Rembrandt's Mirror by Kim Devereux Read Free Book Online Page A

was as usual at a loss for anything to say to a child.
    Geertje hugged and kissed him too and he seated himself next to her, putting the bird on the table by his bowl, which did not seem to bother Rembrandt or Geertje in the slightest. From then on she talked to Titus incessantly, captain of the voyages of his spoon through the soup. ‘Now that big chunk of carrot, no, not the beef again, now for the swede.’ Any sign of mutiny was quelled with a reminder that rice pudding awaited the successful captor of the floating vegetables.
    I kept my head down but could not help glancing at the master when I thought he would not notice. His hair was a light brown, slightly curly, and he had a moustache which was the only appealing feature he possessed. It was neither too slight nor fluffed out to ridiculous proportions. It was in truth just right.
    When he had finished, he declined the rice pudding, saying he’d better get on with things in the studio; the pupils were gone now and he could get down to proper work. On his way out he kissedhis son again and turned to me. ‘Hendrickje, I hope you’ll soon feel at home.’
    â€˜Thank you, Master,’ I said.
    He said to Titus. ‘I’m sure Hendrickje would love to see your bird.’ Was there a grin behind his innocent expression?
    Titus put his spoon down and enthusiastically grabbed the bird by the neck, holding it in front of my face. It was a sorry little thing, a young blackbird. I presented my cupped hands because, dead or not, I could not bear to see it being held by the neck like that. Titus laid the bird on my palms. Rembrandt came closer too.
    I said to Titus, ‘Look, it’s grown a lot of its proper feathers already but I don’t think it was ready to fly.’
    â€˜What happened to it?’
    â€˜It must have fallen out of the nest in a storm.’
    â€˜Why did its parents not save it?’
    â€˜They couldn’t get it back into the nest but they might have tried to feed it on the ground.’
    â€˜So why did it die then?’
    I looked at Rembrandt for a clue as to whether to divulge the horrible truth. He nodded, so I said, ‘They need the warmth of their siblings. It probably died of cold.’
    â€˜I have no brothers or sisters either,’ said Titus, and poked the nail of his finger into the beak, trying to prise it open. Then he asked hopefully, ‘Do you think it’s got maggots inside yet?’
    â€˜Probably not yet,’ said Rembrandt and knelt down on one knee, so his face was level with the bird in my hand. His grey eyes set uponit, his irises moving only ever so slightly as he studied the bird, feather by feather. I hoped my hands wouldn’t tremble. His face looked different closer up, coarser. So many lines that I could not make sense of. Too many lines. He had lived too much, making him look more worn than he should. He approached the bird with his index finger. I thought he’d start poking it like Titus had but instead he brushed gently over the bird’s neck and shoulders, his eyes still fixed on it, as were mine. The feathers glistened where he’d smoothed them. And then I saw; they were not black or rather the black was made up of many colours. How had I not noticed until this moment? The blackbird might as well have been a bird of paradise for how it struck me now: a parade of amber, brown and black and countless shades in between were visible on each tiny featherlet.
    He glanced at me before rising, and I had the strange notion that I’d seen what he had seen and that he knew.
    I felt very tired when Geertje finally left the kitchen, which was where I slept. There was a box bed in the corner. From it I could see the embers still glowing in the hearth but the rest was darkness. Where did they keep the candles? I’d never be able to find the chamber pot in the dark. I hugged the pillow to my chest, thinking of my brother Harmen. If only I could talk to him