“Can you hear me?” shouted van Gogh at the severed ear in his hand. Droplets of blood pooled in his palm, like blobs of paint on a palette. “I’ve listened to you for thirty-five years and now you’ve nothing to say when I ask your opinion.” He laughed madly. “Looks like one of us has lost his head.”
He wrapped the ear in paper, went to the brothel he frequented and gave the packet to Gaby, the charwoman. “Treasure this. It will be a valuable relic some day and make you rich after my paintings become famous because of it.”
He wrapped the ear in paper, went to the brothel he frequented and gave the packet to Gaby, the charwoman. “Treasure this. It will be a valuable relic some day and make you rich after my paintings become famous because of it.”
