Hillary Kanter - Dead Men Are Easy To Love Read online

  “All right then, what time?”

  “I hope you don’t mind meeting early. I am headed out to the fields tomorrow and want to get there while the sowers are still working. Say six? If you wish you could even come with me while I paint.”

  “That might be nice.” It was getting late, and I thought I better get to bed since there would be no such thing as a wake-up call.

  “I’ll see you in the morning then, Ariel. I am already very much looking forward to it.”

  ***

  The corner café boasted outdoor tables and an array of fresh-baked pastries. Vincent ordered me a café au lait, and we watched the sun crest over fields of grain. Already, farmers moved through the cornrows, hard at work.

  “Did you sleep well?” Vincent asked me.

  I nodded, still chewing on a croissant. I noticed little things about Vincent—his shoddy clothes and the fact he never seemed to eat. Again from history, I knew he was impoverished.

  He mentioned he had gone home at 3:30 a.m., and slept only two hours.

  “Why so little?” I said.

  “I could not stop thinking about a woman I met last night.”

  I started to ask who, then realized his meaning. My eyes darted toward a street-sweeper, hiding my embarrassment.

  We met that morning, the morning after, and the morning after that. After coffee, we walked to the fields where I watched him paint. One painting he worked on was of a wheat field with the wind blowing through it and a lark flying high above. I could actually feel the breeze in the windswept sky. He also painted sunflowers. A lot of sunflowers. He told me the one I had watched him paint was his sixth or seventh.

  I got to know him well during these times, and finally agreed to his earlier invitation. What woman wouldn’t want the great Vincent Van Gogh to paint her?

  But I would not be the first, nor the last.

  Vincent had a reputation for painting prostitutes he knew from the local brothel, and it was a known fact he had almost married one. He felt a great deal of compassion toward these “women of the night,” because they too had led hard and impoverished lives.

  The following afternoon I met him at his “yellow house,” down the street from the inn. Green shutters hung on exterior walls that were the color of butter. The house stood in the full sunlight, in a square with a garden of oleanders and acacias.

  I knocked. No answer. I knocked again, a little harder.

  Still no answer.

  I hoped he had not lost his hearing like Beethoven in my last time-travels. Wouldn’t that be just my luck.

  When Vincent did open the door, he was out of breath. “Oh, hello, Ariel. I’m sorry. I was lost in my painting and didn’t hear you.”

  “That’s all right. I knew I had the right yellow house, because it’s the only yellow house.” I failed to mention that everyone else knew where it was too, since he was thought to be the most peculiar, irritable, and odd man in town.

  “Come,” he said. “Let me show you my home.” Though modest and holding few furnishings, the place was charming, with a studio and four rooms crammed onto two floors. He was proud of it. “My good friend, Paul Gauguin, is another artist, and he will be here to visit soon. Have you heard of him?”

  “Yes, I believe I have.” Visions of Gauguin’s Tahiti paintings flashed large in my mind.

  “We are going to start an artist colony here. Then all of us lonely souls will have each other for inspiration and companionship. Let me show you my new painting,” Vincent said. “It’s a study of my bedroom.”

  I followed him into the studio and ran my eyes over the canvas propped on the easel. Yep, I had seen this before in art books. It was more colorful than any photograph could capture. The walls were lavender, the bed yellow, the floor mauve and edged in green to match the shutters. It was a happy, cheerful painting, suggestive of rest.

  “Since you have already seen my bedroom, I don’t need to show it to you, but come see the room I’ve prepared for Gauguin when he arrives. I’ve even skipped a few meals to be able to buy the frames for the canvases. Come along. I want to hear what you think.”

  I followed Vincent to a large whitewashed bedroom with a washbasin, a chair, and a sea of paintings of giant sunflowers splashed across the walls.

  “I hope he likes it and will stay a long while. He is supposed to be here any day now, but with Paul, one never knows.”

  His need for Gauguin’s companionship and friendship bordered on the obsessive. I knew the years of artistic frustration and obscurity had taken their toll, and my heart went out to him.

  I walked back to the easel and looked at his bedroom painting again. “It’s lovely. It looks so … peaceful.”

  “And that is my point, young lady. That is exactly what I wanted you to see.” He returned to the easel, and set down his paintbrush. He gestured to me. “Come here by this window and stand in the light.”

  When I was in place, he moved from one side of the room to the other, studying me in the various patterns of light. He stepped up, a couple inches from my face, and turned my chin from left to right. His touch was warm and strong. I felt self-conscious.

  “Yes,” he said, “you have good bone structure. I can’t pay you much to model for me, perhaps one franc, but are you still interested?”

  “No, Mr. Van Gogh. I mean, er … yes, Vincent. But I cannot accept payment from you. I’m very honored that you want to paint me.” Of course, I was sincere, but being unfamiliar with francs, I wondered what that value would be in dollars.

  He nodded. “Very well, then. I promise that someday my painting of you will mean something to people. I assure you that one day I’ll be a success, and then I can pay my brother back for all he has done for me, and you too will be proud to have known me.”

  His gentleness moved me deeply. “I’m proud to know you now,” I said.

  “Then shall we begin?”

  Posing me in a chair by the window, telling me to look out towards the sky, he pulled out a new canvas and started to paint. He dipped his brush from one color to the next, mixing and dabbing with light strokes. Every once in a while he laid down his brush, his eyes darting back and forth between me and the canvas, studying something. Then he nodded, smiled, and continued. This went on for what felt like hours. His gaze made me weak, and my heart fluttered like a moth’s wings against a hot streetlight.

  As the sunlight waned, he suggested we end for the day.

  “Can you make it back tomorrow?”

  “Yes. The same time?”

  He nodded, then hugged me as he said goodbye. A wave of desire rushed through me. This growing attraction was a lot for my heart to take. I could not keep getting attached to people, never knowing when I would be snatched from their world and sent careening back to my own.

  I slept very little that night, tormented by dreams in which I was searching for Vincent, running through wheat fields in the dark with only the starry night as a witness, calling his name, frantic to find him … yet never able to do so.

  ***

  Returning to the Yellow House, I was met by Vincent with his brush in hand and a straw hat shading his eyes. He led me to my seat by the window.

  This routine continued for several days. Since I could only sit for a few hours before my back began to hurt, this painting had to be completed, much to the artist’s discontent, in pieces. Once Vincent started a canvas, he did not want to stop and felt tormented until it was finished.

  One day, halfway through our session, I stood to stretch. Outside, a thunderstorm was bending the trees and pouring rain from the heavens. A dripping sound signaled a leak in the roof, and Vincent stormed, ranting and raving, into the living room where he had stored some of his finished works.

  “Good God Almighty, the damned landlord said that leak was fixed. It will be the ruination of my life’s work if these paintings get wet.” He was furious, moving stacks of canvases, one from behind the other, so that he could put a pot under the leak.

  I offer
ed to help and, little by little, we succeeded in getting the finished works out of harm’s way. More than a few of the canvases were female nudes.

  “Who are these women?” I asked.

  “Oh, just people that I paint.”

  “From the brothel?”

  “Yes. They are good and willing subjects.”

  “Then I would like it if you painted me the same way.” I could not believe I was saying it. I had never done such a thing in my life. They were tasteful, though. And after all, it was Vincent Van Gogh.

  “Surely you jest. I didn’t just hear you say what I thought you said, did I?”

  “You heard right. I want you to paint me like her,” I said, pointing to a young woman with flaxen hair, lounging on a chaise.

  He paused, wearing a startled expression. “All right, if you wish. I have not begun working on your body yet.” Vincent shifted the chair I had been sitting on.

  I slowly unbuttoned the top of my waistcoat, and slipped it down the length of my legs. I held my breath, reached behind my back, unfastened my skirt, and let it fall to the floor. Vincent gave little reaction, maintaining the utmost professionalism, and I shrugged the top of my white undergarment from my shoulders.

  Right before I uncovered my breasts, he said, “No, stop. Right there. That is enough.”

  “It’s okay, Vincent. I don’t mind.”

  “No,” he insisted. “Leave something to the imagination. Now sit on the edge of the chair as though you were getting dressed, and look a little to the left.” He frowned as I complied. “No, damn it. Something’s not quite right.” He sprung from his easel as if he had been stuck with a pitchfork. He reached behind my head, freeing my hair from the large comb that held it back so that it cascaded over my shoulders.

  Practically naked, I held my breath.

  “That’s it,” he gushed. “Now that’s more like it. That’s what I’m looking for.”

  When I tried to peek at the canvas, he pushed me away. “Uh-uh-uh, not until I am finished. It is at least one more sitting away from completion.”

  The wind still howled at the window, and rain pelted the walls. Although it was time for me to go, Vincent felt I should stay until the storm was over. There were things I wanted to ask, but I feared I would be overstepping my boundaries. I decided to chance it anyway.

  “Do you get along well with your brother, Theo?”

  “Oh yes, I do. Very well. He believes in me, and is so helpful. But I’m afraid I will throw him into poverty, if we don’t sell a painting soon. I’ve already given him most of my pieces, in exchange for paints, canvases, and money for food. Some days I only have a crust of bread and a cup of coffee. The painting supplies are more important to me than food.”

  I was appalled. His passion and his talent moved me, and it was hard to fathom his lack of success. I wished I could tell him how famous his paintings would be one day, but he would think I had gone crazy if I told him I was paying a visit from the future. Yes, that would be one good way to ruin a relationship.

  I had learned from my dating life, and from my shrink, that one should never give away too much in the first few weeks of dating—that you are in therapy, have drug addictions, are missing a body part, or just got out of jail. And this would be far too much information.

  When he asked about my life or New York, I remained vague as a politician and shifted the conversation back to him—which was not difficult. What subject would artists rather talk about than themselves, right?

  By five in the evening, the rain had softened but still not stopped. I made a decision to go buy food and make dinner for him. The poor soul had possibly not eaten for days, and it triggered something nurturing in me, the need to do something about it.

  “Please don’t go, Ariel. This weather is too poor.”

  “I’m going to buy us something to eat, and I won’t take no for an answer.”

  “Then at least let me give you some money. I think I may have a franc still, in my drawer. Let me find it.”

  “No, Vincent. I won’t let you pay.”

  Arriving at the neighborhood market a few blocks away, I realized it was so small—even by New York City standards—that one could barely turn around inside. No such thing as Lean Cuisine or a frozen-foods section. All items were stored in straw baskets.

  I purchased fresh fruit, bread, cheese, wine, butter, and some meat for a stew. I’ve heard the best way to a man’s heart is through his stomach, but I just hoped—with my poor cooking skills—I would not give him food poisoning.

  As I returned, the storm worsened again, and I saw Vincent waiting anxiously at the window. He threw open the door, glanced from the basket of food to the hair plastered to my cheeks and forehead, then wrapped me in his arms and kissed me.

  It was a deep kiss, a long kiss. And it caught me off guard.

  A shiver of excitement ran through my body.

  “Darling,” he exclaimed, misinterpreting my response, “you will catch your death of cold. We must get you out of those wet clothes.”

  From his bureau, he retrieved a long shirt and some dry socks for my feet. He left the room while I changed.

  I wondered where things were going between me and Vincent. Should I even allow myself to get more involved? I was confused. My head and my heart were doing battle with one another. On one hand, I wanted to get more intimate with him, and on the other, I thought it might be best if I played it safe and returned to the inn after dinner.

  I came out, prepared the stew, and set the table with the rest of the food. He opened the bottle of wine and poured us both a glass.

  “Mmm. It’s been a long time since I had a good burgundy,” he said. “And it’s been months since I had a good dinner like this.”

  I smiled, glad I could do something meaningful for him.

  He ate in a hurry, as if it were his last meal—or maybe the first real one he’d had in a long time. We were well into that bottle, and judging by his loosening tongue, the alcohol had gone to his head. Probably mine as well. He eased over to my chair and hugged me to his chest.

  “Beautiful, beautiful woman, how did you come into my life? Where have you been all of my life?”

  I wished I could tell him, but he would have no reason to believe me.

  “Ariel,” he said.

  I looked into those piercing blue eyes. Without another word, he swept me up in his arms and carried me to his small room with the yellow bed. I allowed this to happen, as I had with Beethoven. This was all in the past, after all. How could any harm come as a result of our actions?

  He made love to me, caressing me, adoring me like a work of art he had created. He stroked my face and traced my lips with his fingers. I was like a canvas beneath his brush, and each color he drew out of me was one shade more brilliant than the next.

  Afterward, we lay a long time without words. I, who had bordered on brazen an hour earlier, was now terrified of the consequences of what had happened.

  The storm subsided, and moonlight seeped into the room. I glanced at the mantle clock, noting how late it was. “I have to go,” I whispered.

  “No. Please stay the night, my love. Please stay with me.”

  “No, Vincent. I really must go.”

  “Well,” he sighed, “if you must, you must. But before you go,” he said, taking my hand, brushing it with his lips, “I want to show you something.”

  As he guided me from the bed, I felt moisture on my skin.

  “Are you all right, Ariel?”

  “I have something to show you, too,” I said, stifling a giggle.

  “You do?”

  I turned and watched his reaction to the green, yellow, and purple all over my backside. In our heated passion, neither of us had noticed his painter’s palette on the bed. Vincent laughed aloud, using turpentine to remove the mess from my body and giving great attention to the process. The chemical smell was overwhelming.

  I sniffed. “Well, I’m glad you’re enjoying yourself.”

  �
��This is nearly my finest work,” he said. “And sadly, it shall never be viewed by another.”

  “‘Nearly your finest’?” Was he talking about the splashes of color on my rear end? His finest work? I could only hope not.

  He laced his fingers into mine and led me to the other room, where he yanked the drop cloth from his easel. “This is my finest. See how beautiful you are?”

  The painting was magnificent. The fire in my eyes sprang from the canvas, but that was not all that did so. My white camisole top was unbuttoned, one breast exposed in its entirety and swelling forward. Suddenly I felt I had done something rash and unthinking.

  “It’s almost finished,” Vincent was saying. “Except for a few touch-ups.”

  “It’s … it’s beautiful, Vincent. But please, promise you won’t show this to anyone.”

  He seemed sympathetic. “If that’s what you desire, then I shall keep it hidden, my dear. I promise. It will be for my eyes only. Now come kiss me one last time before you leave,” he pleaded.

  “I have to go,” was all I could whisper.

  I ran down the street toward the inn, my thoughts and emotions tumbling. Vincent’s kiss was still moist on my lips, as was the memory of his paints on my skin. I was not sure what I’d gotten myself into. Yes, I wanted him to like me, but was this not taking things too far once again? Could I dare play these games with his heart and mine, knowing I would be thrust back into the future soon enough?

  Of course, at what point that would happen remained to be seen.

  ***

  Exhausted, I slept for ten hours. A soft knock awakened me, and I watched a note slide under my door.

  Dearest Ariel,

  I will never forget last night, and I must see you again as soon as possible. After you left, I did the final finishes on your painting. I believe people are wrong who think love prevents one from thinking clearly, for it is then that I believe one thinks the most clearly.

  Please meet me at the café. I will wait for you to awake. Until then, I will think of nothing but you and your beautiful face.

  Love,

  Vincent

  I panicked. I did not go to meet him. To gather my thoughts, I figured it best that I not see him. I was afraid for reasons that can, and cannot, be explained. I did not want to be the “hurtee” once again, but I did not want to be the “hurter” either. Vincent was fragile. And how would it affect his work if I continued this and broke his heart? I had been wrong. These encounters in the past could alter the future in ways I had never imagined. Maybe he would give up painting altogether, and how might that change the world of art if some of his best works were never created?