“But if you don’t pose for me, I won’t be able to get anyone else.”
“You should be flattered he wants his favorite fille in the picture, Mademoiselle,” Gauguin said with a chuckle. “Don’t you want to be made immortal?”
Vincent scowled at Gauguin and shoved the sketchbook in his pocket. “It wouldn’t really be you, ma petite, you’d just be the model,” he wheedled. “Once we’re finished, I’ll paint your portrait all by yourself, how about that?”
“I could paint her also, like when Madame Ginoux posed for us,” Gauguin said eagerly.
“Would you want me dressed like a whore then too?” I asked.
Vincent said, “No,” Gauguin said, “Yes,” Vincent glared at Gauguin, and I glared at both of them. “Maybe I’ll have an absinthe after all,” I muttered. Gauguin leaped up to fetch a third absinthe glass from the bar, and to Vincent’s concerned look I said, “You heard him, all the whores in Paris drink absinthe. If you want to paint me as a putain, I have to play the role.”
“Rachel, you’ve misunderstood me, I didn’t mean—”
Gauguin plopped an empty glass in front of me. “Faites attention, Mademoiselle. The ritual of preparing the absinthe is as important as the act of drinking it.” He extended the absinthe bottle to Vincent. “Since our little Mademoiselle is a virgin, you should have the pleasure of deflowering her.”
Vincent sighed as he took the bottle from Gauguin. He poured enough green liquid to fill the reservoir at the bottom of my glass and reached for a slotted spoon lying on the table. Balancing the spoon across the mouth of the glass, he placed two cubes of sugar on top, then poured water over the sugar.
“Too fast,” Gauguin scolded, “just like your painting. Don’t pour it, let it drip.”
Vincent ignored him and kept pouring. As the sugary water hit the absinthe below, the color started to change. “Observe, Mademoiselle,” Gauguin said. “The emerald green turns citron yellow, then cloudy white. You must have very cold water to achieve the right effect, three to five parts, depending on your preference. Ah, is there anything more lovely than that swirl of color?”
Vincent finished pouring the water as the sugar melted. He dipped the spoon into the glass for a quick stir before handing it to me, and I took a cautious drink. It was dreadful. Too bitter, too strong—it made me choke, and Vincent had to slap me on the back.
Gauguin laughed as I pushed the glass toward him. “No, no, I insist you try again. Maybe you need more water, since Vincent didn’t do it right.” He poured a splash of water in the glass and pushed it back to me.
“I prepared her drink just fine,” Vincent snapped, then added, to me, “you’ll taste the sugar more the further along you get.”
It didn’t taste as bad on the second sip—rather like the licorice candy Papa used to bring me when I was a little girl. Gauguin asked if it was better, and when I nodded, he smirked, “Seems I know best how to satisfy you, Mademoiselle.” I ignored him and kept sipping.
Gauguin turned to Vincent. “Have you seen those big spigot carafes in Paris, where you can leave your glass and let the water drip as slow as you want?”
“Yes,” Vincent said, focused now on preparing his own drink. “Agostina Segatori got one for Le Tambourin while I was there.”
My ears perked up. Agostina Segatori? Was she the Italian signora he’d mentioned our first night together, the one who’d taught him how to kiss and who knew what else?
“La Segatori!” Gauguin hooted. “Before or after she threw you out on your ass?”
Vincent looked at him sharply. “She didn’t throw me out, one of the waiters did. It wasn’t my fault. I gave her some pictures to hang in the café, they weren’t selling, and I wanted them back. She was being obstinate.”
Back and forth they went, Gauguin proclaiming that’s not what he heard, Vincent retorting he’d heard wrong. “Everybody knew you two were having an affair,” Gauguin said. “I don’t know why you think it’s a big secret. I heard she let you paint her in the nude, you rascal.”
“Damn gossiping Lautrec,” Vincent mumbled.
“So it’s true!” Gauguin bellowed. “Mademoiselle Rachel, you should see this woman. Used to be an artist’s model, posed for Corot and Manet. The blackest eyes, and even at her age the juiciest pair of…” He whistled, then laughed at Vincent’s expression. “She’s what, twelve, thirteen years older than you, mon ami? Oh là, you were a lucky man to get a screw like that. Welcome to Paris!” He guffawed and slapped the table, while I frowned at Vincent over my absinthe. The color rising in his cheeks, Vincent was trying not to look at either of us. Gauguin elbowed me and added, “Don’t let the dewy-eyed Dutchman fool you. He’s been around.”
“How the hell would you know?” Vincent demanded. “Only time I ever saw you up there was at my brother’s gallery.”
“People talk, Brigadier,” Gauguin said smoothly. “People talk.”
Vincent tossed back his absinthe and reached for the bottle. “Too much damn talking, that’s why I left.”
“Young lady, you’re drinking awfully slowly,” Gauguin observed with a glance to my glass. With a glance to Vincent, he said, “La Segatori can really knock ’em back, can’t she?”
I drained my absinthe in a gulp, just as Vincent had, and slammed the glass on the table. “If she can, I can! I’ll have another, Monsieur Gauguin, if you please.”
“Rachel, are you sure this is a good idea?” Vincent asked.
“Don’t tell me what to do, Vincent. Now, shall I fix it myself?” Under Gauguin’s watchful eye I steadied the spoon on the glass, the sugar on the spoon, and mixed my second glass of absinthe. Not long after that, my third. After that…after that I don’t remember much.
Oh, God. I want to die.
Where was I? My own bed. Where were my clothes? I was wearing my chemise and drawers, but everything else was piled on the floor. What time was it? Morning, the sun streaming through the window to reveal Vincent sleeping in my armchair. “What are you doing here?” I asked, and he woke with a start.
“I stayed to make sure you were all right,” he said and walked to the bed to sit beside me. “How are you feeling?”
“How much did I drink?”
“Three glasses full. I tried to stop you, but you told me to mind my own business. You sang too.” He chuckled despite himself. “You couldn’t walk, so I carried you up here.”
My legs wrapped around his waist, my arms around his neck, giggling into his ear, saying his name over and over, Vincent, Vincent: I remembered that. “But we didn’t…?”
He shook his head. “I put you to bed and slept in the chair in case you needed me.” He went to the washstand and brought back a damp cloth. “You don’t have to prove anything, Rachel,” he said gently as he wiped my face. “Not to Gauguin, and certainly not to me.”
“But—Paris! You had a very exciting life there with very exciting women. You must be bored silly with Arles and a country bumpkin like me.” I snifffled.
“That’s the absinthe talking. Paris was killing me. Another month and I would have been completely mad.”
I sniffled again. “Did you love her?”
“Who, Agostina? I felt a great deal of affection for her, but I didn’t love her. That was about”—he coughed and blushed—“having fun. I was lonely, and she…” He coughed again. “I’m sorry you had to hear about her from Gauguin. Do you want to try sitting up?”
When I nodded, he slid his arm behind my shoulders to help me and plumped the pillow so I could sit back. The room rocked and swayed. “Oh, God,” I murmured. “I feel dreadful.” Vincent returned to the washstand for a glass of water, then tipped it to my lips, steadying my head so I could drink. He’d taken care of sick people before, I realized. Back when he was a preacher, perhaps? I pictured him looking after a sick child or old man with a soothing touch and kind smile. The vision made me love him even more. Then it made me cry.
“Tiens, what’s this?” He set the glass on the floor a
nd cradled my head against his shoulder. “Poor little one, no more absinthe for you.”
“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 a
nd 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.
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