The scent of burning wood and roasting chestnuts wafted from a vendor up the street. Christmas decorations crowded the shop windows, reminding me of the time when I had visited Dries in Paris and had my first long talks with Theo, the Christmas he’d proposed.

Was he watching me from above? If he was, I hoped he saw that I was doing my best to fulfill my promise. I hoped he could see our little son, napping at my parents’ house, under the care of my mother and sisters. I had brought him to the city with me for the week.

Clouds covered the sky, the sun unable to break through to warm the air. I did not take that as an omen. It was just Dutch winter. But I was shivering by the time we reached Arti et Amicitiae’s white neoclassical building on Gracht Ronkin.

“Please watch your feet,” I begged the boys as we headed up the steps.

Arts and Friendships, the Dutch artists’ society, had been founded a decade before my birth and offered the most sincere and wide-reaching support to artists in the country. It was also the last place I had not yet begged for help.

I knew from Anna’s husband, Jan, that Arti exhibited both members and nonmembers. I even had a letter of recommendation from Jan in my handbag, and another from Richard Roland Holst, whom Jan had convinced to provide at least that much assistance.

I silently rehearsed my well-prepared argument as I climbed step after step, nervous but undaunted. His homeland must support him… His work will bring glory to our country…

“Goedemorgen.” A gentleman passed me and opened the door for us.

He was a head taller and at least a dozen years older than me, his smile quick, his eyes inquisitive. He reminded me of my Theo. Or maybe I was just seeing Theo everywhere because I desperately needed his spirit to be present with me.

I thanked the man for his kindness. “Dank u wel.”

“Madam.” He executed a perfect bow, then left me at reception and continued down the hallway, disappearing behind the first door on the left.

I’m here. The paintings are here. We will be seen. Breathe. Speak. “Goedemorgen.”

“And you are looking for?” the porter, a much older man with a neatly trimmed white mustache, enquired after an exchange of polite greetings.

“I would like to speak to the man in charge. I am here to set up an exhibit. I am Vincent van Gogh’s agent.”

The porter stared at me with alarm, as if I had said I’d come to rob the place. “Ladies do not agent, madam.”

“And yet I am here. And I am a woman.”

He gaped at me, having clearly not expected such blatant resistance.

“I am Johanna van Gogh,” I said with impeccable politeness. “Could you please let the person in charge know that I am here to see him?”