Hillary Kanter - Dead Men Are Easy To Love by Hillary Kanter Page B
Authors: Hillary Kanter
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I rose from the bench—though I was not moving at all—and found myself walking ghostlike through and into the “Starry Night” painting!
Thus began another one of my journeys. And an odd one at that.
***
The southern sun of Arles, France, greeted me as I stepped from a railroad car. The year was 1888, according to the bit of newspaper I spotted drifting in the wind along the train platform. It was August. Yellow fields were alive with green, growing crops, the skies were deep azure, and the sun made the land vibrate and glow. This countryside’s rich hues and colors stunned me.
I carried in my hands a slip of paper with the name of a small inn down the street. Assuming I was meant to go there, I stepped inside. It was nothing fancy, but the innkeeper led me to a sun-drenched room on the second floor. I unpacked a few items from the suitcase in my hand, and threw open the shutters, breathing in the fresh air.
For several days, I explored the area. Arles was a restful place, but I was ever the more curious about what I was meant to do here.
There were no immediate answers.
In the evenings, I sat upon the window seat in my room, staring up at the stars and the full moon. Several nights in a row, I saw a man seated before an artist’s easel in the middle of the square, painting furiously. His hatband was ringed with lighted candles for illumination.
Heading out one morning for a walk, I encountered the innkeeper sweeping the front doorstep. “Who is this man,” I asked, “that I see painting at night, outside the inn?”
“Oh, he’s that crazy, crazy painter,” the innkeeper grumbled. “His name is Van Gogh. Vincent Van Gogh. He is from Holland, and if you want some good advice, stay away from him. Nobody in town likes him except for our mail carrier Joseph, who is quite fond of him—for some reason I cannot fathom. I had to throw that lunatic out of here back in February for not paying the rent. The idiot still owes me two francs. Can you believe he tried to trade me some stupid painting for the rent? Of course, I refused.”
“So you don’t think he is any good? He looks like he works hard.”
“Aw, he’s all right, I guess … if you like that sort of thing. But it’s not really my cup of tea.”
***
That night, Van Gogh was there in the square, just as before. I threw a housecoat over my nightgown, went down into the street, and cautiously approached him. Absorbed in his work, he did not notice me for ten minutes.
I cleared my throat. “Ahemmm.”
The artist turned around with a start.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you. I was just admiring your painting,” I said.
“Thank you,” he mumbled.
“I’m staying upstairs in the inn. I’ve seen you out here the past few nights, and I was curious to see what you were working on.”
He fidgeted with one of the candles on his hat, catching a drop of hot wax in his hand. He did not seem annoyed with me, although he was terribly preoccupied. “I enjoy painting in the hours after dark. The night is more alive, more richly colored than the day. You can come closer,” he said. “I won’t bite, contrary to what the townspeople might say.”
We studied each other. He had reddish hair, a beard and mustache. His clothes were old beneath his blue painter’s smock, and although he wasn’t handsome in a conventional way, I liked the kindness in his piercing blue eyes and the way his lips moved as he spoke.
“Where are you from, miss?”
“My name is Ariel, and I’m from New York. I’m just visiting for a while.”
“And what might be the purpose of your visit?”
“Uh, well …” I stuttered. “I just thought I would like to take a trip somewhere I had never been before.”
“I have heard of New York. It is far away. I should like to visit there myself one day.” Extending a paint-covered hand, he said, “My name is Vincent … Van Gogh.” In his Dutch accent, he gave the name sharp guttural sounds.
“Yes, I
Thus began another one of my journeys. And an odd one at that.
***
The southern sun of Arles, France, greeted me as I stepped from a railroad car. The year was 1888, according to the bit of newspaper I spotted drifting in the wind along the train platform. It was August. Yellow fields were alive with green, growing crops, the skies were deep azure, and the sun made the land vibrate and glow. This countryside’s rich hues and colors stunned me.
I carried in my hands a slip of paper with the name of a small inn down the street. Assuming I was meant to go there, I stepped inside. It was nothing fancy, but the innkeeper led me to a sun-drenched room on the second floor. I unpacked a few items from the suitcase in my hand, and threw open the shutters, breathing in the fresh air.
For several days, I explored the area. Arles was a restful place, but I was ever the more curious about what I was meant to do here.
There were no immediate answers.
In the evenings, I sat upon the window seat in my room, staring up at the stars and the full moon. Several nights in a row, I saw a man seated before an artist’s easel in the middle of the square, painting furiously. His hatband was ringed with lighted candles for illumination.
Heading out one morning for a walk, I encountered the innkeeper sweeping the front doorstep. “Who is this man,” I asked, “that I see painting at night, outside the inn?”
“Oh, he’s that crazy, crazy painter,” the innkeeper grumbled. “His name is Van Gogh. Vincent Van Gogh. He is from Holland, and if you want some good advice, stay away from him. Nobody in town likes him except for our mail carrier Joseph, who is quite fond of him—for some reason I cannot fathom. I had to throw that lunatic out of here back in February for not paying the rent. The idiot still owes me two francs. Can you believe he tried to trade me some stupid painting for the rent? Of course, I refused.”
“So you don’t think he is any good? He looks like he works hard.”
“Aw, he’s all right, I guess … if you like that sort of thing. But it’s not really my cup of tea.”
***
That night, Van Gogh was there in the square, just as before. I threw a housecoat over my nightgown, went down into the street, and cautiously approached him. Absorbed in his work, he did not notice me for ten minutes.
I cleared my throat. “Ahemmm.”
The artist turned around with a start.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you. I was just admiring your painting,” I said.
“Thank you,” he mumbled.
“I’m staying upstairs in the inn. I’ve seen you out here the past few nights, and I was curious to see what you were working on.”
He fidgeted with one of the candles on his hat, catching a drop of hot wax in his hand. He did not seem annoyed with me, although he was terribly preoccupied. “I enjoy painting in the hours after dark. The night is more alive, more richly colored than the day. You can come closer,” he said. “I won’t bite, contrary to what the townspeople might say.”
We studied each other. He had reddish hair, a beard and mustache. His clothes were old beneath his blue painter’s smock, and although he wasn’t handsome in a conventional way, I liked the kindness in his piercing blue eyes and the way his lips moved as he spoke.
“Where are you from, miss?”
“My name is Ariel, and I’m from New York. I’m just visiting for a while.”
“And what might be the purpose of your visit?”
“Uh, well …” I stuttered. “I just thought I would like to take a trip somewhere I had never been before.”
“I have heard of New York. It is far away. I should like to visit there myself one day.” Extending a paint-covered hand, he said, “My name is Vincent … Van Gogh.” In his Dutch accent, he gave the name sharp guttural sounds.
“Yes, I
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