Rembrandt's Mirror (16 page)

I heard the sound of raindrops against the studio window, rousing me. I looked. A layer of tiny water droplets had also formed on the inside of the glass and as I ran my finger down they merged together, running away like teardrops.

Beyond the glass a woman was hurrying along the canal, a bag over her head. She probably had a husband, children, relatives, friends. A life full of obligations, but also full of connections, like a web of arms and hands that would instantly hold her should she ever lose her footing. What if I fell? I had no friends or family in Amsterdam. Samuel had gone and the pupils were nothing more than casual acquaintances. The only other person who'd cared for me was a whore. And he? He was the cause of my fall, if not now, then later.

The canal was so far below, a chasm between tall and narrow houses. Its emptiness an invitation. I turned away. I would only have to go down the steps and out of the house. Rembrandt and Geertje were in the basement; no one would see me. I could easily rent a room before curfew and later send for my wages and belongings. I'd never
have to see him again. I walked to the door, put my hand on the latch and stood for a minute or more, incapable of lifting it.

The sound of footsteps. He was back.

He said almost cheerfully, ‘They are both fine. Geertje is a tough old nut.'

‘I saw you with her.' My words took me as much by surprise as they did him.

‘What?' he said.

‘You were using her body as if you were animals.'

His mouth formed the word
how
, but no sound came.

‘I watched through the little window in the wall.'

His hands went up to his face and he started rubbing it as if he wanted to wash something away.

‘You wanted me next, so you got rid of her.'

How different my voice sounded.

‘No,' he said, looking like a man who has just seen all his possessions swept away by a flood.

A plan took shape in my mind that would see me delivered from his house even if my volition failed me again. He gently put his hand on my arm. I snatched it away. He made a step towards me and that's when I lunged forward, pushing him hard, with both hands. But he stepped aside so quickly that I fell into thin air. I would have fallen if his arm had not caught me.

But I was set on my course. I'd break all our tomorrows. My fist flew towards his head, striking flesh and bone. The skin of his cheekbone was burning red, but he stood there, calm as an angler by his
favourite pond. Then I realized: he'd
chosen
not to duck the blow. My body was too heavy for me. At least he'll throw me out now, I thought, as I swooned.

‘Ye gods!' he said, as he helped me to a seated position on the floor. ‘Have you considered becoming a prize fighter?'

I shook my head. Why did he have to joke now?

‘Don't dismiss it,' he said, looking down at me, ‘you could make good money.'

‘Please,' I said, ‘be quiet and tell me to leave.'

‘I can't do both at the same time, you know,' he said, crouching down next to me.

I grunted, in despair.

Shielding his face with his hands, he said, ‘Please don't hit me again.'

He sat down on the floor opposite me, still behaving as if we'd had nothing but polite conversation. And then, like a feeble idiot, I burst into tears. He put his hand on my back.

‘Why are you not angry with me?' I sobbed.

‘What? You mean because you felt like hitting me?'

‘I did hit you!'

‘Only because I was too slow.'

‘No, you let me!' I cried.

‘I think you needed to,' he said. ‘After all, you didn't get a chance to finish off Geertje.'

He was almost grinning. It was not funny.

Then he said, ‘You know, you are not the first person to get angry when someone hurts you.'

‘Nobody hurt me,' I protested.

He pointed at the bruises on my arms and came to sit next to me, inviting my body towards him with his arms. I gave in, letting him take my weight. I felt the warmth, the shape of him. And yet how alone I was and soon would be again. People like him did not bother with people like me. I pushed his arms away but he held on. I drew a breath and then another, but the air imparted nothing to my lungs. I wished for solitude. To be alone was to be safe.

‘Rika,' he said, ‘it's not so bad.'

No one had ever called me this. ‘Please,' I said, ‘let me go.'

He finally opened the girdle of his arms.

‘I . . . I can manage,' I said, pushing out the words.

‘I know,' he said.

I moved to sit away from him but he reached out again and stroked my arm in sympathy. And so, despite myself, I was made flesh again. He shuffled closer until I felt his knee against my thigh and his care. My head grew heavy and rested on his shoulder. I pulled his arms around me like a cloak.

He brushed loose strands of hair from my face and then I felt him bending down and then his lips kissing my cheek. I touched my face against his beard, wishing for his lips.

They found me, as if he knew, first soft and unsure, then without hesitation, plunging me into a jewelled darkness – a sensation so vivid I almost withdrew from our communion. But I stayed and let it reign – and in the precious dark, I sensed like the chime of a distant bell the approach of bliss.

But how could I, so undeserving of grace, how could I abide in bliss? To find such joy in flesh was wrong. And with that thought my lips had turned to clay. He let go of me and I of him. I told myself that it was good I'd called a halt to lust (if it had indeed been lust).

He leaned back a little so he could look at me but I glanced down, unable to face him.

‘You are right, you are the reason I am sending Geertje away. I have no design as to how things will be from now on, but they could not have stayed as they were. Change is the way, no point opposing it.'

After that he went downstairs and bid me stay in the studio.

After a while the pupils started to arrive. It was now late morning and Dirck had brought in a bust from the
kunstkammer
as a drawing exercise. He told me, ‘You are to stay here with us.'

‘Where is he?'

‘Making arrangements.'

I watched them gather around the bust and start to draw. Rembrandt finally returned a few hours later and told me to go downstairs and prepare lunch. That was all he said.

I wondered if Geertje was really gone so I checked her room. The few personal things she had possessed were no longer there. The shelves were empty, the bed was tidy and made up. I wondered about Titus. Rembrandt must have sent him to school. I hoped he at least got to say goodbye to her.

I set about preparing lunch the way Geertje would have done.

Winter

I did not stop to have a day off until two months after Geertje's departure. The Christkindl had come and gone, or rather had not bothered to stop by our house. I had no way of knowing if servants would customarily receive a gift from their employer, but was glad anyway to be spared the embarrassment.

It was the first week of January 1648 and I went for a walk. It was freezing cold but soon the tulips would be poking out of the earth in the countless private gardens that dotted the city. The owners would have to keep a watchful eye on their pricey flowers, for they were a thief's favourite. I had no particular destination in mind but after a while I became aware that I was heading for the watery woodland.

The last months had passed quickly. There had been a great deal to learn. Looking after Titus had been both easier and harder than I'd anticipated. Easier, because he seemed to like me, and harder, because he required so much of a warm sort of attention that I was not used to supplying.

As for Rembrandt, at first I'd been in a continuous state of apprehension as to what would happen with Geertje gone. But absolutely nothing did.

We spent a great deal of time together going over matters of a practical nature and Rembrandt treated me with a constant but distant kindness. No mention was ever made of Geertje, not once, as if her name alone could summon demons.

He taught me how to order supplies and keep the books, and said I should approach him whenever I needed to. However, if a client came while he was working I was to send them away. When I went to him, he answered my questions still holding his brush and palette. At lunchtimes we went through bills and accounts. I noticed that large sums were spent at auction houses, just as Geertje had said.

So here I was happily ensconced in my new role, feeling safer with him than during all the months she'd been in the house and in his bedroom.

I'd reached the boundary of shrubs and undergrowth. Now I had to find the way into the forest. Last time I was here something unthinkable had occurred; something so different from anything I'd ever known that I doubted my own memories.

I looked back at the road by which I'd come. How silly to imagine that he'd follow me a second time. I continued along the edge of the forest. How naked those trunks looked, like corpses. I was quite convinced that they would never sprout again. I could not see a way into the forest. It was fringed by thorny, bone-white bushes, twigs tightly interlaced. I took a deep breath and pushed my way through. A lone bird sounded a warning at my intrusion. I continued further, hoping to find the stream. The frost-hard earth did not yield under my foot and the forest was wreathed in eerie silence, without so much as a rustle of a leaf. But then something – gurgles. The stream! It was frozen over entirely in places but in others it was rimmed by brittle ice shelves. Spring would come. Soft grass and flowers would grow again. I wondered who I would be by then. Change was
inevitable, Rembrandt had said. Already I was but a distant relation of the girl who'd kissed him in the studio, who'd learned that rapture resides in the smallest of things. The man I saw every day, had he changed too, like the seasons, to and fro? The moment Geertje had left the house we'd all become like fish in a dark, murky sea – bored and sullen.

I smothered these pointless thoughts. I'd have to try to go back to being that unknowing girl again. I could still make friends through church as I'd intended when I first arrived. I gave several of the ice shelves a good kick, enjoying the sight of the little pieces floating downstream, and then made my way back to town.

As I passed by the harbour area I recognized Petronella. She wore exactly the same clothes as last time.

I quickened my steps and walked towards her, shouting, ‘Petronella, it's me.'

She said nothing until I was closer and then admonished me. ‘What are you doing, announcing to half the town that you know me?'

‘I need to talk to you,' I said, forgetting all my manners.

She rolled her eyes and drew her thick eyebrows together but then her mien softened. ‘Come to the third house in the Huitersgracht at one hour after midnight. The door will be open. Make sure nobody sees you enter.'

‘But it's after curfew,' I said.

‘It can't be helped. If you are careful and don't take a light no one will see you.'

I nodded, not feeling reassured in the slightest.

*

In order to merge with the night I'd wrapped a thick dark shawl around my head and face, feeling a bit like a tulip thief. Out of the shadows, a drunken man staggered towards me. I stepped to the side but he mirrored my move, barring my progress. My heart was beating a tattoo in my chest while I stared at him. He said, ‘Please wait, I just wanted to . . .'

‘Do not block my way!' I said.

He stepped aside and I quickly walked on, mightily satisfied that I'd seen off the drunkard. I peered around each street corner to avoid stumbling across one of the night watchmen who would throw me into a cell.

I found the house and entered. A door was ajar at the top of a set of stairs. I pushed it open. The ample figure of Petronella filled the only armchair in the room. She got up with surprising ease, closed the door and motioned for me to sit down in the chair she had vacated. She sat on the bed, which creaked under her weight, and said, ‘You look like you've been through the wringer; what's the trouble?'

‘There is no trouble.' I glanced at the innocuous-looking bed.

‘Have you become his bedfellow?' she asked.

‘What? No!'

‘Good, so he's got some other woman?'

‘No.'

‘I'll hold my tongue and let you speak,' she said, grinning.

‘He's thrown out Geertje, the housekeeper. He used her in his bed but sometimes I wondered if it was the other way round.'

‘A lusty one, was she? A born whore. So why did he throw her out?'

I said nothing.

She looked at me and said, ‘I can see why.'

‘No, no, he's not interested in me.'

She raised her eyebrow. ‘Is that why we are talking? You want him to be interested?'

‘No,' I protested loudly. ‘It is the opposite. I feel revulsion. I have had unchaste feelings.'

‘That's not the opposite.'

I ignored her and continued, hoping that sooner or later the purpose of my visit would become clear both to her and to me. ‘I don't understand how you can do what you do and not be afraid of God's punishment. The devil fuels our lust. We must be chaste or burn in hell for our sins.'

‘How do you know that's the truth?' she said.

‘Your question is blasphemous.'

She was calm as a catkin. ‘Have you ever wondered how it is possible that there are Anabaptists, Remonstrants, Counter-Remonstrants, Catholics, Calvinists, Quakers, Jews, Mennonites and they all say that different things are true? They cannot all be right, so how do you know any of it is true?'

I could not think of a suitable reply. It was odd to see her sitting on the bed, looking so coarse and yet she spoke with such eloquence and education. How far she must have fallen.

She continued, ‘Who is God more likely to forgive, the whore
who is starving and has to make a living, or the man of means who pays her and commits the sin for his pleasure?'