The second time I entered a painting was about a year later in New Haven, Connecticut.
I was in town for a meeting at Yale University Press, and I wandered into the nearby Yale Art Gallery.
I'd passed a picture called Whispered Words by Paul Gauguin, which did nothing for me (I was never a Gauguin fan).
Next: The Death of General Montgomery by John Trumbull. It was dramatic and fascinating, but not emotive enough to stir my soul.
Then I came upon The Night Cafe by Vincent Van Gogh.
This one captivated me. Literally.
Garish, clashing colors—yellow, green red—and a white-suited figure looking directly at me.
Feeling self conscious, I shifted my eyes to three lamps hanging from the ceiling, auras of light around each in tippled brushstrokes.
My eyes jumped from one lamp to the next across the top of the painting and back again, as if following a pendulum.
My heartbeat increased and I felt lightheaded as the painting’s perspective yanked at me, body and soul until…
…next thing I knew I was standing on the hardwood floor looking across the café, a pool table in the middle of the room and the white-suited figure staring in disbelief straight at me.
He spoke to me in French. A greeting, I think.
I turned around and looked through paneled windows into a black night. It smelled like winter, dank—a hint of onion.
It’s happening again?
The white-jacketed figure continued to study me in bewilderment.
Yup, sure is...
I knew a little about Van Gogh, where he lived, where he had painted The Night Cafe—so I knew that this time I was in Arles, France. I tried to think when. Must be late 1880s.
“Is Mister Van Gogh around?” I asked.
The Frenchman tilted his head. “Vincent?” He pointed to a table and sneered. “Artiste fou.”
A scrawny, bewhiskered man with red hair sat hunched over a large-stemmed glass half-filled with a green potion. Studying me, he lifted his libation and toasted the air.
I ambled toward him, uncertain how to proceed. “Mister Van Gogh?”
He smiled, displaying yellow decayed teeth. “English?” he said.
“No.” I shook my head. “American.”
“Ah.” He motioned at the plain wooden and straw chair opposite him. “Sit.”
I sat, facing Vincent Van Gogh.
The artist raised his glass to lips and finished the potion in one gulp. Then he raised his hand to signal the white-suited figure. “Deux!” he called.
The man stormed over and delivered a stream of invective. He seemed to be demanding money.
Vincent held his ground, made his case.
“Sacrebleur!” The man threw up his arms and stomped off.
Van Gogh returned his gaze onto me. “Monsieur Ginoux and I have a deal. I painted his café in exchange for food, drink and rent—I used to take a room here. It is ugly in here, as you see, and so I painted it ugly. Very ugly.” He chuckled. “So Ginoux is upset. But a deal is a deal, no?”
The irony of this astonished me.
“You speak good English,” I said, observing that this man, Van Gogh, had both ears intact.
“Of course. I lived in England for a time. Ramsgate. And then Middlesex.”
Monsieur Ginoux stomped back with a glass for me, into which he poured a healthy shot of absinthe before refilling Van Gogh’s glass. He returned with a pitcher of water, a small dish of brown sugar cubes and a flat perforated spoon.
“I show you,” said Vincent. “This is a ritual.” He laid the perforated spoon over my glass and placed upon it a cube of brown sugar. Then he picked up the jug and dripped water, one drop at a time, until the cube was saturated. “Now we wait,” he said, performing the same ritual on his own libation. The absinthe slowly changed its color from translucent emerald to an opaque milky green haze. “Now we drink our green fairy.”
I raised the glass to my mouth and allowed the elixir to wet my lips: A partly bitter, slightly sweet anise flavor.
“Better than turpentine,” said Van Gogh. He gestured with his arms at men slumped over nearby tables. “Drunks with nowhere to sleep,” he explained. “But you?” he asked.
I shrugged. “I would tell you, but you wouldn’t believe me.”
“No? Please try.”
“I walked into your painting of this café from the future.”
Vincent leaned back and eyed my attire. “A new kind of night prowler,” he said. “One can go mad in an all night café.”
“I’m not mad. But I’m very confused.” I shrugged. “Maybe I am mad. I don’t know how this happens, but here I am. And I am very pleased to meet the world’s most famous artist.”
“Excuse me?”
“That’s what happens in the future. Your work hangs prominently in all the world’s most important museums.”
“You make fun of me?”
“No, I…”
“And him?” Van Gogh gestured with his arm.
I turned to see a husky, mustachioed figure straggle in from outside.
“Paul!” Van Gogh called. “You must meet my new friend from the future!”
The man stopped, shook his head in disgust and made a lewd gesture at my host. “Fuck off!” He trudged onward to a table of his own, a sheathed sword belted to one thigh.
“Asshole!” Van Gogh shot back. He glowered and took a gulp of absinthe. “I never should have invited that bastard to Arles.”
“Who?” I asked.
“Gauguin. He is a slob, an oaf. I must throw him out of my house, like rubbish.” Van Gogh said this loudly, so everyone in the café could hear, although most were too drunk to comprehend. “And he has no talent.”
“Ha!” Gauguin bellowed from his table. “I have no talent? People laugh at you behind your back!”
Vincent looked at me. “You see? This is what I get for giving him room and board.” He turned to Gauguin across the café. “Come, you freeloader! You may learn something. Here sits a man from the future!”
Gauguin spewed a gulp of absinthe and thumped the table hard with his fist, laughing uproariously. “You see?” He gestured grandly. “The man is insane. I rest my case.”
The jury of one—a tramp—raised his head in a drunken daze, looked around and plopped it back onto his folded arms.
“Most people paint beauty,” Gauguin, continued. “Him? He paints this ugly café.”
Van Gogh shook his head, seething. “Can you believe?” he said to me. “This pig insults me where I drink.”
Gauguin strained to hear. “Ah, you think you own Arles?” He laughed sarcastically. “The people of Arles laugh at you. They hate you! They want you to leave! I want you to leave!”
Van Gogh’s eyes welled; he spoke quietly. “He is like this in my home. I come out to get away from his abuse and he follows me. I think he will be more polite in public. But, no—he provokes me in public.”
“Aww—are you crying again?” called Gauguin. “You are not a man. You are not an artist. You are a baby! Waa-waa-waa! Cry, little baby!”
Vincent stiffened. He wiped a tear that dribbled from his left eye. “I will kill this man,” he growled.
“What’s that you say?” Gauguin leaned toward us cupping his hand around his ear.
Van Gogh stood and bellowed, “Why are you so interested in everything I say?”
“Because it makes me laugh!” Gauguin bellowed back. “And I like a good laugh! Thank you, fou-rou!”
Van Gogh bristled.
“Fou-rou?” I said.
Van Gogh ignored my question, turned to Gauguin. “You call me crazy—you, you sex fiend! Your wife hates you because you fuck every woman who will sleep with you. Her money pays for your whores!”
Gauguin stood, picked up his water jug and flung it at Van Gogh.
I ducked as it flew over my head and smashed into the wall.
Monsieur Ginoux finally had enough. He pointed first at Gauguin, then at Van Gogh. “Aller!”
“Mais moi aussi?” said Van Gogh.
“Mais moi aussi?” Gauguin mimicked.
“Oui, fou-rou—laisser maintenant!”
Gauguin laughed joyfully. “Bonne riddance, monsieur.”
Van Gogh, his face flushed with anger, picked up his absinthe and drained it in one gulp. “Au revoir, monsieur,” he said to Ginoux, then to me.
When I followed him out, Vincent was looking up and down the dark street, presumably to determine which direction Gauguin had gone. He shook his head, muttering curses.
“It wasn’t your fault,” I said.
Van Gogh turned to me. “That, that wild boar has insulted me one too many times.” Something in the distance caught his eye. “Ah, he baits me.”
“But he’s not worth it,” I said. “Just tell him to leave your yellow house.”
Vincent studied me, squinting his blue eyes. “How do you know about my yellow house? Did Theo send you? A spy?”
“Art history,” I replied.
“I give you something for art history.” Van Gogh plucked an object from his pocket, a weapon of some sort.
Somehow, I had no fear this was meant for me, despite the madness in the artist’s eyes.
“What day is it?” I asked.
“Two days before Christmas,” he replied. “And I have a little present for Monsieur Gauguin in return for tormenting me.”
I felt it was not my place to talk Vincent out of anything; that if I were truly back in time, not just inside a painting, I ought to avoid messing with historical events.
“And what do they say of me in art history?” spat Van Gogh. “They call me fou-rou?”
“What does that mean?” I asked.
“Crazy redhead.”
I shook my head. “I didn’t know that until now.”
The artist harrumphed, and set off to a rustling in the bushes. “The bastard—he is hiding!”
Van Gogh crossed the road and ventured into a square.
Gauguin popped out from behind an oleander bush. “Looking for me, fou-rou?” he taunted.
“You must leave my home!” hollered Van Gogh, stomping toward Gauguin. “You must leave Arles!”
Gauguin stood his ground with an amused expression. “Or what—you weak runt?”
“Or I kill you!” Van Gogh raised his hand to display an open straight razor.
“You silly man!” Gauguin uttered a forced laugh. He pulled the sword from its scabbard, fastened at his thigh. “Mine is bigger than yours. Rachel can testify to that!” Gauguin laughed uproariously. “She says yours is so small she can’t even feel it!”
Van Gogh stood stunned, in shock for a few seconds. “You will feel this!” He lunged at Gauguin with his razor.
As if by reflex, Gauguin struck out with his sword, clipping Van Gogh on the side of his face.
Startled, Van Gogh dropped his razor. When he stooped to retrieve it, he found a piece of bloody flesh—his own earlobe—cut clean off by Gauguin’s sword. Vincent picked it up and held it out to Gauguin. “It is not enough you steal my pride—you want my flesh and blood also?”
Gauguin looked on in horror.
Van Gogh must have seen fear in Gauguin’s eyes. Or perhaps he now felt pain or a warm substance streaming down his neck. He put his hand to his right ear, caressed it, and held his hand in front of him. It was covered in blood.
“Are you all right?” Gauguin demanded. “I didn’t mean… I was defending myself… you must see a doctor immediately… but do not tell the police… if you do, I will kill you… do you understand?”
I stood in the shadows watching.
Van Gogh had turned ashen white, in shock, I think. He said nothing, but closed his razor and pocketed it, then turned away and headed down the street, his severed earlobe in hand.
“You hear me?” Gauguin called after him, heading north, toward the River Rhone. “No police!”
“My ear,” said Van Gogh, in a daze. “He cut off my ear.”
“You should see a doctor,” I said. “Is there a hospital near here?”
“My ear,” Van Gogh repeated in disbelief.
“If it’s any consolation,” I said, “where I come from you have the most famous ear in the world. But everybody thinks you cut it off yourself.”
Van Gogh looked at me, puzzled. “But why would I cut off my own ear?”
I shrugged.
So much for art history.
Numbly, the artist trudged off.
I trailed behind at a discreet distance, unsure what else to do. In the darkness I could see Vincent dabbing at the side of his head as he entered Place de Forum, where I recognized a famous institution from another Van Gogh painting: Café Alcazar. It was still lit but winding down from the look of it.
Van Gogh entered the cafe,: I was a few steps behind him. A waiter clearing tables looked up, alarmed at the bloody mess that Vincent had become, blood dripping and staining his blue suit. The artist climbed a narrow straircase and, at the first landing, steadied himself before rapping a door three times. “C’est moi,” said Van Gogh. “Fou-rou.”
A muffled voice responded.
Said Vincent, “J'ai apporté un cadeau pour toi.”
The door opened.
From my position a few steps down I could see light thrown upon him, illuminating the blood and gore. I caught a glimpse of a young woman in the doorway studying the artist, her eyes aghast with terror.
Van Gogh offered his bloodied earlobe. “Gardez cet objet attentivement.”
The young woman fainted and dropped to the floor and Vincent almost crashed into me as he descended the steps. “It is what the matadors do, no?” He assessed bewilderment in my eyes. “A matador cuts off the bull’s ear and gives it to his favorite lady,” Van Gogh explained. And with that he brushed past me and launched into the night.
I tried to follow but suddenly felt out of breath. The darkness of the stairway consumed me and I could see only blackness.
When I was finally able to open my eyes a mildly familiar face appeared in front of me.
“You again?” he said from behind the bar.
Wonder Bar. Asbury Park, New Jersey.
“Let me guess,” said Eddie the bartender. “You want to know what you’re doing here, right?”
“Right.” I looked around in awe.
“Welcome back, boss.”
“Why is no one else here?”
Eddie looked at me, somewhat amused. “Closing time.” He paused. “Again.” He shook his head. “Mister, I don’t know what kind of drugs you take, but you should definitely see a doctor. You’re freaking me out.”
“Freaking you out? You have no idea where I’ve been!”
Eddie shrugged. “And now you’re here. But you weren’t here five minutes ago—and I didn’t see you come in.”
“Yeah, I get that,” I said. “But I have no idea what that’s about.”
“Just out of curiosity, boss, where do you think you’re supposed to be?”
“I was in Arles, France." I considered this. “No, New Haven, Connecticut.”
Eddie snickered. “Get your story straight, man.”