Rembrandt's Mirror Page 14

  I got up. I wanted to keep her unbidden words away from my ears.

  She leaned back in the chair. ‘You think it will all be different for you; I would think the same. Well, not knowing what I know now. I’m telling you he’s seeing a dealer this afternoon. He won’t think twice about paying a hundred guilders for a bunch of prints to gather dust in the storeroom but he wants me to survive on sixty guilders a year, a pauper’s wage.’

  She continued calmly, ‘You think he’ll love you and respect you but it’s as inevitable as the lambing in the spring. If you stay, you’ll be his new whore, no more and no less.’ She grabbed a pot and started scrubbing the burned bottom. ‘Yes, I would fair see you gone but not to get him back. No, he’s done with old Geertje. I just don’t want him to play the same old trick again and – God knows this is true – I don’t want to see a young girl throw her life into Rembrandt’s cesspit.’

  No doubt she’d get the pot clean and shiny again in the end. Life would go on here, now. This was no magical forest. Dirty pots had to be scrubbed clean, slowly and laboriously. The only way of avoiding too much unpleasantness was to not let the milk get burned in the first place. She was right – I had to get out of the stupefying circle of his attention.

  A few days later Rembrandt called Geertje up to the studio – I assumed to discuss terms with her. When she came down she said through gritted teeth, ‘He wants to see you. Go up now.’

  He was behind his desk and gestured to the chair on the other side. I sat down uneasily, but he could not seem to make a start.

  ‘Master,’ I said, ‘what can I do for you?’ How pathetically eager I sounded.

  ‘I would like to make a request,’ he said, ‘which you must flatly deny if you feel uncomfortable in any way.’

  He studied my face for a reaction and continued, ‘Geertje will be leaving us and we have come to an agreement. I want her to be financially secure, and there are some other matters that need tidying up. The notary will come tomorrow for the agreement to be signed and I require a witness, a discreet witness. In short, some of the content of the agreement might tarnish my good name if it were to become public knowledge.’ He coughed.

  ‘I see no reason not to oblige,’ I said. ‘I will witness the statement if you wish.’

  He jumped to his feet and stretched out his hand to shake mine. This was usually the means by which men sealed an agreement. I took his offered hand and shook it firmly.

  ‘Thank you,’ he said, and looked relieved.

  It was true, he had a way – one wanted nothing better than to say yes to him.

  The next night and morning passed just like any other. Titus still had not been told that his world was about to lose its strongest pillar. In the late afternoon, the notary arrived with a stout, red-faced woman. Geertje’s witness, I assumed. No introductions were made. Geertje ushered them in and once Rembrandt had joined us we all traipsed in single file down to the kitchen. The notary was a little, wiry man dressed in black. He shook hands with Rembrandt, who was ensconced behind his desk. The notary turned to us. ‘This won’t take very long; I will read out what Mistress Dircx and Rembrandt have agreed and then you will sign as witnesses. Please be seated.’

  I sat down on a chair which was close to the wall and so did the fat, red-faced woman. Rembrandt seated himself at the table. The notary took out his papers and then eyed Geertje, waiting for her to be seated, but she remained standing with her arms crossed. He gave a shrug and started to read:

  ‘Present, Geertje Dircx, widow of the late Abraham Claesz, and the honourable painter Rembrandt van Rijn. As witnesses, Hendrickje Stoffels and Trijntje Harmans . . .’

  ‘Wait!’ Rembrandt interjected. ‘Make that the honourable, famed painter.’

  Geertje scoffed but made no further protest when the notary amended the draft. He continued to read, ‘The aforementioned Geertje Dircx has resided for a considerable length of time with the aforementioned Rembrandt and she now wishes to leave and depart.’

  Geertje’s fist slammed on the closest available surface. ‘When did you put that in?’

  Rembrandt said, with the exasperated calm normally reserved for addressing three-year-olds and idiots, ‘Geertje, it will look better for you, when you seek future employment, that you have chosen to leave, rather than having been dismissed.’

  Geertje scowled but nodded. The notary continued, ‘The same has acquired her possessions, though few and insufficient to sustain her, for the most part at his house. All this induced her to come before me, the notary, on 24th August 1647, to bequeath her possessions, which she might leave behind, to Rembrandt’s son Titus van Rijn.

  ‘The aforementioned Geertje Dircx and the aforementioned Rembrandt van Rijn hereby declare to those present that they have come to an irrevocable agreement as to her maintenance. Rembrandt van Rijn will pay her a single payment of one hundred and sixty guilders. In addition, for decent sustenance . . .’ another huff from Geertje, ‘. . . the sum of sixty guilders annually, for the rest of her life but no longer. However, with the explicit condition that the last will, drawn up by Geertje Dircx before me, the notary, in favour of the young son of the aforementioned will remain inviolate. Both parties promise to abide by the terms of this contract.’

  Geertje made her mark on it and the rest of us signed and that was that, or so I thought.

  A few days later I had just finished eating my porridge when Geertje burst into the kitchen, holding aloft a piece of paper, shouting at the top of her voice, ‘You’re a she-devil, a street sow!’ Then she breathed, ‘No, you’re a silent whore.’

  I’d heard of silent whores; outwardly they appeared respectable but plied their trade at home unbeknown to their neighbours. Why was I a silent whore and why was she so angry? I had to pacify her somehow but I might as well have tried to stop a stampede of bulls. She snatched my cap, not minding in the least that she’d pulled out some of my hair with it. I felt it, of course, and yet I was like an onlooker at the theatre.

  The piece of paper she held was the drawing he had made of me when I had sat for him that night. Apparently, it was proof of some despicable crime.

  She now turned her back on me and fumbled with her skirts. I only understood the purpose when she lifted them and slapped her naked backside: a grave insult. However, I somehow found it funny. I’d seen more than my fair share of buttocks lately.

  I still could not fathom what had upset her. It was not like he’d drawn me in the nude or in any other way that was unusual. It was just another face study, like the hundreds that filled the books in the storeroom.

  Perhaps my failure to react made her even angrier, for now a pan was hurtling towards me. To my own surprise I managed to duck, and it clattered behind me against the wall. The next missile, a ladle filled with steaming porridge, was on target, soaking my sleeve with scalding sludge. This brought me to my senses. I shouted, ‘What is the matter with you?’

  ‘Oh, the matter?’ She aped my country accent. ‘The matter is that you spend all day with me, behaving like a child and letting me look after you, and then you go to him and display yourself.’

  ‘But he sketches folk all the time.’

  For a brief moment she looked away, hiding her face, and I finally grasped what was eating her. He’d sketched the beggar, the whore, the noble, the dead, the young and the old but he had never sketched her. He’d thought her fit for his bed but not for his pencil. As I wondered if this was a deliberate oversight, she launched herself at me. We tumbled over backwards and I hit my head hard on the stone floor. My vision blurred but I could see her hand stretching for the kitchen knife. ‘I’ll put a red ribbon across your face,’ she cried. ‘There’ll be no more drawings of your smirk.’

  She rolled on top of me, pinning me down with her body, her right hand still reaching for the knife. I slipped off my clog and as she lifted herself off me to get to the knife, I quickly got my knee and then one foot between her body and mine. I catapulted her off, got on my side and stret
ched my leg to ram my heel into her nose, feeling the odd sensation of cartilage and then bone being compressed under my foot. She groaned, holding her face. By then I was on my knees and sank my elbow into the pit of her stomach for good measure.

  She lay there doubled over, struggling for breath. I was glad that I’d wrestled so often with my brothers, even feeling pride that I had brought things to such a swift and satisfying conclusion. But now her right hand was searching for another weapon. She needed finishing off.

  I got up and grabbed the handle of a wrought iron pan, the obvious answer to every single thing that pained me. I had only to bring it down on that brittle skull of hers.

  I raised my arm for maximum impact and then in my mind’s eye I saw the image of Elsje strung up on the gibbet. My arm sank and I placed the pan back on the table and turned to walk away.

  Titus was standing in the doorway, his face white, his eyes on the whimpering Geertje. He stared in terror at me. I turned on my heels, grabbed a wet cloth, went to Geertje and started wiping the blood off her face. Her nose was bleeding in streams. I did not know how much he had seen. I whispered to her, ‘Titus is watching us.’

  She instantly stopped groaning, sat up and said with an admirably normal-sounding voice, ‘I’m not hurt, don’t worry, little lamb.’

  He ran towards her, hugged her and dissolved in sobs and cries. I carried on cleaning up her face, feeling quite the villain. Then I offered her some beer, which she took and sipped, still sitting on the floor with the sobbing Titus in her arms.

  Then she told him, ‘Listen, little one, Hendrickje and I had a fight. You know how you sometimes fight with your friends. She did not really mean to hurt me. It was an accident. See how she is helping me now.’

  He looked suspiciously at me. I tried to summon the innocent demeanour of the girl I used to be. I asked him if he wanted some milk but he shook his head.

  ‘No point putting it off,’ she said to herself more than him, ‘there won’t be much time now.’

  ‘What?’ said Titus.

  ‘I’m going away, little lamb.’

  ‘No,’ he cried in despair and clung to her.

  ‘I’m sorry I have to go, but your father will always be with you.’

  ‘No, you can’t, you can’t,’ he sobbed.

  ‘There is another little boy that has no mother and no father and he needs me.’

  I knew this was a lie but it was a good lie. He gave a little nod.

  Geertje continued, ‘Hendrickje cares about you and she will help your father to look after you.’

  He shook his head.

  ‘It’s best when everybody gets on, isn’t it?’

  Nodding.

  ‘So now we’ll all have a sip of milk from the glass to show that we are all friends again.’

  I fetched a mug of milk, hoping her blood would not drip into it. She took a quick sip. I drank too and offered it to Titus. He took it and drank without looking at me.

  ‘You did well, Tity-Mighty. Everything will be all right,’ Geertje said, stroking his hair.

  I walked away.

  Using the handrail, I pulled myself up the stairs. In the storeroom, I sat on the floor against the far wall. If only my hands would stop shaking. I’d never have thought I’d have the lust to kill in me. Heaven was forever barred to the likes of me.

  I heard the front door close. It must be him. I hoped he would attend to Geertje but his footsteps were coming closer. I prayed that he’d pass by the storeroom. I needed time to gather myself.

  The door swung open and he walked in, carrying an old helmet. He stared at me. I wanted to get up and pretend all was well but I was as good as part of the floor.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ he said.

  I shook my head, unable to produce a sound.

  He knelt down on one knee trying to read my face but I hid it. He said, ‘Come into the studio. There’s a chair there and a fire, come.’

  I tried to get up but apart from leaning forward nothing happened. He hooked his arms under mine and pulled me to my feet. Then, with his arm around my waist, he helped me to the studio. He was worried, worried for me.

  I must tell him what happened, I thought. Geertje might need help. But I could not get the words out. He helped me into a chair and I listened to the shouts of cabbage vendors from the street below.

  ‘Come, you Amsterdammers, take a look. The firmest, cheekiest and plumpest cabbages you’ve ever seen.’

  I envied them. They had a cart of cabbages to sell and by about four in the afternoon the cart was empty and they could go home.

  ‘And don’t forget – a cabbage a day keeps the neighbours away.’

  My chest contracted in the motion of laughter but then I realized it was tears that were trying to get out. But my lower jaw was locked in place as if secured with an iron bar. Tears would not be shed; words could not be spoken.

  He tried again. ‘Will you please tell me what happened?’

  It was the strangest feeling. Another part of me wanted to tell him, wanted to be comforted like a child and told that everything would be all right, but I knew it wouldn’t be, it would never be all right again. I’d come so close that it was as if I had actually murdered her and she was lying dead on the kitchen floor, a horrible secret yet to be discovered by the rest of the world. I closed my eyes, trying to summon composure, but now my throat was tightening and I started coughing.

  ‘Water, I’ll get you some water,’ said he.

  I shook my head. I did not want him to leave me. I wanted him to stay. I shook my head, the coughing subsiding at least.

  There was something I was supposed to be telling him but it was hard to remember.

  ‘It’s Geertje,’ I said, my voice hoarse.

  ‘What about her?’

  ‘She’s bleeding. And Titus saw it all.’

  ‘Where is he?’

  ‘I left him with her.’

  He nodded. ‘I’ll go downstairs and see to them. I might be a while – wait for me here. You are not hurt?’

  I shook my head.

  As soon as he was gone, I grew afraid. The devil knew my evil now. I pressed my hands to my face. Was there a shadow on the wall? I stared at it and then at the easel and the chair. The shadow was not theirs – it was a cause unto itself. And it was oscillating too, as if it had its own breath. And wasn’t that the shape of a wing? No, it was just a fiend conjured up by my strained temper. It had no substance. But what if it was Beelzebub, the prince of demons, come to take me for my sins?

  I’d murdered her in spirit. Nothing was left of the girl who’d lifted the door knocker to a new beginning. I laughed. A new beginning indeed. I tried to stop these thoughts, to see the window and the warm stove right next to me. But the shadow grew and grew upon me. I was easy prey, sinful as I was. ‘Dear God, protect me, please.’ I prayed, convinced I could feel Beelzebub’s breath and that my soul was his. ‘Mama,’ I said, ‘mama.’ She would not come of course, she never came. And then I remembered, waiting and waiting as a child, eyeing a shadow on the wall. Maybe the devil had already taken her. I don’t know why my past and present had converged in this way – but they did and I was lost.

  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 turn
ed 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.’