Rembrandt's Mirror Read online

  ‘You’re not thinking of questioning me for the benefit of the bailiff?’

  I assured her that I was merely seeking to alleviate my ignorance in certain matters between a man and a woman.

  She burst out laughing, showing the gap in her teeth. ‘Ha, I got a few customers who pay me to talk but so far I’ve never been hired by a woman.’

  The Lord forgive me, I thought. She’s right. I’ve struck a deal with a whore.

  I had several hours to regret my boldness and hope she would just leave but she duly walked in and sat down at the table without waiting to be asked. It did not seem right to break my promise so I fetched last night’s cold chicken, bread and cheese from the pantry. She set to it without delay and so did I. ‘Tell me exactly what happens when you are with a . . .’

  ‘Gentleman,’ she supplied with her mouth full. ‘I wait on the street and if one looks interested, I look at him and strike up a conversation.’

  That was not quite what I wanted to know. Still, I thought, no harm in starting with what comes before. I nodded encouragement and she continued, ‘I might say, “Doggy, where are you going?” and if they don’t call me a stinking whore but look me in the eye I say, “Come, go with me to my house, we’ll share a jug of beer.”’

  We were getting to the heart of the matter, but now such vast quantities of meat were going into her mouth that, apart from the occasional groan of satisfaction, not a single word passed her lips. I pulled the remains of the chicken out of her reach and said, ‘What happens in the room?’

  Still chewing, she continued, ‘There is a maid who will come when one of us arrives with a man. She brings wine and makes sure the man has plenty, because the money goes to our keeper. But you want to know about what they pay me for, don’t you?’

  I nodded. She beckoned the chicken carcass with her finger, so I pushed it towards her. With a quick twist she detached a thigh, took a big bite and mumbled, ‘There is not much to it. I lie down and they take their plunger and sink it in the place they cannot do without and when they’re done . . .’

  ‘Wait,’ I said and poured her some milk, ‘where does this occur?’

  ‘Well, on the bed of course. I lie there . . .’

  ‘On your back?’ I interjected.

  ‘Yes, what else? Goodness, you are truly innocent of all aspects pertaining to the procedure.’

  I nodded, and wished it were entirely true. The image of Rembrandt and Geertje like beasts came to mind. It seemed that this was an uncommon occurrence even by a whore’s standards. She resumed her speech. ‘Sometimes I make some noises for their pleasure as they seem to like it. They labour away until their seed jumps out and afterwards they are sluggish like newborn lambs, can barely stand and then they want to cling on to me.’ Her face scrunched up as if this was the part least to her liking. ‘It takes some craft to get them out on the street again.’

  ‘What about your dress?’

  ‘What about it?’

  ‘Do you take it off, put on a nightshirt maybe?’

  She looked shocked and said, ‘I’m a whore but I am not indecent. It stays on, of course, skirts and all. The men need to adjust their dress a little but not for long. Where did you get such a notion?’

  While I sat, regretting that I’d started this exchange, she did some thinking and then said, ‘Once or twice I have been asked to remove my clothes but of course I didn’t. I don’t oblige unnatural requests.’

  I wondered why she had no objection to being painted in the nude but decided to ask a more pressing question. ‘What other unnatural requests?’

  She hesitated. I reached for a half-full bottle of wine and was beginning to feel like a bawd myself as I filled her glass. This was all the encouragement she needed. ‘Some want me to shake their seed out.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘They want a milking-out.’

  I shook my head.

  ‘A hand-catechism.’

  I had heard enough but now her speech was well oiled and she continued, ‘One once asked me for an extremely filthy act,’ she paused for effect. ‘To suck out his manhood in my mouth.’ With that she took another big bite of the chicken.

  ‘What about doing it like animals?’ I said.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘You know, like a cat gets on top of another, or a bull or a dog?’

  ‘Ah’, she said, digging her fingers into the chest of the chicken and pulling a piece off, ‘I’ve not had that request but a friend of mine has. Very un-u-su-al.’

  ‘Would you?’ I asked.

  ‘No,’ she replied, ‘as I said, nothing unnatural.’

  ‘And your friend?’

  ‘She refused, thought it might hurt.’

  ‘Does it?’ I asked.

  ‘What? Oh, you mean when doing it as it’s meant to be done?’

  ‘Yes.’

  She thought about it. ‘Sometimes. It’s important to pull up the legs and keep the soles of the feet on the bed, otherwise you can have pains in the stomach afterwards.’

  Why would Geertje do something that whores only did because they were paid, especially as it was a sin? Maybe she saw the look on my face, for she added, ‘I grant you, they treat us more roughly than when their heart is in it.’

  The heart being in it or not. I pondered this, remembering the etching of the lovers, their eyes so soft, as if seeing into another world.

  The door opened and Dirck stood there for a moment looking at me sitting with the whore. I stared back at him as if it was him that was at fault. He said almost apologetically, ‘The master has asked for more beer, if you please.’

  ‘I will bring it up, Dirck,’ I said and turned back to the whore as if this was all part of ordinary business. He left.

  The whore got up and said, ‘I’d better leave – it is not good for you to be seen talking to me.’

  ‘Wait,’ I said. ‘How do you know?’

  ‘Know what?’

  ‘What it’s like when their heart is in it?’

  She did not answer but continued out of the kitchen and up the stairs. When we’d reached the front door she squeezed my wrist. ‘May the Lord thank you.’

  Her gratitude was genuine and what was more I’d spoken to her more candidly than I had ever to another living soul. How could I treat her like a stranger? ‘I will pray that the Lord will look after you when you need Him to. What is your name?’

  She made a gesture as if wiping away tears from under her eyes and said, ‘Petronella, Petronella Kropts.’

  I made to open the door for her but she stayed my hand and said, ‘I come from Bonn in Germany, from a good family. I once worked as a maid in Düsseldorf a while before I came here. I was your age. It is hard to believe but I was once a pretty girl. I loved a man. He promised to marry me, so why not share his bed? Soon I was with child and when he found out, he left the province, so I could not use the law to make him live by his promise. No one wanted a pregnant, un-wed woman to work for them. My family would not take me in – or my child. I was hungry. I had nowhere to go. You are in a good place here. Don’t be too curious. You have looks. You might even find a burgher who will marry you. Take care of what you have; don’t be a fool like I was.’ With that she let go of my hand, opened the door and went back out into the street.

  I quickly assembled beer and jugs and went to the studio. This time I did not knock but went in quietly. I was greeted with an almost ribaldrous scene. Dirck and Nicolaes were sitting casually on the stage where Petronella had been and the rest were lounging in their chairs, laughing. Rembrandt, too, looked amused. I set about collecting the used mugs which had all been left on a table in the corner. I heard Nicolaes speak as if telling a joke. ‘Why do whores never get pregnant?’ Dirck replied, ‘Grass does not grow upon the highway.’ They roared with laughter and then Nicolaes quipped, ‘Or in the market place!’ Again they all laughed.

  Nicolaes was warming to his role as chief jester. ‘Why would a burgher shun the street-cruisers and keep
himself a chamber cat?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ came a chorus of replies.

  ‘Because he likes paying for the privilege of having a stinking hole all to himself.’

  At this Rembrandt raised his hand and said, ‘That’s enough, back to work.’ I left the room laden with empty jugs and a knot in my stomach. These boys were more wicked than the whore.

  That night I lay in my bed feeling glum. How was it that Geertje never seemed the least bit uncertain about anything, least of all her charms, when she possessed none?

  She traipsed to his bed of her own volition. I had heard people say that women are driven to things because they are born with lecherous desires. Was that why Geertje went to him? Would these things awaken in me and prove to be my undoing? I doubted it; I felt nothing but revulsion at the vile couplings. My mind turned to the etching. A painter’s work was to mirror the visible to perfection so that the invisible was revealed. A better world lived and breathed somewhere beyond the surface of things. I thought of the bed with its posts, the canopy and how it held the couple as if they were in another realm. It was said by the Church that the soul belonged to the invisible and that it was entirely separate from the body. But what if it wasn’t? What if, just as the visible world was the gateway to the invisible, the physical body could be the gateway to the soul?

  This was heresy. I dismissed the ramblings of my tired brain. As for Rembrandt, his art was powerful but that did not mean it illuminated some deeper truth – which was what poor Samuel seemed to believe.

  It was best to stick with tangible realities and the word of the Lord. Perhaps the most virtuous choice was not to marry at all. I’d live as a spinster, maybe working as a housekeeper eventually. In former times a woman like me, devoted to God, could have become a nun, her body covered in long robes and forgotten. This was such a comforting thought that I fell asleep immediately.

  Later, I was woken by the sound of Geertje’s feet pattering past the kitchen. She was on her way to his room again. It was like clockwork. The treads groaned as she climbed the stairs and then his door closed above.

  I couldn’t help but picture what was taking place above. It was as though it was all occurring with the sole purpose of vexing me. She sat with him now, on the bed, naked, their heads moving towards each other in a tender kiss. I was soon disabused of this vision by the creaks of the bed and Geertje’s moans and groans. Other people conducted themselves honourably but these two thought they were above the law, God’s law. I closed my eyes and tried to shut myself away. Nothing could be heard of him but all the more of Geertje. It sounded more like pain than pleasure.

  Before too long I could hear them conversing through the floor boards. ‘I wish to stay tonight,’ she pleaded. ‘Please let me, Master.’

  ‘I am not such a person who can sleep in the same bed with another. Be gone, you shall see me again soon enough.’

  There was a long pause; then she said in a pitiful voice, ‘My bed is cold.’

  ‘You must light the fire then,’ he said with mirth.

  ‘I like to look on you while you sleep.’

  ‘Don’t be silly, what would you gain from that? Besides, you staring at me would prevent the very thing that you seek to see: my slumber.’ Then firmer, ‘Go on, away with you, Queen of Gouda.’

  Soon she toddled past my room as she returned to her bed. It was odd that he did not want her to sleep in his bed. Surely there must be comfort in the proximity of another body? Geertje’s snoring interrupted that very thought just then. The speed of her fall into sleep needled me. Even her repose lacked decorum.

  I remained awake. What about him – had he already drifted off or was he still sharing, with me, the realm of the waking?

  The next day was Sunday. Geertje had gone out with Titus, and the pupils would not be coming today. I was free to go on another walk through town. The market was always a spectacle. Except I’d constantly be thinking I might glimpse him there again.

  In the end I could not bring myself to leave the house at all, not even briefly. So I dressed and went upstairs to clean the studio. It was a good time to do it. While all the world was taking a breath, Rembrandt too would stay away from work. I started by brushing the grate clean, trying not to inhale the cold ash.

  ‘Are you not going on one of your outings?’ he asked from behind me.

  I turned around and saw only the high back of his armchair. Then his face appeared as he looked around the side. ‘I’ve heard a big ship from Japan will arrive this morning in the harbour. There will be lots to see.’

  ‘It does not seem like the day for it,’ I said.

  ‘I see,’ he said.

  I returned to scraping away at the remnants of the fire.

  ‘If you must engage with coal and soot I’ll show you a better way.’

  He walked over and offered me a piece of drawing coal. ‘If you won’t let me draw you, then you’ll have to draw me.’

  I could not think how to respond so I remained crouching by the grate. He produced a wad of paper and waved his hand at a chair as if it was a matter of great urgency. I walked to the chair, as if dispossessed of my own will but knew I must be on my guard.

  He turned his armchair around and pulled it into the light. Then he settled into it like a bird on a nest of eggs.

  I was still standing by the chair. I couldn’t possibly sit down with him, much less draw him.

  ‘It’s nothing immoral,’ he assured me. ‘I just want to show you how to draw a face – I’ll be the model. Unless you prefer to draw him?’

  He pointed to the wizened head of an old goat. It had no apparent use but lingered on a shelf in the studio. The buck’s mouth was slightly open, showing his teeth in a demented grin. I took the paper. He assumed a pose, his gaze fixed on some point ahead. I sat down. He was one of those people you could not say no to.

  ‘Don’t look at the paper, only at this,’ he said, pointing at his face, grinning much like the goat. ‘Trust your hand,’ he said, ‘it will do what it does. It’s the seeing that matters.’

  I looked at him, saw the untidy hair, the collar that was turned up on one side and down on the other, the lines around the corners of his mouth. I leaned in closer. What liberty to look at his face like this.

  And then I was a wanderer who had turned a corner into an unknown land. It was spread out before me. I made my first step and followed the line of his left eyelid; it was a smooth curve. The right eyelid, however, revealed itself to have a loose fold of skin that almost drooped over the eye itself. I had not seen any of this before. My hand duly noted these discoveries. The lines in his face all beckoned to be travelled. I wanted to see them even more clearly, so I moved my chair closer – close enough to smell the paint on him, or whatever it was, that reminded me of my feelings in the boat.

  I came across a deep line between the brows. It did not plunge straight down the middle of his face but slightly to the left and then took a turn towards the eye socket, where it stopped. I made a map, line after line, noting the texture and terrain. His face was the landscape around the house where I grew up. Soon I knew it so well that I could have found my way home even in pitch darkness.

  After a while the lines of his face started whispering to me of something more than their direction and location. They told me why they had been cut.

  There, a change in his face. It was more exposed, vulnerable even. He lowered his gaze, almost closing his lids. Had I caused this? No, he had always been vulnerable. I had merely unveiled it, by drawing him. There were yet more veils to lift. I would go on. ‘Your eyes, I cannot see your eyes,’ I said.

  He lifted his chin, but still kept his eyes on the floor. I waited. He took a breath, as if it required an effort to raise his gaze, but then, breathing out, he did. His eyes met mine. Hot pokers into wax. The charcoal slippery between my fingers, all my bearings gone.

  I clung to my task and the piece of charcoal. Record the shape of his iris, I told myself. My hand duly made a circle. I ke
pt on looking at his eyes. It was more difficult for him; he was bare before me. There was something like a tremor behind his physical sight. How to record it? My hand moved but I did not care what manifested on paper. Then, something beyond the tremor. I could not name it. The reaction of my own eyes named it for me; they were moist. His eyelids came down and he looked away. We sat in silence for a little while. Then he got up and said, ‘I’d meant to teach you something, but I’m the one who’s come away with a lesson. It’s not so easy to be a model.’

  I smiled and looked down at my drawing. It was a wild confusion of lines, criss-crossing all over the paper with only a few features discernible, such as the circles of the irises. He peered over my shoulder and laughed. ‘You’ve drawn the old goat after all.’

  Then he added quietly, ‘You know how to look at your subject.’ He pointed at the billy. ‘He’d probably come back to life if you ever looked at him like that.’

  I placed the drawing and charcoal on the chair. I excused myself and quickly left the studio.

  A Woman Sleeping

  I was woken in the middle of the night by a creak of my door. I froze – I knew it was him before he had even crossed the threshold of my room. I kept my eyes closed. Why had he come? Did he think that because of what had happened earlier he could take liberties? I was lying on my side, half curled up, facing into the kitchen.

  His footsteps approached my bed and then silence. I slowed my breath to appear asleep. It was my protection; no one could be so wicked as to trespass on a sleeper.

  I prayed my blanket-hidden body was of no interest to him. But as he stood – breathing slow breaths like mine – I felt my forgotten hips as his eyes rested on their shrouded apex. Then I knew his attention on the side of my arm, my shoulder, my exposed neck. And then my face. I willed my blood not to rush there and my breath to stay the same.