The Artist
Rousseau was seated in a plastic chair, trying hard to familiarize himself with his new environment. Something warm was oozing down his sinuses in the back of his throat, forcing a gag. In a flurry of violent coughing and gasps, he desperately tried to figure out which other parts of his body were bleeding.
Brown stains on the smokey mirror shed light on Rousseau le Croix's predicament -
that, and the infrequent buzz-flicker of grimy fluorescent tubes.
An interrogation room.
"Why are you in Amsterdam?! We've been watching you for three years. All your little excursions to Johannesburg, Tel Aviv - including your recent whoring around Thailand and India - are in here." A heavy envelope hit the cheap table top.
"Photos. Evidence. Where are they?!"
Le Croix was finding it really hard to understand Sergeant De Jongh's words (let alone his intentions), for the man's elaborate moustache seemed to cover both his upper and lower lip, quivering in such a way that it caused the sounds of his already thick Dutch accent to crumble into little puzzles of misunderstanding.
Every now and again the well-groomed moustache would reveal a set of large white teeth and a cloud of breath that, in Rousseau's humble opinion, could be taken better care of.
He didn't like the Sergeant's piercing blue eyes either.
No, Rousseau didn't like blue eyes, full stop.
De Jongh retrieved a comb in the back pocket of his uniform trousers and raked it through his thinning blonde hair, covering the balding patch that was growing like some sick experiment on the side of his egg-shaped head.
"How many are there, le Croix? How many?!" De Jongh was messaging his temples; a definite stress signal.
"Cigarette, Sergeant?" managed the detainee in a barely discernable French accent.
Rousseau knew his day was getting fairly bizarre when De Jongh smiled and held out a pack of menthols. Le Croix thought of declining, but that would just be rude. Besides, with all that blood in his mouth, he probably wouldn't even be able to taste the mint.
De Jongh licked his lips and lit for him.
As Rousseau le Croix inhaled the smoke of his first cigarette in eight years, his wooziness disappeared into clouds of euphoria (and a violent head spin). For a brief moment De Jongh vanished with the dizziness and purple haze; for a second it was only him, le Croix, in the room - and in that flash of time everything came back to him.
It was about four on a Sunday afternoon. Le Croix wiped clean his palette knife, laid it down neatly next to the crumpled paint tubes. Then, using the same turpentine rag to remove the black spots on his manicured nails, he thought about the woman in the painting. "I hope there weren't any problems at customs," he said, staring into her black linseed oil eyes on the wooden panel. A contented smiled highlighted the look of approval on his face. "Please don't be angry with me for painting your eyes black; the blue didn't do it for me."
Out of the corner of his eye Rousseau spotted a white van pulling into the driveway of his canal house.
The sticker on the side of their vehicle - Amsterdam Electric - was flapping in gusts of van Gogh yellow autumn winds as the passenger slammed the door shut. The man tugged at his blue overall and pulled a white cap over his eyes, demonstrating eccentricity less admirable than that of a crusty turd in a Bombay slum.
His partner, dressed in a bright orange overall and looking around nervously as if he was about to commit arson, confirmed Rousseau's suspicion.
"Police."
Le Croix unhurriedly made his way over to the window and lifted it open, running a turpentine-scaled hand through his red wavy hair. The icy fingers of van Gogh's breeze, though inaudible, reached through the dusty window frame and skillfully slapped le Croix across his freckled cheekbones. The view over the Prinsengracht was especially pretty in autumn, the 17th century architecture of the other canal houses a painting in itself, but it had been the rippling reflection of the Northern Church on the dark water that caught his eye in particular.
He inhaled deeply as soon as he heard the impolite knock on the door.
Le Croix exhaled another puff of cheap cigarette smoke. "What do you want, Sergeant?" Casually he flicked the half-smoked menthol at De Jongh's feet.
Rousseau tried to reach for the photos on the unsteady plastic table, but an indescribable sting in his side had him slowly sit back in his chair.
De Jongh nodded, looking away and lit another cigarette.
An orange sleeve shot past le Croix's ear and placed the brown envelope on the detainee's lap.
Rousseau found it tricky opening the heavy package; his painting hand was broken. He raised it to his mouth, intending to shred open the wrapping with his teeth. It slipped out of his grip, dropped onto his knees, only to slip off and fall on the floor.
"GODVERDOMME!" bellowed De Jongh, throwing his cigarette down in a frustrated sparkle of orange. He stomped over and put his forefinger into le Croix's eye. Before he did so, le Croix had noticed the way in which the man's Vermeer red cheeks puffed, clearly indicative at just how desperate he'd become.
"GODVERDOMME!" he cursed again, "You-you-you--" (moustache shudders) "You have them! All these pictures--" he was fanning le Croix with the envelope "These people you've been meeting with...All of them."
"May I look for myself, Sergeant De Jongh?"
Rousseau smirked as soon as De Jongh's fingers came in contact with his blood on the envelope. The Sergeant wiped his hands on his trousers and sighed. The photos were spread out in on the table in front of Rousseau who tried to get a better view, but the flashing light caused a blur and an impatient frown.
By the way the Amsterdam Electric employee effortlessly shoved his heavy frame and chair into better position, Rousseau could tell that this was the man who'd caused most of the damage to his body.
"Much appreciated. Ta," he thanked in a miffed voice.
He took his time in examining the pictures and drew in a breath as if he was going tell the truth like a fantastic Grandville, but no words came; he reached for the first photo again.
"GODVERDOMME, MAN!" De Jongh's voice accentuated his red face. "It's not as if you've never seen them before, le Croix! You are in most of them as well! All those people in the pictures are--"
"--art dealers," interrupted the painter tersely. "Adriano Aguerre was a Formula One racing car driver, for the love of God! I don't know what you want from me! Your inadequate evidence fails to substantiate your accusations, Sergeant De Jongh. My lawyer will be in touch. I don't smuggle diamonds!
Please be so kind as to phone an ambulance. I am in need of medical attention."
***
Adriano Aguerre, successful architect and race car driver had never really been one for art, "Art is for the lesser man."
That was before he'd met Annette, however.
It was on the balcony of his plush Buenos Aires apartment where he had fallen in love with her; they way she held her wine and jolted her head back in appreciation of his humor - a woman of such stunning beauty and class that he immediately ordered all his guests to leave to be alone with her.
Adriano and Annette. A perfect match.
She'd taught him so much in the last eight years, educated him in a world he'd never thought could exist; the world of art.
He had become obsessed, retired from racing and now traveled to the world's most exotic hotspots: "All in the name of art."
"Are you all right, Annette?" He reached for her hand and gave her a reassuring smile.
"It's just the place. The people. There's something about auction houses that makes me uncomfortable." Annette removed her dark glasses and placed them in her handbag.
"Oh, come on Annette, this is Sotheby's. Of course the people are different," he was pleading in such a way that Annette felt she was being a wet blanket.
Adriano was particularly fierce, and was the highest bidder for an Uemura Shoen.
"That is stunning," Annette kept on saying as the radiant orange and red watercolour on silk seemed to dance to life.
He punched the air as the bid was closed.
Annette gave him a pinch on the arm and leaned over, "I love you," she whispered.
Annette le Croix lied, of course. In fact, she loved Adriano Aguerre even more when he started bidding ferociously for a painting that resembled her pretty features.
"Isn't it amazing! The model in the painting looks almost exactly like you!"
Annette smiled; even though the eyes were the wrong colour, they still sparkled.
The End
