Letitia raised her hand and remarked, “It seems like much more than just a group portrait, almost as if it were telling a story.”
“Yes, it does, doesn’t it?” Helga agreed with a smile. “Nobody really knows exactly what that story was. All we know is that the scene is full of dramatic activity.”
Pointing to more details, Helga said, “For example, a little boy is running away with a gunpowder horn. A guardsman seems to be loading his musket. Another guardsman has just fired his musket, apparently by accident, narrowly missing the lieutenant’s head! A dog is barking at a drummer, who pounds away furiously on his drum. And if you look carefully behind the main characters, you’ll see Rembrandt himself looking out over the scene! What is going on here, exactly?”
Helga shrugged and continued, “There have been lots of rumors and legends—including that Rembrandt brought about his own financial ruin by revealing a murder plot in this painting. I personally doubt that. I suppose the painting will never give away all of its mysteries.”
London’s eye was drawn to an image that she remembered strongly from her childhood visit here. The brightest figure in the whole painting was a girl dressed in gold, who seemed almost eerily out of place among the military men.
“Who is that girl?” she asked.
“That’s a good question,” Helga said. “She was probably modeled on Rembrandt’s wife, Saskia. She seems to be some kind of a symbolic figure, a mascot for the company.”
Honey asked, “Is that a dead chicken tied to her waist?”
“It certainly is,” Helga said with a laugh.
“That’s kind of weird, isn’t it?” Honey said with a snap of her chewing gum. “I mean, is it supposed to mean something?”
“Oh, yes,” Helga replied. “A chicken’s claws were part of the coat-of-arms for this company of Kloveniers. And the chicken might also be a visual pun on the name of the captain—Banning Cocq. There he is standing in front of the others …”
Cyrus Bannister interrupted with a question, “What can you tell us about the restoration?”
Helga shrugged and tilted her head.
“Well, not as much as somebody on the team. Let’s see if we can get their attention.”
She rapped gently on the glass, and the one of the restorers turned toward them. He was the male member of the group—a bald man with tight-looking features that seemed too small for the rest of his face. He was more formally dressed than the other workers, including a yellow cravat.
Helga waved for the man to come outside.
He hesitated briefly, then stepped down off the platform and came on out of the glass enclosure.
“Well?” he said to Helga a bit gruffly in Dutch. “Is there some sort of a problem?”
“Oh, no problem at all,” she replied in Dutch. “I just have a group of visitors who are curious about the restoration process.”
The man shook his head.
“They can find out all they want to know online,” he said.
“Oh, don’t be like that!” Helga said, poking him playfully in the shoulder. Then she spoke to him in English. “Let me introduce you to a group of American tourists and their social director, London Rose. Ladies and gentlemen, I’d like you to meet Pier Dekker, one of our restorers.”
Poking him again, Helga said teasingly, “Meneer Dekker is the oldest person on the restoration team.” She added with a hearty chuckle, “And as you can see, he is the only man working on this shift.”
The man frowned sharply at her remark.
“More is the pity,” he said in English.
London was a bit startled by this exchange. Pointing out the man’s age seemed kind of rude on Helga’s part. And the man sounded a bit defensive about the gender issue. It seemed clear that Helga and Dekker didn’t especially like each other.
Helga said to Dekker, “What would you like to tell them about the restoration?”
Dekker crossed his arms and said, “Well, for one thing, I wish we were the first team to undertake this task. The painting has been cleaned and restored more times than anybody really knows about. And those efforts have done at least as much harm as good.”
He gazed at the painting with a sorrowful expression.
“This masterwork had suffered a great deal at human hands,” he said.
“It has even been vandalized, hasn’t it?” Cyrus remarked.
“Oh, yes—three different times, and for utterly insane reasons. In 1911, a shoemaker slashed it with his knife, apparently on account of finding himself unemployed. In 1975, another man slashed it—at God’s orders, he said. In 1990, an escaped psychiatric patient splashed sulfuric acid on it—an act of pure madness, apparently.”
With a bitter sigh, he added, “It’s amazing this masterpiece has survived—and not just from the attacks, but from the ignorant efforts to repair the damage they’d caused. No one is to blame, I suppose. It is only now that we have the means to treat this painting with the care it truly deserves.”
London was struck by the note of sympathy in Dekker’s voice, as if the painting were truly alive.
And in a way, maybe it is, she thought.
Dekker continued, “We are now able to use technology that earlier generations of conservators couldn’t even dream of. We are using x-radiography, spectroscopy, infrared imaging—the same technology NASA has used to study the chemical makeup of objects on Mars.”
Pointing to the scanning machine, he added, “By the time we’re through, we’ll have taken 8400 photographs of every square inch of the work in ultra-high resolution—five thousandth of a millimeter, to be exact. We can examine pigment particles right down to the molecular level.”
“It sounds like you’re doing a great deal more than cleaning and restoring it,” Cyrus said.
London heard a note of displeasure in his voice.
“Oh, yes,” Dekker said. “We are learning things about The Night Watch that no one ever hoped to know.”
Pointing to a figure wearing a helmet, he said, “For example, our digital technology reveals something about this character that even the x-ray techniques used in the past could not show us. Originally, there was a feather in this gentleman’s helmet. Rembrandt changed his mind and painted it over.”
“I suppose you could offer evidence that Rembrandt made that change himself,” Cyrus remarked sharply.
Meneer Dekker frowned at him.
“I can assure you that we are positive that Rembrandt made that very change. And yes, I could offer you evidence of it, if you doubt my word.”
“I don’t doubt it for a moment,” Cyrus said, crossing his arms.
Dekker’s frown deepened, and his small eyebrows drew together.
“Do I detect a note of disapproval, Mr. …?”
“Bannister. Cyrus Bannister.”
“What is your area of expertise, Meneer Bannister?”
“I am merely a humble art lover,” Cyrus said.
London grew more worried. As far as she was concerned, Cyrus never sounded “humble” under any circumstances.
Dekker audibly scoffed.
“Well, as one humble art lover to another, I’d be glad to show you a digital image of the feather that has been concealed by layers of paint and varnish for almost 400 years. I can show you dozens of other long-hidden details that practically document every stage of Rembrandt’s three-year process as he painted this masterwork.”
Looking worried, Helga began, “Meneer Dekker, please—”
Dekker snapped at her in a snidely condescending tone, “This is not your affair, my dear. Kindly let me handle it.”
London and Bryce glanced at each other apprehensively.
It was Cyrus’s turn to scoff.
“I don’t think it’s any of my business to look at a feather that Rembrandt himself chose for me not to see, let alone any other details that he deliberately hid away. Frankly, I don’t think it’s anyone’s business—and certainly not yours.”
Dekker’s face reddened
with anger.
London realized that she’d better intervene. She touched the argumentative passenger on the arm.
“Cyrus, we are guests in Amsterdam,” she said.
Trying to be helpful, Bryce added, “Maybe we could have this conversation among ourselves after we leave.”
A few passengers murmured in anxious agreement. But Dekker made it clear that it was too late to avoid a quarrel. He stepped toward the taller man and peered angrily up at his face.
“Oh, but I do insist on having this conversation, right here and now,” he said. “Do you object to the work we are doing here, Meneer Bannister?”
“Not at all,” Cyrus said, looking down at the conservator. “Restoring and preserving a masterpiece is a noble endeavor, requiring skill. However, it involves no creative effort or insight, merely advanced knowledge of the latest high-tech gadgetry and trickery. It is not fitting for a technician to go poking and prodding into the workings of a great creative mind. And that, I fear, is what you’re doing by exposing Rembrandt’s secrets.”
Dekker let out a low-pitched growl.
“A technician, am I?” he said.
“Surely you don’t claim to be an actual artist.” Cyrus snapped back.
The conservator stepped forward with a dark scowl on his face.
Cyrus stood his ground with a superior expression on his.
London knew she needed to defuse this situation somehow.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Before London could intervene, the argument heated up even more.
“You have no right to assume otherwise,” Dekker snarled.
London spoke before Cyrus could reply to that.
“Cyrus, that’s enough.”
“Don’t make this any worse,” Bryce added.
Cyrus hesitated, obviously about to fire back. Then he shook his head and turned away silently.
London figured she’d better make amends.
She said to Dekker, “Sir, on behalf of my group—”
“Yes, yes, you apologize,” the conservator said, interrupting again. “And with very good reason. This unfortunate incident would never have happened if you were the least bit good at your job.”
London felt suddenly baffled.
“Sir, I’m not sure I know what you expected—”
“No, I don’t suppose you do. The requirements of your work are quite beyond your female comprehension. It’s an all-too-common problem in these dreary times of so-called equality.”
London’s mouth dropped open.
My “female comprehension!” she almost exclaimed aloud.
“‘So-called equality’?”
Bryce opened his mouth to protest, but London silenced him with a poke of her arm. She didn’t want to get this confrontation started up again.
But then Dekker spoke to London again.
“And now, I must insist that you and your people leave our museum.”
Helga let out a gasp of alarm.
Speaking Dutch now, she said, “Meneer Dekker, you know perfectly well that you don’t have the authority to expel patrons from this museum.”
Dekker replied to her in Dutch, “No? Then perhaps you do. If so, you should exercise that authority at once. But you lack the necessary fortitude. Like I said, it’s an all-too-common problem these days.”
Helga looked genuinely angry herself now.
London gave Bryce another nudge to keep him quiet. She knew she had to extricate herself and her group from the situation as quickly and painlessly as possible.
She spoke in Dutch to both Helga and Dekker.
“Really, there’s no need for this situation to get any worse. Helga, I told you earlier that this would be the last stop on our museum visit. We were about to leave anyway. Thank you for a very informative tour.”
“Very well, then,” Helga said, still glaring at Dekker. “Meanwhile, sir, I’d like a word with you in private.”
London’s group seemed more than ready to leave as she began to escort them out of the Night Watch Gallery. She glanced back and saw that Helga and Dekker had already exited separately. She also saw that some of the museum patrons were staring at her and her group.
We really made quite a scene, London realized. What an unpleasant experience.
And she had an uneasy feeling that wouldn’t be the end of it.
She could feel her face burning as she led the group back through the Gallery of Honor on their way out of the Rijksmuseum. That had an unfortunate ending to what ought to have been a happy, enriching experience for everyone involved. Why had it degenerated into an ugly scene?
Confrontations with local guides and other experts were rare in her work on tour boats. She had to admit, she’d had the occasional disagreement with locals—police captains, for example.
But this one seemed different.
Of course, the museum conservator was a highly trained professional who had reason to be annoyed with Cyrus Bannister’s high-handed comments.
“Surely you don’t claim to be an actual artist,” Cyrus had said. Even if Cyrus was right about that, calling the man a mere technician had been an unnecessary insult.
But why had Pier Dekker become so angry when she had attempted to apologize? The conservator had even insulted her personally. London wasn’t sure whether she felt more embarrassed or angry.
As the group continued on their way into the tunnel that led outdoors, London was aware of Bryce walking along beside her.
What must he think? she wondered. He’d had little opportunity to see her working at her job, and this certainly hadn’t been her best day.
“That man really ought to apologize,” Bryce muttered. “Maybe we should both go back and—”
London interrupted, “Oh, Bryce, please, let’s don’t. It would only make things worse.”
Even so, she felt herself relax a bit at his words. At least Bryce didn’t hold her responsible for the way the tour had ended. But the passengers walking along behind them were being uncharacteristically quiet. She wasn’t sure what any of them might be thinking.
When they reached the open plaza in front of the museum, at least one of the passengers answered that question.
Stepping out into the sunlight, Honey Jarrett commented loudly, “Wow, does that restorer guy have a problem with women or what?”
Several other passengers laughed or nodded their heads in agreement.
“He practically admitted it,” Honey continued. “I mean, look at the way he treated you. It was Cyrus he was arguing with, but he didn’t take out his anger on him. He took it out on you, just because you’re a woman. He argues with men, but he bullies women.”
Of course, London realized.
Honey had just answered her unasked question—why had the man lashed out at her like that?
London cringed as she remembered what Dekker had said to her.
“The requirements of your work are quite beyond your female comprehension.”
Honey shook her head and added, “I’ve known men like that all my life. Maybe their mothers didn’t treat them right. But that’s no excuse. Men can be such a pain in the neck.”
“You don’t mean me, I hope,” Honey’s husband said.
Honey gave Gus an affectionate tweak of his cheek.
“Oh, no, not you, sweetie—at least not most of the time. You’ve got to admit, you’re not always perfect.”
Then she added to Bryce, “And I don’t mean you, either, handsome—not ever. You’re always a darling in every way.”
Honey gave London a knowing wink as she and Gus strolled away across the plaza. Obviously, Honey had some idea of what was going on between London and Bryce.
So does just about everybody, probably, London thought.
Since there didn’t seem to be much point in hiding it, London took Bryce by the hand, and he gently squeezed her hand in return. The show of mutual affection felt nice after what had just happened.
London realized that at least she’d ended the tour righ
t on schedule, and everybody in the group was now free to spend the rest of their stay in Amsterdam doing whatever they liked. Most of them were already chatting about what to do next.
She saw that Cyrus Bannister and Audrey Bolton had stepped off to one side, where they seemed to be carrying on an animated conversation.
She told Bryce, “I’m not as upset with Dekker as I am with Cyrus. I have some responsibility for the behavior of our passengers, especially on our organized tours. And anyway, Cyrus started the whole thing.”
“Maybe we should have a word with him,” Bryce said.
“Leave the talking to me,” London said. “Taking care of these kinds of issues is part of my job.”
Reluctantly, she let go of Bryce’s hand. He nodded, and the two of them hurried over to Cyrus and Audrey.
“Cyrus, we need to talk,” London said.
Cyrus replied, “I take it you disagree with what I said to that—that technician.”
“Whether I agree or disagree is beside the point.”
“Then what is the point?”
London took a deep breath to control her rising frustration.
“It’s not normally my practice to criticize our passengers. But your behavior back there was not acceptable. Outbursts like that reflect badly on us all. It’s the kind of behavior that gives American tourists a bad name.”
Audrey abruptly took hold of Cyrus’s arm and said to London, “What do you expect him to do, apologize to that man?”
“Yes, I think that’s what she expects me to do,” Cyrus said.
“I’m not telling you what to do,” London said, surprised at the apparent solidarity between two of her oddest passengers. “I’m just letting you know that I think your behavior was way out of line. And I hope it won’t happen again.”
Audrey snapped back at London, “Aren’t you out of line, criticizing him for speaking his mind? I think he showed lots of integrity. I wish more people could be so honest—especially men.”
Audrey snuggled up against her companion’s arm as the two of them turned and walked away.
Misfortune (and Gouda) Page 9