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

now. When I was little he’d read bedtime stories to me. There was a sick feeling in my stomach. Why was I the one who had to leave? Martijne, being the oldest, had moved out but my mother and my brothers were all snug at home now with the van Dorstens – a merry lot.
    Still, I was working in the house of the greatest painter in Holland. That’s when it struck me as odd that I had been hired by Geertje so easily and swiftly. First she had stood frowning, clearly having no intention of letting me over the threshold. But then, after a moment’s thought, she started babbling as if we were to become the best of friends. She hailed from Gouda. Her name was Geertje. Where was I from? Did I have any experience?
    â€˜None,’ I confessed.
    When could I start?
    â€˜Immediately,’ I said as nonchalantly as I could, even though an offer of employment from her was the last thing I’d expected.
    She’d looked at me with her pale blue eyes, frowning again, and said she’d take me on.
    Perhaps she could see that I was young and strong. Perhaps she thought my inexperience meant I was not set in my ways and she could teach me. But why had she not presented me to the master of the house? It was most unusual for a housekeeper to be entrusted with hiring a maid.
    I closed my eyes but sleep would not come. The sights of the day pressed themselves upon me: the entrance hall with its towering walls, hung with oil paintings from floor to ceiling. Quite a few of them were portraits he had done of himself. I thought of the one with the fur collar and the fanciful hat. I noticed it each time. It was from 1640 so it depicted him in his mid thirties (Geertje had told me that he was now forty-one years of age). At first the face had seemed remote, haughty even, but when I’d looked at it again, after lunch, asympathetic humour had appeared that lurked behind the serious expression. I was so close to sleep that impressions jumbled together. The black feathers of the bird that had suddenly revealed their colours. What it must be to see the world as he sees it. The oily ink smell that seeped from the print room. The knuckles of the gentleman, tapping so carefully on the door. The staircase winding on up to his studio and beyond into the dark unknown. And Geertje, the way she’d placed the bowl in front of him as if he were a dog.
    In the morning of my second day, Geertje charged me with cleaning the windows of the entrance hall. The glass was very dirty, but as soon as I wiped it, the obscuring veil was lifted from the merchants, carts and children playing on the street. A gentleman was approaching the house. He had light, curly, shoulder-length hair and wore a black doublet and breeches, so well-fitting they seemed to flow with him as he walked.
    I’d have to answer the door. I was right next to it. And there was the knock already. He looked surprised, but greeted me cordially and introduced himself as ‘Jan Six to see Rembrandt’. I’d never seen such a well-dressed gentleman. Even the collar of his shirt spilled over the doublet in such a smooth fashion that it had to be silk. His movements, too, were trailing, elegant, refined. He headed for the anteroom as though he knew his way around.
    Rembrandt burst in and embraced Six with so much vigour that I thought he might break the dainty creature. Both men patted each other’s backs as if it was a competition. Then they settled intothe seats in the anteroom and I resumed my work in the hall. The intervening door remained open.
    â€˜It’s been too long, old friend,’ said Rembrandt.
    â€˜I know, I know. However, given the numbers you sell of these counterfeits of your visage, it’s as if I see you everywhere I go.’
    Rembrandt laughed and Six continued, ‘I must say it was a nice surprise not to be confronted with Geertje’s omelette features but a far more pleasant and, if I may add, appetizing sight. It’s just