Van Gogh Reborn!
Chapter 175: Holy Spring (1)

Chapter 175 Holy Spring (1)

Martin opened his mouth after hesitating.

“Can you tell me why you think that way?”

It was not an easy question to answer.

Looking back now that I had sorted out my feelings, I loved my cousin Kay, but I didn’t know how to love him.

As I was organizing my thoughts, Martin spoke first.

“I think the story of the two of them is essential to understand Van Gogh.”

“…Why?”

“Because you can see how he thought about love.”

Martin took out his smartphone and searched for something. He looked closely at his chin and showed me a letter.

It was the sentence I sent to Tao.

Should we calculate the possibility of it happening when we fall in love? Is that a solvable problem? It’s a problem that can’t be calculated, and even if it could, it shouldn’t. We love because we love.

I still agree with this, but the problem is elsewhere.

“He loved more passionately than anyone, but he was clumsy at how to love others.”

“…”

“How desperate he must have been to take a train at dawn to see him.”

“Stop, stop.”

“According to the records, he arrived around evening. His aunt and uncle must have been surprised when their distant nephew suddenly showed up.”

I couldn’t stand it anymore as I remembered the time I asked him to let me see Kay.

“When his uncle told him to go back, he touched the hot lamp with his hand. He said he would throw the lamp if he didn’t bring him right away.”

“Ahhhh.”

His aunt gave me the letter that Kay was going to send me, and said that he ran away through the back door when he saw me coming and didn’t know where he was.

Kay said in the letter that he didn’t love me.

He said it could never happen because his parents were against it and he didn’t want to see me again.

He said he didn’t want to see me again and not to send him any letters.

“Poor guy. He only knew how to threaten with a burn on his hand from touching the lamp. He was pure in love, but he didn’t know how to share it. He was a clumsy person.”

“Stop… please. Please.”

I couldn’t eat any more food.

***

After having lunch with Martin, Go Suyeol was worried about his grandson who was lying down all the time.

“What’s wrong? Huh? Are you feeling sick?”

“No…”

“Then. Where does it hurt?”

Go Hoon buried his face in the pillow and shook his head weakly.

He knew well that many things were recorded in detail about Vincent van Gogh, who left a huge mark on art history, but he was shocked because he didn’t expect that even his very personal things were well known.

He was ashamed of his past self who was clumsy at expressing his emotions and caring for others.

Go Hoon pounded the bed and Go Suyeol blinked.

“Hey, you. There’s nothing you can’t say to your grandfather. What’s wrong with you?”

“…”

Go Hoon opened his mouth as he buried his face and worried.

“Grandpa, have you ever done something embarrassing?”

“Of course. I have.”

“Then, how would you feel if it became a movie?”

“No way. No way.”

Go Suyeol, who didn’t know what Go Hoon was thinking, had no choice but to guess.

He thought that his grandson, who liked Van Gogh, was confused by seeing his negative side.

“Hoon, Van Gogh was a human too.”

Go Suyeol stroked his grandson’s head.

“He was a historical figure, so he was a bit glorified and seen as a hero by some people. And some people saw him as a madman, but he was an ordinary person too. How can a person live without making a mistake once in a while?”

“…”

“But Martin grandfather wanted to tell more about Van Gogh to the people who love him. He thought that even such a story would help to understand Van Gogh. He wasn’t trying to criticize or mock him.”

Go Hoon lifted his head as he listened quietly.

“Well, he would be embarrassed if he knew.”

He buried his face again.

Go Suyeol chuckled and patted his grandson’s butt.

“You said you wanted to listen to Beethoven’s symphony, right?”

“Yes.”

“There will be a lot at the end of the year, but I don’t think there’s any place to do it right now.”

Go Suyeol operated the TV and played Beethoven’s 9th Symphony conducted by Wilhelm Furtwängler, the best maestro of the 20th century, at the Lucerne Festival1

Go Hoon, who was lying down in shame, felt the dawn-like melody and perked up his ears at the powerful sound that announced the grand march.

Meanwhile.

Vida Rabani, who was treated with Michelle’s help, was hesitating in front of the Marso Gallery.

Michelle told him to come back when he got better, but he wondered if he really could.

Yesterday, he heard from his mother that he couldn’t even pay the medical insurance, and the country wouldn’t treat him for free.

“…”

More than anything, he couldn’t forget what Henri Marso said.

At their first meeting, he said that he had to draw ten thousand times to draw properly.

The boy who couldn’t even afford a new pastel was discouraged by his words.

It sounded like he was telling him to give up and he had to know his place.

But Henri Marso said yesterday, if he wanted to draw, he should do whatever it takes to draw.

He said he shouldn’t give up if he liked it.

He said he had to love his own value even if he was ignored.

‘Pastel?’

‘Yes.’

‘Vida, you’re 15 now. You should know that you don’t have the money to waste on that stuff, right?’

His mother and uncle told him not to waste two euros on pastels and that drawing was no help to living.

But Vida Rabani wanted to buy pastels even if he had to earn money. He wanted to buy a sketchbook.

“You’re here?”

“Ah! Hello.”

Michelle, who was finishing her outside work related to the Art Nouveau competition, found Vida Rabani and greeted him.

She looked kindly at the polite boy.

“How are you? How’s the wound?”

“It’s much better. It doesn’t hurt much now.”

The severe burn couldn’t heal in a day.

“I’m glad. But you have to be careful until the doctor says you’re all healed. Can you wait a little inside?”

“Ah, yes. I…”

The boy hesitated.

Michelle leaned forward and looked at his face.

“Why?”

“Well. You said it was for my mother’s medical bills. That you gave it to me instead…”

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I lied.”

Vida Lavani lifted his head. He was surprised to hear an apology, as he had not expected it.

He was worried that Vida Lavani might be hurt by his pride, so he was careful with his words. But he didn’t expect that his lie to take him to the hospital would be exposed so soon.

“I said that because I thought you wouldn’t go to the hospital otherwise. Did you feel bad?”

“No. No, I didn’t. Really.”

“Then I’m glad.”

“I’m sorry for causing trouble because of me.”

Michelle felt sorry for the boy who couldn’t even go to the hospital with ease.

“Let’s go until you get better. I want to do this for you, so don’t feel burdened.”

“I, I. That’s why.”

“Hmm?”

“I’m good at cleaning. I’ve cleaned a lot of mold, so I’m really good at it. Can I work here for the amount of money you gave me for the hospital?”

He wanted to refuse.

But he couldn’t ignore his kindness when he saw the boy’s eyes looking up at him.

He had outsourced the cleaning to a professional company, but there must be some work to do if he looked for it.

“Cleaning is dangerous and difficult because there are so many works.”

“Oh…”

“But do you know there’s a garden inside? And outside too.”

“Yes.”

“I’ll give you 10 euros a day if you water the garden.”

Vida Lavani opened his mouth wide.

“That much?”

“It’s huge here. It’ll take an hour to do it all. It’s hard.”

He could work for an hour and get 10 euros, which was a dream come true for Vida Lavani. He had money left after buying pastels and sketchbooks.

“I, um. Can you keep hiring me if I do well?”

Michelle nodded at the boy’s earnestness.

He hoped that the boy who came every day to fill his stomach with candy and stared at Henri Marso’s works for an hour or two would not lose hope.

“Sure. But don’t give too much water if you work hard. It’ll hurt if you give too much.”

“Yes!”

***

“Henri! Henri!”

“Henri! Henri!”

As he was driving, Henri Marso saw the protest scene in his eyes.

They came out to praise the hero Henri Marso and demanded that the judiciary punish the people who abused Jerome Kerbiel and Antermat.

“How dare they call someone’s name so casually?”

Arsene smiled as he confirmed Henri Marso’s confident smile through the rearview mirror.

“It’s a relief that everything went as you thought, sir.”

“Hmph.”

Henri Marso had nothing to do with it.

It was all done by the French artists voluntarily, and thanks to that, Henri Marso’s popularity soared to the sky.

“Judge Bilpang will bother you for a while.”

Bilpang, who had served as mayor, minister, prime minister, and constitutional court judge, had been actively urging Henri Marso to enter politics.

He thought that a young politician with strong leadership and support was needed for the future of France, and there was no better talent than Henri Marso.

“Don’t answer the calls from him.”

“Yes?”

“You know he’ll be annoying.”

Arsene chuckled.

He could shake the European economy and become the French presidential candidate if he wanted, but he chose to live as an artist, which was typical of him.

Henri Marso, who was looking out the window, turned his head as the protest march faded from his sight.

“Is he really okay?”

“Are you talking about Hoon?”

“Yeah.”

“Yes. I heard that Mr. Goseul took him to the hospital yesterday. He said there was no problem.”

“He might have trauma or something. How can you test that so quickly?”

“Well, I don’t think you need to worry about that, judging by his behavior and speech.”

“How do you know that?”

Henri Marso recalled his childhood memories.

He had no problem because he had a bodyguard, but the experience of being threatened by an adult had tormented him for a long time.

“Is he still in Paris?”

“…If you’re worried, why don’t you call him yourself?”

“What worry.”

Henri Marso closed his mouth and opened it.

“Call him.”

He meant to call Hoon, and Arsene couldn’t help laughing.

1. 1. A live recording album of the Lucerne Festival on August 22, 1954.