The Last Van Gogh Read Online Free PDF Page B

not erase it from my head. And for the rest of the afternoon, it made me smile.
    H E arrived the following day and, again, I answered the door. “Papa’s already in the garden,” I told him. “He’s feeding the animals, and will be most pleased to hear that you’ve arrived.”
    He fidgeted slightly as he stood there in the vestibule of our house. “I am anxious to paint,” he said quietly. “The light is good today and I really should be working, as your father suggested.”
    I nodded, relishing another opportunity to study him. The sun was radiating through our stained-glass window and it cast a kaleidoscope of colors on his white linen shirt. For a moment, he struck me as one of the figures that lined the windows of our church. His thin fingers protruded from the length of his sleeves, and his head was surrounded by amber light.
    I found his shock of red hair amusing. Like the stiff bristles of a porcupine, the ends stood up and alternated between deep scarlet and pale strawberry. His beard, however, appeared softer in texture, the fiery red tufts rounding out his otherwise angular face. It was a face that looked as though it had been carved by a chisel—the sharp cheekbones, the high forehead, the narrow bridge of his nose—all of his features lending themselves to dramatic shadows and reflections of light. I could have looked at him for hours. Vincent’s expression, his features, every part of him seemed to contrast with the men I saw at church! Those men whose eyes were as lifeless as river stones and whose cheeks were plump like oozing slices of Camembert. Vincent was so much more handsome in comparison.
    I hoped he did not realize that I was staring at him once again. Trying to gather myself, I let out a little cough and motioned for him to come through the house.
    “You will like painting in our garden,” I told him softly. He lowered his eyes when I spoke. I could not believe that this person who had appeared so bold and confident when he handed me the folded red poppy was actually quite shy. Just like the day before, I found myself feeling more at ease knowing that he, too, had bouts of awkwardness.
    “Please, come this way.” I made a small gesture with my hand. He collected his things and followed me through the long corridor. We passed the parlor and then the kitchen, where it was clear I had been busy baking.
    He took in a deep breath. “There is nothing more comforting than the smell of baking bread,” he said softly to me. “Except, perhaps, the odor of turpentine.”
    I found him charming, and let out a small laugh. “Bread and paint thinner are an artist’s milk and honey,” I said as I opened the back door that led to our lawn. We stepped outside and discovered Father busy feeding the peacocks and the goat.
    “Papa, Monsieur Van Gogh is here!”
    Father turned and looked up. He was wearing his blue smock, and the tufts of red hair around his ears appeared almost orange against it.
    “Ahh…Vincent! I’m so glad you could come this afternoon.” He came over to Vincent and extended his hand. “I see you’re taking my advice and are ready to paint today.”
    As I saw the two of them standing there in profile, I again could not help but notice their physical resemblance. Father’s hair, too, was closely cropped, the pale red color achieved through a shampoo of crushed henna leaves. They both had the look of an ascetic, with their sharp cheekbones and close-set eyes.
    But whereas Papa could barely contain his energy, Vincent seemed to be keeping his in close reserve. I suspected he saved all his strength for his painting. He stood perfectly still, while Father gestured feverishly to the various parts of our garden, like a maniacal conductor without his baton.
    There is truth in the saying that the less one says, the more mysterious he becomes. And so was the case with Vincent. I watched transfixed as he stood in Papa’s shadow, his brushes and wooden stretchers extending from the