Rembrandt's Mirror (12 page)

‘Wait,' he said.

I paused. He took a step towards me, then slowly raised his hand as if to touch my still-wet face but then he let it drop and said quietly, ‘I shall be able to sleep now. Thank you. I hope you will too. Goodnight.'

I nodded and left.

*

That night I dreamed I was walking through a winter landscape. The air was perfectly still and the tiniest branches were covered in thick, precarious caps of snow. I was spellbound by these beautiful creations. But then there were no more trees and the ground felt different too. I stamped with my foot – creak. I was on ice. I'd walked on to a frozen lake. I took a tentative step in another direction – a groan. I shifted my weight back to the other foot – the sound of hissing, then bursting. The ground was gone beneath my foot and icy fingers clasped at my ankle. I woke, heart racing.

In the morning the house was still strangely quiet, although Geertje and I put on plenty of cheer for Titus's sake.

‘When is Pappie coming down? I'll go up to him,' the boy asked.

‘No, not today, little cherub,' said Geertje, ‘your father was working late and he needs to sleep until he wakes up.'

‘But why did he not come to bid me goodnight? And I'm not a
little cherub
.' His face grimaced with disgust.

‘All right,
Master Titus
. Here's your porridge.'

Soon Titus's attention was diverted by his negotiations with Geertje as to the quantity of the boiled apples to be added. I was trying not to think about last night, so I set about scrubbing the flagstones under the worktop. Samuel came in and looked questioningly at Geertje, who just shrugged her shoulders. Then the door opened and Rembrandt walked in.

‘Good morning, Piglet,' he said and tickled Titus's sides, snorting and grunting into his neck. Titus looked tearful and happy all at
once. I felt the same, so relieved. Titus was already bashing his father over the head, telling him, ‘I'm not a baby!'

‘No, you're my little Piglet!' Rembrandt grinned and greeted Geertje and Samuel as if nothing unusual had occurred. Geertje frowned and Samuel stared at him as if he'd risen from the dead.

He finally spotted me and said, ‘Morning, Hendrickje.'

I managed a cheerful, ‘Good morning, Master.' But for a moment our gazes caught on one another. His eyes still had that soft look that I'd seen yesterday and I was vaguely aware of a third pair of eyes: Geertje's. I forced my eyes away from his face. Samuel excused himself, saying he'd go up to the studio. I continued scrubbing and Rembrandt sat down next to Titus.

‘Have you done your Latin?'

‘Yes.'

‘How is Ferdinand? Is he still ill or is he back at school yet?'

‘He's not back,' said Titus.

‘Make sure you put your coat on when you run outside to play if it's chilly.'

‘Ye-esss,' he said. ‘It is summer, you know.'

Rembrandt ruffled Titus's golden locks and Titus tried to push his father's hat off his head and then, as Rembrandt ducked and dived to avoid his hand, they both dissolved in giggles.

‘Look, my little shrimp, I'm going to go up now. I need to tidy the place because Jan is coming for a sitting. But see me when you get home if you are not playing with Karsten.' He kissed Titus's ear despite his son's best attempts to prevent it. Then he was gone. Titus
returned his attention to his porridge and I to emptying the slops into the canal. I took my time, enjoying the morning air, feeling strangely happy.

Soon Geertje and Titus appeared. She helped him into his coat and he left for school. As soon as he was out of earshot she turned on me. ‘What have you done?'

‘Me?' I said in a low voice. How could she risk making a scene on Rembrandt's doorstep? Besides, I could not think of anything I'd done wrong.

‘I saw how he looked at you,' she said.

I had to calm her down, especially with Pinto, our neighbour, sitting on his bench smoking his morning pipe. She was getting impatient, putting her fists on her hips, elbows wide. ‘Like he wanted to make a meal of you.'

Pinto was watching us, happily puffing away. No doubt he could hear every word.

‘You know what I mean,' she said. ‘You're not that innocent. You're probably not innocent at all.'

‘You are mistaken.' I said quietly. ‘It was tender thoughts for his son that still showed on his face.'

Geertje breathed out and her shoulders sank slowly to a more sustainable position. She had not been sure. She believed me, but did I believe myself?

The Mill

It was hot, the very height of summer. The occasional bumblebee came buzzing around his legs, searching for the next flower. He'd come here to sketch the windmill by the river. It stood in the sun, the wheel turning with silent purpose. But he'd been sitting idle for at least an hour. He couldn't help smiling when he thought of drawing her.

Nearly another hour passed and still he had not made a single stroke. The sails were utterly absorbing – whoosh, pause, whoosh, pause – flying round their central pivot, never going anywhere, despite the incessant movement. He loved watching them.

Suddenly the entire body of the windmill, tower and sails, spun a little on its axis. The wind had changed direction. It surprised him every time he saw it. How an inanimate construction could be so responsive to a change and yet continue to drive a shaft at ground level at a constant speed.

Geertje would be at home, waiting. He owed her some happiness, didn't he? She'd been there, back then, when it was necessary; had brought him back to life, in a way.

She would come to him like she always did, as if she needed it like air to breathe. How had he lost so much of his freedom without being able to tell when exactly it had happened? No one else was in a position to tell him what to do. He'd not fallen into the same trap as Flinck, who was expected to dine at least once a week at de Graeff's house and to drop whatever he was doing when Prince Maurits as much as farted in his direction. Ha, Flinck was always eager to please, like a boy attending school on charity.

And he did not even rule over his own bed. He'd given her clothes and tokens of affection to keep her in good humour but it seemed to make her think she had
rights
. He shuddered at the thought. Perhaps if he closed the doors to the box bed tonight and bolted them from the inside she'd think he wasn't there? A childish thought. But why could he think of no means to keep her out? She always found a way to get him to do her bidding.

Of course he only had to refuse her, tell her it was not his wish, throw her out of the house if he wanted to. But what would follow? A kind of emptiness, the pull of the past, and he dreaded that even more than doing her. The sport no doubt did him good and she had never conceived a child with her late husband. What more could a man in his position ask for? She kept him going, fucking her kept him going. That's how it was.

The very land he was sitting on would be flooded if it wasn't for the mill. It powered a screwpump which transported the water over a small dyke into the nearby river. In this part of the country, which was lower than sea level, water was always rising up from the ground.
It was just as well that the wind never stopped blowing, powering the mill, keeping the land arable.

Maybe if he made some kind of gesture, it would reassure her? Maybe then she would not demand that he prove his love to her every night.
Love
? Ha, all this flailing about in life . . . so as not to go under. Perhaps that's why he liked those sails, their steady whoosh, whoosh, whoosh; no flailing. A windmill could take even high winds and translate them into the steady turn of the Archimedean screw, in itself a beautiful contraption.

When a serious storm threatened, the wind-wright would simply take down the sails and let the lattice do the work, but the mill would not stop. There was a storm brewing at home right now for which he had no appetite. Was he so reluctant because he cared so little for her? No, he decided, the lack of
amore
was what made their sporting possible.

Later, in bed, he looked at the bundle of prints he'd bought at a sale. He'd put them on the table by his bed with the intention of examining them in the evening when no callers would disturb his pleasure, so he could fall asleep with the images in his mind – the best potion he knew for a good rest. Except, Geertje would turn up any moment now, as predictably as the cows that make their way to the barn for milking. And sure enough the door swung open. She never bothered to knock.

She carried a candle, eyeing him as if unsure of the reception she would get. Perhaps she felt his irritation. The thought pleased him.
As she walked, her thighs and breasts were outlined by the stretched fabric.

He was lying on his back and did not make space for her so she had to bed down close to the edge. He remained motionless.

Eventually she said, ‘How did the work go?'

‘Good enough.'

Her face was so close that her features appeared grotesque. And now she wanted to be kissed. He fondled her hair instead. Her hand started stroking his neck. He stopped fumbling with the hair. If only he could stretch out, but she was in the way. Once she was gone, he'd lock the door, light some extra candles and look at the new prints. Only him and the quiet of the night . . . But first he had to get her out. She'd probably extract some kind of penance from him.

‘Geertje,' he tried, ‘it's late. We'd better call it a night.'

She did not answer.

He smelled something on her. Beer and onions. He turned away on to his side, facing the wooden panelling of the bed. Her hand crept around his waist, tentative, unsure – trying to draw a response from him. He would not give it. Her hand brushed upwards on the fabric of his nightshirt from his belly to his chest. Touching his flesh as if she owned it. Then her hand slipped inside the opening of his nightshirt, squeezing his chest. He withdrew inside himself and yet part of him registered her crude touch.

With one arm still around his chest she pressed herself against his back; breasts, thighs and warmth. Despite himself, he was hardening. She pulled on his shoulder and he let her roll him on to his back.

She knelt by his side, bending over him, taking his face between her hands. Then she brought her lips down on his. A sensation like a dog's wet nose in his face. With his lips tightly closed he maintained a line that he would not allow her to cross and yet – the strange notion crept up on him that he might want her after all. His lips opened a little and she was already pushing her tongue into his mouth. He took her head in his hands and thrust his own tongue into hers; she withdrew. Good. But now she was joining into the rhythm of his probing, coming forward again with her tongue, perhaps pleased that she'd brought him into the game despite himself. She strayed further and further into his mouth. He pulled away, clenched his mouth shut and pushed against hers. More of an ambush than a kiss.

She didn't care. Her body yielded. He advanced: mouth, tongue, chest, hips, leg – finally had her on her back beneath him. He stopped to look. She was breathing excitedly, waiting, softer now. He kissed her gently but could not stop thinking of tomcats going to it with their jaws clamped on to the scruff of the female's neck. A nice, quick business.

She sighed, her body becoming lithe. He kissed her prune-skinned cheek. The tips of her fingers brushed up the back of his neck. He liked it and felt something like affection for her.

Her eyes were closed. She was waiting for him to go on kissing her. But now that it had started to mean something he couldn't bring himself to do it.

The pause grew and grew until her eyes flashed open, boring into
him. He resented her demand, and himself, for not really liking her and for not being able to go on. She grabbed his cock, rubbing it vigorously, making him lose himself. He would not have to think about her now. She was making him do it.
Fine
, he thought.

He got out of bed, pulled her to the edge, with her legs either side of him, moved her nightshirt out of the way and pushed into her. He had to follow the first thrust with the next and the next as if it was the only thing he could do to keep her away. He was angry and sickened but he could not stop. He pitted his hardness against his shame, willed himself on towards release, but the accumulation would not come. As he laboured away, he watched her excitement with both relish and disgust; she was creaming off for herself whatever she could.

But then he saw her biting her lip. She did
not
fully want it. At first the thought pleased him but then he felt himself shrinking. His body was putting a stop to this. He slowly withdrew from her, as if trying to steal away unnoticed. His nightshirt flopped back down, covering him. He breathed out with relief.

As soon as he stepped away she pulled her legs up and under her nightdress. She lay there with her eyes closed, still breathing rapidly. Then she glanced at him through half-closed lids. Her arm lay stretched out with the palm of her hand open. He ought to go and touch her hand, hold it to restore an understanding that they were still friends. But he could not bring himself to commit another lie. She took her arm back towards her body and laid her hand on her stomach. I've hurt her, he thought and now wished he had at least for
a moment touched her hand, to let her know he was sorry, but it was too late. She gathered herself up and left without saying a word or giving him another look.

The next morning he found Geertje in the kitchen. She was alone with Titus. An ideal moment.

‘There,' he told her, ‘no good them lying about in a drawer – you might as well wear them.' He placed the box of jewels unceremoniously on the table. Titus was excited by the unusual event. She looked incredulous, even a little scared. ‘For me?'

‘Yes,' he said.

‘Open it,' cried Titus, pulling her towards the box.

But instead she put her arms around Rembrandt's neck and kissed him. ‘Really, a present for me?'

‘Go on,' he told her, ‘have a look.'

Titus, in the meantime, had picked up the box, holding it up for her to see the contents, his eyes bright with excitement, and it occurred to Rembrandt that his boy was handing his inheritance to her. Geertje took the box, sat down on a chair, pulling Titus on her lap and asked him to open the lid for her. Titus was only too glad to do so.

Her eyes became even larger when she saw the jewels. She jumped up, placed the box on the table and rifled through it with shrieks of delight, as if she'd personally unearthed a treasure chest.

She had Titus help her put on every single piece until she looked like a mare trussed up for parade. If only they'd hurry up. It
would be embarrassing if anyone walked in. Now she was holding a ring aloft.

‘Look,' she said, ‘what a beautiful gold ring. Is that for me too? Will you slip it on?' Her index finger was poking the air expectantly – so different from Saskia's graceful finger when he'd first placed this ring on it. He willed himself to do as she asked; it caught a little on the knobbly joint but he managed to get it on. At least she was happy now. He kissed her on the forehead and she leaned her head against his chest with a sigh – of happiness, he assumed.

‘I'm sorry about last night,' he whispered in her ear so that Titus could not hear.

‘Never mind, my lamb,' she said loudly, reaching up to pat his cheek, ‘there'll be plenty more times to make up for it.'