Still Life with a Plate of Onions, 1889
(Oil on canvas, 49.6 × 64.4 cm)
BY Vincent Van Gogh
Kröller-Müller Museum

In the kitchen the sauce had thickened and gained in flavour; the little slices of onion were saturated now, their sliced bodies glazed with sauce. He held a glass of wine to his lips and savoured the interaction of flavours. Whatever one said, British food had improved. He remembered one day in a dark hotel room, doing interviews to promote de duivelwals, working his way through a sandwich of unspeakable dryness and, just as he was asked to offer his analysis of contemporary British poetry, retching.

A ring of the doorbell was anticipated but did not come; he moved back to the lounge, brushing himself down and bearing the unadulterated rum with him. “Couldn’t find any coke I’m afraid so I mixed in a little ice and lime with it; see if you like it.” Best to give the boy his alcoholic education on the sly.

Averting his eyes from the young man’s swigging he turned to Baummüller. “So, who are you writing on at the moment?”

“An American author actually — Philip Roth,” said Karl. “It’s such clever stuff. Really, it’s hard to find a contemporary German author of comparable range.”

Saved from literary chat by the bell ringing, Sebastian rose to answer it, taking his apron off as he passed the kitchen. Making sure his natty waistcoat and shaved neck were on full display, he walked in to the hall.

“I walked all the way round the block and looked for the staircase and then — well, I found you, I guess!” Maria stood there, resplendent in black and green, a choker tight around her neck. Bloody hell! After a moment, “A drink?” he said, as much for himself as her.

She was still talking as she came in, “And the buses…”

“Absolutely,” he regained himself; ‘tore himself together,’ as the German nicely put it. “Well, welcome to my pad; would you like a glass of wine?”

“Oh, just orange juice for me,” she said, having moved into the lounge where the boys were seated.

Both of them seemed to straighten up as she entered. “Maria!” — said Karl. Rich put down the ashtray and just nodded, simply, deeply nodded.

“It’s nice to see you; how are you doing Professor — ”

“Oh, please, call me Karl,” the Professor intervened. Maria looked at him nervously; Rich lowered an eyebrow.

“Na — können wir dutzen dann?” said Sebastian to Karl, appearing, and everyone laughed, even Rich, though he had failed to understand the joke. “Now, if you’d care to come through to the kitchen — dinner is served.”

On the table, napkins, the bottle of wine and candle-holders waited for them on a table oddly steely for such a rustic kitchen. “You can smoke,” he said to Richard, budging up past him to attend to the pan.

“It smells lovely,” said Maria, raising her spoon in her small hand.

“Are you writing anything at the moment?” asked Baummüller, standing up against the stove.

“I’m writing a story about a saturnine old Professor who comes to Dublin and finds himself up to his neck in admirers,” said Sebastian, with the abandon of one who knows his sexual days are through. “Maria — the wine.”