The Old Canvas of Finn Vanderberg

“The Old Canvas of Finn Vanderberg”

Amsterdam, Netherlands

December 2018

Finn slumped into his chair behind the reception desk. He closed his eyes and scratched at the discolored scar on his forearm. He tapped into the internal hit of adrenaline, buried somewhere deep in his mind. He ran, ducking in and out of traffic. He tracked his prey. Not too close but, not too far either so as to lose sight, he reminded himself. 

A feeble voice brought Finn back to the present. Just like that, the exhilaration vanished. The mundane settled back in.

“Ah, yes, there she is,” Janssen said as he plucked out the bronze key from the oversized carabiner. His shaky left hand stabbed at the keyhole with the precision of a toddler’s coloring book. After it clicked, he moseyed past the reception desk. 

“Finny, ol’ boy, I’ll be downstairs watching the monitors. Still think they’ll show?”

Finn studied the punishing downpour through the large glass facades. “They paid ten thousand for the after-hours tour. I sure as hell would for that kind of money.”

Janssen shrugged and said, “Very well, ol' boy. Holler if ya need me,” then he disappeared into the elevator destined for the basement security room.

Useless old fart, Finn thought. 

The Van Gogh Museum closed at five o’clock sharp. The clock now read eight thirty-five. Finn kicked the reception desk and muttered vulgar incoherences to himself. In a prior life, he chased excitement. Sometimes, excitement chased him back and left scars. When he was first indoctrinated, they told him the career had a short shelf life. They were right. One day, it suddenly expired. So, here he was now, relegated to the monotony of a tour guide repeating the same lines every day, no better than a rotten telemarketer. 

Hello, welcome to the Van Gogh Museum. My name is Finn Vanderberg and I will be your tour guide today. First opened in 1973 – 

A sudden knock on the glass door interrupted Finn’s monologue of self-mockery.

Finn peered over the reception desk at the image of a woman and a man huddled at the front door. Finn unlocked the door and the water-logged duo trudged inside. Their eyes darted in every direction exploring the empty lobby.

“Good evening, my name is Finn Vanderberg. I will be your guide for tonight’s private tour.” His car salesman's smile offered little enthusism. "It is my utmost pleasure to welcome you to the Van Gogh Museum,” he said, extending his hand. He scanned the duo from head to toe, starting with their hands. Old habits die hard.

The woman spoke first, “Good evening to you, sir. We apologize for our tardiness. Terrible weather and all, you know.” She spoke with a subtle but foreign lilt.

“Yes, indeed. Not a worry at all, Ms.–” 

“Sanchez. You can call me Isabella. And this is my partner, Jorge.” They exchanged handshakes. Jorge’s mouth didn’t move, but Finn recognized something familiar in his dark eyes.

“Isabella and Jorge, of course, of course. We’ll get the tour started right away. But first, as a security precaution, we require that you two leave your identification at the reception desk. You will collect them upon departure.”

“Certainly, Mr. Vanderberg. I know we paid for a private tour, but I suppose I wasn’t expecting this private. Is it just us here tonight?” she asked as she slid the two ember-red passports across the reception desk. 

“España. Beautiful country. Beautiful museums there as well. Which is your favorite?” Finn said. 

“Uh, I really like the, uh, uh,” she stammered. “El Nacional is fantastic, actually.”

Finn’s eyes widened, excitement starting to bubble inside. “Yes, yes, you mean El Prado?”

Isabella shrugged, “Semantics, I suppose. But yes, it is quite beautiful.” 

Finn flipped to the bio-data pages of each passport and discretely ran his fingers over the security features.

“This is very, very interesting,” Finn mumbled.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Vanderberg?” her eyebrows furrowed. 

“Sorry, my mind tends to drift at times. Well, my friends, we’re in for an exciting tour tonight, right?” Finn said.

“Uh, I suppose, Mr. Vanderberg. I was asking, though, if it will be just us tonight.”

“Ah, yes. Thankfully, it’s just us.” Finn’s eagerness unnerved Isabella. “Well, with that little bit out of the way, shall we get started? Please follow me this way.”

Finn led the group through a maze of interconnected rooms adorned in a warm aqua color. Soft wall lights soothed the rooms. The group stopped at a glass fixture encasing a weathered palette of yellow ochre, cadmium yellow, chrome orange, Prussian blue, and zinc white.

“I like to start with a little trivia, Ms. Sanchez. It’s an easy one. An art buff like yourself will have no problem,” Finn said as he smirked. “This, here, is Mr. Vincent Willem van Gogh’s original palette. He was born in 1853. What was his nickname?”

Isabella stared distractedly at the palette.

“Time’s up! The Little Painter Fellow,” Finn said, his smirk growing into a wicked grin. 

“That was a softball, Ms. Sanchez!”

Isabella and Jorge remained quiet as their eyes explored around the room.

“Please follow me this way. We have so much more to see. In this adjoining room here, you’ll see many of the famous self-portraits created by Mr. Van Gogh. Which of these speaks to you, Ms. Sanchez?”

“This one is very interesting,” she said.

“Ah, yes Ms. Sanchez, an interesting selection indeed. Self-Portrait with Bandaged Ear. A favorite of many visitors like yourself. Painted in 1889, it is a classic self-portrait of Mr. Van Gogh after he severed his own ear with a razor during his violent confrontation with fellow Post-Impressionist painter Paul Gauguin.”

“It’s beautiful,” she remarked, trying to fill the airtime. 

“Would you like to know the backstory, Ms. Sanchez?”

Isabella and Jorge looked at Finn with blank stares. “Enlighten us,” she quipped.

“Certainly, Ms. Sanchez. After Mr. Van Gogh severed his own ear, he admitted himself to a lunatic asylum. He spent about a year there, producing some of his greatest works, including Self-Portrait with Bandaged Ear and Starry Night, which is regarded as his magnum opus.”

Finn reiterated, “Magnum opus, Ms. Sanchez, as in his crowning masterpiece.”

Isabella and Jorge nodded in agreement. Jorge spoke for the first time, “May we see where that one is Mr. Vanderberg?”

“Ah, I thought that might pique your interest. Most certainly, I must warn you first though. We only have a replica here. The original, as you art buffs probably know, is on display at the Museum of Modern Art in New York.”

“I see,” Jorge said.

Finn sensed the disappointment and said, “I think I know what you’re here to see. Please follow me this way.”

The aqua-colored maze opened to a wide room with a floating wall in the middle. One painting stood alone.

“This, here, is the original Bedroom in Arles. I assume this will be of great interest to you two. It received an astounding bid of one hundred and seventeen million dollars at Christie’s in 2014.”

Isabella and Jorge eyes locked in on the masterpiece. 

Finn said, “This depicts Mr. Van Gogh’s bedroom in Boches-du-Rhône in the now-famous Yellow House. He painted so many of his great works here. Do you know the significance of this painting, my friends?”

Isabella dug both hands into her pockets and locked eyes with Finn. “Mr. Vanderberg—”

Finn continued, “It is the visual representation of the calm before the storm, Ms. Sanchez. Mr. Van Gogh painted this beautiful room, and it was inside this very room that the bloody confrontation with Mr. Gaugin occurred.”

“Mr. Vanderberg—” she said, raising her voice.

Finn smiled from ear to ear, his energy beaming. “Did you know in 2002 a couple of degenerates executed a perfect heist at this very museum?”

Isabella stood there, caught off by Finn’s bursting excitement. 

Finn continued, “So, my friends, how do you like your chances today?”

A startling pop emanated from an unknown area. The museum descended into darkness. Dim emergency lights on the floors offered only a trivial amount of visibility.

Isabella drew a knife from her pocket and swung wildly at Finn. Whoosh! Finn ducked and the blade caught air. She pursued Finn across the room. Finn parried another reckless attack, but this time it found meat. In his periphery, he caught a glimpse of Jorge ripping Bedroom in Arles from the wall. 

Blood spurted from the wide gash on his forearm. Finn stumbled backwards. 

Sensing weakness, she stalked her prey into the corner. Little did she know, Finn wasn’t prey. And he certainly wasn’t just a normal tour guide.

She drove the blade at Finn’s stomach like a prison shank. Finn sidestepped and caught her wrist with both hands and twisted. She yelped in agony and the blade dropped, the clang of steel echoing through the empty museum. Their two bodies locked into a violent dance, each positioning for dominance. Finn saw his opening and threw a vicious elbow at her jaw, flesh on flesh connecting. She crumpled to the floor unconscious. 

Finn pulled off his belt and cinched the makeshift tourniquet around his bicep. He sprinted for the lobby leaving behind a slick trail of blood. 

Finn caught up to Jorge standing in the lobby with both hands on the painting’s frame. 

The elevator dinged and Janssen sauntered out. He froze at the scene of Finn and Jorge in the lobby, Bedroom in Arles playing the part of unwitting participant in the chaos.

Finn barked at Janssen. “Call the police, now!” 

Janssen didn’t move. He looked at Finn, then at Jorge, and back at Finn. Janssen remained frozen. 

“Janssen! Come on! Do something!” Finn screamed. 

“Finny, ol’ boy, I’m terribly sorry about this one.” Janssen tossed the carabiner to Jorge and drew his six-shooter revolver from his holster.

“Janssen! Don’t do this!”

Janssen’s shaky left hand could barely stabilize the revolver. Jorge opened the glass door and sprinted out the door, Bedroom in Arles in tow.

“Not a move there, ol' boy, or I’ll shoot you where you stand,” Janssen said.

Finn recognized the wobbliness in Janssen’s hand. He liked his chances.

He sprinted for the door, sliding behind the reception desk. Janssen ripped off a volley of wild, inaccurate rounds, shattering the floor-to-ceiling glass facades. His revolver clicked and clicked and clicked. 

Finn cleared the lobby and sprinted through the open green field of Amsterdam’s Museum Quarter. Fortunately for Finn, and the precious Bedroom in Arles, the rain had ceased.

The getaway driver had staged just off Van Baerlestraat Street. The streets normally bustled, but tonight, the rains cleared out the traffic. 

Jorge stuffed the painting in the trunk and the blue Kia sedan peeled out.

Finn spotted an unattended taxi nearby, the driver midway through a drag of his cigarette with his co-workers. Finn slipped into the black Tesla Model S and slammed the pedal to the floor. His driving skills not nearly as rusty as his hand-to-hand combat.

The energy of the electric motor pulsed through the steering wheel into Finn’s arms. 

Finn closed the gap with the Kia sedan as it blew through a series of four-way intersections. Finn swerved and glided the Tesla around incoming traffic. The high-speed pursuit screeched like Formula One cars rounding Casino Square in Monte Carlo.

Finn locked bumpers with the Kia as they drifted in tandem onto Roelof Hartstraat Street. They approached an overpass crossing over Amstel River. Crowds of tourists gathered around the river to spot the commotion. 

A lumbering box truck made a wide turn into the intersection. The driver of the Kia pushed the economy vehicle past its mechanical limits.

The Kia careened off the box truck, flipped, and slid across the overpass, slamming into the crash barriers. 

The Kia teetered, one hundred and seventeen million dollars dangling over the Amstel River. 

The Tesla skidded to a stop and Finn jumped out. He sprinted for the Kia.

The violent crash crunched the trunk of the Kia, leaving it slightly ajar. Flames erupted from the engine. 

Finn dug his arms deep into the trunk. The Kia swayed and rocked back and forth. The intense flames scorched his face.

Finn grasped something geometric and he tugged with all his energy. The Kia started to slip over the edge.

With one last pull, Finn extracted the golden, rustic frame of Bedroom in Arles and fell to his back, just before the Kia plunged into the murky waters of the Amstel River.

Police cars swarmed the scene and encircled Finn as he lay on his back. The adrenaline surge brought him back to life. He looked at his bleeding arm.

He was back in his element.