Rembrandt's Mirror by Kim Devereux Read Free Book Online

don’t encourage him, he’ll soon tire of it, unless you want to encourage him?’
    This was not said accusingly but with a smile. I shook my head.
    â€˜No,’ she said, ‘these boys are not the pick of the crop, drawingand painting all day. If you’d been here when Carel Fabritius was about, now there was a man worth looking at – despite being a painter. Come, it’s time to get cooking.’
    I was more than content with scrubbing carrots and leeks – they at least were familiar to me.
    Geertje started laying the table with delicate porcelain bowls which had blue dragons snaking around their rims. I’d never eaten out of anything other than pewter, let alone had my soup embroidered with dragons.
    â€˜I know,’ Geertje said. ‘He bought them at a knock-down price. People order china decorated with flowers but the Chinese keep on shipping dragons.’ She shrugged her shoulders.
    I wondered about a land where dragons were more desirable than flowers. The table was set for three: Rembrandt and the two gentlemen. I’d never served anyone at table before. Geertje lugged the huge hutspot we’d made on to the table. Shredded beef and vegetables were floating in the broth.
    â€˜Sit down,’ she said. ‘He’s often late – no good letting the food go cold.’
    No serving then, I’d have to eat with him. I would not be able to swallow a thing. I remembered being in my teacher’s study in Bredevoort along with my brothers, looking at prints by Leonardo, Raphael, Rubens and Rembrandt. Our teacher had spoken with the same breathless tone that he normally reserved for the Holy Father: ‘Rembrandt – our greatest artist.’ Then his voice had dropped toa whisper as he described seeing a portrait by Rembrandt at the Burgomaster’s house. ‘It was as if there was another person in the room. Only by going right up to it could I convince myself that it was only paint on canvas.’
    Rembrandt walked in, tossed his tabard on a chair and let himself fall into his seat. He not so much sat as lay sprawled in his chair, arms and legs everywhere. Geertje ladled soup into his bowl, then placed it wordlessly in front of him. I sat with my hands in my lap. He leaned forward and sniffed the soup. ‘Mmm, hutspot , just what is needed.’
    Then he turned to me. ‘So what do you make of our city?’
    â€˜It is a well-organized warren, Master,’ I said, immediately thinking how rude I was.
    â€˜Ah yes, it is certainly expanding at the rate of a warren.’ He chuckled and I looked down. ‘And there’s no need to call me “Master”, you’re not one of my pupils.’
    I nodded, but what was I supposed to call him? At least I had not begun eating yet. It would have been mortifying without the prayers having been spoken. But he immediately started spooning soup into his mouth. How immoral not to thank the Lord for one’s food. There was nothing to be done about it except to say a little prayer in my mind. Then he and Geertje discussed what purchases to make as if they were at the market. How could they eat and talk at the same time? At home we’d always eaten in silence. I tried to keep my eyes off the contents of Geertje’s mouth.
    A little boy with golden locks, about six years of age, burst intothe room holding something small and dead in his hand. Rembrandt picked him up and threatened to squeeze him flat as a pancake, much to the boy’s delight. ‘This is Titus,’ Geertje said, soup almost dribbling from her chops. ‘And this is Hendrickje,’ Rembrandt said, pointing at me with his index finger.
    Titus greeted me and said, ‘I found a dead bird on the way to school but they wouldn’t let me bring it in and show it to the other children.’ He shrugged his shoulders in incomprehension, the poor thing still dangling from his hand by its legs.
    â€˜Oh.’ I