Van Gogh Reborn!

Chapter 239:

Chapter 239:

239

It wasn’t there, but it appeared (7)

From his cheerful expression, I could tell how much Michel cared about Marso.

There was a closeness between them that was hard to express, even without talking sweetly or clinging to each other.

“Then I’ll go check it out.”

“Okay.”

Michel went up to the office.

He must have spent two hours admiring Marso’s work.

Vida Rabani came over.

“Do you want to sit over there and talk?”

“Yeah!”

Vida Rabani answered energetically and ran to the garden bench. She brushed the bench with her hand and gestured for me to sit down. I felt a bit awkward.

“Thank you.”

“No problem. Oh, this flower is pretty. I’ve been watering it.”

“It’s an azalea.”

“An azalea?”

“It’s a kind of rhododendron. I don’t know what it’s called in French.”

It was a rare flower in Europe in the past, but my grandfather grew it in his Seoul house and I asked him about it.

He said it was native to Korea and also grew in China, Japan, and other places.

The fresh leaves and seductive color were beautiful. He probably planted it for ornamental purposes.

I started the conversation with a caramel candy in my mouth.

“I’m planning to meet every Friday, Saturday, and Sunday. You can come anytime on those days.”

“Okay.”

“Do whatever you want. You can use the canvas and paint as much as you want.”

I originally thought of just sharing the space, but this seemed fine.

Even though it was spring, she was wearing thick pants that looked like they belonged to winter, and they were worn out.

Someone must have given them to her, because the length didn’t fit and the folded hem made my heart ache.

“No, it’s okay. I’m making money.”

Vida Rabani showed me her palm and shook her head.

It felt like I had been hit hard on the head.

I spoke easily out of pity, but I didn’t consider what kind of effort this kid was making.

At the age of fifteen or sixteen, she was earning the money for the materials herself. How passionate and determined she must be.

“That’s amazing.”

She smiled shyly and looked embarrassed when I said it sincerely.

“But you’re cooler. You’re already hanging out with the artist.”

“Marso?”

“Yeah. I saw him at the Art Nouveau contest. Summer Night. Mido. Really. Really cool.”

I felt good talking to this kid.

“Did you know it was mine?”

“I didn’t. Your painting was the first time I saw Summer Night. But I knew Mido was the artist’s painting as soon as I saw it.”

“How?”

“The atmosphere? Hmm. How do I explain it? Maybe I got used to it because I’m here?”

She said she realized it after seeing hundreds of self-portraits exhibited in Marso’s gallery, but that didn’t explain it.

Many critics and artists couldn’t be sure that Mido was Henri Marso’s work because of the mysterious color of ochre and the new coloring technique he learned to use it.

“They didn’t know either. It’s amazing.”

“Do you believe me?”

I didn’t know what she meant and was speechless for a moment.

“Of course I do.”

“They said why didn’t I say it later. If I had participated in the event, there would have been a record.”

She was talking about the event to guess the artist.

I was going to ask why she didn’t participate, but then I thought she might not have a smartphone.

Instead, I changed the topic.

“What are you painting?”

“I’ll show you.”

Vida Rabani opened the paint tube.

It was the Statue of Liberty illuminating the Bastille Square.

She didn’t paint it as it was, but added another person. The golden angel crossing the sky looked just like Henri Marso, and the gentle angel next to him looked like Michel Platini.

“You look alike.”

She scratched her head as I turned my head.

“Yeah. It’s the director and the artist.”

She explained, feeling embarrassed.

“I used to think that I shouldn’t draw pictures like that. But the author taught me. He said that I shouldn’t lie to myself no matter how hard it is. He said that I should love myself even if others say anything.”

That’s what Marso said to the guy who terrorized the gallery.

“Michelle?”

“Uh… Do you know why the word ‘miracle’ was created?”

He shook his head.

“The director said that it was a word that came from something that really happened. He said that it was something that no one knew, even if it seemed impossible.”

I waited curiously to hear what he would say, and he gratefully poured out the story he had in his small chest.

“It’s hard right now, but when I grow up, I can join Antermittang. Then I can do what I want and eat, too. Oh, do you know Antermittang?”

“Yeah.”

“He said that the author made it really nice. To me, the author and the director are angels.”

He smiled shyly and blushed.

“Marso and Michelle would be happy to know.”

“Huh.”

He lived brightly without losing hope and courage in a difficult environment, and I thought I knew why Michelle recommended this kid.

I wrote down my home address on a practice sheet and gave it to him.

“It’s my house. Come when you’re comfortable.”

“Really? Can I, can I draw with you?”

“Of course.”

Vida Lavani took a breath and looked at me, then jumped up and down.

He didn’t look like he was sixteen, maybe because his growth process wasn’t good.

I wanted to feed him properly at least on the days he came to the studio.

“Mo, money? I’ll try to do 80 euros a month!”

“Money?”

He nodded his head vigorously and then paused.

“Are you short?”

“No. Why do you take money? We’re just playing.”

“But, but I want to ask you if I don’t know something and I want to see how you draw. So. That’s why.”

“I’ll do that, too.”

He teared up.

“That’s why I’m looking for people.”

“Am I, am I really okay…”

I held Vida Lavani’s hand.

“What do you mean, you?”

“Ah. Huhu.”

I knew that laugh was an act to hide his sadness. I squeezed his hand and said again.

“You’re dreaming, aren’t you? You’re working hard, aren’t you? You’re doing well without relying on others, aren’t you? You’re not like me. You’re a great painter.”

“…Me?”

“Yeah.”

He nodded his head and pursed his lips. He gulped and tried to swallow his tears.

“I can’t. I can’t go to places like academies. I thought I’d never be a painter in my life.”

“Academy? Why can’t you go to the academy?”

“Because I’m a Muslim. So. I thought I couldn’t learn to draw. Huh.”

“What do you mean? Why can’t you go to the academy if you’re a Muslim?”

I thought he couldn’t go because he didn’t have money and felt sorry for him, but I was speechless at the unexpected words.

“No. No. It’s nothing.”

Vida Lavani wiped his tears and smiled.

“So you met well?”

“Yes.”

Grandpa asked me about Vida Lavani while we were having dinner.

“But why don’t you look happy? Didn’t you like him?”

I shook my head.

“No. It’s just a bit weird.”

“What is?”

“He said he wanted to go to the academy. He said he wanted to learn something because he had never learned to draw.”

Grandpa nodded his head as if to tell me to go on.

“But he said he couldn’t because he was a Muslim.”

There are strange people everywhere.

I asked him if he had tried other places, thinking that not all academies would be like that, but he just smiled silently.

“Hmm.”

“Isn’t that weird? Isn’t this a country that recognizes and respects diversity?”

France showed a very progressive attitude in both art and film.

They gave up high profits and prevented theater monopolies to respect diversity, and there were no restrictions on any artistic works on display.

I never imagined that such things would happen in the modern world, where religious freedom is guaranteed, unlike in the past when religion was the order of the world.

“Let’s think about it together.”

Grandfather always said that, instead of giving me an answer, he asked me to ponder with him.

“Muslim terrorism is not a recent phenomenon. Many people have suffered because of it.”

“…”

“There is a reason why people hate Muslims. They lost their property and their loved ones to them. Not many people can look at them with a good eye.”

“Yes.”

I can see where they are coming from.

It is wrong to hate all Muslims just because some of them did bad things, but is it an easy thing to do as I wish?

I think even I, who try to be understanding, would struggle if I had my property and precious ones taken away from me.

“That’s not the only problem. The lives of the French commoners are becoming more and more impoverished. To them, refugees are seen as those who steal their jobs.”

You mean to say that it is not just a Muslim problem.

“There is also a law that must be obeyed in France.”

“What is it?”

“Laïcité. The separation of politics and religion. In France, any religious act is prohibited in public places.”

Laïcité.

It is a philosophy that has developed since the French Revolution, and it was already established as a value when I lived as Vincent van Gogh.

“For example, wearing a hijab in the classroom is also considered a violation of laïcité in France.”

“What is a hijab?”

“It’s a cloth that Muslims wear on their faces. Some people see it as a religious garment, while others see it as a traditional costume.”

I nodded.

“Now, from the Muslim perspective, they have to wear the hijab, but in France, it’s banned. That’s bound to cause conflict, right?”

“Yes.”

I think I understood why Grandpa wanted me to think along with him.

Laïcité was the product of a struggle to pursue true freedom from the influence of the Vatican.

It recognized the freedom of religion, but also established a law to prevent it from dominating human life.

From the French point of view, the Muslim behavior might have seemed like an infringement on the freedom they had fought for over a long time.

And the Muslims might have felt that their faith was being ignored.

“Platini is looking after that kid because he has a good heart. But in fact, it’s hard for the French to see Muslims in a good light.”

“…Yes.”

It was a difficult problem to solve, since both sides could be understood.

But that didn’t mean that all their actions were justified. Crime and violence could not be allowed just because they had reasons.

Like Damien Carter.

“That doesn’t mean that terrorism or discrimination is right, does it?”

Grandpa nodded.