The guard at the Leopold Museum does not trust you. He follows you around the room and hovers in the corner, watching as you make your way to the bench and position yourself in front of the painting. It’s his job, you understand that, but all the same, you have to suppress the urge to turn him and say: ‘Could you please just give me a moment?’
On the tram across town, you had closed your eyes as it trundled along, not wishing to be distracted by the city’s imposing, imperial beauty and had tried to prepare yourself for this moment. You imagined walking into the gallery, fixing your gaze on the portrait, and then approaching it slowly, until you were close enough to whisper into the tilt of that one exposed ear.
I think you’re the only man I know who would set out across Europe because you believe a figure, rendered in oil on wood, can help you make sense of things.
It’s a delusion, of course, and deep down you know it. The man in the painting, with his penetrating stare and his pinched brow, has no answers and, like me, he is long dead. But you cling to the possibility, nonetheless— to the unfounded belief that some sort of truth can be rendered in brush stokes traced there more than a century ago.
You were not prepared for the hovering guard though, and his presence means you do not dare get close enough to whisper into that ear. You will have to make sense of things from a distance after all.
No matter. Because even from this position, even though his image has been fixed there for more than a century, his energy is undiminished; his thin body taut
and coiled as if he is trying to escape the confines of the frame; his stare uncompromising, the twisted mouth and contorted limbs suggestive of all the suffering to come.
And there it is again, demanding and answer without compassion or remorse. A question I posed all those years ago. ‘He knew what was coming, didn’t he?’
Though when you look at him, you’re not sure. He knew something, yes. You can see it in his eyes. But a premonition, the certainty that war and disease were on their way? No, he didn’t know about that. Not yet. But his gaze is disconcerting enough to make you believe he was unconstrained by both the past and the future. He simply knew about the moment. And that’s all you see there in his eyes. The way he dared to live.
You scan the surface and see the name and date scrawled in the bottom right corner. Nineteen-twelve. Six years left to live. The sad, inescapable truth of a life caught up in the ravages of history.
Would it help if I told you the question is unanswerable? Would you believe me if I told you that?
How about if I told you I should have kept it to myself? ‘It was just a casual observation, Peter. No need to read so much into it.’ Yes, I should have told you that. Then you would not have been left with an uncertainty that has taken you from Amsterdam to Vienna on a hopeless pilgrimage.
But how was I to know? We utter words without thinking, never imagining the questions they can leave in their wake. And brushstrokes too, can be applied to a canvas with the same casual abandon. These are ideas of the moment. That is all.
Oh, but that’s not you, is it, Peter? You are always looking for a meaning. Even when there is none to be found. But let me tell you something: sometimes things happen for no reason.
Fate. Inescapability. Intuition. Whatever it was, it was enough to bring you here to the Leopold. It is a distance also measured in years. And you stare again at the date scrawled in the lower corner— nineteen-twelve— and have to reproach yourself. No, nothing was known then. Whatever you imagined you saw there— a question in the tilt of his head, a provocation in the lift of his chin, a defiant fatalism in the pout of those lips, a brutal honesty in those fathomless eyes— it was simply an interpretation. The very meaning of art. Make of me, what you will. That is what he is saying.
And for the first time, it occurs to you that perhaps you have travelled here for nothing. That you have come here looking for something that can never be found. Then just enjoy the painting for what it is. That’s good advice, Peter. Do you hear me?
You had read someplace— God knows where— that the flowers symbolised protection. When gifted to someone ill, they are meant to confer the wish for good health and a swift recovery.
And here it comes again. Only this time it is not my voice you hear, but his. The painted mouth whispering an answer of sorts after all.
‘You see, I did know. I always knew.’
And it’s true. Of course it is. You see it now. As soon as you’d sat down on the bench you’d tried to push it away. The foreboding. It’s not in anything specific. It runs through all of it. Every line, every brushstroke. Yes, it’s in the tilt of the head, the pout of the lips, the merciless stare. In that strange cropping of body and head. He wants you to see. He wants you to ask, him: Did you know what was coming? Always the provocateur.
The security guard moves across the room, and you feel him draw closer, become aware of his uniformed shape in your field of vision and try to ignore it. But the longer you sit there the more agitated you become, your energy filling the room, and focussing the guard’s attention. You turn and nod to him, hoping that if you acknowledge his presence he will walk away. Will see you mean no harm. You are not here to damage or destroy. You simply have a question. But the guard has been trained to remain impassive, to hold your gaze in a way that leaves no doubt.
If you spoke German, you would ask him. ‘Have I been sitting here too long?’ Your tone passive, apologetic, asking for permission. You would charm him with politeness, and he would leave you be. But you are useless here. Wordless and powerless. So you avert your eyes and look down at your lap for a moment, noticing the stain of toothpaste on your trouser leg, and remembering the rush this morning as you’d dashed from the hotel. It no longer felt like the same day. But when you look at your watch, you see it is just past eleven. You’ve been sitting there for barely thirty minutes.
And still you have not told him about me. Still, you have not whispered my name to him. Ilona. That’s what this is really about, isn’t it? This lonely journey of yours. That’s the real question. You want to know what I felt. Did she know it was coming? Tell me, did Ilona know, just as you knew? Did she feel the same dread?
This century dead man. He is the link between us, between the now and then. Between knowing and not knowing. But only because this is what you have made of him.
*
That day in Amsterdam. What is it, fifteen years ago now? The two of us wandering the Van Gogh museum trying to make sense of it all. We had stopped before the portrait of Edith, and I had been unable to control my laughter. Something about the pose. The defeated fall of the arms against the thighs. The dress, with its frivolous collar and its garish stripes, all of it so comically demure. Her smile, bemused, almost meek, like a child’s. The strange, unflinching, de-sexing of her. Poor Edith. To have loved a man such as him.
The curator had been playful, almost cruel, and had placed the portrait of the lovers alongside her. Egon and Wally, writhing in pleasure, their erotic contortions a stark contrast to the blank and bewildered stare of Edith. I had gasped at the audacity of it and had looked to you for some sort of explanation.
‘I intend to get married advantageously,’ you said. And I had felt my throat contract only understanding when you continued.
‘He wrote that in a letter to a friend before he married Edith.’ And I had stared at the painting and replied, ‘Who would do such a thing?’
When you blinked uncomprehendingly, I moved away from you, pausing only briefly at the self-portraits, too scared then to meet his eye, because I was no longer sure where the boundary of self-awareness and cruelty lay. But I’ll admit, his honesty intrigued me as much as his cruelty repelled me.
You had mistaken my question for judgement and had pushed the point. ‘The art that came from it, surely you can admire that?’
I did not understand at first and stumbled on an answer. ‘Oh, no, that’s not it. It’s not the art, it’s…’ Then. ‘You can see it in his eyes, don’t you think? Something’s there. Love and death. It’s true, look.’
And you had started to explain again, ‘Well, his father, you see, when he was fifteen—’ but I had interrupted.
‘No, look closely, you can see it. He knew what was coming, didn’t he? Perhaps that’s why he lived with such abandon.’
Then I had walked away, because some truth had been spoken and there was no coming back from it. And yes, maybe it’s a lie when I say my words had no intentions. No meaning. No forethought. Maybe the truth is, I saw something there that no-one should ever know. He had spoken to me with an honesty I was not prepared to hear and was not prepared to accept. I’d caught a glimpse of the future right there in this man’s past. And I walked away. What else could I have done? No-one wants to know their own future.
That day in Amsterdam. You had stared for a long time at that portrait of the lovers. The naked body sitting on the floor, exposed and taut and wilful, those astonishing, black eyes filled with defiance, and I know you tried so hard to find it there. Death and love. Which was it? You weren’t sure. Not fate, though. You thought I was wrong about that and had left the museum feeling burdened and uncertain.
It was only three days ago, that you had finally understood. Death and love. One and the same thing. He had understood it and in its expression had shown you something you feared. You remembered me staring at Edith. Two women, their eyes locking, both of them withholding something. You had remembered my face when I turned to you, my perplexed expression. Who would do such a thing?
The memory flowing seamlessly into the new reality, the new question. One just as unanswerable as the first. Did she know it was coming?
There had been no time, in the end, to answer that. But I had hung a lantern in the darkness to keep it at bay, not understanding I had confronted fate on the wall of a museum. Death or love? Is that how you see it? Then in that case I have no answer, Peter. I cannot help you. And, in truth, neither can he. He was just an artist. Just a man. Here for the briefest of moments, as we all are.
But I can watch you, sitting alone in the Leopold, your pilgrimage almost complete now. An answer of sorts to be found here after all.
Egon. He had been asking for protection, you are sure of it. The orange glow of the petals, some advance appeal for clemency. Though not forgiveness. That he did not need. And that is what his gaze means. He knew what was coming his way and so he hung those pretty orange lanterns and tilted his head and then waited for it to come. His ear ready, waiting to receive the answer. Because we all have to answer it ourselves in the end. Death or love? We can only wait and listen, tilt out ears and lift our chins as if to say, ‘Go on then, tell me’.
Nineteen-twelve and all of this is still to come. Edith’s dress. My laughter. The painted lover, lost on some Adriatic shore. And then all those millions of others. He was simply one of them. And now, so am I. And the question?
‘Did you feel it coming?’ You dare to say it out loud now. No need to whisper. And the sound of your voice in the silence of the museum sends the guard scurrying across the room, ready, poised, waiting for an answer. ‘What did you say?’
And you look at him and find a word at last.
‘Entschuldigung, entschuldigung,’ you whisper, as you rise from the bench and walk away.
And what you mean by that is love.
This story was first published by The Short Story in 2025
Leave a Reply