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| Les-Baux, Van Stein |
With Van Gogh's birthday looming up tomorrow (167 years), a good time to finish Van Gone-ville:
We need lodging nearby so that Van Stein may return to
the the asylum that night and paint it bathed in moonlight.
Around the Alpilles—rocky hills—sits the perched
medieval village of Les-Baux-de-Provence, and nearby La Cabro d’Or, an 18th century stone farmhouse, now an inn whose restaurant possesses a
Michelin star.
That cuts it for me, even if the price associated with
Michelin unnerves Van Stein. (“I don’t suppose there’s a Denny’s around here?”)
They give us a pair of rooms diagonally across a
topiary garden.
The three-course supper is superb,
bested only by a full-bodied Bordeaux, and vintage Armagnac, the perfect set up
for a good sleep—for me, not Van Stein, who must drive back to
St, Paul de Mausole, 30 minutes away.
He’s got to paint, even though—or especially because—he’s
he’s on the edge
from jetlag, sleep deprivation and non-stop loco-motion.
I settle into my cozy, cave-like room and prepare for
bed, enjoying the still of the night until bored to sleep by CNN…
Bang!
A loud explosion to my right jolts me from deep
sleep.
I lurch upward, no clue where I am during the first
few seconds of consciousness.
I twist my head to the right, expecting to see a big
hole in the wall from whatever bomb detonated.
But the wall is intact, along with a small radiator
affixed to it, which I’d
turned off.
So, what was the loud noise?
A radiator burp, magnified beyond reason by the silent
countryside?
I get up, take a peek outside the window and see a
very bright full moon hanging high in the sky before looking across the garden to
Van Stein’s
room, which is dark.
I check the time—just past two o’clock—and slide undercover relax, fall asleep, another deep sleep…
Until a hand grabs my right arm, just below my elbow–a real physical
grip.
I awaken with a start, absolutely certain that someone is standing next me wanting to explain
why they wanted me to wake up.
But there is no one!
I am absolutely astounded that no one is beside
me, even though the mere presence of anyone would require serious
explanation.
The grip was that real.
The bedside clock says 3:45.
I get up, drink from a bottle of Evian, gaze out the
window: A bright full moon, hanging
lower than before; Van Stein’s
room, across the garden, is still dark. He
must still be out there, poor bastard.
Shaken (literally,
having been shaken awake), I pop the TV back on (CNN) and I notice the TV clock
says 3:15.
Wait a minute, isn’t it 3:45? I look back at the bedside clock: it now says 3:15.
Wait a minute, isn’t it 3:45? I look back at the bedside clock: it now says 3:15.
That’s it,
I’ve had it. I decide to stay awake.
But I don’t. CNN—as usual—induces sleep…
But I don’t. CNN—as usual—induces sleep…
A knock on my
door. I awaken, walk to the door, open
it.
Van Stein stands in front of me, expressionless.
Van Stein stands in front of me, expressionless.
“You made it
back,” I say.
Van Stein says
nothing; he backs away from the door, motioning me with his arm to follow him,
a bright full moon hanging in the sky behind him.
“Something
wrong, Thomas?” I ask.
He does not respond, just
keeps waving me toward him.
I awaken from
this dream. CNN is churning news at low
volume; I fall back to sleep…
A knock on my
door. I awaken, get up, and open
it. Van Stein stands there,
expressionless.
“Thomas, you’re not going to
believe this,” I say, “I just dreamed this. What’s
going on?”
Van Stein backs
away, says nothing, motioning with a wave of his arm for me to follow him into
the darkness, a bright full moon hanging overhead. “Thomas, what the hell’s going on?”
I wake up again,
mind agog. I get up, splash water on my
face. It’s about 4:30.
No more sleep, I
resolve.
But soon I’m snoozing again.
Until my mind wakes up and my body stays asleep—one of those sleep paralysis episodes where you want to open your eyes and move, but your muscular system and every other part of your body refuses to budge. In other words, your mind has awakened but your body hasn’t.
But soon I’m snoozing again.
Until my mind wakes up and my body stays asleep—one of those sleep paralysis episodes where you want to open your eyes and move, but your muscular system and every other part of your body refuses to budge. In other words, your mind has awakened but your body hasn’t.
Now I’m in a coma!
It takes about two minutes, but I
snap out of it.
And snap generally.
And snap generally.
It’s 5:15 and I want out.
Van Stein’s room is now
awash with light.
I shower quickly, dress, stride across the garden to his room.
I shower quickly, dress, stride across the garden to his room.
Through the window I see him,
spread-eagled on his bed, face up, fully clothed.
“Thomas,” I hiss. “Are you alive?”
“Huh?” He opens one eye. “Hard to say.” He closes his eye, turns onto his side,
trying to shut me out.
“Get up. We’re
leaving.”
“Now?” He turns back, opens both eyes.
“Yup. No time like the present.”
“Why?”
“Meet me at reception,” I say. “I’ll be
checking out.”
It’s still pitch dark outside. I return to my room, pack my things, hoof to
reception, where wait staff are cranking up, brewing coffee.
“I need to check out,” I say.
They tell me the woman who handles
checkouts has wandered off.
“Wandered off where?”
“She comes soon. Five minutes.”
I pace. Van Stein stumbles through the door.
“Would you like
coffee while you wait?” asks a waiter.
A very un-French offer:
complimentary anything is
unheard of in these parts.
“No,” I say, wanting to leave
a.s.a.p., not wanting to be delayed by coffee, not even free coffee.
“Sure,” says Van Stein, groggy from
lack of sleep. He sits next me, rubs his
eyes. “I just got back an hour ago. Hell of a night at the asylum. Why are we leaving so soon?”
“You believe in ghosts, don’t you?”
“You know I do.”
“My room is
haunted. A spirit or a ghost or
something tried to eject me from my room.”
“I’m not surprised,” says Van Stein. “There’s a
lot of ancient stuff going on around here.
I felt it last night.”
“Did you happen to feel a real grip
on your arm?”
“You felt that?”
“Not only. It’s
been going on all night long. First it
woke me up with a loud explosion. When I
wouldn’t take the hint and leave, it grabbed my arm, as if to say, This way
please. It tried to fake me out with
the time, making the bedside clock seem later than it was. When none of that
worked, it used you to lure me out.”
“Me?”
“In dreams. You’re
knocking at my door. When I answer, you
don’t say
a word, just beckon me out after you.
Twice. And now, because I didn’t take the hint,
it’s trying to keep
me here.” I get up, amble to the
breakfast room. “Any news on that
check-out person? It’s been twenty
minutes.”
The coffee guy
blows a raspberry and shrugs. “She must
come soon.”
“She must.” I
return to Van Stein, sipping free coffee.
“See what I mean?”
The artist takes another gulp. “This coffee’s good. And
you’re suffering from franticism.”
I sip coffee, eyes frantic.
The check-out woman finally
appears. She prints out a bill. I scan the charges. “Yeah, everything’s fine.”
“Do I use the card you checked in
with?” she asks.
“Do it.”
She does. It
doesn’t
work. She tries again. No authorization.
“Okay,” I say, “If Amex doesn’t want the
commission, we’ll
give it to MasterCard.”
She runs it, looks at me. “Non.”
“Impossible.” Now I blow a raspberry. “That one always works.”
She studies her credit card
gizmo. “Maybe this does not work.”
“Okay, here’s what we do,” I
dig into my pocket. “Cash money.” I count out four hundred euros.
“I must make you receipt,” she
says.
“Not necessary.” I say. “I’m good.” I fly out the door, throw my luggage into the
car.
Van Stein follows in slow motion,
loads the car with his gear, which he’d
stacked outside his room in the topiary garden.
We climb in. It’s still pitch
dark, a full moon setting, as we approach the electronic gate. It is supposed to open as we draw near. It does not.
We wait a full minute.
Nothing.
“Holy-son-of-a-friggin’-whoremaster.” I open the door, get out, and trot back to
reception. “Gate won’t open,” I bark.
Two French women look at me with
astonished expressions.
“Impossible,” snaps one. The other blows a raspberry.
“Impossible,” snaps one. The other blows a raspberry.
“I’m not
lying,” I say. “It really won’t open.”
One of them hands me a magnetic
strip card. “Use this.”
I gallop to the gate, run the
card. Nothing happens. Again.
And again. Same result. (Some shrinks say the truest definition of
insanity is when someone does the same thing over and over again and expects a
different result.)
I sprint back to reception, thrust
the card in their faces.
“It does not work. Let me
out. Now!”
They look at me like I’m not only a
lying American but I’m
stupid as well. And crazy. One of them rises, follows me out and runs
her magnetic card through the slot.
Doesn’t
work. She opens a small door at the side
of the gate, presses a button. Nothing.
I’m too desperate to gloat.
She blows a raspberry,
stumped. “This never happens.”
Like it’s my fault.
“What now?” I’m desperate.
“I go see.” She stomps off.
“Go see what?” I call after
her. Van Stein is snoring beside me.
A few minutes later, she returns
with a new magnetic card.
She swipes, the gate glides open.
She swipes, the gate glides open.
