, then straddled his thighs and unbuttoned my dress so my breasts strained against my corset.
“What’s your pleasure this evening?” I purred.
“Whatever you’re willing to give me.” His hands stole round my waist to caress my back. My goodness, he had lovely eyes. Blue-green, like I imagined the sea must look…
“That’ll be two francs.”
He winced at the price—Leon Batailler’s girls charged half that—but pressed the coins into my palm. Then he cupped my face in his hands and tried to kiss me, but I turned my head. “Even the Paris girls will kiss a man for two francs,” he complained.
“This isn’t Paris,” I snapped and started doing my buttons back up.
“You have me in rather an awkward position,” he said with a sigh. “I suppose that will have to do.” He traced my lower lip with his fingertip and added, “It’s unfortunate. Kissing is rather indispensable, otherwise serious disorders might result.”
Françoise would have scolded him for that, maybe even chucked him out, but the cheap wine had gone to my head. “Three francs, then, for a nice man like yourself.”
“You drive a hard bargain,” he chuckled and dug in his pocket. He started to complain again when I slid from his lap to go to my bureau, but I silenced him with a wagging finger, tucking one franc into a box for Madame Virginie, the other two into a box for me.
Six months at the maison, and I still felt bashful taking off my clothes for a new man. You didn’t know what would happen once he got a good look at you, whether he’d be sweet or turn into a pawing beast. Usually they sat and smiled as I slid my stockings down my legs and discarded my dress, and sometimes they couldn’t wait for my corset to be unhooked before reaching for me and finishing the task themselves. But Vincent didn’t grin, and he didn’t grope. He regarded me seriously, eyes brushing every curve, and when I finished, he stood to walk around me. “Coffee-tinted skin, would use some yellow ocher,” he muttered and glanced at my hair. “Carmine red and Prussian blue.”
“Excuse me?”
“A black like that would take carmine red mixed with Prussian blue. And your eyes”—he peered into them—“I’d use orange with Prussian blue. Dark, but warm.”
He was looking at me like he would a painting. “Oh,” I managed to say and grabbed my chemise to hold it against my chest.
“Forgive me if I embarrass you, but I have to look at you. I’ll draw you right now if you permit me.”
His smile was so kind. I let the chemise drop to the floor. “You want to draw me? Why, I thought you wanted to kiss me.”
Because I didn’t let customers kiss me—except the first one, when I hadn’t known any better; mon Dieu, he’d tasted of garlic—I hadn’t been kissed very mu
ch. I let Vincent lead the way as I surrendered my mouth to his, wrapping my arms around his neck, his beard scratching my skin. He didn’t taste like garlic, he tasted like tobacco and vin rouge. “Who taught you to kiss like that?” I asked, a little breathless, a little surprised to ache for him as I did.
“An Italian signora in Paris who thought me in dire need of an education.”
I giggled and tugged him toward the bed.
The first time was over before we barely started—“I’m sorry, it’s been almost a month,” he said shamefacedly—and I broke Madame Virginie’s rules by suggesting he stay and get his money’s worth. He accepted, and soon I forgot all about the three francs as we passed a pleasurable half hour in the dim light of the kerosene lamp. I laughed at the pasty white of the skin beneath his clothes, he smiled at my gasps when he touched me in ways other mecs didn’t, and all the time I worried we’d disturb Minette and her customer next door.
“I don’t usually enjoy myself this much,” I admitted as he retrieved his black suit, more rumpled now from being tossed to the floor.
“I’ve enjoyed myself too.” His smile was almost proud. “The three francs were exceptionally well spent.”
I mussed his hair before finding my own clothes. “Then you’ll come back. Sunday nights are best, when it’s not busy and I can spend more time with you.”
We finished dressing, and I caught him watching me again. “Are you sure you won’t let me draw you?” he asked as I unrolled my stockings over my knees and secured them with pink-ribboned garters. I told him no and threw his hat at him.
Whispers from customers who recognized him followed us to the door downstairs, and Jacqui’s haughty stare felt heavy on our backs. Vincent didn’t seem to notice—I giddily didn’t care. He kissed me before leaving, and I leaned against the doorjamb to watch him go, something I never did, something none of the girls ever did. At the end of the street, he turned to tip his hat with a grin visible under the gaslamp.
Françoise appeared beside me with raised eyebrows. “Oh là, must have been a hell of a time. Who’d have guessed?”
CHAPTER TWO
Vincent
My God, if I had only known this country at the age of 25!
—Vincent to artist Émile Bernard,
Arles, late June 1888
A
dull Tuesday evening over a fortnight later found me pacing the salon. From a table where two of the girls played cards with Raoul, to the bar to stare in a mirror, to the doorway to look up and down the Rue du Bout d’Arles. Lanterns flickered to attract customers, but business was slow everywhere, and bored girls bantered across the cobblestones. A boy passed with a pair of scruffy sailors in tow—Leon Batailler’s son, sent round the cafés to drum up mecs when the police weren’t looking. A tipsy Bonsoir from one of the sailors drove me back inside, but not before I stole a last glance toward Place Lamartine. No one else was coming.
Françoise called me from where she sat with Joseph Roulin, the postman from the railway station and one of her regulars. She slid a mug of beer at me as I dropped into a chair. “You’re making me jumpy,” she said. “What’s gotten into you? Not still thinking about leaving, are you?”
“Leaving, Mademoiselle Rachel? Madame Virginie’s wouldn’t be the same without you,” Monsieur Roulin said gallantly.
“No, I—”
“Or were you thinking about that customer of yours?” Françoise teased. “She’s got a new fellow, Joseph, he’s come to see her twice already. He brings her flowers. And she kisses him.”
“Kisses him?” Monsieur Roulin whistled. “Who is he, a handsome lieutenant from the Zouave regiment? A dashing butcher’s boy?”
“That painter,” Françoise replied, and I wanted to kick her under the table.
Monsieur Roulin’s bushy eyebrows knotted together. “Vincent?”
“You know him?” I asked.
“Bien sûr, I know him. He lives over the Café de la Gare, where I’ve been known to, ahem, spend some time.” Everybody knew about Monsieur Roulin’s love of gossip, billiards, and beer. “Good man.”
“They say he’s an odd one,” Françoise said. “Talks to himself and such.”
Roulin shrugged. “No odder than anyone else. He talks to himself while he paints, but other than that…Don’t be fooled by how he looks. He’s a smart one. From a fine family, too.”
That got Françoise’s attention. “Rich?”
“Rich uncles, I think he said. He gets his money from his brother, though, has none of his own. He has a hard time selling his paintings.”
She raised an eyebrow. “So he’s a loafer who lives off his brother.”
“Theo’s an art dealer in Paris,” I said. “He sends Vincent money, and Vincent sends him paintings. One day Vincent will be able to sell his pictures, and he’ll pay Theo back. That’s what he told me.”
“Sharing secrets already, is he?” Françoise asked, and I felt myself blush.
“Vincent’s no loafer,” Roulin said. “He works hard. Up early, outside all day—”
“Spending his brother’s money in cafés and brothels?”
“Every man’s got a right to relax,” Roulin reproached her.
“Why would some mec from a well-off family come all the way here to live poor over the Café de la Gare? Just to paint? He think he’s too good for a real job?” Françoise looked to me for the answer, but I had to shrug.
Roulin dropped his voice. “He’s got a history. He told me part of it, but I’m not sure I should repeat it.” At our curious faces, though, he gave in. Two years in Paris had left Vincent nearly mad, Roulin said, drinking and whoring too much, arguing with his brother, his painting suffering as a result. The city was eating him alive, and he fled south, hoping the Provençal sun would help him see things in a different light. “I’ll tell you something else,” Roulin said, and Françoise and I leaned in closer. “Before he became a painter, he was a preacher.”
“He was not!” Françoise exclaimed. “You’re pulling our legs now.”
“Ask him. A Protestant preacher. His pa was a preacher too.”
I tried to imagine Vincent with a Bible in hand, pounding a pulpit and shouting about sin. “That must have been a long time ago.”
“I tell you, he’s got a history,” Roulin said and took a deep swallow of beer. “He’s lived more places than I could remember right now. He told me about it when he painted me.”
“He painted you?”
Roulin stroked his beard with pride. “Twice. In my uniform.”
“You and that uniform.” Françoise tweaked his gold-braided blue sleeve. “You’d wear it to screw if I didn’t make you take it off.”
Roulin ignored her. “Posing for him was hard. I had to sit still a long time, and he fussed when I moved. ‘Damn it, Roulin,’ he’d say with that accent of his.”
“That doesn’t sound pleasant,” I mumbled into my mug. “I’m glad I told him no.”
Roulin looked at Françoise, Françoise looked at me, and I played with the folds of my skirt to avoid her stare. “How long since he came to see you, Rachel?” she asked.
“Ten days,” I said absently.
She pursed her lips. “You’ve been counting. Haven’t I told you—”
“Leave her alone, Françoise,” Roulin chuckled. “A girl her age is going to have a little toquade, a little crush now and again. She doesn’t have your experience.”
“Or good sense. I know better than to mess with a redheaded loafer.”
“Maybe I need to tell Vincent how much he’s missed,” Roulin joked with a wink. “Next time I see him at the café.”
“Don’t you dare!” I said in horror, and they both burst into laughter. “He’s just a customer. Anyway, don’t you two have somewhere you’d like to be?”
Roulin pulled a watch from his pocket. “She’s right, I need to get a move on or I’ll hear it from my wife. She gets ticked real easy these days with the baby keeping her awake.” He puffed up so much
at my surprised smile, it’s a wonder his jacket buttons didn’t pop off. “Augustine gave birth to our third child last week, a little girl. We called her Marcelle.”
“That’s wonderful. Congratulations!” I said, and Françoise pursed her lips again.
“Vincent wants to paint Marcelle when she gets older,” Roulin said. “He’s quite keen on painting a baby. Come on, ma chouchoute,” he told Françoise. “Bonne soirée, Mademoiselle Rachel.”
After they went upstairs, I sat alone in the salon and thought about Vincent’s last visit. We’d talked little before going to my room, Vincent explaining he was tired from his long walk to Montmajour that day to draw. As we dressed after another agreeable half hour, he said again he’d like to paint me. I’d be keeping my clothes on, he said, and he told me he’d pay a few francs. But I refused. “Why not?” he asked. “I would like to paint an Arlésienne.” I couldn’t explain. It just didn’t seem right: only rich people had their pictures painted, and I couldn’t see why he’d find me interesting. “Nonsense” was his reply, and he told me then about Theo in Paris, and his wish to paint ordinary people, like Dutch artists of the past but in a modern way that Parisian collectors might appreciate. “Portraiture is the thing of the future,” he announced, “and we must win over the public!” He looked so earnest delivering this lecture in only his long-drawers, waving the trousers in his hand like a battle flag, that I struggled not to laugh. He said nothing more when I insisted I would not pose, and when he left, he didn’t kiss me at the door, and he did not look back. Had I made a mistake, I wondered now. Had Vincent found someone else to paint, another girl more willing than I?
I’d given up thinking he’d return to Madame Virginie’s when he did, the following Sunday. Sunday was the slowest night of the week in the quartier reservé, when most husbands stayed home with their wives and most of the Zouave soldiers stayed in the barracks to recover from the Saturday. Vincent must have remembered what I said about Sundays our first night, because he’d chosen that evening to appear again in his rumpled suit and felt hat, catching my eye where I tidied up behind the bar. I brought some wine, and we settled ourselves at a corner table. “Welcome back, it’s been a while,” I said, then hoped I didn’t sound sullen, hoped too that Monsieur Roulin hadn’t told him to come.
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