Van Gogh, Don't Cut Off Your Ear! Your Top Trader Is Here

Chapter 3 The Gang's Deal

"Paintings!" Marcel's voice squeezed out a thread of composure through his trembling, knowing that showing weakness now would be suicide. "Oil paintings! Worth more than ears!"

Armand's eyebrows knotted together, the gun barrel shifting slightly: "Paintings?"

"Yes! A thousand-franc hole can't be filled by one ear, but paintings can!"

"Your big families usually need quality religious icon paintings, right?" Marcel stared at the butterfly tattoo on Armand's neck, a common gang symbol.

When he was in Kyoto, he often received overseas orders for religious oil paintings - gangs commissioning high-quality replicas of famous religious works for initiation ceremonies.

Gangs were very particular about initiation rituals.

During initiation, the boss would use a dagger to cut the new member's hand, drip blood onto the religious painting, then burn it, symbolizing that if the new member betrayed the family, they would suffer the torment of flames like the burned painting, finding no peace even in hell.

This ritual had been passed down since the 19th century and was mandatory for most gang families.

"The Madonna of the Rocks, Madonna of the Chair, Sistine Madonna, Deliverance from Suffering - surely your boss wouldn't fool God with printed copies?"

Armand frowned.

What this kid was talking about was exactly the urgent, headache-inducing problem that had been troubling him lately.

Messengers from the Sicilian headquarters in Italy had repeatedly emphasized that the initiation ceremony for the new batch of members must use hand-painted religious icons, or they wouldn't receive divine protection.

But the art dealers in Paris either demanded astronomical prices or painted like street graffiti artists.

The last three religious paintings bought from Paris had been spotted by the boss as containing cheap lithopone mixed in the paint, nearly causing internal family strife.

He was responsible for procurement, and if he couldn't deliver qualified goods again, in half a month, his hands would be hanging from the Seine River bridge piers.

"You understand this?" Armand's voice carried more scrutiny.

Marcel's heart leaped with secret joy - it looked like he'd bet correctly!

"I used to paint many religious icons for some families. From Da Vinci to Rembrandt, as long as you can name it, I can paint it with my eyes closed."

Van Gogh suddenly interjected, his voice hoarse: "You're going to paint for gangs? Isn't that a desecration of art?"

He gripped the razor tightly, as if it were his last dignity.

"Vincent, now is not the time to discuss art! We need to survive first!" Marcel glanced at the neurotic Van Gogh. "Please give me canvas, brushes, and paint."

"Half an hour, I'll paint a section of The Madonna of the Rocks for you to see. If you're not satisfied, you can pull the trigger then."

Armand stared into Marcel's eyes for three seconds, then suddenly grinned, the scar on his cheek twisting like a centipede:

"Interesting. If you mess up the painting, I'll cut off both your ears and feed them to the dogs!"

Van Gogh hesitantly handed over a piece of uncut linen, his blue eyes full of confusion.

This young man who had suddenly appeared could read his inner thoughts, understood gang insider information, and was confident about speed painting - it was as if he came from another world.

Marcel walked to the easel, and as he dipped the lead white for priming, his finger muscle memory instantly awakened.

Da Vinci's The Madonna of the Rocks - that classic pyramidal composition, the Virgin's gentle and compassionate face, the infant John's devout posture, the golden patterns on the angel's sleeves...

All the lines, light and shadow, atmosphere, emerged as clearly as if branded in his mind.

Marcel's wrist holding the brush moved with almost mechanical precision and speed.

No hesitation, no corrections, every line carried the fluidity of countless refinements.

He was rapidly "replicating," projecting images stored millions of times in his mind onto the canvas through muscular instinct.

Twenty years of copying techniques carved into his bones came alive at this moment, Da Vinci's signature sfumato brushwork flowing naturally on the canvas.

Van Gogh's sunken blue eyes stared fixedly at Marcel's hand, watching the young man outline precise contours with an efficiency he had never seen before, almost coldly methodical.

That technique... completely different from the passionate abandon he pursued, yet carrying a heart-stopping classical precision.

At some point, Armand had quietly put away his gun and stood with arms crossed, his gray-blue eyes initially mocking, gradually turning to surprise.

He had seen countless street artists' scribbles, but this kid's precision and speed in brushwork carried a cold, inhuman proficiency, as if he were a machine directly copying from the original.

"Cobalt blue with a touch of ochre." Van Gogh suddenly spoke, pointing at the palette. "Your shadow just now was too dead."

Marcel paused, following his advice to mix the colors.

Sure enough, the shadow area immediately revealed subtle layers.

He glanced at Van Gogh, who was staring at the canvas, a focused light flickering in his sunken eye sockets, the earlier madness and despair temporarily fading away.

Half an hour later, Marcel put down his brush.

On the canvas, sacred folds seemed to flow, the Christ child's fingers glowed with healthy pink, even the crescents of the fingernails were clearly visible.

The Virgin's lowered eyelids seemed to contain infinite compassion, her fingers carrying an unquestionable sense of the sacred.

The ferocity on Armand's face was replaced by shock mixed with amazement and disbelief.

As a gang thug accustomed to blood and violence, he knew nothing about "art," but he recognized "skill"!

Marcel's ruthless, precise, and fast brushwork, that cloud-like confidence, was identical to the stability he'd seen in top assassins before they drew and fired!

This definitely wasn't an act!

Though Armand didn't understand perspective and lighting, he could tell these brushstrokes were identical to the religious paintings he'd seen in churches - that heavy sense of the sacred couldn't be faked.

He walked to the easel and rubbed the paint with his rough thumb - already half-dry, a quick-drying technique.

He pointed at the angel's wings: "What's with this white?"

"Lead white base, zinc white highlights, final glaze of eggshell white." Marcel stared at the reflection in his pupils. "Look closely, you can see seven layers of luminescence."

Armand actually pressed his face close to the canvas, then involuntarily nodded, surprise showing on his face.

"Good enough?!" Marcel stared intently at Armand's face.

"Interesting." Armand's voice was still hoarse, but the disdain and contempt had completely vanished. "I do need a batch of religious paintings - dignified, authentic-looking. The size doesn't need to be too large, 24 inches wide, 32 inches high, but fast! Forty paintings! Delivery in ten days! Can you do it?"

"Yes!" Marcel answered decisively.

Van Gogh was startled, his messy beard trembling.

"What's your price?"

"One hundred francs each."

Marcel's palms sweated as he quoted the price - this was triple the wholesale price in Kyoto, but he bet the gang wouldn't care about the money.

"Eighty." Armand haggled without hesitation. "Forty paintings, delivery in ten days."

For Armand, in Paris, religious paintings of such high quality would start at least at one hundred francs.

Eighty francs!

Marcel's heart couldn't help but tremble.

This far exceeded the prices of ordinary painters in Arles!

Gang markup!

Loaded with money!

Stupid rich people!

He suppressed his wild joy and immediately nodded:

"Deal! But I need 500 francs down payment to buy canvas, brushes, and paint."

Armand stared at him for a while, silently pulled out a stack of bills from his pocket, and slammed them on the table.

"Ten days from now, before sunset, forty religious paintings. Not one less, not one piece of trash. Pierre's thousand-franc debt is included in this!"

He tapped the canvas with his gun barrel: "Otherwise, I'll nail your hands to this painting!"

Armand put away his gun, gave one last look at the sunflower paintings scattered on the floor, but without his previous disdain, and strode out the door.

The two thugs waiting outside quickly followed, rapidly disappearing into the cold night wind.

Van Gogh's ear was saved!

With 500 francs down payment in hand, the rent was also settled!

Marcel let out a long breath, pinched his thigh hard - this wasn't a dream, was it?

Van Gogh slumped in his chair, scratching his disheveled red hair, his voice full of anxiety: "Marcel, ten days? Complete forty religious paintings? Oh, my God! Are you mad?"

"Listen, Vincent, not only am I not mad, I can complete the religious paintings, and tomorrow, I'll help you sell all your paintings!"

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① Da Vinci's The Madonna of the Rocks exists in two versions, housed respectively in the Louvre in Paris, France, and the National Gallery in London, England. The latter version clearly shows the angel with wings.