FOLLOWING VINCENT
Part IV
by
Christopher Stasheff
Copyright © 2011
"So where to next?" Angus asked, crossing to the control console for the time booth.
"The twelfth of May in 1890," Ada said with a sigh. "The Saint-Paul Asylum in Saint-Remy. The day after Vincent hanged himself in the sanitarium."
Yorick frowned. "I'm not sure that'll do any good, Ada."
"Why not?"
"Because in the asylum, he was under the care of Dr. Gachet," Yorick said, "and Gachet knows how astounding his paintings are. He probably won't be willing to sell any of them—and even if he is, he'll charge through the nose."
"Hmm…" Ada turned thoughtful. "Well, what if we visited the asylum the day before Van Gogh's suicide—and bought the paintings from Vincent himself? Dr. Gachet could hardly object if an artist chooses to sell his own paintings, after all."
Angus drew in a deep breath. "Bad idea, Ada. Interacting with a historical person as well-known as Van Gogh? No, there's too much chance of changing history. Besides, as far all we know, all of Vincent's paintings from the asylum are accounted for. I doubt Dr. Gachet would have thrown them away."
"Well, we won't know for sure unless we investigate, will we?" The note of iron was creeping back into Ada's voice. "And need I remind you that any unknown canvases we pass over will almost certainly be seized by our enemies? I imagine the risk of influencing Van Gogh on his deathbed is far less volatile than millions of additional funding for SPITE and VETO."
"We'll be careful, Ang," Yorick assured him. "If we don't see any unknown paintings, we'll leave right away. If we do find some, but he won't sell them, we'll also leave. In and out in minutes, just one more set of customers. Heck, from Vincent's point of view, it probably wouldn't even be that unusual." The Neanderthal shrugged. "Hey, I've been doing delicate temporal operations like this for quite a while now, remember? Personally, I'd say the risk of contaminating the timeline is minimal… but you're the boss, of course," he added quickly.
Angus scowled and was silent for a moment, thinking. Finally he nodded. "Alright—but Yorick is in charge! He's got more experience with these sorts of things than you do, Ada. So if he decides to cut and run, you follow—no arguing, no stalling. Do I make myself clear?"
"Perfectly, Doctor McAran," Ada replied, stepping into the time booth before Doc could change his mind.
"I'd better be," Angus grumbled under his breath and he adjusted the instruments on the control panel. "Saint-Remy, Provence, France. May 10th, 1890. Go."
Ada felt the usual moment of dizziness and nausea, but was expecting it this time and handled it much better. She felt Yorick pop in a moment later behind her. Ada looked around to orient herself.
Once again it was early morning, where the shadowy darkness provided some cover for their rather abrupt arrival. They were beyond the outskirts of Saint-Remy, in the fields between the town and the sanitarium. In the distance, she could just make out the large stone complex of the Saint-Paul Asylum through the early morning gloom. Again, they had a little time to kill, so Ada and Yorick strolled around the wheat fields, olive groves, and vineyards of the southern French countryside. Both knew Vincent had painted landscapes of this exact scenery seen through the window of his cell in the asylum… but couldn't quite recognize any particular view from one of his paintings.
Ada turned pensive as they walked. "It isn't right, is it?" she asked. "We're taking Vincent's paintings and paying him next to nothing—and he lived in dire poverty all his life."
"What there was of it." Yorick's eyes belied his tone.
"Yes… one can't wonder that he found little to live for in the end, when painting was all he had. In fact, historians believe that it was his realization that Theo was going to marry—and that his resources would be stretched to the limit with the burden of supporting a wife and Vincent—that tipped him into the deep, self-mutilating depression."
"Maybe he was afraid of being an emotional burden, too?" Yorick suggested. "Feeling like an intruder all of a sudden?"
"Quite possibly," Ada said, "which seems rather ironic, considering how ardent an advocate of his painting Theo's wife became."
"What you're getting at," Yorick said, "is that if Vincent's paintings are going to be worth millions of dollars, we could at least pay him a few thousand right now."
Ada met his gaze. "Something like that, yes."
"That might change history, Ada—and you know we can't do that. If we pay him at all, it will have to be a small amount, no more than what he's used to receiving for one of his paintings." Yorick sighed and shook his head, signaling the end of the conversation. "Well, let's talk to Doctor Gachet about a chat with his patient."
Dr. Gachet decided that sincere admiration might lessen Van Gogh's depression, so he allowed the admirers to be granted a brief interview. Ada and Yorick were led to Vincent's cell—which he had turned into a studio. A canvas stood on an easel, perfectly blank. Paints and brushed lay next to it, untouched. The brushes were dry, the paints not even mixed on his palette yet. The artist himself sat in a wicker armchair, a blanket across his lap, gazing through the bars in his window at the trees and wheat fields beyond.
Ada shuddered at the sight of the bandage on the side of his head. Vincent was a painter who could not longer paint… it had to be killing him. She could almost understand why, sometime tomorrow, he would hang himself in his cell. Ada was about to speak up, then realized that Vincent's lips were moving soundlessly. Ada remembered that Van Gogh had taught at a school in England for a year, so she dared to say in English, "What... what do you see?"
"Blue," the artist answered, "a blue that is not in my palette. Can I mix it, I..." He broke off and turned to her with a look of accusation. "Why do you talk to me?"
Ada stammered, "I... I admire your work."
Vincent's eyes caught fire for a moment, but the flame guttered quickly. "If you do, you are a fool. There is no worth in my work. To anyone." His gaze strayed to the fields outside. "But there can be. If I can paint the tree that I see..."
Yorick shook his head in pity.
"Do you have any new paintings?" Ada inquired. "We may wish to buy some…"
"Buy?" Vincent's gaze snapped to hers, instantly suspicious. "Why would you pay money for worthless daubs?"
"Because... because they are beautiful!" Ada stammered.
"They are ugly! They are practice only! Let the landlady burn them! Henri says that if he ever moves his studio, he shall leave behind every canvas he disdains. Should I do less? He speaks wisely! I shall never be able to paint truly! Why keep the reminders of my failure? And certainly I would not let anyone else own them, to make my shame endure!"
Yorick stepped up beside her, muttering, "Depressive cycle."
The support emboldened Ada. She stiffened; her tone became imperious. "Monsieur Van Gogh! I turned a corner at the Goupil Gallery in Paris and saw your Starry Night—and felt as though it had struck my face and body! Such imagination! Such color! I do not know how you created a work that could have such an effect on me… but I must discover any others of your paintings that have such impact! And I can pay for them, Monsieur, pay handsomely!"
The flattery only seemed to upset him more. "No one would pay anything for my work." Vincent's voice was tense, his body beginning to tremble.
Ada took a breath to insist, but Yorick spoke first. "Believe that we believe, at least. Shall we talk to your brother Theo, then?" Ada turned to look back at him, surprised, but Yorick signaled with his eyes that the conversation was over.
"Yes! Talk to Theo! He sells my work!" Vincent said. "Convince him you are sincere! If you can! Now leave me!" Vincent jerked his gaze away, to stare out at the park again, his whole body rigid.
Ada began to argue, then looked back at Vincent and realized reason would do no good—in point of fact, the tension in the artist's body was alarming. She backed away, felt Yorick's arm against hers, took it, and turned away with him—but she couldn't help looking back at the forlorn figure in the wicker chair one last time.
"Yellow," Van Gogh was muttering, "too pure for gold, too rich for sunlight. I must mix such a yellow..."
Ada looked up at Yorick in alarm. "Have we triggered a seizure?"
"I don't think it was us," Yorick said. "The history books say he had a rare form of epilepsy that involved delusions—but I don't remember anything about paranoia."
"He was supposed to be very argumentative," Ada mused. "Perhaps it's not that unusual to be suspicious when two total strangers walk up to you and offer far more money than you believe your paintings to be worth."
"Yeah, but that's just depression talking. None of the histories mention it, but I'd agree with your guess—there’s some bipolar disorder mixed in with everything else he's got wrong. How many canvases did he paint in a few months at Arles? More than a hundred?"
"Sometimes three in one day." Ada nodded. "It does sound like mania."
"Then he turns around and goes weeks without actually putting a brush onto canvas. I suppose it could just be careful planning, but..."
"I understand your meaning." Ada nodded. "It does have the sound of melancholia."
"When we look at it that way, put it that way, I suppose it makes sense." Yorick glanced back over his shoulder. "He might have an episode coming on, at that. We might want to tell an attendant on the way out."
"But how could we explain knowing it?"
"We won't," Yorick said, "and we don't. We'll just tell what we know—that he was extremely tense when we left. We are leaving, aren't we?"
"Yes," Ada said with a sigh. "Back to Paris and the Yellow Kitty, I suppose."
Ada wanted to stroll around the countryside surrounding the asylum once more, now that dawn had broke and the light was better, and Yorick was happy to oblige. They were in no hurry… and perhaps the big man also needed a little cheering up himself after the depressing spectacle of the self-maimed artist in his asylum cell, knowing Vincent would kill himself tomorrow.
Yorick finally broke the silence as they meandered through a wheat field behind the sanitarium. "Eh, look on the bright side," he said with a shrug and a smile, breaking the silence. "I can pretty much guarantee we didn't alter history—nothing significant at least."
"Yes, I supposed that's true," Ada said, pausing to look back at the barred windows of the stone complex. "Vincent didn’t even let us see the paintings he'd been working on." She sighed. "It's such a shame he never knew how famous his work would become. Or the impact it had on the art world."
"The more I play around with time," Yoick said, "the more convinced I become that some things are meant to happen for a reason… I guess this might be one of them." He raised a hand to the stone asylum in farewell. "S'long, Vincent." He turned and headed back toward the road.
Ada hesitated a moment… but she was alone, and no one was watching… so she raised her fingers to her lips and blew a kiss at the barred windows of the asylum. The she hurried after Yorick.
Another leisurely train ride through the French countryside took them back to Paris (where, Ada noticed, the Eiffel Tower had suddenly appeared). A short ride in a hansom cab brought them to the doors of the Yellow Kitty. The minute they entered Xian-Liang, the maitre d' who looked like a gorilla squeezed into a waistcoat and tails, did a double-take. He shot a quick, worried look at the audience, then quickly ushered the two time agents backstage and into a dressing room and disappeared to find Minh.
Ada and Yorick looked at each other with the same thought on their minds: What was that all about?
They found out a moment later when Claude Minh scurried up to them. "What the hell are you doing here, guys?" he demanded in a whisper, locking the dressing room door behind him.
"Um… trying to catch a ride back to HQ?" Yorick offered.
"Alright, but make it the last time," Minh said, turning to the cabinet-sized Chinese puzzle box that held the time booth. "Don't come back here again—not for a good long while, at least. Enemy time agents have been sniffing around here."
Yorick's face instantly dropped from a jovial smile to a stony scowl. "They found this time station?"
"I don't think so, not yet," Minh replied, pressing and turning the hidden switches and dials to open the box. "They seem to know it’s a cabaret, but not which one. My friends in the business tell me they've been scouting other cabarets around Paris as well. Either way, I'm moving my time station for a while—Orléans, or maybe Chartres—until the heat dies down. And they're looking for you guys, too—so you might want to stay out of Paris for a couple decades."
"Us?" Ada said, shocked. "Are you sure?"
Claude shrugged. "They've been asking around about a big Englishman and a skinny Englishwoman with a bunch of paintings." Minh paused to glance at them. "Good thing you don't have any paintings with you this time. That would've been a dead giveaway."
"Heavy on the dead," Yorick added with a frown.
Claude finally opened the box and began setting the time and space coordinates for GRIPE headquarters. "Don't worry about the girls around here, though—they've been great, didn't say anything to anybody. They don't know who you are, of course—just that Xian-Liang and I told 'em to play dumb, 'cause the guys asking questions were police inspectors." Minh gave them a thin smile. "Gotta love immigrant communities, huh? Always stick together."
"But… why are SPITE or VETO looking for us?" Ada asked, confused and worried. "Why are we so important?"
"Well, since they're looking for a pair of Brits with canvases," Claude said, "I'm guessing they must have gotten wind of your plan to grab Van Gogh's castoffs. They're probably trying to snag the paintings."
"But then why come after us?" Ada asked. "Why not collect them from Van Gogh himself?"
Minh rolled his eyes as he turned to Ada. "That's not how these people think!" he said, tapping a finger to his temple. "Why go to all the trouble of finding them, when they can just let the two of you collect the paintings for them—and then nab both you guys and the canvases at the same time? Killing two birds with one stone, y'know?"
Ada looked at Yorick. "How the devil did they know we were gathering Van Gogh's discarded paintings?"
"Good question," Yorick answered.
"No idea." Minh shrugged. "The Doc didn't say when I checked in with him last." The gestured at the cluttered table in his dressing room. It took Ada a moment to notice the glass Klein bottle nestled among the costumes, make-up, and props. "Now hurry up and jump inside. I gotta be onstage soon."
"Thank you, Monsieur Minh," Ada said as she climbed into the box.
"No problem," the conductor said. "And—don't take this the wrong way, Ada—but I hope I don't see you again anytime soon."
Ada felt the now-familiar moment of dizziness and nausea, then found herself blinking into the bright fluorescent lights of GRIPE's underground headquarters in the Rocky Mountains. Remembering to leave the time booth immediately this time, she stepped out right as she heard Yorick pop in behind her.
Doc Angus sat behind the control console, arms crossed across his chest as he glared at them. "Have a nice trip?" he asked with a hint of sarcasm.
"Not really, no," Ada answered. "Monsieur Van Gogh wouldn't even show us his latest paintings. He barely even spoke to us."
"Yup," Yorick agreed with a nod. "Don't think there's any danger of us changing history, Ang. I'll bet Vincent forgot about us five minutes after he left."
"Is that so?" Angus replied. "Then how do you explain this?!" He reached behind his desk and held up a framed painting. Ada recognized it instantly as a Van Gogh, one of his many landscapes of the wheat field outside the Saint Paul Asylum as viewed through his cell window.
Only this one was different, one she hadn't seen before. In the middle of wheat filed stood two figures. Ada stepped closer and leaned forward to get a better look. One figure was a huge, broad man in a waistcoat, one hand raised in farewell. The other figure was a thin woman in a wind-blown gown, blowing a kiss.
It was Yorick and Ada.
The pair of time agents stood still for a moment, absorbing the painting and all its implications. Angus studied them, anger and frustration etched into his bony face. Yorick was the first to break the silence.
"Huh," he said. "Well, I guess that explains how SPITE and VETO knew we were following Vincent."
