POTN 11

POETRY  |  FICTION EXCERPT

The All-Night Café

by Charlee Jacob, art by Alayne Gelfand

Jean stopped before a theater to gaze at a poster of a half-clad girl. Embarrassed, I turned away. Why did they allow such things to be publicly displayed? Well, I didn't make the laws; I only enforced them.  "Have there been any more murders?" he asked.  "There have been two more bodies in the last month," I replied, averting my eyes as Jean leered at the advertisement. "All with their throats cut. But without any blood at the scene. They must have been killed in one place and moved to another. Nothing hints at Van Gogh.".

Suddenly I grabbed Jean's arm. I said hoarsely, "That's him! Look!"
Two men came down the sidewalk together. One was tall and really handsome, flamboyant and thunderous. The other scuttled, an angular, bizarre creature. I could see yellow stains on his fingertips from paint. Jean stared. "The little one, am I right? Look at how he dresses. He looks like a cheese maker."  The pair passed and Jean sniffed with distaste. "Smells like one, too. Doesn't have the most sterling hygiene, does he?"

I'd been observing the little man for some time already, and I replied, "Do you know that sometimes even Gauguin won't eat with him? If there's anyone who tries to put up with him, it's Paul Gauguin." Jean turned to continue watching them. "It's a wonder he can get anyone to show his work. The taller one I can understand; he obviously has charm. But if I operated a gallery, I'd lock the doors if I saw this red-haired person coming." I kept thinking about those yellow stains, pain on his fingers. My own seemed to itch from having touched that single canvas, weeks ago. It was awful. Jean saw me doing this. He frowned, perplexed, and I shoved my hands into my pockets.

"His brother works at the Goupil," I said. "He's disposed toward sneaking Vincent's work in when the owners are looking the other way. They are showing some of his drivel tonight. I intend to go and see what I can see. Care to come along?" Jean nodded. "But only because it's your case. You know I can't stand it. No wonder the classic art world turns up its nose."

We went that evening and stood aside to observe. The squirrelly Dutchman was perched next to a well-dressed dwarf. I recognized Lautrec, Count of Toulouse.
I whispered to Jean, "Did you know Vincent van Gogh was given his name after another child of his parents, one stillborn on the very day of his birth the previous year? Isn't that curious? Spiritualists might argue that such a psychic connection would be formidable. Sort of a soul destined to be troubled, wouldn't you think? Namesake to one who never lived?"

Jean laughed and poked me in the ribs. "I didn't know you believed in the supernatural." I blushed. "I don't." It was at that moment I saw the painting of the Italian woman. She had a brightly patterned red skirt and held a bouquet of daisies. There was much more yellow in this one. The color drew me across the room, even to the point of shouldering others aside so I could approach it. I saw the shadows in the yellow ooze out into the air, as one might sometimes see sparks when they are about to faint. I scrutinized it up and down. I reached out, Mon Dieu! I couldn't help it.

Then I saw the artist blinking at me, his peculiar eyes both dark and with too much light in them. There was yellow paint under his nails.