Hillary Kanter - Dead Men Are Easy To Love Read online

  “I think I’m falling in love with you, too,” I said in a louder voice.

  He responded with a gentle smile.

  Tenderly then, meticulously, he finished undressing me, swept me up in his arms, and carried me to his bed. Kneeling, he removed his shirt the rest of the way and pulled me to his chest. We made love for hours. The curtains fluttered, and the light of the full moon shone across the bed. I had never felt such peace, as I lay with my hair spilling across his chest. There was no need for words.

  Soon enough, though, there would be much to say.

  Ludwig rose from the bed. “I have something to give you, Ariel, and something to ask of you.” He disappeared for a moment, then reappeared with a small, black, velvet box in hand.

  My heart was pounding again.

  “Here,” he urged. “Open it.”

  I flipped back the lid and gasped. Cradled within, a canary diamond ring was cut in the shape of a heart. It looked to be at least three carats, surrounded with daintily faceted white diamonds. It was the ring I had always dreamed of being presented when a man proposed.

  “It’s … it’s beautiful,” I said.

  “Meine Liebling, I know this is an inopportune time, but I want you to marry me. Please say you will, and deliver me from this prison of hope.” He removed the ring and placed it on my finger. It fit perfectly.

  I swallowed hard, my mouth turning dry. “Ludwig, my love, don’t you think this could be rushing things? Maybe you should give it a little more thought. After all, you are leaving on tour, and who knows when we will be together again.”

  “Ariel, I understand the situation, but how can we deny anything this strong?” He kissed my fingers one by one.

  “I love you,” I confessed. “More than I can say. But is it wise to do this so suddenly? We have only known each other a few days.”

  “Say again, my dearest?” He cupped his hand to one ear.

  I felt like crying. “I love you more than I can say, but is it wise to do this so suddenly? What kind of future would we have together?” With a heavy heart, I removed the ring and reluctantly handed it back. “Please forgive me.”

  “Darling …” His eyes were also moist.

  Avoiding his gaze, I got out of bed and started dressing. This would never work. Everyone knows a girl should never marry a musician—even if he is Beethoven.

  “My darling,” he said again. “I must leave here by noon tomorrow. Please come to me. I pray that between now and then you will change your mind. Give us this life together. It is all that we have. I will only be half alive without you, and alone I will surely be half dead.”

  ***

  I spent the morning in my bed at the inn. I had tossed, turned, and ruminated through the night. Though Ludwig must have spent a fortune on the ring, I knew it was best not to accept it. He was not marriage material. Despite the severe ache in my chest, I knew I must cut my losses. I must not see him again.

  Coming down to a late breakfast, bearing dark circles under my eyes, I ate in silence. I was exhausted. I pushed my food around the plate. A clock on the inn’s huge oak mantel told me it was half past eleven.

  Ludwig was leaving in thirty minutes!

  I had an epiphany then. I knew what I must do. Dashing out to the barn, I cried to the attendant on duty. “Hurry! Ready the carriage. I haven’t much time!”

  Gathering my dress around my knees, I climbed inside. The attendant whipped the reins, and the horse galloped through the gates. Time was slipping away. As we neared a shallow stream, I guessed we had fifteen to twenty minutes to catch Ludwig at his flat.

  But bad luck was running rampant this day.

  Water splashed beneath the carriage, and then the entire structure lurched to a halt. I caught myself, smoothed my dress, and peered out the window. A wheel had gotten stuck in the rocky streambed, and the attendant tried with all his might to dislodge it. He looked up and down the road for anyone who could assist us. There was no one in sight.

  How much longer did we have? Ten minutes maybe? Five?

  I would have to go on foot.

  I climbed down from the carriage and waded through the water to the other side.

  The attendant yelled after me. “Wait. Wait, Miss, I can fix this.”

  “I don’t have time,” I called back.

  Running for what seemed like miles, I thought I would die of heart failure. Was I too late? It had to be past noon by now. When I arrived at Beethoven’s flat, I pounded on the front door.

  “Herr Beethoven,” I cried. “Herr Beethoven.”

  There was no answer.

  “Ludwig!”

  A servant cracked open the door. “Ja?”

  “Is Herr Beethoven here?” I gasped, still short of breath.

  “Nein, Fraulein. He had to depart earlier than expected, just a few moments ago. He left you this letter.” The servant thrust an envelope into my hand.

  I turned, caught a glimpse of Beethoven’s carriage rounding a corner two hundred meters in the opposite direction of where I had come. I saw, through the trees, the horse’s head bobbing as it pulled the carriage along another switchback. Frantic, I dashed into the woods and cut down the slope. I emerged on the path’s fringe, only a moment behind the carriage.

  I shouted at the back window. “Ludwig, Ludwig! Please stop. I love you. Yes. Yes, I want to marry you … Stop, please …”

  His head was down, possibly looking over a music composition. He never lifted or turned that handsome brow my direction. He could not hear me!

  I tried to keep pace, screaming as loud as my lungs could manage over the thundering hooves, yet to no avail. Dust swirled around me. Dirty, wet, and despondent, I watched the carriage crest a small rise and disappear.

  “Ludwig …”

  I plopped myself on a roadside log, sweating, mopping my forehead with my sleeve. Defeated, I sobbed in frustration. My fingers curled around the letter still in my hand. When my crying stopped, I tore open the envelope and read:

  Dearest Love of My Life,

  I waited for you until twelve, and realized you would not be coming.

  How will I live? How do I go on? This I do not know. You are my all, my everything, and the light you brought to my world has now left only darkness. I will love only you, though we will never live together as we dreamed.

  As I write these words, your touch stays with me on my skin, but I know I will never feel it again. My beautiful and brilliant lover, the smell of you still lingers and keeps you as close to me as breath.

  I hope you will be happy in the life you have chosen. I will try and be happy for you. Please remember me, my life, my all. Be well.

  Love now and forever,

  L. V. B.

  In the bottom of the envelope, wrapped in plain white tissue, the glittering surface of the canary diamond ring brushed my fingertips. My thoughts spun, sucking me down into darkness …

  ***

  I awoke in my New York City apartment, in the present once more. The ring was gone. I was no longer in the chair where I had been listening to Beethoven’s music, but on the bench at my upright piano. I gripped the seat, fighting dizziness and confusion.

  Not again. Not again. Why had I been ripped away from love once more?

  On the piano’s music stand, a handwritten sheet of notes and stanzas caught my attention. I recognized the composition’s unique flair, and my mouth fell open. For God’s sake, I never had bought any classical music since I was ten years old. I could not believe my eyes. This was titled, “Concerto in C Minor.”

  My hands flipped through the pages, and there, in barely legible writing at the bottom of the last sheet, I found these words:

  For Ariel, My Immortal Beloved,

  Ever mine, ever thine …

  Love,

  L. V. B.

  Journal Entry

  It has been some time now since I left Ludwig behind, and returned to the present. Today, I’ve had an epiphany. I think I’m in love with my shrink.


  Yes. There. I’ve said it. I’ve known this was coming for some time now. Tonight, along with a cold rain, I am falling … falling. There is a longing that gnaws away at my insides the way that a dog gnaws away at a bone. I am in pain. Serious pain. I have not been able to wrench him, whom I’ll call Mr. Perfect, from my mind. In my mind, he is perfect. After all, here is a man who is totally there for me and listens to me for one whole hour a week. Yes, indeed. He is cute in a Matt Damon sort of way, and he smells good. He’s funny, too. Unusual traits to find in a man these days. Why wouldn’t I fall in love?

  It is a Sunday evening, and I wonder what he is doing there in his house in Connecticut. He goes there with his wife and a menagerie of animals, every weekend. He’s a writer too, working on a book. I can picture him at his desk. He is in jeans and a t-shirt, and barefooted. I think he might have nice feet. The kind you would not mind playing footsies with under the table … or under the covers. I had a dream about him last night. We were making love, and I soon noticed there was blood on his mouth, or rather I should say pouring from his mouth.

  Nice dream, up until that part.

  I wonder what it all means? It has to mean something. I think I will ask him in our session next week. I am not in my right mind tonight, that’s for sure.

  Chapter Five:

  STARRY, STARRY NIGHT

  Today was my usual weekly appointment with Mr. Perfect, my shrink. I still did not have the nerve to tell him about these strange journeys I have taken lately—or of Hemingway and Beethoven. I’m afraid he might throw me into the looney bin, if I did. Hell, I’m almost ready to throw myself into the looney bin. But these trips and escapades are certainly growing on me. Not bored anymore, I find myself looking forward to what might happen next. I now knew it was all connected to the crystal heart the psychic had given me. What else could it be?

  When I left Mr. Perfect’s office, I headed in the direction of the New York City Museum of Art. A cold, early spring wind was blowing, and I needed somewhere quiet to go warm up and review what we had discussed.

  The therapy topic “du jour” had been about how frustrating a writing career could be, how hard it is to sell one’s work, what a challenge it is avoiding insanity, and how difficult it is knowing that no matter how good you are at anything in the arts, no matter how high your level of aptitude, your odds of becoming successful—at least while still alive—were piss poor.

  I have seen that, for most people, success comes with excess, infidelity, divorce, alcoholism, anxiety, depression, etc. With failure came … well, failure. Failure, for me, is fairly simple. It has a pure, quiet, simplicity to it that can be easy to deal with, once you get used to it.

  And I was used to it.

  Fortunately, publishing magazine articles helped pay the bills and left me better off than most writers. But I was still frustrated with the rejection letters streaming in for my unpublished book. As the songwriter Roger Miller once said when asked how things were going in his career, he said, “ yeah, my career is gaining momentum—as all things do that are going downhill.” Bingo.

  Leaving these weightier thoughts behind, I walked into the museum. It was warm and quiet—exactly what I needed. Someone touched me on the shoulder just as I began to relax.

  “Hi, Ariel. I thought that was you.”

  Oh, crap. It was that chubby lawyer, Rob, who lives upstairs from me. I had gone out with him once, and trust me, once was enough. At dinner, I was so bored my head almost fell into my bowl of fettuccini. He was always showing up somewhere, usually in the hallway of my apartment building.

  “Oh, hi, Rob.” I could barely contain my excitement.

  “Isn’t this a great museum?” he said.

  I nodded in agreement, and was grateful that after some inane small talk, he finally moved on. Happy to be alone again, I parked myself on a bench in front of one of the most interesting paintings. Yellow stars wore shimmering halos, and shone down on tall, dark, cypress trees and rooftops, with a church steeple in the distance. I knew this painting well—Vincent Van Gogh. From history, I also knew this was one passionate man, to say the least.

  Closing my eyes, I took deep breaths and felt my chest rise and fall. 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 m
yself 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 know,” I said rather sheepishly, as I pointed towards the door. “I asked the innkeeper.”

  “Oh, him. Well, he’s no admirer of mine, I’m afraid.”

  I inched closer for a better look at the painting. Cypress trees sliced the foreground of a starry expanse, and the midnight blue-black sky glowed overhead. I knew something about art, and from what I knew about his style, it was very different from other Impressionists, such as Monet, Degas, or Renoir. Most people at the time had not cared for it.

  “I very much like the way you paint,” I said.

  “Consider yourself part of a ridiculously small minority. Me … you … and, oh yes, my brother Theo. Must not forget him. He lives in Paris, and he helps pay the bills, God be thanked, so I can keep painting these canvases that nobody buys. He’s an art broker, and let’s just say that it’s broken him, taking an interest in my art.” Vincent peered from beneath the brim of his hat. “Come closer. Let me take a look at you.”

  His boldness scared me, though I didn’t quite know why. Regardless, I stepped closer.

  “You’re really quite beautiful,” he said. “The structure of your face is unique. I should very much like to paint you, if you’re available sometime.”

  “Oh, um … thank you. I don’t know, Mr. Van Gogh. We don’t even know each other, do we?”

  “Let’s get to know each other, then. There’s a café down the street. You could meet me for a coffee sometime, tomorrow morning perhaps?”

  This was the opportunity of a lifetime. How many people could say they had their portrait painted by Vincent Van Gogh? Sure, he was strange, but somehow I knew he was not dangerous. He seemed very lonely, and, knowing no one in this foreign land, I was lonely myself.