Tuesday, March 31, 2020
Monday, March 30, 2020
VAN GONE-VILLE 4: ESCAPE FROM PROVENCE
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Van Stein: The Starry Night Painter |
I hit the gas pedal, tear through wheat
fields painted by Claude Monet, past St-Paul-de-Mausole (Van Gogh's asylum) out of St-Remy—not stopping
for two-and-a-half hours until we are forced to a halt by an officious police
officer guarding the border into the Principality of Monaco.
I would have stopped us, too, in
our baseball caps, leather bomber jackets, bloodshot eyes, and unkempt hair.
Van Stein startles awake. “What’s
going on?” He focuses on the
immaculately uniformed female Nazi.
“Uh-oh,” he mutters, “not another threshold guardian.”
Identity, she
demands.
We surrender our passports, which
she scrutinizes, then patches our names to Police Central through a two-way
radio.
Car papers, she
demands.
I hand her a wad of rental documents. She inspects, it passes muster.
I hand her a wad of rental documents. She inspects, it passes muster.
Then the grilling. Why do you come to Monaco?
There’s no point lying to an
officer of the law. “I have a rendezvous with Prince Albert.” I check my wristwatch. “At 11:30 this
morning.”
So, like, can you
hurry this up a little?
“Le Prince Hereditaire?” She looks at scruffy me like I’m nuts, wanting
to hear me confirm this in her native language, I guess.
“Oui,” I oblige
her.
She whispers into her two-way radio,
listens, gently hands me passports and car papers. “I am sorry,” she says. “It is my job.”
“It’s okay,” I reassure her.
“Goddam Nazi,”
hisses Van Stein as we roll off, spiraling downward into Monte Carlo on a quiet
Sunday morning.
We take an
open-air table at Café de Paris for cappuccino and croissants, joined by Reek
Pisserin, in from London to join me for princely business.
We leave Van
Stein at the café, promising to return for lunch.
Two-and-a-half hours later (the Prince was late and the meeting long), it is
way past lunchtime.
A French foursome occupies our old
table where Van Stein should have been.
Where did he go?
Reek Pisserin and I scramble, aware that our
flight to London is two hours away.
I find the artist sitting,
sketching, next to a fountain in gardens adjacent to Place du Casino, a look of total abandonment
on his face.
“Thomas? Sorry, we ran late. Why didn’t you
wait at Café de Paris?”
Van Stein shakes his head in
disgust.
Finally, he speaks. “They wanted to move into lunch and I didn’t have cash to
pay for our croissants and coffee.”
“What about a credit card?
“When they saw
it was American, they refused it, just told me to leave quietly. I was lucky not to get arrested.” He’d
been mindful of the Nazi at border control.
“I’ve
been walking around, trying not to look suspicious, which is hard for me today,
since all I had was forty-five minutes'
sleep before you woke me up and I look like a homeless tramp around all
these Lamborghinis and Ferraris and mink coats.
Then I sat here, pretending to sketch. The police have been circling, getting ready to pounce on me. I’m never
coming back to this place.”
We find the car and
drive to Nice-Cote d’Azur
Airport, return the vehicle to Avis, retrieve our gear.
“Hey,” says Van
Stein. “Where’s my paint
box?”
On all these
trips, Van Stein carries a small wooden crate with his mix of paints, thinner
and brushes.
It’s nowhere.
Did somebody
break into the car in Monaco?
No. Unheard of.
No. Unheard of.
“Phone the
chateau,” snaps Van Stein.
I consult the
invoice given me at checkout, tap out numbers, connect, explain the situation.
Yes, we have Mr. Van Stein’s wooden box, says
the woman.
“Where did you find it?”
I expect her to say, His room.
I expect her to say, His room.
The answer startles us: Outside, behind the chateau.
“But I wasn’t
even back there,” says Van Stein.
“You sure you want it back?” I ask him, fully understanding the metaphysical darkness behind this, based on my haunting.
“Of course.”
Every new expense, however small, burdens the struggling artist who
lives for art and sees money only as a means to buy more paint.
Ultimately, it’s a question of arithmetic: the expense of buying new supplies is greater than shipping the crate home.
Ultimately, it’s a question of arithmetic: the expense of buying new supplies is greater than shipping the crate home.
”Careful, Thomas—you never know what may come back inside your box. You may need to re-name it Pandora.”
With hindsight, it is
clear what transpired:
We’d gone searching for the spirit of Van Gogh. So the
dead artist first tries to throw me out of my room, second, tries to keep me prisoner, and third, smuggles himself to
Santa Barbara in Van Stein’s
box.
Sunday, March 29, 2020
VAN GONE-VILLE 3: A HAUNTING
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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.
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