Lynn Cullen - I Am Rembrandts Daughter

I Am Rembrandts Daughter

LYNN CULLEN

Contents

For Mike
My partner on the road trips to Amsterdam,
and in life .

19 May

Anno 1670

Amsterdam

All those years living across the canal from the New Maze Park, and I never did make it inside. In spite of the promises I pried from my moeder, I never did get a taste of the pancakes frying in hot butter that I could smell from our porch step where I went to escape my vader s shouting. I never did get to chase the blue-bellied peacocks whose squawks, even from this side of the hedges and across the murky green water of the canal, pierced so many of my moeders silences. I never did get to run my hands through the water of the fountains I could hear splashing inside the park when I was sent to fetch my vader, too long at the tavern. But it is too late now. I am new-wed and our ship leaves for the East Indies in a fortnight, and there are accounts to settle .

Behind me two men paw over my vaders things. They think that because I stand at the open studio window and point myself in the direction of the park, I dont hear or see them. A girl of sixteen, plainly dressed, is invisible to bargain hunters .

Couldnt get a sword through this. The taller man, the one in the black wool doublet that is short in the sleeves and shiny with wear across the shoulders, pokes a bony finger through the rusty eye slit of an antique helmet. His long neck takes a dip at his Adams apple, which, combined with the thistledown knot of hair on the top of his head and the feathery white tufts of his brows, gives him the look of a new-hatched stork. I can barely fit my finger through it.

Let me see. The other man takes the helmet from the first mans hands. Damage to the nosepiece. Ruins its value, he says, though he doesnt put it down. He is short limbed and plump and wears the longest, most beautifully ironed white linen collar I have ever seen. It would have looked elegant on a man twice his size, but on him, it resembles an infants bib. His fat cheeks and puffy lips only add to the effect, giving him the appearance of a large spoiled baby .

Who was that French king who died from a lance poked through the eyehole of his helmet? says the big baby. About a hundred years ago?

The Stork shrugs .

Henri the Second, Big Baby says, answering his own question .

That sounds right.

I know it is. Big Baby purses his lips as he puts down the helmet. They dont make things like they used to. Everything is from the Indies these days, not your solid Dutch manufacturing.

The wide wooden floorboards creak under their feet as they move on to examine the next set of shelves .

Big Baby sneezes. So dusty up here.

The old fellow hasnt been around here for a while.

Well, so far I dont see anything worth making an offer on, just a lot of rubbish. What is that?

The Stork turns a tall, fluid-filled jar in which pink ropes and pale, almost see-through strips of matter swirl like seaweed around a spongy white stick. Big Baby peers at it closely, dabbing his nose with a lacy handkerchief .

I do believe Good heavens, its an arm! Looksee the fingers?

Ja, I do now.

A flayed arm. Id heard old Rembrandt was a student of anatomy. He must have used this to help him paint musculature.

I suppose he did.

I know he did. He would have needed the help, wouldnt he? Lost his grip in his latter years, I would say.

The men linger over the jar and the three others like it, then shuffle on to the row of unframed paintings propped against one wall. They pass without a second look at a painting of a maid shading a candle with her hand, a canvas of two African men, and one of a young man in tatters, kneeling before a bearded gentleman .

Too dark, Big Baby mutters under his breath. And much, much too rough. You can see every stroke! Imaginehe used to be the greatest painter in Amsterdam. Now I wouldnt give six stuivers for the lot.

I resist the urge to tell them to leave and remind myself that the battle is over. Let it be. I have a husband to think about now. Let the past stay in the past. I close my eyes and let the damp Amsterdam breeze blowing in through the window cool my face .

Id heard of him, says the Stork, when I was a boy.

We all did.

They pause before the next canvas, which is so covered with splotches of red, brown, and golden paint, that from this angle, it has the choppy surface of a canal in the rain. Big Baby starts to waddle away, then stops when his tall friend wont move .

What?

The Stork keeps looking. Theres something about this

It is difficult enough to watch them pick through Vaders things, but for strangers to stare at this particular painting

Dont look too close, I say. The smell of paint will not agree with you.

The Stork startles, then notices me by the window. Big Baby looks at me, too, then frowns as he sniffs at the painting. Theres no smell to this. It cant have been wet for at least a year, not if its a real Rembrandt. I doubt if it isits rough, even for him. He tips his head toward me, then under his breath, says to the Stork, Whos the girl?

Rembrandts maid? the Stork whispers .

I smile to myself as I turn back to the window. Close. But not quite.

Where is your master? Big Baby says loudly. Id like to offer him a guilder for this picture.

A single guilder, when Vaders paintings used to fetch thousands from princes. A paltry guilder for this, of all pictures. Gravediggers get twenty for their services, as well I know. Well, I dont care if we need the money for our journey .

Its not for sale.

Whatd she say? Big Baby asks his companion, as if I spoke in some sort of incomprehensible maid tongue .

She said its not for sale, says the Stork .

I dont see how this girl would have the authority to make such a decision, Big Baby says. But no matter. Who wants such a messy old thing, anyhow?

With another crunch of the floorboards, they move on to a stuffed bird of paradise and Vaders collection of shells. I cannot help but return my gaze to the canvas, with its blaze of reds and golds and comforting browns. How well I know this painting. Many times I have examined it up close and wondered how Vader could make an arrangement of brushstrokes so neatly add up to everything that is important to me. Now, across the studio, I can see neither the short jots nor long swaths of paint. They have melted together to form a scene more dear to me than anything in the world. It is more than just canvas and primer and pigments mixed in oil. Like so many other of Vaders paintings, it is the story of my life .

Three years earlier

Two girls about my agenearly fourteenwalk arm in arm down the frost-etched bricks of the sidewalk on the other side of the canal. Even from this side of the window, when the wind gusts, I fancy I can hear the rustle of their fine silk dresses under their fur-trimmed capes as they pass the locked gates of the New Maze Park. An older woman in thick furs waddles behind them like a huge glossy beaver, her proud gaze set on their backs. She must be their moeder.

Brats.

From upstairs, Vader shouts, TITUS!

My old cat, Tijger, shifts on my lap, setting off a fresh round of rusty purring. In the summer, with the windows open, you can hear the wheezy organ music and the strangled shrieks of peacocks coming from the park. You can catch the distant shouts of vendors selling pancakes and pickled herring to people lucky enough to have a few spare stuivers jingling in their pockets. Now, in late December, all is quiet in the park.

TITUS! YOU WASTE TIME!

With a sigh, I mark my place in my book with a scrap of cloth, then put Tijger from my lap and brush off my apron. Tijger follows me slowly up the stairs, swaying like royalty. He is more than nine years of ageyoung for people but old enough in cat time. After Titus and my books, he is my closest friend.