Sheramy Bundrick - Sunflowers

Sunflowers

Sheramy Bundrick

For my family
and
for Vincent

It is truly the discovery of a new hemisphere in a persons life when he falls seriously in love.

Vincent van Gogh

Contents

The PainterVincentLe caf de nuitThe Yellow HouseSecrets and WarningsA Starry Night by the RhneThe Studio of the SouthThe AlyscampsAbsinthePastoraleRain23 December 1888NightmaresThe Htel-DieuRecoveryReturn to the Yellow HouseThe Doctors PortraitWhispers in the Place LamartineSunflowersRevelationRelapseThe PetitionPersuasionDecisionsThe First LettersA New CustomerOnly for the DayNews from the AsylumTo Saint-RmyInvitationsCrisisThe Road BackThe Trains of TarasconSeventy Days in AuversParis, August 18908, Cit PigalleThe Crossroads
(Partial Bibliography of Works Consulted)

The Painter

Arles, July 1888

I prefer painting peoples eyes to cathedrals, for there is something in the eyes that is not in the cathedrala human soul, be it that of a poor beggar or a streetwalker, is more interesting to me . Vincent to his brother Theo,
Antwerp, December 1885

I

d heard about him but had never seen him, the foreigner with the funny name who wandered the countryside painting pictures. Hour after hour in the hot sun, people said, pipe in his mouth, muttering under his breath like a crazy man. Nighttime found him in the cafs clustered around the train station, and some of the girls had spotted him in the Rue du Bout dArles, although hed never visited our house. He was poor, people said. He probably couldnt afford it.

The day I met the painter, the countryside called me as I would learn it always called to him. Fields and weathered farmhouses lined the road leading out of the city: a half hours walk, and I could watch farmers pitch sheaves of wheat into cabanon lofts, breathe deeply of air that smelled of harvested grain instead of cheap cigarettes and cheap perfume. Pretend I lived in a cottage framed by cypresses, instead of Madame Virginies maison de tolrance . That day, the life I led choked me like the heat.

While the other girls napped behind closed doors and shuttered windows, I slipped down the narrow street that followed the old medieval walls, then between the towers of the old medieval gate, the Porte de la Cavalerie. Here on the fringes of Arles lay the Place Lamartine, its public garden ringed by shops and hotels, the road I sought just beyond. A few wagons rattled past, carrying remnants of the mornings market, and a few stragglers sipped drinks in front of the Caf du Prado, fanning themselves with hats. I had sidestepped one of the wagons and was crossing the garden when a loud voice stopped me.

What is she doing here?

The pair of ladies in their high-collared dresses looked like blackbirds and squawked like hens. Luc, come to Maman, the second one called to her little boy from the park bench. Where are the gendarmes? Shouldnt they protect decent people from such trash?

A braver girl would have laughed and kept on her way, but I stood stupidly in the middle of the path, glancing from the good ladies to the police station on the other side of Place Lamartine. Filles de maison were supposed to stay in the quartier reserv , the corner of town where the law put the brothelsId be marched back to Madame Virginies quick as anything if the gendarmes found me. Why hadnt I pinned up my hair or put on a hat, done something to disguise myself, like any fille with some sense?

A policeman!

He had emerged from the gendarmerie and was strolling in our direction. The ladies waved their parasols to get his attention, but I bolted before he could see me, ducking through a hedge to another part of the garden. I knew every tree there, every acacia, every pine, and I wove through the grasses to the furthermost edge by the canal, where I sank under a bush and listened for footsteps. No one came. I heard nothing but the bells of Saint-Trophime chiming four and laundresses finishing their work nearby.

Im nervous aboutyou know, a young voice floated over the splashes. What do I do , exactly?

An older voice replied, Lie there and think about the babies youll have. Its not so bad when you get used to it.

My man grunts like a pig, Ive never gotten used to that! a third woman jumped in, to giggles and more playful splashing.

The soldier Id entertained the night before, back from North Africa with desert madness in his eyes, had grunted too, like a wild boar rooting for mushrooms. He growled in my ear about what it felt like to shoot a man, and when he was done, he sneered, Whats with you, girl? Didnt you like it? I forced myself to nod yes so he wouldnt hit me, and even after he left, I couldnt cry. I crouched in the tin washtub to scrub his sweat away, then tiptoed back to my room and a restless night in the chair by my window.

The tears fell freely now in the gardens quiet. Whats with you, girl? The soldiers words rang in my head; so did the words of the ladies on the bench. Decent people. Decent people . Only when Id cried all I could cry and was wiping my eyes with the hem of my dress did I listen to the chatter of cicadas instead. Stay awhile , they murmured in their buzzing drone, stay awhile . The grass was soft and fragrant, the shadow of the cedar bush cool and comforting. Itd be hours before Madame Virginie expected me at supper and Raoul lit the lantern to signal we were open for business. Sleep , said the cicadas. Sleep .

It took five chimes of Saint-Trophimes bells to wake me, and I opened my eyes to find I was no longer alone. A man sat under a nearby beech tree with pencil and paper in his hands, face hidden under a yellow straw hat like the farmers wore.

He was drawing me.

His head jerked up when I jumped to my feet, then he stood too, dropping his things to the ground. Dont come any closer, I warned, or Ill!

Please, let me explain. I wont hurt you. My name is

I know who you are. Youre that foreigner, that painter, and youve got no rightWhat kind of girl do you think I am?

The kind of girl who sleeps in a public garden, he said, and he was trying not to laugh. I snorted and took a step toward the path.

Wait, Im sorry, he added. Whats your name? He tilted his head and studied me. Id guess you belong on la rue des bonnes petites femmes across the way, the street of the good little women, as I call it.

He didnt seem crazy to me, but still, I crossed my arms and refused to tell him my name. Thats a silly hat, I said instead.

He pulled off the yellow straw hat to reveal a ruffled shock of red hair that matched the red of his unkempt beard. Our southern sun had certainly had its way with him, kissing his hair and beard with gold, splashing his nose with freckles. His face had charactera bit serious, with the lines etched on his forehead and mouth drooping at the corners, but not unpleasant. His clothes, though. Blue workmans jacket spattered with paint, shabby white trousers that needed mending in the knees, mud-caked shoes

He smiled again, and his melancholy look vanished. Now will you tell me who you are?

My name is Rachel, I gave in, and yes, I live on the street of the good little women, as you call it.

Im Vincent, he said with a bob of the head, and I am sorry I startled you. I was working nearby, then I saw you and wanted to draw you.

What for?

He shrugged. You were here, you werent moving, and I can always use the practice.

I held out my hand. May I see it? I think you owe me that.

Its not very good, its just a krabbeltje he searched for the word in Frencha scribble. I didnt budge, didnt lower my hand. He blushed pink under his freckles, then picked up his sketchbook with a nervous Careful, itll smudge.

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