We rattled back over the cobbles, past the church tower in silence. My metamorphosis was incomplete and perhaps that’s how I’d remain. I sat as close to the window and as far away from him as I could.
Portrait of Jan Six
He put down his brush; the loud hammering had ruined his every moment since the early morning. He still could not believe that Pinto had had the audacity to go ahead with the work on the foundations without his consent. Six would be here any second now. Perhaps he should have gone to his friend’s house instead. But there was always a chance Six might see something he liked and buy it. On the other hand, with that racket going on, he doubted even the generous Six would be in the mood to make a purchase, let alone do him a favour.
Six surprised him, walking into the studio, his knock on the door must have been drowned out by the noise.
‘Thanks for coming, Jan,’ said Rembrandt.
‘I’m regretting it already,’ said his friend. ‘What’s going on and how can you work like this?’
Rembrandt showed him the balls of beeswax he kept in his ears. ‘Not that it makes much difference. Pinto’s decided to embark on another one of his little projects.’
‘Pardon me?’ shouted Six, putting his hand behind his ear.
Rembrandt gestured at Six to follow him, and once they were outside the front door, he said, ‘I think we’d better go for a stroll.’
‘Or a ride,’ said Six and waved at a small canal boat. They climbed in, taking seats opposite one another, with Six facing in the direction of travel.
‘Take us around the Herengracht,’ his friend told the boatsman. It was a relief to be away from the noise and he saw his chances of a favourable response from Six increasing with each pull of the boatman’s oars. Rembrandt sat back and watched the houses go by. Neither of them felt the need for conversation as the boat glided through the balmy – if rancid – air.
Soon they turned into the Herengracht. Completed mansions stood next to empty plots or building sites. Everything was designed for grandeur. Two lanes for traffic and still plenty of space for moored boats on each side. He could not help but admire the ambition of the burghers and merchants who could afford to build here. The houses were sky-high, with enormous windows and a wealth of sculpted stonework.
No wonder other perfectly fine quarters had fallen out of favour, including his.
Six finally said, ‘So why did you want to see me?’
There was no way of putting it diplomatically, so Rembrandt answered, ‘I’m in a bit of a squeeze.’
‘But not in a good way, I take it?’ said his friend with the boyish grin Rembrandt felt sure Six would still be sporting in his sixties.
Six laughed, making it easy for him. Then a massive boom shook the air, like a canon going off in the distance, but it was probably just a pile driver. He could not afford to get distracted. ‘I’ll come straight out with it,’ he said. ‘I need a loan of one thousand florins.’
‘Whatever for?’ said Six, looking only a little taken aback, and boom came the noise again. He tried to get his reply in before the next one. ‘Thijs demands I immediately pay off the house. It’s in violation of the contract, but I do want to pay him back.’
‘You’ve been there for some time,’ said Six.
‘Yes, indeed,’ said Rembrandt, ‘and he says he’s under pressure himself. It’s the right thing to do. Cornelis Witsen will give me four thousand.’
Six raised an eyebrow and Rembrandt was not sure whether at the sum or the creditor. Boom. It sounded like a shot and an explosion all at once, so loud he could feel it in his body, and even the surface of the water rippled slightly.
‘Our new burgomaster himself will lend you money? You know Cornelis Witsen did not become chief administrator of the Dutch East India Company by being careless and now that he’s burgomaster you won’t be able to wriggle out of anything.’
‘It will be fine,’ said Rembrandt. ‘I know I can pay it back, and Isaac van Heertsbeeck will also give me four thousand, but I’m still a thousand short, taking into account bits and pieces here and there.’
Boom. Six swallowed and pointed in the direction they were going. ‘We are coming up to the Golden Bend. Look at that new house over there; splendour’s the name of the game. I’ve heard that Witsen has bought a plot here too. It will have cost him.’
Rembrandt could not help thinking that it had been a long time since he last had a commission – boom – from this part of town. Six craned his head to see where the noise was coming from. There was a scaffold about forty foot high, consisting of four poles that met at the top. A giant lump of metal was being slowly winched to the top via a system of pulleys and ropes drawn by twenty or so men. Once it reached the apex they would let go and it would crash down on the wooden pile and drive it into the ground. They had skimped on piles when building his own house, and now he had to pay for it. The men let go, the hammer hurtled down in free fall, landing on the wooden pile with an ear-splitting bang.
‘Of course I’ll give you the money, but I’m worried about you. Knowing you, you’ll not put it all where it ought to go.’
He thought it best to say nothing in reply.
‘I want something for it,’ said Six.
‘Name it,’ said Rembrandt, uncomfortably aware that he was in no position to refuse.
‘Keep the loan quiet and accept a commission for which I will pay your usual rate on top of the loan.’
What generosity! He could not help but slap Six’s thigh. He saw the boatman’s eyes widen. At least the hammer blows were getting quieter now as they moved away.
‘You’re a true friend,’ he said, feeling a little guilty for having underestimated Six’s devotion to him.
‘I try to be,’ said Six, ‘but once I’m married to Margaretha I might not be able to be so open about it, depending on how you conduct yourself, and I will also be more constrained in terms of what I can do financially.’
Rembrandt could see his future was assured, if even his friend felt the need to use a loan as leverage to get a portrait out of him, but he’d gladly do it. ‘What do you have in mind for the picture?’
‘Well, something astounding, dazzling and original, of course,’ said Six.
Rembrandt stood up, causing the boat to wobble, and held one hand a foot over his head and the other just below his crotch. ‘From here to here?’
‘Yes,’ said Six, ‘that covers all the important aspects. Oil not ink.’
‘Rough manner?’ said Rembrandt.
‘Of course.’
He sat back down again and gave the boatman a big grin. Six leaned across, patting Rembrandt’s knee, and said in a low voice, ‘It’s bad enough that your wretched neighbour has decided to have the house propped up but that will be nothing compared to the disruption if you get into serious financial trouble. It would be a waste of your talent. Do you hear?’
‘You lend me money and yet you don’t seem to have much faith in my finances?’
‘I don’t have any faith whatsoever in your financial acumen but I have faith in your art.’
‘My art can always save me from pecuniary wobbles,’ said Rembrandt.
‘No, it can’t. It’s a miracle that this has not happened sooner.’
There was a rat swimming by, fat, healthy and agile. It seemed there was more than enough in this town for everyone.
‘Besides,’ said Six, ‘you have more than money to worry about.’
Rembrandt had a feeling of dread before Six even began to elaborate.
‘I have a friend in the town council in Gouda,’ Six said. ‘He tells me that a Trijn Jacobs, a close friend of a certain plucky housekeeper of yours, is trying to convince them that poor Geertje really deserves to be released, being now ill and having been incarcerated for some time. He also told me that you’ve been trying to prevail on them not to grant the request with such “well-reasoned and persuasive” arguments as that if she got out she would live to regret it. Have you lost all sense?’
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Rembrandt asked through gritted teeth, ‘Did your friend say what they’ll decide?’
‘They will release her,’ said Six. ‘I thought you should know so you can stop wasting your time. She’s in a bad way and they’ve taken pity on her. Perhaps she’ll die before she can cause any trouble.’
Rembrandt stared at the water.
‘Mind you,’ said Six, ‘if she recovers she’ll probably sue you for wrongful imprisonment so she can claim the maintenance you owe her. And she’ll be joining quite a queue of creditors. I’m sorry to have to say this, Rembrandt, but you must tell me when the time comes to sell on the credit note before it becomes a worthless scrap of paper.’
Rembrandt could only nod his agreement. Why did Six not believe in him? As for Geertje, if she tried anything he’d simply counter-sue her, with her brother as witness of her being deranged.
Six told the boatman to take them back by a different route to avoid the noise.
They sat in silence for a while. It was such a shame, that rank stench. There had been many attempts to circulate the water in the canals, using the tides or windmills, but none of them had worked. Amsterdam remained a beauty with bad breath.
‘How is it with your amour?’ said Six out of the blue.
‘What?’ said Rembrandt.
‘The girl I prophesied would get you into trouble. You can’t marry her of course, can you?’
‘I don’t see how,’ said Rembrandt, surprised to find himself willing to discuss the matter. ‘I’d have to find the money to pay Titus his portion of the inheritance, as stipulated by Saskia’s will.’
‘So, if it wasn’t for that, you’d actually consider it?’
He shrugged his shoulders. ‘It might make things easier for her.’
‘There’s a keen groom.’
‘You’re one to talk.’
Six smiled cryptically and said, ‘I am one to talk.’
Rembrandt was about to ask what he meant when Six said, ‘That business with Saskia’s will gives you the perfect excuse.’
What was his friend insinuating? Why wouldn’t he want to marry Rika?
‘Don’t be so sure,’ he told Six.
‘Ah, Cupid’s arrow has struck then?’
How pretty the ripples looked, reflecting the buildings. He liked the scum too and the fallen leaves.
‘Well, has it?’ said Six.
‘Has what?’ said Rembrandt.
‘Are you in love?’ His friend’s eyes were sincere.
Rembrandt fished out one of the leaves and looked at it. It was mostly of a uniform brown but a few tiny yellow dots remained.
He tossed the leaf back. ‘The world is moving too fast for me,’ he said.
‘What is that supposed to mean? Perhaps you have not quite woken up to the truth yourself. So here’s a piece of advice by Horace. While we speak, envious time will have already fled: Pluck the day as it is ripe, trusting as little as possible in the next.’
Rembrandt recognized the verse; he’d studied it at university. ‘Carpe diem, carpe diem, quam minimum credula postero,’ he added. ‘Unfortunately knowing and doing are not the same.’
‘Don’t be such an ass,’ said Six. ‘Go pluck! Carpe domina! No doubt she’s ripe.’
‘It’s always the same with you – salaciousness before salvation.’
‘One must maintain perspective on what’s important in life.’
The reflected light from the waves was flickering on Six’s face and there was a change in his features; it was obvious now that he saw it.
‘You and Margaretha,’ said Rembrandt, ‘you had me think that it was all about politics but—’
‘Shush,’ Six interrupted, ‘it’s nothing.’
Seeing Six squirm, Rembrandt could not help laughing. ‘Ah, Cupid has been busy.’
‘Women,’ said Six, ‘they make us soft and a little frightened.’
‘Indeed,’ said Rembrandt, feeling inordinately pleased that his friend was finally smitten.
Six pointed at a gap between buildings. ‘Look, I’d like to buy this plot, not in the Golden Bend but still, 610 Herengracht has a ring to it. When I have a son, I want him to have a decent address.’
‘It’s a fine site, Jan, and I’ll do you a portrait so you’ll never be forgotten, by all the Sixes to come.’
‘Thank you, my man; that would make me very happy.’
After we’d returned from Bredevoort I was not sure how to be with him. Not that I saw much of him. I was confused or maybe I was angry but what right did I have? He had not made me any promises. But why take me to Bredevoort if not to ask for my hand in marriage? I tried not to come to any conclusions but they wanted to come to me. I told myself I was not biding my time. But I was. And a mere handful of nights after our return my wait was finally over.
I heard Rembrandt call my name in the middle of the night, so I ran up to his bedroom. He was sitting amongst a tumble of pillows. I put my candle on the little table. ‘I heard you call out.’
‘Oh,’ he said, looking at me through half-closed eyes, ‘I think it was a dream.’
I climbed into his bed but sat at a distance. ‘What about?’
He reclined on the pillows. ‘Our house. I came to it but it was deserted because we no longer owned it. Still, for some reason I tried the door and it was open so I went inside.’
Had he said we owned it?
‘We’d moved out long ago and yet all our things were still there, even things that we’d sold.’
‘Sold?’ I said. But he did not answer, apparently caught up in memories of his dream.
‘Then, the floor started to tilt, a vase fell off the mantelpiece because the entire house was at an angle. I had to crawl on all fours to get back outside.’ He paused, looking at me. ‘I did get out.’
It sounded like a nightmare and yet he’d spoken about it as if it had not distressed him at all. But then why had he called out?
‘Anything else?’ I said, hoping there wasn’t so I could go back to bed.
He remained silent for a long time, as if weighing something and finally said, ‘Saskia was there.’
My hand reached out to the woodwork of the bed and held on to it.
He closed his eyes as if to focus on something in his mind’s eye. ‘She was on the bed. And even in the dream I knew that she had died.’ He smiled. ‘It was such a blessing, to be with her for a little while.’
He reclined into the pillows and looked so happy, presumably reliving these moments with Saskia. Perhaps I should leave him, let him fall asleep again. Several minutes passed as he lay there with his eyes closed. I thought of all the portraits of Saskia, decked in flowers. She must have been such a sweet, kind woman.
His breathing was now deep and regular. Was he in a kind of waking dream? Was he still with her? His face looked so different, as if a burden had been lifted. I wanted him to remain this way, even if he never woke again to be with me. Such a strange thought, but that’s how I felt just then. Dear Lord, I prayed, please let him remain in peace and joy for ever.
But as the minutes went by, I noticed the night’s penumbra on the walls. He and I were mere shadows compared to how he and Saskia had been. The fact that a dream could bring him such happiness showed how he had felt about the real Saskia. He was living in a lost world – or perhaps not lost, for it would remain alive in his heart until he died.
I was surprised to feel the touch of his hand on mine and mechanically closed my fingers around his. He embraced me.
‘The house,’ I said, ‘the crack in the wall, is there any chance of it really sinking? And Thijs and the debt – will he force you into bankruptcy?’
He looked me in the face. ‘No, of course, he won’t, and the house is not going anywhere thanks to Pinto doing the underpinning.’ He grinned. ‘It will be fine, Rika. I’ll pay Thijs but I won’t bother with Pinto. He’ll give up on the money sooner or later. I should let you get back to sleep.’
So I kissed him goodnight and made my way
back to the kitchen.
The next morning, as I stood stirring the porridge, I thought about everything. He could have asked me to stay with him last night. Ha, that bed would remain his and Saskia’s for ever. No wonder he’d never married again. He was still wedded to her. He could not even bear to visit her grave. There was more devotion in that than if he’d decked it in flowers year after year.
The porridge had become a thick sludge. I slopped it into a couple of bowls. Titus was already at school. Only me and Rembrandt in the house.
Outside there was a fog so dense it looked as if someone had obliterated the world. I walked right up to the window until I could see nothing but the rolling vapours. I felt the ground shift under my feet but it was only the fog moving – a harbinger of my future, awash with intangibles.
I went to the wardrobe and regarded my few belongings: some skirts and dresses, a few ornaments and my skates. I reached for a canvas bag; in went a dress, then the old clogs. Last night, by the fire, he’d angled his chair with his back to me. In went my comb and hair pins. On the other hand, he did draw me a few times, and he never drew Geertje. In went my woollen under-things. He’d never marry me. I packed my favourite mug, not caring that it was his property. The gateway to the invisible; another fancy for which I’d fallen. Better to live some kind of life than starve on dreams. Yes, he’d flickered into life a few times but mostly he was dead – keeping dear Saskia company. I redoubled my efforts, assembling things on my bed to speed up the packing process.
He walked in, staring open-mouthed at my bag and the pile of things.
‘What are you doing?’
‘It’s no use.’
‘What’s no use?’
‘You.’
‘What?’
I carried on.
‘What are you doing?’
‘Going.’
He tried to take the bag out of my hand but I pulled it back and continued filling it with my endless socks and stockings.
‘But Rika,’ he said, ‘is it something I did?’
‘No.’
‘But you must have a reason?’
‘Must I? Find me another bag. I am out of space.’
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