Excerpt

(from Bouquet of Flowers)

"To express the love of two lovers through a marriage of colors...

To express hope by a handful of stars..."

—Vincent van Gogh, letter to his brother, Theo.

The painting screams Laure's name at Maroch. He stares at it in disbelief, choking back his own scream.

It is a still life by van Gogh. This gallery in the Musée d'Orsay in Paris is devoted to Vincent. Beneath the painting, a still life now herself, Laure lies dead.

You should have known she would come here, my love, says a voice inside Maroch's head. It is a woman's voice, but not Laure's.

I should have known a lot of things, he answers silently.

Don't look at her, says the voice.

I can't help it.

The scrub team works on Laure. Maroch had sent for them when the museum's Director called him. He still has some pull at the Company.

Don't look.

Maroch pulls his eyes away as the team lifts Laure's slim corpse onto the body bag. Instead, he stares at the painting, which is like Laure in two very particular ways: it is beautiful—and it is impossible.

Beautiful. Against a dark blue background, an explosion of flowers overwhelms a white vase. Overwhelms the viewer, too. The flowers, mostly white and yellow chrysanthemums, seem ready to burst from the canvas, run wild over the frame, spill onto the gallery floor. Spill, like Laure lies spilled.

Impossible. This painting can't exist. But her body gives lie to that. He reads the plaque beside the painting:

"Bouquet of Flowers in a Vase: This still life is not mentioned in van Gogh's letters and has puzzled scholars as to its place in his artistic production. Most certainly a late work and possibly the Museum's first painting from his Auvers period (May-July 1890)"

Yes, most certainly a late work, he thinks. Very late.

A sound like something tearing cuts the gallery's silence—the zipper closing on the body bag.

Something tearing—her life—my life.

Don't listen, says the voice.

Maroch stares at the painting as the Director comes to stand beside him. Pale-faced, she wrings her hands. "Horrible," she says, looking at the body bag.

Don't look, says the voice. Maroch stays silent.

Turning her back on Laure, the Director stares at the painting, as if by focusing solely on it, she can restore the gallery to normalcy, to its intended purpose. "Strange," she says.

More than strange, he thinks. Impossible.

She shakes her head. "I know every one of his works. I know them like my children, the ones in our collection more so. The provenance of each, where it is—storage, on display, on loan. I can visualize this entire room, every brush stroke, every color. Everything about every one, but..." Her voice trails off.

Maroch continues to stare at the painting, knowing what will come next.

She shakes her head again. "But not this one. This one, I have no memory of. None."

Give it time, he thinks. He almost laughs at that. Time.

"No memory of ever seeing it," she says, "or reading of it in any biography or in his letters to Theo. As if it never existed until I saw it hanging here today."

"Have you checked your records?" he asks.

She sniffs. "I tell you I know his works. This one—" She stops.

This one you can't explain, he thinks, so you'll check again.

The Director sighs. "I'll check our records again. Maybe I missed it. Maybe it's there."

It will be there—now.

She turns from the painting to watch the cleanup team lifting the body bag onto the gurney.

Laure is inside that, he thinks.

Don't look, my love.

"Is this matter over now?" the Director asks, as if a suicide was no more than a troublesome audit of their books.

"It's over," he says.

It's not over, is it? asks the voice.

No, he thinks. One more thing to do.

"And no one will hear about this?" she asks.

"No one," he says. That I promise you, Laure, he swears.

The Director sniffs again, then leaves him, running off, no doubt, to check the museum's records. The cleanup team wheels out the gurney with the body bag.

"Goodbye, Laure," he whispers.

Don't look, my love.

His phone rings. It's Karsh. "Maroch! Are you there?"

Part of me is. Part of me just left. "I'm here."

"Have you seen it?" Karsh is excited. Even for Karsh, he is excited.

Maroch stares at the painting. "I've seen it."

"Do you know what this means? What we have done? What you and your petite conne have done?"

Maroch looks at the bloodstained carpet where Laure had lain. "I know."

"We're going to be rich, my friend. We are going to be powerful. Rich and powerful."

No. No, we aren't. "Rich and powerful, Karsh."

"This changes everything!" Karsh cries.

Yes, it does, he thinks. But he says nothing.

"Maroch? Are you there? We need to meet."

Yes, we do. "When? Where?"

"The cottage in Auvers. At seven tonight."

"I'll be there."

Karsh hangs up. Maroch checks his watch. Three o'clock. The cottage is a two-hour drive from Paris. He still has time. Time to remember Laure. He moves on to the next van Gogh in the gallery.

The Café Terrace on the Place du Forum at Night—Arles, 1888. A café street scene. Tables sit half-empty. An island of light from the patio spills onto a cobblestone street, yellow-warm and yellow-bright. A few passers-by, a waiter clad in black and white. A cold night sky, black-blue and star-swarmed.

He looks at the date again. 1888. Before Auvers. He remembers another café, where it all began.

Before Auvers...