The Picture Visitors E-Book

Christina Wolff

• Herausgeber: Arctis US
• Kategorie: Für Kinder und Jugendliche
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 223

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2024

Beschreibung

Thirteen-year-old Vincent has a very special talent: He can jump into paintings and move around inside them! When the painting The Thunderstorm by an old Dutch painter is stolen from a London mansion, Vincent decides to track it down. During his search, to his great surprise, he meets Holly, who can dive into paintings just like him. The two make a bet: Whoever finds The Thunderstorm first wins! Vincent is sure that he will be faster than Holly, but the search turns out to be unexpectedly difficult. And suddenly something is also wrong with Vincent van Gogh's Starry Night. Why is it that when Vincent jumps into it, the painting feels like a fake?

Leseprobe

Christina Wolff

The Picture Visitors

A Case for the Van Gogh Agency

Translated from the German by Claire Storey

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are from the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

W1-Media, Inc.

Arctis Books USA

Stamford, CT, USA

Copyright © 2024 by W1-Media Inc. for this edition

Originally published in 2023 by WooW Books as Bildspringer: Der erste Fall der Van-Gogh-Agency.

First hardcover English edition published by W1-Media Inc./Arctis Books USA 2024

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publisher and copyright owner.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publisher and copyright owner.

ISBN978-1-64690-626-0

www.arctis-books.com

For Hanne—my favorite painter

Chapter 1

The gnome had looked harmless enough. Friendly even, with his little round cheeks and snub nose. But as Vincent landed next to him, the little man started shouting.

“You clumsy oaf! Haven’t you any eyes in your head? You squashed my turnips. Get off, or I’ll . . . I’ll . . . ” He said nothing more, just stood there shaking his fist threateningly.

Vincent glanced around. He had landed a good way in front of the cave’s entrance, slap bang in the middle of a small and carefully looked-after vegetable patch. You couldn’t really see it just by simply looking at the painting, but that was always the way. There was always more to see than the picture an artist created; everything they had imagined as they worked was somehow there as well. That was why you never knew exactly what to expect.

Vincent struggled to his feet and stepped away from the root vegetables.

“Sorry,” he muttered.

But the gnome hadn’t finished. “Who are you, anyway?” he asked, looking Vincent up and down disapprovingly. “You look like a child, even if you have giant bear paws.” He gestured toward Vincent’s feet with his small wooden pipe. “And what are you wearing? Are you a pauper? Your pants are completely torn.”

“Huh? Oh, right, um . . . no,” replied Vincent. “These are jeans. It’s what we wear nowadays.”

He was ready for such questions. The figures in the paintings were often curious about his clothing, but for now, the gnome looked like he was finished with his interrogation, and he stared silently at Vincent with wide eyes.

“Um, well, anyway—my name’s Vincent . . . Vincent Fox. And I’m thirteen . . . so don’t call me a child,” spluttered Vincent, who was feeling uncomfortable under the gnome’s piercing stare. “But you’re right, I do have quite large feet for my age.”

“Bear paws,” grumbled the gnome again. Then he poked around a small silver tin of tobacco, stuffed some of it into his pipe, and puffing away, went back to his gardening. He wasted no more words on Vincent.

That didn’t surprise Vincent, either. Even though the figures were often inquisitive, they were generally far too wrapped up in their own little worlds to ask many questions. There were exceptions, of course, but nobody had ever thought to ask him how he had materialized so suddenly.

Blinking, Vincent looked toward the gently sloping hillside that stretched beyond the vegetable patch. In any case, he wasn’t there to chat; he was there to take a stroll in the fields. Vincent thought the countryside painted by Carl Spitzweg* was simply beautiful. It was almost more beautiful than reality.

He took a deep breath and set off down into the valley. Crickets chirped around him, rays of sunlight danced between white clouds, and the sweet scent of wild mallow wafted in the air.

Not many painters managed to capture the smells. Paintings by less talented artists usually contained no aromas at all; although if you were really unlucky, they would reek of oil paints.

Vincent climbed up onto a fallen log that lay across the path. He had heard a sound in the distance—a church bell.

The hairs bristled along his forearms. He didn’t particularly like the chiming of bells. It always reminded him of the evening of his first visit to a painting. Back then, though, it had been a different sort of bell . . .

It had happened shortly after Vincent’s tenth birthday, in Grandpa Arthur’s studio. Vincent’s mum was away traveling again. Arthur had made dinner, and while he was doing so, he allowed Vincent to use his watercolor crayons. But before Vincent had a chance to grab the box of crayons, an oil painting he hadn’t seen in the studio before caught his attention. It was a seascape of a sailboat being tossed about on the waves in a strong storm. The colors on the canvas had immediately drawn Vincent under their spell—the dark yellow-gray sky and the white spray of the waves crashing over the bow of the boat.

Vincent still remembered it, the way it all suddenly felt so real. It was as if all he had to do was stretch out his fingers to touch the salty seawater. And it was then that he heard the sound.

Ding, ding, dingalingaling.

It was only later that he realized the sound must have come from the ship’s bell. He had felt dizzy for a moment or two before he unexpectedly found himself sliding across the cold, slippery planks.

That evening, he had nearly drowned, saved only by the fact that he landed abruptly—soaked to the skin—back on the rug in Grandpa Arthur’s studio.

That was almost three years ago, and a lot had happened since then.

First, of course, Vincent had to get over the shock, and so, too, did the rest of his family. Nobody could figure out what had happened. It was impossible to jump in and out of a picture; nobody could do a thing like that! Except . . . Vincent clearly could.

Two weeks later, Vincent dared to glance at a painting again, this time a still life of an apple that hung in Arthur’s hallway.

The fruit sat on a blue background and Vincent focused his thoughts on the different shades. He felt terrified, but at the same time, he was far too intrigued not to try it again.

It lasted no more than a moment, but there he’d been, sitting at a table in a farm kitchen. Bees were buzzing outside the window and a cat was rubbing itself against his legs. That was much more pleasant than the experience aboard the sailboat.

After that, Vincent had visited the apple painting a few more times. But only the apple painting. He didn’t dare try any others. But after a while, he began to find the farm kitchen rather dull, and little by little, his courage grew.

Van Gogh, Renoir, Monet—Vincent had now visited so many paintings by these and other famous painters. Yet he remained cautious. For example, he had never visited a battle scene. And he avoided pictures with too much water because he had no desire to die just yet. He didn’t want to worry his mum, either. She felt it was all far too dangerous for him. The only reason she allowed him to go picture-visiting was because she knew she couldn’t stop him. But she would have found very little to worry about in the Spitzweg landscape he was currently visiting. As far as he knew, hardly any peaceful paintings existed.

Not far away, Vincent heard the whistle of a steam train. He hurried through a thicket and stumbled across two faintly glimmering rails.

He cheerfully began to follow the tracks, hopping over the railway sleepers. But as he took a particularly long leap, his right foot slipped underneath the rail and with a soft squeak, his sneaker became stuck firmly beneath it. Vincent plunged forward and hit his knee on the iron rails. It hurt like anything. He pressed his lips together, picked himself back up, and rubbed his kneecap. Fortunately, it didn’t seem to be anything serious. Vincent spotted some blood on his jeans. It was clearly not from his knee, but a small cut on the palm of his hand. He found a graze on his forearm, too.

He carefully tried to remove his foot from between the rails, but his sneaker was completely stuck. Vincent would have to take his shoe off and then ease his foot out of the rails.

But just as he was pulling at his laces, he suddenly heard a whistle. Horrified, he turned around.

A train was approaching, white cotton candy steam whooshing up into the air. The locomotive was still some distance away but sweat began to bead on Vincent’s forehead. He frantically fumbled with his laces. The knot would not loosen, and in his haste, he was probably pulling it even tighter. Blood began to sing in his ears.

Flippin’ heck!

There were hundreds of terrifying paintings teeming with dragons, battle-axes, and demons. And here he was, about to die in a landscape. It was almost laughable!

Tears pooled in Vincent’s eyes.

He pulled his shoe with all his might. If only he had a pocketknife, he could cut the laces!

Another whistle pierced the air. The train was getting closer, perhaps even faster, too, just as Vincent had feared.

“Stop!” he yelled helplessly. He waved his arms, but the steam engine did not slow. Couldn’t the driver see him? In his despair, Vincent placed his free foot on the gravel next to the track and tried pushing himself as far away from the rails as possible. He squeezed his eyes tightly shut.

He heard another whistle, closer this time. His stomach did a flip . . . and then someone right next to him swore: “Drat!”

Something pressed down hard on Vincent’s shoe. There was a ripping sound, and Vincent felt his foot slide out of the shoe.

“Take my hand!” the gnome yelled.

Vincent was swept to one side by the rush of wind as the train cars flew past. As he fell, he saw a tree stump next to the track but could do nothing to avoid a collision. His forehead smacked hard into it, and everything went black.

When Vincent came to, he was lying on the ground. His back felt damp and there was the smell of freshly dug earth. He sat himself up, feeling dazed.

He was more or less in the same place in the picture where he had first landed, although this time he was outside the vegetable patch—that was lucky!

“Fool,” griped a familiar voice. The gnome was perched on a carved garden bench with a thunderous expression on his face. “You were nearly run over by a train!” He shook his head.

“My shoe got stuck,” Vincent said defensively, “and then—”

“Shoe-shnoo,” the goblin interrupted him. “Because of you, I haven’t harvested my blackberries. And it’s jelly-making day tomorrow!”

“I’m sorry,” Vincent said sheepishly. But his apology seemed to have no effect whatsoever. He would never look at this picture ever again!

As Vincent stood up, he realized he was wearing only his left shoe. Presumably the other one was lying tattered on the tracks. A shiver ran down his spine.

“Thank you,” he said to the gnome. “Thank you for saving my life.” He chewed nervously on his thumbnail. “But why were you there so suddenly? And how . . . how did you carry me here?”

Vincent’s lifesaver took a deep pull on his pipe. “Never underestimate the magical powers of a gnome,” he said secretively. He blew out a couple of small smoke rings and then stood up from the bench, groaning. Clearly, the conversation was over.

Not that Vincent objected. All he wanted was to be back at home in his bed, but unfortunately, that was miles away. He had traveled to the National Gallery on purpose, just so he could visit this Spitzweg painting. To get from the art museum back home would take at least half an hour on the London Underground. With only one shoe.

Great!

Vincent sighed. He said goodbye to the gnome and trudged unenthusiastically over to the front edge of the painting. That was the easiest place to jump from, back into the real world. From the outside, all you could see was a flat two-dimensional image, but as soon as you were in the painting, a whole new world opened up in front of you, with the canvas and the painted image at your back. The front edge—the actual painted image—however, was always easy to find again because the canvas would simply loom up in the middle of the landscape. Vincent had also discovered that, while a picture hanging on a wall had definite edges where the painting stopped, inside the painting the landscape went on and on and on. Or at least it usually did. There were some pictures where the landscape around the edges seemed to grow muddled, like a dark sea, almost merging to black. But with expert painters, Vincent had never experienced anything quite like that. The countryside seemed never ending.

The Spitzweg painting, however, was different: It hadn’t been painted on canvas. Instead, it was a smooth wooden surface. Spitzweg had made the decision to paint the picture of the gnome on a cigar box. This didn’t make the leap out of the picture any easier. When he was visiting delicately painted canvases or sketches on paper, Vincent could sometimes make out the outline of the room he wanted to jump back into. But with wood, he couldn’t see a thing. He got as close as he could to the impenetrable surface and rested his hands on the flat wood. Wearily, he closed his eyes and imagined the room where he wanted to land.

*At the end of this book, you’ll find a list of all the paintings mentioned throughout the story.

Chapter 2

At the time, Vincent was living with Grandpa Arthur on Oakwood Lane in Kensington, a borough of London, where Arthur and his good friend and business partner, Henry Wiggles, shared an apartment. The apartment was huge and spread across two floors. It had creaky wooden floorboards and decorative molding on the ceilings.

Vincent enjoyed walking barefoot across the colorful Persian rugs that covered all the floors. And he loved Arthur’s oil painting collection. The pictures hung on just about every wall in the house—even the guest bathroom—and most of them had thick, decorative gold frames.

His mum was a travel photographer and was often away traveling for work. Whenever that happened, Vincent would move into Arthur’s attic. Up there, he had peace and quiet. He even had a small balcony.

That night, when he returned to Oakwood Lane, Vincent quietly opened the front door. He tiptoed up the stairs to his kingdom.

Phew, he thought, relieved that Henry and Arthur hadn’t noticed him.

He washed his filthy hands in the tiny sink in his bedroom—they were really stinging—and he stuck a Band-Aid on his right palm.

Before he pulled on a clean pair of jeans and some fresh socks, he had another good look at his knee. The bruise made it look like a blueberry muffin, but luckily it wasn’t swollen anymore.

To avoid giving away that he had almost been run over by a steam train that afternoon, Vincent gave his face a good scrub and combed his hair. Luckily, the bump on his head from the tree stump had left only a faint red mark. You could hardly see it. Vincent carefully positioned some hair over it and crept back downstairs.

“Hello?” he called down the corridor. He kicked his bag under the coat hooks as he always did when he walked in.

“Vincent?”

A small, rounded figure peered out from the kitchen. Henry. He was wearing an apron with the words When there’s no meat left, I eat vegetarians.

“You’re cooking today?” Vincent asked.

The question slipped out sounding a little more horrified than Vincent had intended. Normally, there was a strict understanding between Henry and Arthur: the kitchen was one hundred percent Arthur’s domain. It had been ever since Henry’s efforts in the kitchen had dwindled to one single dish: Plum Pudding Special. And that wasn’t even a proper meal; it was a dessert. That, however, didn’t bother Henry in the least. He loved his Plum Pudding Special and could eat it for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. And, presumably, he would have done so, had it not been for Arthur regularly reminding him that the Special in Plum Pudding Special was a sauce made from butter, cream, and about one hundred pounds of sugar, and therefore was not very healthy.

“Yes, I’m cooking today!” Henry said happily. He didn’t sound the least bit offended. “Your grandpa had to carry that box of water bottles upstairs by himself,” he explained. “And, of course, he’s only gone and hurt his back. He’s upstairs now doing his gymnastics while I try to—”

“Gymnastics?” came a voice from the living room. “For goodness’ sake, Henry. How many times do I have to tell you? Tai chi is not some sort of gymnastics. It’s . . . ”

Henry rolled his eyes and mouthed along, “ . . . an ancient Chinese martial art creating harmony between the mind and body.” He winked at Vincent. One of Henry’s hobbies was winding Arthur up, and it worked exactly the same the other way round.

Vincent thought the two of them were like an old married couple. They had known each other and worked together for years. They only ever came as a pair. For the sake of simplicity, whenever the family spoke about Henry and Arthur, they referred to them as the grandpas. A few years after Vincent’s grandma Flora had passed away, Henry moved in with Arthur so he didn’t feel so lonely.

“Hello, Grandpa!” Vincent called into the living room.

Henry added, “Hurry up with your gymnastics, Arthur. Dinner’ll be ready in five!”

“It’s taaaiii chiiiii!” Arthur roared back.

Vincent helped set the table. And because he knew Arthur would need longer than five minutes (if for nothing else, just to annoy Henry), he went back upstairs. He sat down at his desk and continued working on a drawing he’d started a few days before. When he wasn’t at school or visiting a picture, Vincent was always drawing or painting.

He knew his grandpas preferred he spend time outside of school with his classmates, but Vincent wasn’t really bothered to do so. At school, everyone was so different than him.

The summer before last, he’d met Nick at a drawing class at the National Gallery. They had gotten along really well, but then Nick’s dad took a new job in Edinburgh and his family moved away.

Vincent placed his pencil on the desk. He was starting to feel hungry and hoped that Arthur’s growling belly had made it into the kitchen. As Vincent made his way downstairs again, his grandpa was already enthroned at the table. He really was enthroned. Arthur had a born distinction, which meant that even if he was unshaven and dressed in his sweatpants, he still looked like an aristocrat from the pages of a glossy magazine. Annoyingly, Vincent had not inherited this trait, although there was a definite family resemblance between them.

The first question Arthur asked was, “So, how was your day?”

On the table was a pot of spaghetti topped with a few blackened chicken legs. Henry had clearly made an effort to come up with something different. The result was, however, rather unappetizing.

Vincent plopped himself into a chair opposite Henry. “My day was great!” he lied. “Not much going on at school. There’re only three days left until the summer holidays.”

“And did you go to the Gallery?” probed Arthur. He loved talking to Vincent about his picture-visiting. In the seventies, he had studied at the Royal College of Art, and while he hadn’t made it as a professional artist, Arthur continued to paint. He particularly admired the Old Masters, like Rembrandt and Titian. They weren’t quite to Vincent’s taste. He preferred the Impressionists like Van Gogh or Monet.

“I only had a quick peek in,” replied Vincent shortly. He hoped his grandpa would stop there, but of course, Arthur didn’t help him out. He wanted to know exactly which pictures Vincent had been looking at.

Normally, Vincent would happily have reported back about his afternoon in the Spitzweg; there weren’t that many people he could talk to about his painting excursions. Other than his grandpas and his mum, only Nora Ferrara, the director of the National Gallery, knew about it.

Once Vincent’s family had gotten used to his special gift, Arthur had gone with him to the Gallery. He had heard that Nora Ferrara was known for encouraging new talent. She gave drawing lessons and helped procure grants for young artists around the world. Arthur had hoped Ms. Ferrara could help Vincent manage his special gift and, more importantly, give him access to major works of art, which is exactly what she did. She also knew how to keep quiet. Neither Vincent nor his family had any desire to be pounced upon by reporters wanting to photograph The Boy Who Visits Paintings.

As Vincent wrapped a few wobbly strands of Henry’s spaghetti around his fork, he wondered how he could deflect the attention from his latest visit.

Unexpectedly, Henry came to his aid. “Did you hear about the break-in this morning?”

Vincent looked up. “What break-in?”

“The one at Peter Bramford’s place,” Arthur replied, speaking for Henry. Wrinkling his nose, he poked around for the least burnt chicken leg and moved it onto his plate.

“You mean the famous art collector?” asked Vincent curiously.

Arthur nodded. “Yes, the one in Chelsea. Somebody broke into his villa and took a painting by Van Goyen. We heard it on the radio.”

“Van Goyen?” The name didn’t ring any bells.

“A Dutch painter,” Arthur explained, waving his fork in the air. “He’s not particularly famous, and the stolen painting is said to be worth only around three hundred and seventy-five thousand pounds. It’s called The Storm.”

Vincent wanted to object—three hundred and seventy-five thousand pounds was not a small sum of money—it would take his mum at least ten years to earn that. But just then the intercom buzzed.

Vincent jumped up and ran down the hallway.

“Delivery!” came a cheery voice through the loudspeaker. A scrawny courier with a ponytail climbed up the stairs, panting, and thrust a tube the length of his arm toward Vincent. It had Arthur’s name and address on it.

Vincent carried the package to the kitchen. “Have you ordered a picture, Grandpa?”

“A picture? No.” Arthur looked at the sender’s details on the tube. He frowned and briefly closed his eyes.

“So, wot ish it?” Henry asked with his mouth full.

“It’s . . . for us,” Arthur said slowly. He set the tube down and shot a meaningful look at Henry, who completely missed it . . . unlike Vincent.

“Could it be thos—” started Henry.

“Hmm-hmmm!” Arthur coughed noisily.

“So, I can finally sit down an—”

“Ah-ha,” Arthur said brusquely. “Can we talk about it later, Henry? For now, I’d just like to eat my dinner in peace.” He turned back to his grandson and beamed him a broad smile. “Vincent still has to tell us which painting he visited today.” His smile looked a bit shifty, which made Vincent uneasy. “And what happened to your hands?”

Vincent was proud of himself. He had not lied, well, not much anyway. He had simply kept it brief. Arthur had finally left him alone and started quarreling with Henry about the spaghetti, which, in his opinion, was inedible.

Happy to not have to answer any more questions, Vincent headed upstairs to his bedroom and wearily pulled on his pajamas. When he went back downstairs to brush his teeth, he spotted Arthur and Henry sitting and whispering together in front of Henry’s computer. What were they up to? And what did all this secrecy have to do with the package?

They’re not going to . . . ? thought Vincent as the bathroom door closed behind him. He didn’t dare finish his thought. That was ridiculous! Those times were long gone.

A while later, Vincent was lying in bed, and he turned off his light. But every time he was just about to nod off, he heard a whistling sound or a loud rumbling, and he jumped awake again. He couldn’t shake off the day’s events.

Shortly before midnight, he crept downstairs to get a drink.

The hallway light was off, and moonlight shined dully through the window. A gentle snoring filled the air: Henry. It was easy for Vincent to tell the difference. Arthur’s snores whistled while Henry’s reminded him of the grunts of a wild boar.

In the kitchen, Vincent took a glass out of the cabinet and held it under the faucet. His thoughts turned to the tube that had been delivered. He would love to know what was in it. Of course, it was wrong to read other people’s mail—Vincent knew that—but he worried about Henry and Arthur. Somebody had to keep an eye on what the grandpas were up to while his mum was away.

Vincent left the glass in the kitchen and stole down the hallway to Henry’s bedroom. The door stood ajar. The room was bathed in darkness except for several pinpricks of light flashing on the desk. Henry had a whole computer system with huge flat-screen monitors that only just fit on the tabletop. After Arthur’s art career had gone south, he had set up a security firm with Henry. Arthur took care of the customer service side of things, while Henry was the computer whiz. Officially, they were retired, but they still took on private jobs, even now.

I wonder if that tube has anything to do with a new job? Vincent thought. But if so, why all the secrecy?

He carefully pressed his forefinger to the door. It creaked quietly as it swung open, and Vincent took a deep breath. Just then, he really realized what he was doing there. What if Henry woke up and caught him snooping around his bedroom? It would be much better to stop now.

Just as he was about to retreat, he caught sight of the tube leaning temptingly against the desk. Where the door had opened, a moonbeam fell through the window in the hallway, illuminating the roll. All he needed was a couple of steps . . .

Vincent inhaled deeply and slid silently into the room. When he was exactly halfway between the door and the desk, a floorboard groaned. For Vincent, it sounded like an engine backfiring. He was terrified. He stood motionless, listening.

Silence.

And then the rumble of Henry’s deep, rattling snores finally began again.