At the time, a wayward uncle of Vinny’s was unmarried but happily settled in France. He managed an art museum and heard that his nephew had been struggling in his young adulthood: he was ill-fated with women and had yet to remain employed. He offered the young gentleman a chance to work as a curator at his establishment and even to fly him out on his own buck. Needless to mention, Vinny leaped at the opportunity to work for a relative where he would surely get some second chances.
Despite his perilous history with women, Vinny actually once met a young artist who frequently browsed the museum. The way she flitted along the walls of every room at only a short distance from each piece attracted his attention. Her ever consistent pace and timeless glare brought the splendor out of each piece and was pleasant for any casual spectator.
On a certain Wednesday in December, she glided through the sliding doors to view a brand new exhibit. Only a few other die-hard patrons weathered the wind and rain that day. The woman was bundled tight from muffs to boots. Sanitizing a glass casing, he stopped to watch her remove her layers sensually as if she were staring him down bedside. When she unraveled a long winding scarf that seemed to strangle her neck, she pulled against a long earring and it fell from her left ear.
She strolled on, lost in thought, unaware of the scintillating jewelry that was no longer harnessed to her delicate earlobe. Instinctively the curator went for it and prudently lifted it to call her attention to the dangling prize as an offer of conversation. She faintheartedly accepted and quietly thanked him. She smiled slightly and asked him if he enjoyed his privileged access to so many renowned exhibits. Vinny nodded, but knew from experience that he must not become overzealous.
“I enjoy observing the admirers of these displays, for it is you who gives art depth and imagination.”
She smiled. Vinny moved for a cautious leave, but then a second thought made him pause and he asked her to discuss the exhibit over coffee during his break.
Later that week he took Maria to a theater viewing and out for dinner afterwards. There was visible chemistry in their personalities. That night he went home alone so that he could take it slow and evaluate his feelings. He called her two days later and landed another date. Once again in the late hours of the night he drove away as she fumbled the keys to her third story apartment. She played hard to get the following two dates until finally giving in on the fifth, where he once again took the controls by refusing swiftly.
One day in January, she stopped by the museum just before close. He noticed her waiting outside, framed through the frosted windowpane. He closed up hurriedly and went to meet her. She surprised him with entrance passes to a local show. The night was fascinating for both of them Vinny had never experienced that natural ease of interaction with any woman he had ever known. Sex was inevitable, so they gave in and he went gladly back to her apartment.
He became strongly attracted to Maria that night. He felt a very special love for her, an extent to which exceeded hers. She started to realize this when she could not elude him even for a day. Vinny began to hound her in person as well as over the phone. She retreated and finally broke it off with the obviously deranged figure. Caught up in his own obsession he performed a grotesque offering which he thought could never be refused.
Vinny had been encouraged by his father to pray which led him away from the museum and the other stable aspects of his life. Long days and weeks were spent traveling and preaching. He wandered streets, often unsure of his destination, and spoke with anyone who would so much as turn to profess their love for Jesus Christ. Distraught still by unfulfilling sentiments, the man took on a more personal approach. He desired to plant God into the lives of specific people who he knew needed saving. The coal mines became his sanctuary. Vinny was quite fearless and spent hours speaking to miners, decked out in a fully protective suit and a hard hat, complete with top light and hiking boots.
Despite his success, Vinny’s mind and intentions were insatiable. His manic depressive mood swings worsened and increased in number. His thoughts and feelings toward God faded as he dug deeper for meaning. Ultimately unsuccessful in his quest for contentment, his brain processes fell apart convoluting any source of coherent perspective.
The dorms within the inn-keeps of Auvers-Sur-Oise, were confined, characterized by rustic layers of brick design. The rooms were neighbored only by a few other occupants. The doctor’s eyes immediately adjusted to the poorly lit ambiance provided by the room. He was a healthy looking elderly gentleman who stood tall and lean in the doorway. The slow approach of Doctor Gahmet comforted his sometimes anxious patient and friend. Vinny, a peculiar man, similarly built but lankier, gazed upward. He was occupied by his normal hobbies, lounging thoughtfully on a wooden stool. Vinny reminisced on the quiet confidence of his younger days, before things fell apart.
The muted but definitive conversation began with some of the usual subject repetition.
“What did it mean to you, Vinny, that your father was a minister?”
“His words were dignified and his thoughts were honest. As you know I deeply respected my father.” Doctor Gahmet was fishing for another answer.
“Yes but with this reputed respect, I sense a factor of intimidation. Did you feel angry at him?”
“My father taught and led his family through intimidation. He was so morally upright that, many times, we felt inferior. Sometimes it was disquieting to watch him lecture my mother.”
The older of the two gentlemen relaxed his muscles and fingered his stubble. His poof of orange hair wafted softly as he shifted his weight.
“Were you bothered by your mother’s complacency?”
“I wouldn’t say it bothered me because she had a quiet, thoughtful confidence. I see those qualities in myself. However, I knew she was not in control of the household”.
Vinny smiled flaccidly at the memory of his pleasant mother. He could hear the ministers motivated and narrow speeches which belittled his feelings, echoing in his ears.
“Tell me about your sisters… go ahead and start where you like.”
Vinny sighed, “Well Elisabeth is the oldest of the three. As a child she was tall and plain looking. She embodied many traits of Kathy, but tended to be more straightforward.”
He paused and moved on,
“Anna was the classic middle child; she was often protective of me. The youngest, Wil, differed significantly from the others. Like me, her mind was creatively inclined.”
“Right of course, lets move on to Theo…” muttered the psychologist.
Theodore became Vinny’s best friend as time wore on and was the recipient of almost every letter he ever wrote.
“He has been the single strongest influence in my life, Doc. We talk of any personal issues and, God Forbid, he actually listens to me. I continue to write to him to this day, it seems to provide some balance in my life.”
“Tell me about your faith, Vincent.”
“Well like most children, church came and it went. Seemed quite redundant and the lessons were quite tedious. Our Father’s sermons tended to irritate rather than inspire.”
“I take it you do not consider yourself spiritual?”
“To the contrary, God was instilled in our hearts as children. It wasn’t until my mid-twenties that I understood the true meaning of Christianity. I became depressed at my museum job and quit to seek guidance. The connection was confirmed. I embarked as a missionary to preach, depending solely on God for my well-being.”
“Quite interesting… hmm…. What came after that?”
“St. Remy.”
The particular activity he was engaged in at present, in his room at the Inn, always conjured and brought forth all flashbacks. The most striking difference could be seen in the strokes. At one time, elegant unrestricted delineation of images in his head had opened him up. Those days were over, slain by the hand of sanity. Along with exoneration and balance came the accidental portrayal of life through broader and more defined strokes. The activity came to a halt as it normally did when he felt an impulse to write to his brother Theo.
Dear Theodore,
Sweet brother, for so long you have been confident in me, never encroaching upon my capabilities. No other man or woman has ever befriended me that way. For this, I am afraid, I owe a great debt of graciousness that can never be repaid…
Even though my work has suffered as I sit and grow older, Doctor Gahmet is most apt and attentive to my needs. I fear that I can not be cured of my ailments. If perhaps I could be freed of the incessant ringing in my head, I would not be constantly reminded of my psychological mutations. Sometimes I feel as though a tragic transformation has changed me into a magnanimous monster…
My vision of the future is egregious, far too grandiose to acknowledge as honest. God, if he is who father said he was, has dealt quite a certain destiny. The brush of paint is lost on itself, so Theo, I will step away.
…the loss of beauty through definition. To you my brother, a debt of gratitude.
Sincerely,
Vincent Van Gogh
The sun rested upon the shoulder of clouds and light settled gently on his room framing his talents. At once, a gradually deteriorating mind became filled with disgust. Shame and bitterness swelled inside him towards himself, his friends and his own innocent family. Only Theodore remained in his positive thoughts.
There was a silver .45 magnum revolver tucked away discretely in the back of his closet. He found the box, hearing the roll of one single unused bullet as he lifted the case from its hideout. The gun had been in the family for generations, and he had been allowed to retain possession. Of course, Gahmet was never aware of the ominous ammo. He exhumed the convenient six-shooter from rest and headed for the door. Very slowly Vincent recalled the events that had taken place in his life, confirming his current intuition.
There was a demon inside of him, clawing at his withering soul. The ringing lived right beneath the troubled man’s heart which pumped his life with delusion. He had enough of the squirming and uneasiness caused by the sound, so he aimed and fired. The bullet was lodged and the gun dropped of its own weight to the damp ground. Panicking, he crawled for the inn. How painless it truly was, could he feel no regret?
Historical Fiction
Posts
