Samuel smiled, obviously amused, then reverted to his previous topic.
‘Your father has a theory about Rembrandt. He did some research and checked his facts and dates, and then he came to see me to talk about it. Oh, this is a while ago, not long after he bought the gallery and we became friends. You were all living in Albemarle Street then, in the flat. All very cramped for a family of three.’
‘Especially with that bloody ghost.’
Samuel laughed again. ‘No one ever found out who killed the poor soldier, did they? But then again, there are ghosts and ghosts. Some who stay around the place where they were killed, some who stay around places they loved. Some ghosts can’t leave, because of their tie to the earth. And then there are the living ghosts …’ He paused, folding his hands across his narrow stomach. ‘People who are in the background. Always hovering, always out of reach.’
‘I don’t understand,’ Marshall said carefully, watching his father’s mentor.
‘Rembrandt was not at all as we think of him now. He wasn’t well thought of in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, his work was found to be too dark and dismal. Other painters could run rings around him. Rubens, for example, could paint a rhinoceros without blinking, and a whole pageant of people in broad sunlight. No cheating shadows, no Brown Windsor soup backgrounds. And yet, over the years, we fell in love with Rembrandt van Rijn. We took his darkness as our own. Perhaps in the twentieth century there was too much Sigmund Freud and Carl Jung; people who made us look inside our heads and psyches, who talked about our dark sides, and made us believe that the soul was as accessible as a National Trust castle. We were taught to embrace our shadows. And shadows live without sun … Caravaggio was the first who made a career out of lighting, but his brute strength and violence were too much for him to have many apologists, and so we came to Rembrandt …’
Despite himself, Marshall’s attention was caught. It was cold outside and he had no wish to leave. In the soft, dry nest of the old house, he found comfort in Samuel’s voice, the story drawing him in.
‘But we forget the facts. We forget that Rembrandt was a miller’s son, as brash, ambitious and boorish a man as possible. He came to Amsterdam thinking that he knew it all and was soon successful. But success swelled his head. You can see it in the self portraits. Rembrandt dressed up like a cavalier or some turbaned Eastern potentate, but whatever he wore, the same potato face looks out at us. Clothes could not make this man anything other than a boor.’ Samuel paused, smiling wickedly. ‘All this has nothing to do with his ability as a painter. He was supremely gifted, but where we’ve gone wrong for so long is in how we have chosen to
think
of Rembrandt. Your father found the
true
Rembrandt.’
Leaning forward, Marshall stared at the old man. ‘What d’you mean? The true Rembrandt?’
‘After Rembrandt’s wife died he hired a housekeeper, a youngish, childless widow called Geertje Dircx. Before long they were lovers and he gave her one of his late wife’s rings. But then another maid came into the house and Rembrandt switched his affections.’
‘And?’
‘Geertje was forced out, but she took Rembrandt to court for breach of promise. She said that he had promised to marry her – something which was taken very seriously in Holland at the time – and said that the ring proved his intention. Rembrandt denied it. He claimed that in the terms of his late wife’s will, he would be virtually ruined if he married again and so – because of that – he would never marry anyone. He offered to buy Geertje off, tried to wriggle of out his responsibilities, but when Geertje wouldn’t agree to his terms in court, Rembrandt retaliated in one of the cruellest ways ever recorded. He had her committed to an asylum.’
Surprised, Marshall frowned. ‘People don’t talk about this.’
‘Of course not. How would it fit with the image of Rembrandt the humanitarian? If we had known that he got Geertje’s neighbours, and her own brother and nephew to testify against her, how would we have judged Rembrandt then?’
‘As a bastard,’ Marshall replied simply. ‘So what was my father’s theory?’
‘That Rembrandt had a son by Geertje.’
‘You’re not serious?’ Marshall exclaimed, astonished.
‘There’s some evidence that Geertje could have met Rembrandt before either were married, and that they had a brief affair when they were very young. We know that Rembrandt knew Geertje’s brother, and that the families were acquainted. But after the affair Rembrandt went on to marry Saskia and Geertje married a ship’s carpenter.’
‘Is that it?’
Samuel gave Marshall a slow look.
‘Bear with me. Your father believed that Geertje gave birth to a son – Rembrandt’s child – in 1622, when she was only fifteen and Rembrandt fourteen.’
‘That’s a bit young, isn’t it?’
‘Only the other day there was a boy in the paper who fathered a child at twelve,’ Samuel replied. ‘Anyway, because Rembrandt and Geertje were kids and the whole matter was an embarrassing mistake, the birth was kept a secret and the child was adopted by a couple in Beemster. The adoptive father was in the town council and his wife was the local midwife, Barbertje. This is a very important fact—’
‘Why?’
‘Because a midwife could easily bring an unwanted child into her own family. Who could be better placed?’
‘But why would she?’
‘Your father has a theory about that too,’ Samuel replied, pleased to see Marshall’s growing interest. ‘Apparently, Pieter Fabritius, the adoptive father who worked for the town council, had regular increases in salary. After a decade or so, the couple were earning a substantial sum annually. Owen believes that the Fabritius couple were paid to keep quiet.’
‘And this adopted child—’
‘Carel Fabritius.’
‘—was the illegitimate son of Rembrandt and Geertje Dircx?’
‘Yes.’
Blowing out his cheeks, Marshall leaned back in his seat. Outside the wind was getting spiteful, the day dowdy with rain.
‘But how would Rembrandt get them to agree to taking on the child?’
‘Rembrandt didn’t. You forget that Rembrandt was only a boy himself at this time. His parents were desperate to cover up the scandal and, although not rich, they paid to have the illegitimate child adopted. Remember, it would be worth it to them. They knew their son was prodigiously talented, that a great future awaited him, and they weren’t prepared to let that opportunity slip. It was probably sorted out between the two sets of parents, and then forgotten.’
‘But if that’s true, what happened to Geertje?’
‘She went on with her life, worked in a tavern, and then married a ship’s carpenter.’
‘And never said a word to anyone?’
Samuel paused, throwing a log on the fire. Within a few moments the smell of applewood uncurled from the flames.
‘But what if she did tell someone? Her husband, for example? Couples talk and exchange confidences all the time. Perhaps she confided in Abraham Claesz when it turned out that they couldn’t have children. Perhaps they argued and he told her that it was her fault that she was barren. Wouldn’t she have retaliated? What pleasure would it have given her to brag about the now famous father of her illegitimate child? Or what if – when she was firmly ensconced in his home and life –
she told Rembrandt himself
?’
Intrigued, Marshall reached out to warm his hands.
‘Where was Carel Fabritius by this time?’
‘Being raised in Beemster. By judicious planning, Pieter Fabritius was an amateur painter, so Carel’s talent wouldn’t have seemed out of place. And when he reached his teens his father, seeing a perfect opportunity for advancement, entered Carel into Rembrandt’s studio as a pupil. All very neat.’
‘When was that?’
‘Early 1640s. Geertje entered Rembrandt house in 1643.’
Curious, Marshall considered the facts. ‘Did she know who Carel was?’
‘Your father believes that she did,’ Samuel replied. ‘Your father thinks that Geertje knew only too well that Carel Fabritius was her son. And that when Rembrandt’s wife died, it was the perfect opportunity for her to re-enter the painter’s life.’
‘But if Rembrandt knew about Carel—’
‘Ah, but your father doesn’t think he did know that Carel was his illegitimate child. Not at first, anyway. He’d probably never even seen his illegitimate son. He would have thought the whole matter was over and done with long ago. Rembrandt was on a high – famous, ambitious and arrogant. He might be very pleased to see Geertje again, and fall back into their old love affair whilst she nursed his young son, but did Rembrandt know that his pupil was the bastard he had with his girl lover? Unlikely. He’d hardly have risked such a scandal by taking Geertje in, would he? To have his own bastard as a pupil? While he slept with the mother? No, I don’t think so.’
‘But if Geertje knew,’ Marshall said carefully, ‘God, what a hold she’d have over Rembrandt … Of course, there’s one other
big
question.’
‘Which is?’
‘Did Carel Fabritius know who his real parents were?’ Sighing, Samuel sank back into his seat, his spindly legs stretched out on the Long John in front of the fire, his old slippers curling upwards at the toes.
‘Has your father never told you about
any
of this?’
‘No, never.’
‘Perhaps you should ask him.’
‘
You
tell me,’ Marshall urged him. ‘You can’t stop now, it’s too good a story. Did Carel Fabritius know he was Rembrandt’s son?’
‘Your father doesn’t think so. He thinks that Carel found out later.’
Marshall frowned. ‘So what’s Rembrandt’s monkey?’
‘Not what,
who
. Apparently there were some letters, written by Geertje Dircx, which corroborated the whole story,’ Samuel replied, smiling enigmatically. ‘Your grandfather left them to your father.’
Stunned, Marshall leaned towards the old man.
‘So why hasn’t he gone public? Why hasn’t he sold them? They’d make a fortune—’
‘And create a scandal. Undermine the whole art market, especially in a recession,’ Samuel said quietly. ‘Your father loves everything about the art world, and he’s not the kind of man to set out to destroy the reputation of one of the greatest painters who ever lived.’
Marshall’s eyes narrowed. ‘You haven’t finished the story. You still haven’t told me who Rembrandt’s monkey is.’
‘It’s not my place to tell you.’
‘So you just told me enough to whet my appetite?’
Samuel nodded, his eyes cunning. ‘Ask Owen for the rest. Let him have the triumph of telling you, it might help you both. You said you were staying with your father at the weekend? Well, ask him then. It would take his mind off his worries and he’d love to think you were interested in his pet theory.’
Smiling, Marshall studied the old man in front of him. ‘Have you seen these letters?’
‘What do
you
think?’
‘Well, have you or not?’
‘Let’s put it this way,’ Samuel said earnestly. ‘I don’t have your father’s noble nature. I’d love to set the cat among the pigeons.’
‘Just as I would,’ Marshall said, ‘which makes me wonder why you told me about them. You know how much I dislike the business, and now this trouble with Manners has made me despise it more than I ever did.’ He remembered Owen’s panic. ‘If my father loses the gallery …’
‘Is it really that bad?’
‘He says so. If he lost the gallery, he’d be ruined. I don’t just mean financially, his whole world would collapse. Albemarle Street and the streets around it, the galleries, the dealers, the auction houses – they’re his life’s blood. Dealing is his passion. I think my father could even take the loss of his reputation – but not the loss of his gallery.’
‘Your father has many friends, myself included. Honestly, Marshall, I’m sure when he calms down he’ll realise he can save the business. He might have to sell the stock and pull in a few favours, but he can do it. And remember, there’s ten thousand pounds with your father’s name on it.’ The old man sighed. ‘If you ask me, what Owen needs now is a break. Do what you said you were going to do. Stay with him at the weekend, let him talk. And ask him about the Rembrandt letters. Those deadly, secret letters.’
Getting to his feet, Marshall looked down at the historian. ‘And Rembrandt’s monkey?’
‘Oh, yes, ask him about the monkey too.’ Samuel laughed. ‘Make him tell you what Rembrandt was
really
like.’
5
The rain was coming down in platinum sheets by the time Marshall reached the outskirts of London. Peering into the darkening suburbs, he swerved to avoid a motorcycle and then skidded to a halt at the side of the road. Unnerved, he stopped the engine, the windscreen wipers keeping up their mechanised droning. Reaching for his mobile, he called his father, but there was no answer at the gallery. Surprised, Marshall tried the country house, but again, no reply.
Then he realised that if Owen was in the cellars of the Zeigler Gallery he wouldn’t hear the phone ringing in the gallery above. And it was more than likely he was downstairs, going through the stock, taking an inventory, trying to make some order out of the chaos … For a moment Marshall was tempted to drive to Tobar Manners’ house in Barnes. After all, he knew the place well: an old house studded with paintings, Manners an effusive host, his regal Italian wife often away. She was, some wit once said, the Good Manners. Certainly she seemed to have little involvement with her husband’s work or colleagues, only present for the Christmas party they threw every year. Marshall could picture her without trying – taller than her husband, broad shouldered, with a long Venetian nose and black hair – formidable, and yet inherently kind. And with an impressive lineage.
Many people wondered why she had married the small, homosexual Tobar Manners, with his aggressive feral ways in business and his pungent social charm. But the marriage had lasted, the Venetian grande dame as reserved as the Sphinx. Not that she missed anything. Rosella might not remark upon it, but nothing her husband did went unnoticed. Once, many years earlier, she had seen Tobar teasing Marshall and had caught the boy’s eye, glancing at her husband and lifting her brows as if to say,
what a fool. And we both know it.
Incensed, Marshall thought of Tobar Manners and his hands tightened on the steering wheel. Why shouldn’t he go and have it out with him? Confront him, accuse him of cheating his father? Why not …? Marshall knew only too well. Manners would have his story crafted to perfection. He would insist that
he
had been cheated, and no doubt have some tame accomplice on hand to back up his version of events. He would shake his head and act flustered – embarrassed by what had happened – assuring Marshall that he would never,
never
have done anything to injure Owen. His hand would shake very slightly as he poured them a sherry, and he would avoid eye contact, his white lashes feathering the sly eyes.
Turning the engine back on, Marshall knew that any visit to Tobar Manners would be pointless. He had got away with it. For now. But if Marshall had anything to do with it, one day he would get his own back on his childhood tormentor and his father’s Janus friend.
Nicolai Kapinski stared out of the window of the flat above the Zeigler Gallery, his thick glasses pushed onto the top of his balding head. Around him were the account books and every other piece of information he had been able to glean about Owen Zeigler’s financial situation. Not the facts he had been given before, but the whole and unabridged version of a man’s imminent ruin. Jesus, he thought for the hundredth time, why hadn’t Owen Zeigler told him how bad the situation had become? Why had he lied, given Nicolai false accounts?
Pushing the ledgers away, Nicolai Kapinski continued staring out of the window, his pallid Polish gaze fixing on a barley sugar chimney stack in the distance. He had thought himself a friend as well as an accountant. How many times during the previous twenty years had he and Owen worried about money? Discussed plans? Triumphed when the gallery had had a particularly successful year – and there had been a number of those. But from what Nicolai could see now, the previous twenty-four months had seen a dramatic downturn, which had turned into a slide, then into a financial free fall.
He turned as he heard footsteps behind him. ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’
Owen shrugged and sat down. ‘It was not a matter of trust, you know I’ve always trusted you. But I took some risks you wouldn’t have approved of …’
‘Is this all of it?’
Owen blinked slowly, regarding the narrow shouldered, slight man sitting at the incongruously large desk. Nicolai had come to Owen via a friend; was recommended as an astute accountant, originally from Warsaw. There was only one problem. With Nicolai’s business acumen went a long-held manic depression. Medication controlled the condition eighty-five per cent of the time, but there were intermittent staggers of instability, and every time Nicolai slipped into mania he reverted to the same theme – the disappearance of his brother.
Luther had gone missing when they were children. Rumours had abounded of kidnapping gangs, gypsies, even a local man, who was questioned by the Polish police and then released. Driven out of the town, the man had fled but the mystery had remained. In time Nicolai’s parents grew more accustomed to the loss. His mother retained her sanity by convincing herself that her son was dead and, being religious, accepted his fate. But Nicolai knew that his brother wasn’t dead. All he had wanted to do was to find him.
In time circumstances forced him to leave Poland, and as his life progressed in London Nicolai married and had a son. His mental condition controlled, he became an agreeable little man, smiling and nodding his greetings to everyone as he arrived and wound his way from the ground floor of the gallery to the top room above the flat. Here, in amongst the scratching and canoodling sounds of London pigeons, he made regimented order out of Owen Zeigler’s accounts, keeping meticulous details of every pound. He had no interest in art – the sale of a Vermeer was irrelevant – all that mattered to Nicolai was the money, and the accounting of it.
So when the first episode of instability hit, it caught everyone off guard when Nicolai’s sweet control had plummeted into confusion, then a bizarre fury directed at the order of his attic world. And with his loathing of what he usually so admired, came his obsession with his brother.
He would find him
, he told an astonished Owen the first time he lost control.
Luther was still alive. He had to return to Poland, he had to go home …
And then the doctor was called, and Nicolai was medicated. Slowly, he became calm, but with the sedation came a helter-skelter fall into depression. His mania gone, Nicolai sat with his muzzled brain, his head in his hands, staring at the London panorama. He saw goblins in the chimney pots, and heard the rain cursing as it flushed out the drainpipes. Clouds slid against his window and made faces at him; a watery opal sun grinning like a demon. In amongst roof tiles and car horns, his brother came calling. Up the stairs and around the cellar corners, he told Nicolai his history and begged to be found.
When the despair lifted, Luther was gone, and Nicolai was left feeling foolish and embarrassed. For a number of days he would apologise, and blush behind his heavy glasses, making clicking sounds with his tongue as though he disapproved of his own thoughts and wanted to disown them. Kindly, Owen would shrug off the event, realising early on that any invitation to talk could send Nicolai back into his waxy confusion. And so Nicolai Kapinski would put aside his mania, his anger, his confusion – even his brother – and return to his tiny, gentle self.
That gentle self who was now regarding Owen steadily.
‘Is this all of it? Nothing else you’re hiding from me?’ Nicolai asked again, his Polish accent evident in the vowels. ‘Mr Zeigler, is this all?’
Owen nodded. ‘That’s it.’
‘Why did you hide it from me for so long?’
‘I thought …’ Owen sighed. ‘I was wrong, I should have asked for your help a while back, but I thought I could manage. I couldn’t, of course.’
‘You’re ruined.’
‘I know.’
Upset, Nicolai gazed at his employer, then looked back to the ledgers, making an indecipherable doodle on the corner of his notepad.
In silence, Owen watched him, then touched his shoulder. ‘It’s all right—’
‘No, I don’t think so. I don’t think this is all right at all.’
‘It is,’ Owen insisted, passing Nicolai his coat and briefcase. ‘Go home now.’
Nicolai stood up, hardly reaching Owen’s shoulder, desperate to offer comfort and yet lacking the words.
‘We … we …’
‘You’ll be all right,’ Owen said quietly. ‘I have an idea, something that might work.’
‘You have?’ His tone was pathetically hopeful.
‘I think so.’
‘What is it?’
‘Something I should have done a while back.’ Owen looked round the neat room under the eaves. ‘If you need anything, ask Teddy Jack. I may have to go away for a while—’
‘
What?
’
‘Hear me out. The salaries are accounted for, in the safe. I’ve put a little extra aside for you, Nicolai, for your loyalty. You have the keys to the safe, pay everyone. If I
do
go away, reassure the staff, the porters and the receptionist. I should be able to keep this place going for another two months, maybe three. If you need help, ask Teddy.’ He smiled, almost light-hearted. ‘I like it up here. In fact, it’s the nicest part of the gallery, I’ve always thought so. It’s inviting. When we were living here as a family, I used to think I’d make this into a den.’ He glanced round, taking in the blackened fire grate, the treacle- coloured rafters and the window frames, bellied with age. ‘But it’s too late now … I’ve been here too long, Nicolai. There are too many memories. Too many ghosts.’
Nicolai nodded. ‘We all have those.’
A moment of understanding passed between them. ‘But your ghost is real.’
‘Every man’s ghost is real to him.’
Smiling, Nicolai moved towards the narrow stairs, pulling on his coat and then turning.
‘If I can help you in any way …’
‘I know.’
‘You’ve been a good employer, Mr Zeigler,’ he said gently, putting out his hand and taking Owen’s. ‘And a valued friend.’
Twenty minutes later Marshall was driving into Albemarle Street. He would pick up his father and together they would leave for Thurstons. The evening had come into play, shaking out the tourists and the collectors alike, pushing the buyers along Piccadilly, into the lure of yellow taxi lights or the white belly of the underground.
Finally parking across from the Zeigler Gallery, Marshall looked at his father’s achievement. The window was dressed with a Pieter de Hoogh painting, nothing more.
Never overcrowd
, Owen always said,
let the painting breathe
…
Slowly Marshall’s gaze moved up to the flat above. He couldn’t imagine the building belonging to anyone else and felt a real dread of being banned from his childhood home. Memories, filled with the dust of poignancy, smoked around him. The sounds of the gallery porters, Gordon Hendrix and Lester Fox, reorganising the picture rails and hanging space, Owen cutting out newspaper shapes of the paintings, which he would hold up against the wall to judge where the originals would look best. Then he would start again, Lester muttering into his moustache, the morose Gordon dying for a cigarette in the backyard, but both men waiting for their employer’s next instructions, knowing that in a couple of weeks it would have to be done all over again.
Down would come the paintings. Down from the walls, down into the cellar’s belly. Dry down there, because heating had been put in. But unwelcoming nevertheless. The walls had been shelved for picture storage, and at the very back of the cellar was a partition, behind which Lester and Gordon ate their lunch, or played cards if they had a quiet half hour. In other galleries around the area, there were other stalwarts. But in some there had been an influx of young gay men, eager to work in the glamour of the art world, amongst the nearby exclusive shops, with the possibility of meeting powerful, homosexual collectors. Some got lucky, managing to hook a gallery owner and a rapid promotion from lowly gallery assistant to
in situ
lover. Others were caught out
in fellatio delicto
in the cellars, storage nooks, and crannies of their subterranean world. And then, when the Aids epidemic struck, a number of the beautiful lily-white boys died …
Marshall’s thoughts moved on, his gaze travelling to the window of his old bedroom. He had looked out of that window throughout his childhood, scrutinising the hassle of shoppers, seeing his father’s comings and goings. And at night Marshall would watch the lights make a Christmas card out of the London street. With no other children living nearby Marshall had been forced to make his own amusement. His one friend, Timothy Parker-Ross, was five years older than he, but as much an outcast. Poor Timothy, with his spectacular father, Butler Parker-Ross, one of the most admired – and respected – dealers in London. But he was too much for some, and definitely too much for Timothy. His father’s bullish arrogance was not intentionally unkind, but he terrified his son. For a while Butler had convinced himself that Timothy would be trained up for the business, but his son had no talent or feel for paintings. He wasn’t stupid, but thought in a slow, deliberate manner – a direct contrast to Butler’s adrenalin-spiked behaviour. If asked a question, Timothy would consider his answer for so long his father would lose interest and move on. When Timothy was in his teens, Butler was so anxious about his son’s shyness that he shipped him off to public school, where a reserved child is fair game for bullies. By the time Timothy was fourteen he had a stammer and had grown to six feet in height.