Still Life With Lovers
a short story
Carolyn Burns Bass
Copyright © 2012 by Carolyn Burns Bass
Smashwords Edition
All rights reserved. No part of this publication can be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without permission in writing from Carolyn Burns Bass, except permitted by law. Every reasonable attempt has been made to identify owners of copyright. Errors or omissions will be corrected in subsequent editions.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Cover art: Two Lovers (fragment) by Vincent Van Gogh; Arles, France; March 1988; Oil on Canvas (private collection)
Still Life With Lovers
The portrait fell from the wall when Gustave slammed the door. Slivers of glass lay below, sparkling like raw diamonds on the wool tufts of the Persian carpet. The carved, gilded frame was likely more valuable than the brittle, yellowed portrait. Time had lost the names and dates of the couple frozen in the photograph. Lisette’s mother said they were grandparents back too many generations to care.
It wasn’t like Gustave to storm out of the flat when Lisette opposed him. Usually Lisette would flee to Margot’s place, returning a few hours later to find Gustave sulking and sauced, but eager to make up. Lisette tried to convince herself that Gustave was old-fashioned. She had actually been attracted to his provincial upbringing when they first met, thinking his job with the Ministry of Foreign Affairs would smooth out his rough edges. Their recent quarrels were always over his wanting her to quit her job, claiming her lack of pregnancy the result of high-stress grant-writing deadlines for the Institute of Biomedical Science. She wanted a child desperately, and she truly hated her job. Yet she could not give in to Gustave’s backward notions.
As she gathered the broken frame, the portrait slipped free of the brittle paper backing. Lisette slid out the photo and examined it. The woman was young, unlined and pretty. She wore a dark dress with a swash of cleavage between wide, white collars. While growing up Lisette often stared into the portrait and tried to imagine a life of beauty and joy for the lady, but could never get past the sadness in her eyes. The man held back his head, his bulldog face proud, his arm heavy on the lady’s shoulder. She set the photo aside and picked up the broken frame.
A browned packet slipped from between the paper backing and the frame. Lisette removed the packet and lifted the flap to find a slender, string-bound notebook. Ragged edges showed several sheets ripped from the front of the notebook, leaving what appeared to be a diary. The ink was fading, but strong enough to read, and flowery like a woman’s.
5 April 1888
I saw an odd fellow today. I was strolling with Madame Broussard when he crossed our path toward the peach orchard. His beard was as bright as a copper pot and the same fiery hair peeked from beneath a straw hat like the harvesters wear. He carried a case with smears of bright paint. Madame Broussard slipped her arm in mine as he neared and I felt it tense as he passed. He kept his eyes to the ground, not looking up even once. He walks like a man determined and I watched his straw hat bob up and down the lane, disappearing into the orchard. I wonder about this strange bird.
Benoit has picked up an annoying habit of late. Every time he clears his throat I want to scream.
19 April 1888