THE MURDER OF VINCENT van GOGH
The Murder of Vincent van Gogh
Copyright K. A. Shott, 2/2008
All Rights Reserved
No portion of this book
may be reproduced in any form
without express written permission
from the publisher
ISBN 978-0-578-00312-2
www.writeshott.com
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“But there is a God in heaven that revealeth secrets…and he that
revealeth secrets
maketh known to thee what shall come to pass.”
Daniel 2:28-29, KJV
It is a little known fact that
Vincent van Gogh was a preacher.
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DISCLAIMER
This is a story about Vincent van Gogh, but it is not a historical biography.
What you will read is a tribute to Vincent van Gogh: a book that invents
characters and situations that reach beyond reality to express what might have
been Vincent van Gogh’s inner experience on his unique life-journey.
Unlike conventional biography, this story takes a bold step of merging reality
and fantasy. It is a work that deals with things totally invented, during a
period of time in which little is known.
For historians, there were periods of time when Vincent van Gogh did not
write to his brother (perhaps not to anyone, unless future letters emerge) and
there were times when he simply disappeared (going on long, unaccompanied
walks). Times of disappearance are one of the heart chambers of the mystery
genre.
So this story tries to tell what happened during those disappearances but also
during the times when he disappeared mentally and spiritually. It is a free
adaptation based on immersion into the writings of Vincent van Gogh that has
attempted to channel a great artist’s voice both in style and craft.
This story, The Murder of Vincent van Gogh, had one goal: tell what could
have been.
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Was Vincent van Gogh murdered? That question can
only be answered with logical supposition: when it is impossible
to prove the truth (or untruth) of a thing then truth matters little.
Therefore, what is known as the truth could be a lie and,
contrary-wise, what is believed a lie may prove Truth.
There is one incontrovertible fact, Vincent van Gogh (the
famous and infamous 19th century painter) was shot and died.
Let us begin this tale where all good murders begin: a body.
Not Vincent van Gogh’s, but a woman’s.
The Year: 1879.
The place: Le Chat Noir…
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“Who is that woman?” Theo asked his friend Andres.
“I don’t know. I’d bet she’s Dutch.”
“But of course. Do you know anyone at her table?”
“I’ve seen that young man,” Andres pointed to a nicely dressed
blonde man, “At the Dutch Club.”
“Funny. I haven’t.”
“I believe he’s…an actor.”
Theo hit his friend’s shoulder, “As if that would make any
difference to me. I must find out more about her.”
Andres looked at the woman more intently then turned to
Theo, “May I ask why?”
“Because, dear Bonger, she is the epitome of Dutch beauty!”
Andres emptied his cloudy-green down his throat and
waived to a waitress {who’d caught his eye} that he should
receive another absinthe.
“If you say so, my friend,” Andres laughed, “If you say so.”
***
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Meanwhile, Theo’s brother—Vincent—was amidst a
great human suffering: the mines of the Borinage.
The Borinage lay south of Vincent’s homeland,
[Holland]
and still south in its own country
—Belgium—
as if it were disaffected kin, pushed out to the very edge of
association and there it remained,
along
the
Mons river,
set across from
|away from|
separated from its neighbor-land: France.
One brother|to each side.
That their lives there, each respectively, would be as
disparate should not prove difficult to understand.
One brother consumed by being a Christian…
the other, by being a man.
***
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In Paris:
“Do you have a table for us, Salis?” Theo, discretely, palmed
the man his dues.
“But of course, Messr van Gogh, right over here.”
The formality was all play: each person played his or her
part. Melodrama was the forum allotted Le Chat.
here was a prerequisite in landing such roles,
money
the tables were set (for drinks to be laid upon). It (it
depending on the size of its mons determined, which tables sat
next to which—so like a grand coliseum,
neatly ordered strata
in order that those with
to those with and without (it). Theo van Gogh sat
at a very good table.
A week had passed since Theo had seen his Dutch
Beauty. He waited, anxiously, for his friend Andres to arrive
from his job, [clerking], however it was still early. Outside, the
Boulevard Rochechouart still teamed with legitimate trade. It
would not be until after the light of each day faded that the
trades exchanged: grains for girls (and many other things, then,
went bump in the night).
It was
nothing more dangerous to his trade than a man drinking alone
so, in spite of the fact that he did not entirely enjoy Theo’s
company (nor any of the Dutch—being a true-blooded
Frenchman), he assumed his role’s character and, with great
attempt to make his client feel welcome (for welcomed patrons
patronized well), he sat at Theo’s table. For a bit…he sipped a
dark red wine. Theo had begun his absinthe.
Sallis watched his waiters and waitresses scammering.
Women tied back bits of hair. Men slicked down corners of
moustaches. All arrayed in a plethora of garb: green berets,
gold soldier’s braids hung about plump juicy {plum breasts} and
an Academician’s gown |with highest laurels~cords tied tight
round the waist with just such a golden braid| in the fashion of a
toga on a girl from Scandinavia (she was a club favorite).
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