Free Rembrandt's Mirror by Kim Devereux

their wares into open-mouthed gables. But there was another sound, which went unnoticed, like the silence between words; it was the water that incessantly licked at foundations, bridges and the bodies of drowned rats.
    It struck me that the whole of Amsterdam was like Rembrandt’s workshop, with all the workers dedicated to making it run smoothly. And I too was a mere cog in the giant mechanism, but not today – today I would watch. The thought was delicious.
    I entered the narrow passage between the market stalls, enjoying the sight of red chillies, plump foreign fruit and ugly fish. I noticed a stall that sold vanilla pods from Madagascar. It was an expensive luxury and I had never seen more than two pods at once before. Here they were in bundles of several dozen. Pretending to be a serious buyer, I picked up a bundle as if to examine it for freshness. Whatwould a whole bundle of vanilla smell like? I put my nose to it and inhaled deeply. Nothing – except for some almost foul after-smell. A cook once explained to me that vanilla is best used in small quantities and without a fanfare to announce its presence. It likes to enter through some sensory back door, unfolding its beguiling aroma when one least expects it. I put down the bundle. Perhaps I’d been hoping for too much. I noticed something out of the corner of my eye. I looked up and there he was! Rembrandt. Brown leather boots, worn breeches, black cloak and a parcel pinned under his arm. His hat flopping up and down as he marched through the swarming shoppers.
    I was pulled along after him like an angler who’s hooked a fish too big to land, almost running to keep up. I should not be following him – what if he saw me? The wealthy did not appreciate being spied on by impertinent servants. He might dismiss me on the spot. But I could not stop. What if he was going somewhere interesting? Perhaps I could watch from a distance, to see what he saw.
    He walked fast, not looking left or right, possessed by such urgency that I convinced myself I was safe from being detected. But where was he going? This did not seem like a wealthy part of town; surely none of his clients resided here.
    Despite our difference in size, my steps fell in with his, following a mere twenty feet or so behind. I wondered why neither he nor I were bothered by beggars. In his case it was understandable, for he had the upright bearing of a man who would not tolerate being accosted. But that was not all. People did not even seem to notice hispresence. Nor did he acknowledge the world. When we passed some snarling and fighting dogs he did not so much as glance at them.
    Soon the world was lost to me too, his lone figure my only focus, as though we were together in a separate universe. I checked myself: what febrile babble.
    We’d reached a vast body of water; it must the IJ. I’d heard it described as a river wide as a lake with a strong current running at depth. There was a ferry readying to cast off. He boarded it. I followed, paid my fare and sat down not far behind him. He did not notice me. His eyes were fixed on something on the other shore. I followed his gaze and saw it: the Volewijk, an infamous hill that rose up a few hundred feet from the northern shore. It would have looked like an ordinary pasture had it not been for two dozen posts bearing gibbets with bodies strapped to them. They were executed criminals. Despite having often passed by this kind of spectacle before, on the outskirts of my home town, I felt dread. What was his business there?
    When we’d reached the other side, I waited until everyone had disembarked, using my shawl to hide my face. Most went to a small shoreside settlement. Rembrandt made straight for the Volewijk. Still I followed but allowed several hundred feet between us. I tried to keep my gaze low, but tracking him at a distance meant seeing the cages that held the bodies. In some nothing but the skeleton remained, the bones picked