whoever made the room assignments (Kaska Celli undoubtedly, Madame Low Down and Dirty) must certainly know her man. He not only meant himself, he meant Van Gogh, too.

Neither was in his element in Arles. They were about the same age. Both were bachelors. Both had been repudiated by the Establishment. Van Gogh never sold a painting while he lived and, what, you think Booth Tarkington Community College was the first place Miller applied or sent his curriculum vitae? He'd asked for a hundred jobs. It wasn't even the first place in Indiana. It wasn't even the first place in _Indianapolis!_ Also, Vincent was a little nutsy too.

The day hadn't gone well for him, he'd been through a lot, he was tired, wrung out, tomorrow was another day. Hebar cart and Miller, sunk deep in one of the big muslin chairs, was just getting comfortable with a large scotch-and-soda and enjoying the harsh, smoked-licorice taste of his duty-free Gaulois when a woman Miller hadn't noticed before stood up. Miller thought she was about to play the piano for them when, inexplicably, in his lap-robed, civilized circumstances, he suddenly started to cry. (Because if they could just see me now, he thought. Because just look at me, he thought, the kid from Indy. Because, he thought, this is the life. Listening to high-class lieder, art songs, words in languages he wouldn't understand set to melodies he probably wouldn't be able to follow. This _is,_ this is the life, thought Miller in Arles, his stock-still ego laced with