Madonna On the Bridge

by Bert C. Wouters

Antonius dispatched his son to gather twelve of the famous tulips. Swept up in the excitement of his father’s commission, Manus enthusiastically headed to the tulip fields outside the city. He took off on his bicycle with a newspaper rolled up under his arm. He decided he needed to tell his friend the good news first and hurried to the local tavern, his usual hangout, for a cup of tea. His best friend, Jope, was already there. Manus greeted him before ordering a cup of Douwe Egbert’s tea and a speculaas cookie made from almond paste. He unfolded the paper and showed Jope the article about the endangered Rembrandt. Manus read the headline, written in bold letters on the front page, aloud: “Death Sentence for the Rembrandt Tulip.” When Manus explained that his father was going to play a significant role in the final chapter of this flower’s existence, Jope understood why Manus had the paper with him. He wanted his friends to know his father was going to paint the last Rembrandt, as the article mentioned. The news made Manus proud.

  “Do you know where the Northern Caucasus Mountains are?” Manus asked Jope unexpectedly.

  “I know they border the Black Sea,” Jope answered, looking at Manus with a puzzled expression and wondering why he had asked the question. “Why are you asking?”

  “The article says tulips come from Circassia,” Manus explained. “In the second half of the fifteenth century, as the result of a major exodus caused by the marauding bands from the East, the surviving caravans of Circassians found their way to Holland and Belgium. Here they found the same soil conditions as their native Black Sea home. The dark clay soil was exactly right for cultivating their prized tulips,” Manus read. Jope listened attentively.

  “The Circassians carried large supplies, including clothing, food, and bags of tulip bulbs, which they highly valued and used as a food source when needed. The tulip was their sacred flower. Despite numerous attempts by the Greeks to trade tulips for their goods, they constantly refused to give up this prized commodity,” Manus continued reading.

  “The Circassians decorated their wagons with colorful flags, streamers, and banners, and the women’s clothing showed a color-rich pattern of yellow, blue, red, black, and green.”

  “Wait!” Jope exclaimed, holding up his hand to stop Manus. “The colors you just mentioned are the same ones found in the famous Rembrandt tulip!” Jope pointed out. “I wonder if the geneticists at the University were Circassian, trying to reproduce the colors in their new tulip?” he asked, as both friends stared at each other in awe, considering this possibility.

  Manus suddenly interrupted their reverie and motioned Jope to follow him to the fields. He had to find a dozen of the most beautiful Rembrandts before dark. They raced to Toon Dierckx’s field.

  The sun was setting, and the air was cooling down, offering ideal weather for cutting tulips. When they arrived at the tulip farm, Manus knew he was at the right place.

  They parked their bicycles and walked to Dierckx’s office. Toon Dierckx immediately recognized Manus as Antonius Habers’ son. For years, he had spotted Habers in his fields, amidst the painters, with his easel, canvas, and paintbrush, creating some of the most spectacular portrayals of the flowering meadows. Habers was one of the painters with the ability to capture the intimacy of color of these flowering bulbs on canvas. It was no wonder he was a docent at the Academy.

  “We are fortunate that your father lives amongst us to paint the Rembrandt,” Toon told Manus. “We need to act now. Tomorrow, horses will be plowing the Rembrandt bulbs under for good. I have no choice in the matter,” he said sadly. “I feel like the executioner of this gorgeous flower. You will find the best Rembrandts in a single row by the end of the road; look for a little sign in the row that says: ‘Cultivated exclusively for the Royal Dutch family.’ I will permit to pick a dozen tulips from this row only.”

  Manus and Jope hastened their steps, passing row after row arranged in broad swatches, by color and variety. It was an incredible joy for the eye to take in the magnificence of the scenery. They suddenly stopped, having reached their destination. They eyed the Rembrandts, standing in awe and admiring the exquisite tulip seen by so few. They knelt to admire the flowers close-up as if it was a sacred moment. The foot-tall stems in dark green were bearing shining blue flower petals, colored white inside with black veins and a yellow and orange glow like a sunburst. The edges of the petals showed the curly-crinkled fringes that made these flowers so unique.

  “No wonder they gave this variety the Queen Wilhelmina Award,” commented Manus. “It’s sad that nobody will see them again after tomorrow. I am so happy my father has the opportunity to paint these tulips, so that generations from now, people can still admire them in his painting.” Manus wiped a tear he hoped Jope had not noticed.

  “Why did you pull those tulips with their bulbs attached?” Jope asked. Manus looked down at the ground, remaining silent. He had plans for the bulbs. Placing the tulips in his basket, he went to the office to thank Toon.

  “My father will be happy with our choices, and I am sure that he will do justice to these tulips on canvas. Thank you!” Manus said.

  “Please thank your father for us,” Toon told him. “How grateful we are in Mill to have someone with an artistic background paint these spectacular flowers. The city manager has already agreed to hang the painting in the entrance to City Hall so that everyone entering will notice it.”

  Riding home, glowing with the excellent news and pleased with his tulip selection, Manus put the tulips in a unique vase before presenting them to his father. That evening he laid the first brush strokes of paint on the canvas destined to become the most spectacular painting in Mill. He knew the freshly cut Rembrandts in the vase would only last a few days before wilting.

  Retreating to his room, Manus had cut the bulbs from the tulips he had harvested to keep for himself. He placed them in a paper bag to dry and hid them amongst the socks in his dresser drawer. He was not sure if he would ever plant them, but he would figure out something to do with them.

  Days later, late in the evening, Manus heard the violin in the living room. It could only be his father, who was celebrating the completion of his painting. Manus walked up to the easel where the picture rested. He could not believe what he saw. He was quite familiar with his father’s paintings and admired his masterpiece. It represented the culmination of many years of experience. He stood there in awe and then looked at his father in tears.

  “The people of Mill will honor you for it,” he said, hugging him.

  Before returning to the violin, his father adjusted the strings with his pitchfork. As he played, the notes rolled off the violin with a vitality and joy Manus had never heard before. He had no trouble recognizing the song, “Juliska vom Budapest,” about a young girl in her native costume twirling jubilantly. On this particular evening, his father played with a joy and passion drawing Manus into the music. He joined in the celebration of the moment by smoking his favorite tobacco in his pipe and blowing little smoke clouds. As the music floated through the highs and lows, he had a vision of a stunningly attractive and exotic girl in a faraway country spinning in a colorful dress, with streamers floating from her headdress like a parasol. They were the same colors as the Rembrandt. The music waxed to a crescendo once more before hauntingly trailing off into the silence of the last bar.

  Manus stayed in the room long after his father had gone to bed. The vision of the dancing girl held him in a mesmerizing spell. She was gorgeous, dainty, and full of life. As he took the last puff of tobacco from his pipe, Manus let the girl slip away from his dream, but only for now. He knew he had seen the girl who would become the model for his sculptures. Returning to his room, Manus found a crayon in an old shoebox. He opened his sketchbook and pressed it flat against the little table in the window alcove. He brushed his long hair out of his face and with his tobacco-smelling fingers started to glide the crayon across the sheet to form the figure he had admired in the cloud of smoke. She had curly jet-black hair,
a youthful face, and beautiful dark eyes, with a glint of gold. She was joyful and demure looking. Her features on paper grew even livelier than in real life. He squinted for a moment, smiling. As he slept, Manus wondered about the tulip bulbs drying in his room. Why was he defying the government’s edict to destroy all Rembrandts? Now was not the time to align himself with the government, as an accomplice in the extinction of the famous flower. In the end, maybe he was the one who would save the Rembrandt from destruction.

  Once Habers finished his painting, he received a visit from Toon Dierckx who stopped by to check on his progress.

  “You painted a treasure to commemorate not only the Rembrandt but also the people’s devotion to this tulip,” Dierckx told Antonius with a wink.

  A month later, the mayor unveiled the painting at a ceremony in City Hall. The hall filled up with national and local dignitaries. When the city manager removed the sheet from the frame, the crowd broke out in lively applause. Everyone wanted to get a closer look and congratulate Habers for the beautiful artwork he had rendered, capturing every detail in the colors of the Rembrandt. Through the magic of his artistic ingenuity, he had succeeded in depicting the sadness that came with the loss of this national treasure.

  Chapter 8

  Madonna Danya

  The morning was cold and dark. Manus woke up late. He had fallen behind on his assignments at the Academy and was unsure where to start. Yesterday, a friend had given him a book on Peter Paul Rubens, the famous painter in Antwerp. He could not wait to discuss the masterpieces with his father. However, to study Rubens close up, he wanted to be in the city where Rubens had lived.

  His father had advised him to explore ecclesiastic art, and he was anxious to show his work. He had made multiple sketches of Mary and Jesus. Upon reviewing his portfolio of drawings, he became unsure whether he was capable of depicting Mary in a way he called “exalted.”

  With the book on Rubens in one hand and his sketchbook in the other, he stumbled around the kitchen to find his usual chair at the table. His father read the paper, enjoying a cup of coffee. He looked up at his son, noticing that his face had changed from his familiar quizzical expression to a somewhat squeamish one. For a while, Manus sat quietly staring at his half-empty cup of coffee. His clenched fist rested on his portfolio as if he were on the losing end in his struggle to continue his sculpting future. Indolently, Manus fumbled for his pipe in his pocket. It made no difference; he had no tobacco. Without saying a word, his father noticed his predicament and opened his pouch, offering Manus a wad of his preferred brand. He saw Manus’ clenched fist and looked him in the eye.

  “Why are you are hiding your sketchbook?” his father asked. Manus shook his head, puffing his pipe and slowly handed over his portfolio. He had been living on a thin rope of hope in which he featured himself in the stone carving art world. He feared his father’s criticism. It would not take much to unravel the thin thread of hope.

  “Might as well get it over with,” Manus said. “Since the last time we talked about it, I have tried to improve my drawings, which I hope you will like.” Manus had not expected to encounter a genuine admirer of his work at this point, especially in his father, a lecturer at the Academy. Habers leafed through the portfolio and smiled languidly.

  “Compared to a couple of months ago, you’ve made considerable progress in your work. Bravo!” Had his father not admonished him to study the images in his sketchbook and compare them to the sadness in his face, his eyes aimlessly searching for perfection? He remembered that day when he had looked in the mirror and seen the face of a lost and terrified artist. He had recognized the forlorn look in the eyes. At the time, he had concluded that his father was right.

  Had his father come around? Had he become a genuine admirer of his work?

  “I am finding deeper expressions of passion; however, I still have a long way to go. Now that I have made several death masks, it makes a difference. It has become clear that death masks can be a communication channel with the deceased,” Manus explained. He looked at his hands and continued. “It feels like the spirit of the dead travels through my hands, using them as a vehicle to communicate with my inner self. It opened up a window into my soul, where I now feel passionate about my artwork.”

  “Son, you just told me something that very few of us in the art world realize. Let us put this knowledge to good use. You will remember from Art History class how the Renaissance painters became masters of deeper feelings. They found a way to convey their passion into the paintbrush. In your case, you will find the power to create with your hammer and chisel. You will find Rubens’ art a great help in your development as an artist,” his father told him.

  “You gave insight into my drafting, as I never had before. I am very excited!” Manus showed him the copy of the Rubens book he had brought to the table. Judging from the little slips of paper peeking from its pages, Habers noticed he had spent a lot of time studying Rubens. Small pieces of paper marked the picture of a masterpiece.

  “There are two Rubens paintings that specifically to me. First, there is the painting called ‘Bathsheba Receives Message from David.’ I have studied this painting in depth. Do you see how he creates a vivacious effect by playing the colors in the skin of Bathsheba, the black messenger, against the bright sunlight of the architectural structures contrasting with the transparently blue heaven?

  “Bathsheba is one of the most important biblical figures. She was the wife of Uriah and later, the spouse of David, King of Israel. She had a child with David, who became King Solomon. By her motherhood of Solomon, Bathsheba became the ‘Queen Mother of Israel.’ According to the Bible, she is a Hittite, a descendant of the Nubian queens of Ancient Egypt. Their smooth skin, olive color, and graceful posture make Nubian women the most elegant and beautiful ever. Queen Bathsheba and King David are the ancestors of Mary and Jesus. Ecclesiastic scholars have argued for centuries that God would have wanted the mother of Jesus to be a descendant of these beautiful females.” Habers agreed that this would not be an unreasonable conclusion.

  The next painting Manus was particularly fond of was “The Little Fur,” depicting Helena Fourment, Rubens’ sixteen-year-old second wife, scantily wrapped in a black fur. Helena was a frequent model for Rubens. The white of her skin contrasted with the dark softness of the mink fur she was wearing. In his sketchbook, he had several drawings of Helena Fourment.

  “Someday I will find my own ‘Fourment Girl’ as my model,” a little voice inside him whispered. With encouragement from his father, Manus packed his bags and took the train to the city of Rubens, Antwerp, Belgium for the first time in his life. He exited the train from Holland at Central Station and started immediately on the task of finding a place to stay. With the few Belgian francs his father could spare in his pocket, he wandered from the main boulevard toward the River Scheldt, in the seedy district of the city, where he located an attic room in the Lange Nieuwstraat, upstairs from a bordello in the Red Light District. Bordellos were popular with sailors from around the world on leave from their long voyages. Manus was not a man of the world. He did not realize until later where he was bedding down. The property owner was Madame Giselle, who kept her parlor downstairs, where she entertained her clients. During the “off hours,” usually during the daytime, she presented herself in the window, which she had adorned with a single strand of red neon light. Dressed to the nines and overloaded with cosmetics to look much younger than she was, she sat in her luxurious armchair. With her pussycat in her lap, she held a book, pretending to read. No one believed she was a sophisticated bookworm, but that is how she wanted her upscale clients to see her.

  On his first day of class at the Royal Academy of Fine Arts in Antwerp, Manus wanted to make sure he was on time. He wandered for a while in the old district of the city, noticing the old homes, showing the toll of several years of economic downturn in the inner city.

  Full of anticipation, Manus look
ed forward to his first day at the Academy. It was more than the fact of having arrived in the city of Rubens, but also that he was at a turn in his sculpting career. Walking through the front portal of the Academy, he was shocked to see the lobby nearly blocked by smashed pedestals, broken plaster arms and legs, and decapitated torsos. In the corners of the darkened rooms, he could make out cobwebs dangling from the ceiling. It struck him as ironic that he found himself in a graveyard of an iconoclastic tornado that had swept through the halls of this massive institute. In the courtyard, he saw a uniformed guard seated on an old cement bench with a cup of coffee, aimlessly staring at the demolished pieces, as if there was some art left in them. Was this not to be the place for art education, where he had hoped to learn to become a sculptor? Stepping gingerly through this broken world, Manus felt dispirited when he reached his classroom. The first lesson of the day dealt with the history of Renaissance art. He tried to overcome his negative sentiments and did his best to understand the professor’s broken Flemish. Manus guessed he must be from Brussels, a francophone.

  The Royal Academy of Fine Arts in Antwerp was founded in 1663 by David Teniers, official painter to Archduke Leopold of Austria. Since then, the Academy had earned a reputation as an internationally acclaimed fine arts institute. Rubens had played an essential role in the establishment of the Academy, as had Vincent van Gogh, one of its most notable students.

  When it was time to pay his rent, Manus was shy and kept his distance. Giselle climbed the rickety stairs to Manus’ attic room to collect the rent.

  “Hey, there. Here is something for you to eat,” Giselle said compassionately, setting a bowl of soup on the table in front of him. “I am a woman who has decided to live my life the way it suits me. Every day, I remind myself to live this life, never having to repent not having lived it this way.” She smiled at him and gave him a slip of paper that said, “It is no good trying to bridge your loneliness on your own. At times, I can take care of filling the gap. But you have to wait for that special moment.” Manus recognized it as a quote from Lady Chatterley’s Lover.