Wheatfield Beneath Stormclouds

By: Martin Owton

"A talentless dauber," he ranted, his thick accent straining my understanding of the language. "That's what those bastards in Paris call me. A bloody dauber." He took a large mouthful of the wine I'd brought.

What would they make of Jackson Pollock? I thought as he glared glassy-eyed at me.

"Does that look like a daub to you?" He waved toward the field easel that stood beside the window. The thick swirls of colour on the canvas depicted a wheat field beneath threatening dark skies, but then I was used to his style.

'"Wheatfield beneath storm clouds," I said quietly. That surprised him, and his _expression changed as he addressed me.

"Hah! You can see it. Then why can't those idiots in Paris?"

"It will not always be so. One day you will be appreciated as a great artist," I said it blandly, but this served only to stoke the fires.

"Hah! When? When I am dead, yes," he raged, bloodshot eyes glaring. "I might as well be dead. Now Theo tells me not to send him any more pictures. That no-one wants to buy them."

"One day they will. One day they will pay unimaginable amounts of money for your pictures."

"Now you are laughing at me. You are no better than the rest of them."

"No, I assure you, monsieur. Your sunflowers will be famous throughout the world. You are a great artist. Will you sell me that picture?"

He eyed me suspiciously, still half-convinced I was making fun of him. I pulled out the leather purse and showed him the coins. I'd been unable to locate sufficient French currency from the period, so I'd had to bring sovereigns. He turned one of them over in his hand.

"English," he said examining Victoria's profile. "I thought so from the way you speak."

I knew my accent wasn't at fault; after a hundred and fifty years the language itself has shifted. He stared silently at the coins frowning somewhat.

"So, you will sell me this picture?" I asked breaking his reverie.

"Pardon monsieur. I have not sold a picture for a while. I was deciding on the price." He went back to his study of the coins, one in particular held his attention as he turned it over and over in his hand. I felt sad for this staring-eyed Dutchman; knowing as I did that his life was very close to its end. But there was nothing I could do, no words I could say that would preserve the genius. History records that he died of a self-inflicted wound on July 29, 1890 and I would be more than a fool to try to change that.

"Very well," he said, still looking at the coins. "I will sell it for what I hold in my hand. Ten sovereigns, yes?"

"We have agreement, monsieur." I smiled in relief. I had imagined all kinds of difficulties over this bargaining process. "Have you signed it? And the date. That is most important."

He drew a brush from a jar and signed and dated it with a flourish. "I shall wrap it for you? I have only newspaper, but you will need something."

Even better, I thought, for authentication.

****

A carriage took me from the house on the Place de la Mairie to the station where I caught a train to back to Paris. He had tied the picture in its paper wrapping with twine, and I clung to it like a child with its favorite doll throughout my journey back to the transit point. This was my payback for all the hard graft I'd been through.

It had cost a lot to set up. The distinguished professors who oversee the system are beyond my purse, but fortunately their research students aren't so well paid and are young enough to be persuadable. This was the big one, this picture will make it all worthwhile and set me up for life. I know tampering with timelines is illegal, UN convention and all that, but don't tell me the big multinationals and governments don't do it. Three UN time observers overseeing every expedition; I don't think so.

I checked my watch to see how long I had left, not that it mattered greatly now I had the picture, but it would create a scene if I dematerialised in the middle of a crowded second class railway carriage. A scene that someone might record for posterity and give my scheme away to the authorities. I had heard rumors of the existence of a small team who trawled through the anecdotes of centuries looking for just such a happening as a clue to a time-crime and I certainly did not want that kind of trouble.

****

Gervase and I had done business before. The elegantly dressed and well-spoken girl from the front desk showed me up to his office. A nice touch I thought, even though I knew the way. Fine paintings hung in elegantly lit alcoves along the corridor, here a Manet, there a Gaugin. Our feet made not a sound on the Axminster as I followed her towards the highly polished oak door of Gervase's office.

Gervase DeVere-Brown, art dealer to the rich and cultured, specialist in the late nineteenth century, liked his customers to believe that he was one of them, even though I knew his name was really Gerald and he had been born in Basildon.

"Tony, so good to see you again. Would you like a drink?" Gervase waved me to a leather armchair with an elegantly manicured hand. He opened the drinks cabinet whose walnut paneling matched the rest of the room. I accepted a Bombay Sapphire and tonic and we gossiped for a few minutes before we got down to business.

"So what have you brought me, Tony?"

"Something that I think you'll like." I smiled at him. "Just up your street actually." I undid the string holding the newspaper wrapping and drew out the picture. He took it from me and walked over to the window to look at it in the light.

"Hmm. Van Gogh. Sometime pal of Gaugin's. Bit of a dauber really. Died in 1899 in a nuthouse, penniless except for an 1892 sovereign that he wore on a chain around his neck. Spent the last nine years of his life painting nothing but sunflowers. This one's OK though, I'll give you fifteen thousand for it."

Copyright 2003.