Free Rembrandt's Mirror by Kim Devereux Page A

clean by the crows. Others still had flesh on them, poor wretches, their bodies slumped down, limbs protruding between the metal bars. A change in the direction of thewind brought the smell deep into my nostrils. I breathed through the fabric of my sleeve, but it was no use – the stench was acrid and intent on penetrating deep into my lungs. Not only my lungs, I thought, it wants to infest my very soul.
    I tried to banish the thought by getting closer to Rembrandt and fixing my gaze on his heels, not caring if he saw me. He was searching for something, or someone, for he wandered this way and that through the forest of gibbets, until, finally, he stopped. I lifted my head to see what he was looking at. It was the corpse of a young woman strung up on a post. The crows were not pecking at her yet and there were no signs of decay at all. She must have been executed that very morning. He sat down and took his sketchbook out of his satchel, along with pen, ink and brush. I found a spot about twenty feet behind him. He looked up at the woman for a long time, propping his elbows on his bent knees and his head on his knuckles.
    Then he took the pen and started drawing. He barely looked down, keeping his eyes almost entirely on her. His hand drew as if by secret communication with the paper, knowing where to make its marks. Finally, he took his brush and ink, probably to apply some shading, and only then did he give sustained attention to the paper, working with fluid, rapid strokes. And then he paused and turned.
    He looked at me as if he had known all along that I was there. I stumbled to my feet, unsure what to do. As he approached, I braced myself for his displeasure and tried to think of excuses. He came right up to me and said nothing at all. Not even a greeting. He merely regarded me without quite meeting my gaze. I bit my lip. I could feelthe touch of his eyes as they surveyed my temples, forehead and cheeks and then wandered to my mouth, only in the end coming to rest on my eyes.
    But he was looking at them, not into them, taking in colour and shape. Then he blinked and refocused, looking deeper, into a place murky even to myself.
    My stomach contracted at the intrusion and he withdrew his gaze. His mouth formed the word, ‘Hendrickje.’
    Before he had a chance to say more, I asked, ‘Master, what brings you here?’
    â€˜I heard about her trial and the outcome . . .’
    â€˜What was her crime?’
    â€˜She killed her landlady, by accident it seems to me.’
    â€˜How?’
    â€˜Elsje,’ he pointed to the body, ‘that’s her name, could not pay the rent. The landlady started hitting her with a broom. Elsje must have got angry and reached for an axe and in the kerfuffle sent the landlady tumbling down the steps into the cellar. Unfortunately, the landlady died.’
    â€˜Oh,’ I said.
    I looked again at the lone figure of the woman, the fringe of her skirts fluttering in the wind. ‘How old?’ I said.
    â€˜Eighteen. She hailed from Jutland, came here to make a living.’
    â€˜How did they . . . ?’
    â€˜They strangled her by means of the garrotte and hit her over the head with the axe.’
    In what order, I wanted to know. But what did it matter now? I was overcome with a complete incomprehension at the world and its dealings. What laws had conspired to create this cruel, desolate place? Bodies strung up all around me, birds pecking at their remains.
    â€˜Come here, Hendrickje,’ he said softly, ‘take a seat for a moment. Here on this rock.’
    He sat down next to me. We were facing the IJ. I gazed at it for a while, that vast volume of water pushing onwards to the North Sea, inexhaustible.
    The river was untouched by what happened on its banks. It did not care. I felt a loneliness that reminded me of the day I first arrived in Amsterdam. But it was more than that. The entire world was barren. His face was close before