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

Chapter 5 Sudden Accident

"Oh, my God! 150 francs prize money! It's 150 francs!"

In front of the wall covered with sunflowers at Rémy's general store, a housewife wearing a headscarf and blue cloth dress clutched a stack of banknotes she had found in the hidden compartment behind a picture frame, crying out in surprise with tears of excitement streaming down her cheeks!

Scattered on the ground beside her were the ham, olive paste, candles, and a small packet of sugar she had just bought—her entire Christmas budget.

The crowd instantly erupted like water droplets splashing into boiling oil.

"Thank God! It's truly a Christmas miracle!"

"Quick! That painting 'Sunflowers in the Field'! Give it to me!"

"This 'Wheat Field' is mine! Don't grab it!"

"Mr. Rémy! Take my money! I want this one!"

"Dear God, this yellow... this yellow is like capturing the sun of Arles in a picture frame!"

Old Rémy was overwhelmed, frantically collecting money and keeping accounts while shouting to maintain order.

His round, plump face was flushed red, his forehead covered in sweat beads.

People! The shop was packed with people! The threshold was nearly trampled down!

The merchandise on the shelves was almost completely cleared out!

Business was unexpectedly booming!

This morning he had despised that pile of "junk" picture frames, but now he wanted nothing more than to rush over and embrace them!

They were practically made of gold!

Competitors who had come to investigate left with ashen faces, while old Rémy's smile grew wider, displaying his undisguised smugness.

The news of someone winning a prize at Rémy's general store spread like dry wildfire across the wheat fields of Arles, instantly blazing across the landscape with the wind.

"Rémy's general store! Someone bought a painting and won 150 francs!"

"The area near the arena is almost sold out too!"

"The café! The café still has the last few paintings! The biggest prize of 200 francs might be among them!"

The very air of Arles seemed to be boiling with the words "Van Gogh's paintings," "lottery," and "grand prize."

People surged from all directions toward the brilliantly colored sunflowers, wheat fields, and Rhône River scenes, their faces bearing the fanatical hope of gamblers.

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In just over half a day, the three large packages Marcel had carried out that morning—36 Van Gogh paintings—had been transformed into heartwarming stacks of banknotes by the time the afternoon sun began to set, along with the genuinely respectful smiles from shopkeepers like old Rémy, Luc, and Gaston.

After deducting the sales commission, lottery prize money, and the 2-franc cost of posting advertisements, he netted exactly 2,160 francs—precisely the agreed minimum price.

Just yesterday, he had not only received the large order for religious icon paintings, resolving the rent crisis, but had also saved Van Gogh's ear.

Today, he had sold all of Van Gogh's paintings.

Van Gogh was no longer that impoverished, destitute madman wandering the wheat fields of Provence!

"Am I beginning to rewrite art history?!"

It was almost impossible to believe this was real.

The future was full of infinite possibilities!

He wanted to bid farewell to that damned slum and landlord Louis's wretched face before sunset.

20 francs...

He could almost imagine the old bastard's face when he received the money—a mixture of greed, astonishment, and the embarrassment of being slapped in the face.

His steps were light, his mood like a thousand-pound burden had been lifted from his shoulders.

A surge of pride filled his chest, and he even wanted to whistle.

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Just as he reached the narrow doorway, he saw landlord Louis's mean face.

Greasy hair plastered to his scalp, small eyes shooting out greedy and vicious glares, his mouth reeking of cheap wine's sour stench.

"Boy! The sun has set! 20 francs! Six months' rent! Not a sou less!"

Louis's shouting quickly attracted a crowd of idle onlookers.

Seeing people gathering around, Louis became even more pleased with his scolding.

He roared, spittle nearly spraying Marcel's face, "If you can't pay up, get out immediately! Take your junk and go to hell—"

Suddenly, his cursing came to an abrupt halt.

His eyes locked onto Marcel's hand like hooks—that hand had just pulled out a bulging, misshapen old money pouch from inside his coat, heavy and tightly bound with string.

The ferocity on Louis's face melted like snow meeting boiling water, instantly dissolving and transforming into a nauseating obsequious smile, even the prominent black mole beside his nostril was trembling.

"Oh! My dear Mr. Duval!" His voice suddenly shot up ten octaves, sickeningly sweet, his body instinctively bending down as he rubbed his hands together, "You... you've struck it rich? I knew it! You obviously aren't an ordinary person! Look at this bearing!"

He tried to crane his neck to see inside the money pouch.

Marcel remained expressionless, his movements slow like a marionette.

He untied the pouch's string, not even glancing at the large denomination bills inside, instead reaching into another small pouch to pull out some scattered coins and small bills.

In front of Louis, he counted coin by coin, his voice clear and cold:

"1 franc... 2 francs... 5 francs... 10 francs... 15 francs... 19 francs... 100 centimes." The jingling coins were arranged on the rotting wood of the door frame.

"The rent, 19 francs and 100 centimes. Please count it clearly, Mr. Louis. Not a sou less than you're owed."

This time, he threw that humiliation right back with interest!

Louis's obsequious smile froze, like a crude mask beginning to crack.

He looked at that pitiful pile of small change, then at the bulging money pouch obviously containing a fortune in Marcel's hand, his eyes filled with disbelief, unwillingness, and humiliated anger.

"Just... just like this?" He pointed at the small change on the door frame, his voice becoming urgent, "Mr. Duval! Look, you... why bother! This little room isn't worthy of your status anymore! But we can negotiate! I'll give you a bigger room! Facing south! With a small window! More spacious! The rent... the rent is negotiable! 15 francs! No! 12 francs a month!"

He urgently held out three fingers, then hastily changed to two, desperate to keep this newly wealthy tenant.

Marcel glared at him, bent down to pick up his already-packed bundle containing all his possessions, put the money pouch inside, and slung it over his shoulder.

"No need." His voice had no inflection, like wind scraping across stone on an Arles winter night, "Keep your house for the rats. The place I'm moving to has a spacious bedroom, and," he paused, his gaze sweeping over Louis's obsequious face, "a warm fireplace."

Then he strode away with his head held high.

Behind him came Louis's exasperated, incoherent roars and the surrounding crowd's barely suppressed laughter.

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Walking out of the slum alley, Marcel let out a long breath of stale air from his chest, the satisfaction of successfully striking back making his whole body feel light.

He calculated that tomorrow he should buy Van Gogh some good paints and improve their meals.

Perhaps he should buy a bottle of fine wine to celebrate?

He couldn't wait to move into the Yellow House and start a new life with the genius painter Van Gogh.

He unconsciously squeezed the bundle on his shoulder, confirming the money pouch was still there.

Along Avenue Montmajour, through the railway bridge underpass, then another hundred or two hundred steps around the corner would be 2 Place Lamartine, Van Gogh's Yellow House.①

Just as he reached the railway bridge underpass, suddenly a black shadow pounced from behind without warning!

Fast as lightning tearing through the night sky!

Marcel felt a huge, savage force slam into his back like being struck by a boulder, involuntarily tumbling toward the wall on his right, his head hitting the hard wall with a "thud," stars exploding before his eyes, his ears ringing.

His shoulder suddenly felt light—the bundle had been snatched away by the shadow.

Before he could see the attacker's face clearly, the robber fled like the wind, disappearing in the blink of an eye into the dark depths of Avenue Montmajour.

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① "Avenue Montmajour, ""railway bridge," "2 Place Lamartine," and other descriptions are compiled from Van Gogh's oil and watercolor painting "The Yellow House" (1888), Van Gogh: The Life (CHAPTER 31: "Le Paradou"), Van Gogh's Ear: The True Story (CHAPTER 7: "Monsieur Vincent" & CHAPTER 9: "A Home at Last"), The Yellow House: Van Gogh, Gauguin, and Nine Turbulent Weeks in Arles (1."The Arrival, October 23, 1888") and other materials.

Van Gogh: The Life, written by Steven Naifeh & Gregory White Smith, published by Random House, 2011.

Van Gogh's Ear: The True Story, written by Bernadette Murphy, published by Random House, 2016.

The Yellow House: Van Gogh, Gauguin, and Nine Turbulent Weeks in Arles, written by Martin Gayford, published by Little, Brown and Company, Hachette Book Group, 2006.