“I have heard of him.” De Jong crossed to the crate the boys had set down. “But I have not had the pleasure of seeing his work.”

“Neither has the world. I am here to remedy that,” I surprised myself with how confident I sounded. “Please, lay the crate on its side,” I instructed the boys.

They did as I’d asked, and I opened the clever latches Janus had constructed so I wouldn’t need to bring tools with me. Once the lid was off, I unwrapped, then lifted out the first canvas.

The windows showed a gray and dreary sky outside, but suddenly, the room filled with sunlight. Instead of bringing the small prints and paintings I had sent around in the past, I brought larger works this time. As quickly as I could, I unpacked the crate, leaning the three canvases against the back of the man’s desk.

“Ah. I see. I see indeed.” Meneer de Jong’s gaze paused on the stark blues and yellows of The Starry Night. “And what village is this?”

“A village born of the artist’s imagination. To a degree.” Vincent had painted the sky from his window at the asylum at Saint-Rémy. There had been no village, however, outside. He added in Saint-Rémy, on the other side of the building, from memory. “Isn’t the contrast beautiful? The sky in motion, swirling with the mysteries of the universe, while the village is peaceful and asleep.”

I had no technical knowledge of art, nor could I analyze Vincent’s skill as an expert. The best I could do was share how the painting made me feel.

“I have often wondered whether the duality represents Vincent’s tumultuous thoughts and dark imaginings, sharing space with the inner peace he was so desperate to achieve. The two are balanced on the canvas, living in harmony.”

I half expected De Jong to tell me I was talking nonsense, but he nodded. “Millet also has a Starry Night. Have you seen it?”

“I have not had the privilege.”

“I had a glimpse when it was sold through Goupil. I believe the piece ended up with the Scottish writer George Craik, and it’s still in his family. Millet’s version is more subdued, almost monochromatic. This one is altogether brilliant.”

He moved on to Blossoming Almond Tree.

I was there to convert the man, so I had to speak. “Every time I see the awakening branches, no matter how bad things are, the mood of the painting makes me look forward to the future. The unfurling buds symbolize new life, new hope, a rebirth of the tree.” I cleared my throat. “Vincent hoped for a rebirth himself. He found a new way to paint in Arles.” He’d written about how different the light was in the South of France, how magnificent and perfect for his art. “If only he had more time left, he could have…”