Dear Vincent

by Mandy Hager

  I work the background first: the clear blue sky that pulls the eye towards the top left-hand corner. It speaks of sunny days, untroubled, free from any stress, and contrasts with the pale yellows of the haystack and the close-cropped field. It’s strange he fought the use of colour for so long, as if he feared it would stain his soul. Only later did he embrace these complementary pairings — marvelling how some colours caused others to shine. They formed couples, he said, completing each other like a woman does a man. Siesta’s a brilliant case in point.

  Of course, he couldn’t leave it there. Oh no, he loved a little opera too. A few dark notes to cause unease. He nails this every time: his brushstrokes an extension of his feelings, he allows the viewer’s thoughts to fly — swooping between tenderness and anger, and always pain. He makes us work for it, like all the best Impressionists. That’s why the pictures burn forever in our minds: they become a part of who we are. We feel the nose-tickling hay his sleepers lie against out of the midday sun. We feel it all.

  The candles have already burnt so low they start to smoke. I light the next two, my heart soaring as the flare picks up the grassy brushstrokes and they dance with life.

  I have to close my eyes to centre myself now. Take my mind back to that kiss. Locate the feelings. Lay them down. Roll my mind around in them like a dog in muck. This is where it turns from Vincent’s vision to mine.

  Before I chicken out I start to rough the outlines in with black — not peaceful sleeping figures but a man and woman locked together. Really intense. I keep their bodies clothed in blue but bare their heads: hers a mess of auburn, his a cap of kauri gold. Their limbs are wound around each other, bare feet caressing, hands grabbing flesh, mouths locked.

  Instead of the discarded shoes and scythes that Vincent laid beside his pair, I paint a rosary and noose — suspect this will become my new motif for the next while. His background horse and cart now lead a funeral procession, with a row of tiny children struggling to keep up. Despite its gruesomeness, the symbolism makes me smile. Vincent would love it too. That edge of pain and loss — foreboding. He’d say ‘that’s life’. It’s hard to believe he painted Siesta in the loony bin. Emotions are the great captains of our lives, and we obey them without knowing it …

  It’s well after three when I crawl back to bed. I don’t wake up till one fifteen. I rush off without a shower or even cleaning my teeth.

  AT WORK I’M SENT out with the tamer residents to a petting zoo just north of town. They’re so happy they sing the whole way — mainly old songs like ‘Roll Out the Barrel’ and ‘We’ll Meet Again’, though tone-deaf Cedric leads chaotic renditions of ‘Maxwell’s Silver Hammer’ and ‘Yellow Submarine’. They wander among the horses, lambs and llamas, oohing like they’ve never touched an animal in their life. It’s nice to see them happy.

  By the time we round them up and get them home it’s right on dinner time and then we start the whole routine of gearing up for bed. I’ve fixed my list so I save Max till last. The icing on the cake.

  ‘Good evening, sir.’

  ‘Tara! I’ve been waiting for you. Take a seat.’

  ‘What’s up?’

  ‘An unexpected turn of events.’

  I try to read his face but he’s giving nothing away — except a kind of hesitation, a wincing, around the eyes. ‘Is your leg all right?’ I keep a regular eye on his notes; the amputation wound is ripe for further gangrene if it’s not kept in check.

  ‘Yes, yes. That’s fine. But I have to tell you, Johannes has left.’

  ‘He’s what?’

  Max sighs and shakes his head as though he can’t believe it either. ‘You know, I love my daughter very much but she’s yet to learn to leave that boy alone. And Johannes needs to learn it too.’

  ‘Max! Where’s he gone?’

  ‘She phoned him up this morning. She’s found him a twelve-week course in marquetry. It starts in Paris three days from now. She emailed through a ticket so he had no choice.’

  ‘You mean he’s already flown out?’

  ‘I’m afraid so.’ He points over to his dresser, where an envelope is propped up against a pile of books. ‘He left a note for you.’

  I stuff it in the pocket of my uniform and fight the urge to cry. ‘I’m thinking of heading off soon myself,’ I say, trying to keep my tone light. ‘I’ll probably be away three weeks. Is there someone else who can look after Spinoza?’

  ‘Of course. My neighbours will be happy to.’ He smiles. ‘I’m pleased for you, Tara — though I’ll miss having you to talk to, with Joh gone as well.’

  ‘I’ll miss you too.’ The words catch in my throat. Johannes up and left? I guess the kiss meant nothing more than a convenient diversion. Thank god I left before I proved myself an even bigger fool.

  I help Max with his night routine, then bike back to his house at a snail’s pace. No point in rushing when no one’s there. It’s not until I’m in bed, Spinoza purring loudly from his spot under the duvet, that I open up the envelope containing Johannes’ note. It’s written on Twilight House paper, his handwriting scrawled as if he rushed.

  Hey, it starts. My mother’s hijacked me. I should’ve guessed she’d pull something like this. I came to say goodbye but you aren’t here.

  I hope the trip to Ireland goes well. I’ll be thinking of you. Don’t go chickening out — I reckon it really is the right thing to do. I wish I could be there — this timing sucks — but I don’t know what my schedule is. Mum didn’t think to fill me in. I’m on Facebook if you need me.

  Whatever happens please don’t disappear. I like you, Tara McClusky. I like you very much. Take care. JS.

  I read it again. And again. I’m caught between elation and abandonment. It’s all very well for him to tell me not to disappear, but what’s he up and done? I would’ve warned him I don’t have access to a computer or mobile phone, but it’s like admitting you have AIDS. Even teachers expect it now. I’ve made do with the school computers since Mum’s laptop died three years ago.

  So … He likes me! In all that hectic rush he took the time to write! This is enough for now; there’s no point stewing that he’s gone when I’ll soon be off myself. He likes me! I think he really does. I lay his letter on the bedside table and snuggle down with Spinoza.

  THE NEXT MORNING, WITHOUT Johannes to distract me, I spring into action. Better to be busy than let loneliness creep back in. I contact Aunt Shanaye again from a payphone down the street. She says they’ll meet me at the airport if I let them know the time and day.

  The travel agent books my flights so I’ll arrive a few days before Van’s anniversary. I’ll leave right after I’ve worked my two weeks’ notice — and I’m taking the full three weeks. Why not? I doubt I’ll ever have the chance to go again.

  At first I spend most of my free time on the library internet — I kid myself I’m researching Belfast, but really I’m checking for messages from Johannes. I’ve set up a Facebook page and posted all my travel details, but I don’t hear a thing. So much for liking me. Looks like he doesn’t give a damn.

  I know I should be feeling excited about the trip, but as the days drag on it’s hard to care about it or anything else. I spend the hours I’m not at work — or pointlessly checking Facebook — hiding out in Max’s house. During the mornings I sprawl on the couch in my pyjamas and watch crap TV. I don’t bother to shop; live solely on potato chips and dip. At night I prowl the house, sometimes painting, sometimes holding angry conversations in my head. With Mum and Dad. With Vincent. Van. Every little snide remark or insult I’ve accumulated in my life whirs through my brain. I’m selfish, sneaky, an ungrateful bitch. Untouchable. Unlovable. I put Dad back in hospital. I’ve ruined Mum’s life. My sister didn’t think I was worth living for … What I realise, as I sit here, hour after hour, all alone — in this beautiful silent house I can’t ever aspire to — is it would be easier to die. Pain over. Job done. I get you, Van. I hear your call.

  Not even Max can pull me out — not that I g
et the chance to see him much. There’s an international philosophy symposium in town and most days he gets picked up and taken there; our evening catch-ups now consist of him telling me his day’s highlights while I nod and smile by rote. When he asks about me, I keep my feelings to myself. The last thing I want is for Johannes to hear about my stupid pining second-hand. But it’s clear he’s deserted his grandfather too. Max hasn’t heard a peep from him.

  The day before I’m due to leave I force myself to do some packing then go over to the hospital to say goodbye to Dad. I don’t see Mum until I’m almost at his door. I freeze. Back up. Lurk further down the corridor, just close enough to watch her without giving myself away.

  She’s trimming his fingernails and talking to him under her breath. There’s a gentleness about the way she lifts each of his rigid fingers. She wields the scissors with care and when she’s done she brushes up the trimmings and drops them in the bin. After she’s massaged balm into his hands, she moves down to repeat the process on his feet. It’s so intimate it’s hard to watch, and I’m ashamed of the jealousy that’s burning inside.

  One of the ward nurses stops beside me, her gaze tracking my own. ‘She’s here at least three times a day. To see him like this must break her heart.’

  Mum glances up, alerted by her voice. Her body stiffens and she clenches her jaw. I press my nails into my palms, take a deep breath, and launch into the room. Maybe it’s better that she’s here. At least this way all my farewells are public and said at once.

  ‘I’ve come to say goodbye. I’m flying out tomorrow afternoon.’

  ‘So soon?’

  ‘Is there anything you’d like me to pass on to Royan and Shanaye?’

  She shakes her head. ‘Be careful,’ she says, which surprises me, until she adds: ‘And don’t do anything to cause us shame.’ Always the dig.

  ‘Will you please let me know if Dad gets any worse? I’ll come straight home.’

  She shrugs. ‘The good Lord will take him whenever he sees fit. He’ll not work to your schedule just because you ask.’

  Of course she can’t just say ‘yes’. Not when she can tweak my guilt. ‘Goodbye then.’ I shuffle towards her, hoping if I hug her she won’t push away. Surely she must know I’m scared, flying round the world alone to see my sister’s grave? I wrap my arms around her. Feel her tense.

  She pats my back three times, then shrugs me off. ‘Do as they tell you, Tara. And don’t go out alone.’ That’s it then. The best she can do.

  I think of Van’s final plea: Please don’t stop loving me. But I’m too sad for anger. This really is goodbye. I won’t be coming home to her. I see that now. I kiss Dad’s dry forehead, trying not to gag at his stale breath, and stand a moment longer by his bed, in case she has some last regret. She doesn’t speak or move. Okay. That’s it. ‘Bye then.’

  I walk out quickly, part of me hoping she’ll call out, but when the doors close on the lift I know it’s over. I feel strangely calm. I think I’ve always known, deep down, that it would end like this.

  I head off to work and when it’s time to say my goodbyes to Max he breaks out the plum port. He’s so pleased for me that my resentment at his distraction ebbs away.

  ‘Bon voyage,’ he says. ‘I hope you don’t mind but I have a small something for you.’ He reaches into the cupboard by his bed and produces a gift-wrapped box. ‘I thought it might come in handy while you’re away.’

  ‘You shouldn’t have—’

  ‘Too late, I did!’

  I carefully peel off the paper. It’s a brand-new digital camera. ‘Oh, Max! I can’t accept this. You know we’re not allowed to take gifts from residents.’

  He waves my words away. ‘I’m only here temporarily, and I’m giving it to you as my tenant and friend. It’s so you can bring the sights and memories back,’ he says. ‘That way you can share them with a sentimental old man.’

  I fling my arms around his neck. ‘Dear Max. Thank you. You have to promise me that you’ll take care.’

  He pecks me on each cheek, continental style. ‘And, you, my dear, must promise me that you will guard your heart. What you’re embarking on will be your hardest challenge yet. I know: I’ve walked a similar road. You must make sure that if you need help you ask for it.’

  ‘I wish you could come.’

  He chuckles. ‘I’m sure there are far too many jokes about legless men in Ireland already!’ He takes my hand. ‘Our friend Spinoza — the philosopher, not the cat! — said that to understand is to be free … Whatever you learn, Tara, you must use it to release you, not to further drag you down.’

  ‘I promise you, release is what I’m aiming for.’

  ‘Just be yourself. That’s more than good enough.’ He sighs. ‘I must admit, between you and Johannes disappearing, I feel quite bereft.’

  ‘I can email if you’d like?’ He’s the Theo to my Vincent. I can’t quite desert him yet.

  ‘Excellent idea.’ He points over to the dresser. ‘Take one of my cards. It has my email address and mobile. If you need to speak to someone at any time, ring collect.’

  I plant a goodbye kiss on his bristly cheek. ‘Whatever happens, I want you to know I love you, Max.’ I’ve no regrets that this pops out. It’s absolutely true.

  ‘Ahhh — that’s what an old man likes to hear … if only I was sixty years younger!’ He picks up my hand and kisses it. Holds it briefly to his cheek, then kisses my fingers again. A brisk goodbye kiss. ‘Now, before I make a bigger fool of myself, do me the favour, Ms McClusky, and help get this poor old cripple off to bed.’

  When he’s all tucked up, I find it hard to walk away. I want to mark the moment somehow. I think about stories of women standing on the wharves, singing their loved ones off to war.

  And so I stand in his doorway and sing to Max: ‘So Long, Farewell’, from the ball scene in The Sound of Music. We part from each other with beaming von Trapp smiles.

  13

  Life carries us along so fast that we haven’t the time to talk and to work as well … we are now sailing the trackless deep in our frail little boats, all alone on the high seas of our time.

  — VINCENT TO EMILE BERNARD, ARLES, JULY 1888

  WHEN THE PLANE STARTS its slow descent towards Heathrow, I’m finally thankful for my window seat. Below me a whole new world is forming: closely linked towns and villages sprinkled among a patchwork of cultivated fields. It’s like an Aboriginal painter’s Dreamtime atlas, mapping the colours of the earth, the winding waterways, the pitch and fall of the terrain. I so long to paint it, I take out Max’s camera and press it to the window, taking photos as placeholders for the paintings stirring in my head.

  The flight has been gruelling: too many hours hemmed into this corner seat, apologising every time I blunder to the loo. I feel cramped, uncomfortable and stressed. There are too many strangers, and I’ve barely slept. But now that I’m finally on the same side of the world as Van, the old torpor has disappeared. I feel as though I’m being pulled towards something I don’t know how to name.

  We wend our way up a river that must be the Thames, and London opens up below us. And there — oh yes! — a castle, though I’ve no idea which one. My eyes sting. I still can’t believe I’ve travelled around the planet. I never thought I’d get the chance to see such things. Below me now the city unfolds. A city filled with millions more people than the total population back home.

  Spires, bridges, high-rises and terraced blocks give way to uniform grey ugliness. The airport is the size of a small town. Great arms spill off the body of the terminal, each spawning winged suckerfish — their umbilical walkways delivering a constant stream of human beings. It’s so surreal. Dalí would be impressed.

  On land, I walk long windowless corridors and shun the moving walkways. It’s heaven to move. Next my passport’s stamped and I’m spat out into a foreign country. I’ve only twenty minutes to check in for my Aer Lingus flight. But where?

  When I finally stagger aboard, I’ve run the e
quivalent of a marathon and it’s well over twenty-four hours since I first left home. I close my eyes and listen to the Irish accents all around me. I’ve been quite calm, but now a thousand butterflies dog-fight inside my chest.

  We fly across the Irish sea, the wind whipping white tops off the waves below. There’s a ferry thrusting through the swell, sea birds trailing in its wake. Ahead I spot the first ghostly grey hints of land. I’m coming, Van! Five years too late, but anything that brings me closer has to help. I can’t go on living with this aching void.

  As we begin our descent into Belfast my tension builds. What if I don’t recognise them, or they don’t know me? My hair’s greasy and lank, my clothes sweaty. And what the hell will I do if they don’t turn up?

  After a sideways bunny-hop, the plane bumps down on Mum and Dad’s native soil. I trail the other passengers, expecting to go through immigration but, instead, I wander through the doors into a milling crowd. It’s human soup: surround sound, people swimming before my eyes. I scan the hall, hoping for a sign, then edge my way to luggage claim. I may as well have landed on Mars.

  ‘Jaysus! You must be our Tara!’ A small wiry woman throws her arms around me and hugs so tightly it’s impossible to breathe.

  Behind her stands a younger, fatter, balder version of Dad. Uncle Royan. He wipes his eyes and wrestles me off Aunt Shanaye. ‘Welcome, Tara, darlin’! It’s a treat. Indeed it is.’ He kisses me, then holds me at arm’s-length. ‘By god, it’s a shock though, lass. A real shock.’

  Aunt Shanaye is overcome by tears. ‘I’m sorry. So sorry …’ She fumbles in her pocket and unearths a neatly ironed handkerchief, presses it against her face. Her shoulders heave as Uncle Royan steps over to comfort her.