Stories Spun by Scenes

The Art Dealer

There was nothing more pleasing to me than boating along the great Lys River that flowed through parts of France but started in Ghent, Belgium. Lys is French for light, which matched due to the lights set up along the storefronts and homes that lined the beautiful river.

I merely made visits in Paris, France for part of my life, the other part I spent traveling worldwide. I was a Dutch art dealer. I mostly sold my brothers works, and other times I simply made deals for the other people who craved different masterpieces.

I had worked for many different art dealing companies and had a well-established name for myself. Theo van Gogh, the significantly less important compared to my eldest brother, Vincent. I loved him, I did, and he and I had been close all of our life. He was my brother, so of course I cared for him. I was a painter, too, but did anyone ever notice? I was just the one who publicized my dear brother’s art work. I sometimes wonder what if would be like to publish my own, but my superiors have never given me the chance. I’m just the dealer, and my brother is the diamond.

The year was 1890, and I had just recently married my lovely wife, Johanna. We were currently resting in Paris, until I had to leave to pursue selling art even farther. Vincent had just fallen into another even darker depression than the one he had overcome just a year prior. This time though, it was because of a crime. One of his paintings had been stolen.

He initially called the police, but they didn’t care. Vincent wasn’t too appreciated widely for his art, and most people oppressed him for his “distasteful” paintings. The police said they’d be on the case, but everyone knew they wouldn’t even look for it if they had nothing else to attend to. His art would just have to remain disappeared until somebody else sold it off or did something with it.

I wasn’t going to let that happen. I hated to see my dear brother in such darkened tones because of his depression, and I had a feeling of where I might find the painting, the Weaver’s Interior.

It was this hunch I had about the crime that led me to be on a covered jet boat on the Lys. I was en route to the Stationers, a little store that sold stationary, pens, quills, and other creative utensils. Paul Gauguin, Vincent and I’s close friend, was my target. I knew he currently worked there at the Stationers.

The easiest way to get there was through the narrow canal of the Lys, so I rented out a small yellow boat to be my transportation. The sun was just setting, and the bright blue sky was gently fading into vibrant yellow, orange, and purple along the horizon. Scenic places like these always reminded me of a new set of art that could be painted, a new idea that anyone could use for the taking. Something idealistic with loads of potential sitting before everyone’s eyes, but no one will use it for anything more than a view.

Tall three story buildings loomed over the water’s edge like protective parents carefully watching over their children. Libraries, fish mongers, and some common houses dotted the banks. Lights sat in front of almost every building, illuminating the night in burning fuels of yellow and orange. The water was a perfect undisturbed mirror, reflecting back the world surrounding it even more clarity. I felt the boat cutting through the smooth water without any resistance, like swimming through thin sheets of silk. The cool night air carried the sweet aroma of the Candy Shoppe that all the children ran to.

This night would’ve been perfect, as I mentioned I loved boating this very river, but I had to remember why I was here. I was here to address a potential criminal, one who has caused my brother great heart ache.

I slowed the boat and looked out, reading the signs in front of the shops until I found the Stationers. I slowed the boat and turned it, docking it into the small wooden port outside of the entrance. One dim lamp lit up the inside, shining to the outside. Taking a deep breath and composing myself, I walked into the store.

“Welcome to the- Ah! Theo! So nice to see you,” Paul greeted me as he would a friend, because that’s what we were. I had planned out how I would approach the situation, but I just wasn’t sure with the pressure of being face to face. “How can I help you today?” he smiled, walking out from behind the tall counter to step in front of me.

“I’m looking for something very…unique,” I replied, picking my words precisely. “Something most Stationers wouldn’t have, but I’m sure yours will.” I smiled, acting friendly, but I noticed him tense and his eyes harden as microscopic beads of sweat began to well on his forehead. I was very observant. His fearful demeanor only hardened my suspicions.

“Well, let’s take a look, shall we?” he offered a fake plastered smile. “We just received a new shipment of these feathers, I’m sure Vincent would lov-“

Paul had turned his back to me, to walk towards the “rare” feathers he was speaking of. I approached behind him, catching him quick and by surprise, wrapping one strong arm around his neck in a headlock.

“I know what you have, and you know that I know by now. You were my friend and I have no intentions of killing you or causing you harm, but Vincent and I both need that painting for multiple reasons. Where is it?” I growled at him, talking rapidly because holding him in this position would cut off his oxygen quickly.

He smiled malevolently; his face growing redder as his legs kicked frantically and he started to slip. He was starting to choke and pass out, but he didn’t mutter a word. I didn’t know whether to let him go and worry of his defense, or let him grow unconscious. I chose the latter, as he sputtered one last time and grew limp in my arm, tumbling to the floor.


I didn’t like that he didn’t give me the information, but I figured I could snoop around his shop until I found it, and if I didn’t, I’d conduct a new plan to find the painting for when Gauguin came to.