Rembrandt's Mirror by Kim Devereux

think,’ he said, only half looking at me.
    Even to my inexperienced eyes there was no doubt as to what was taking place.
    â€˜I mean,’ said Samuel, ‘it is not done the way this kind of picture is usually done.’
    This kind of picture ? Five minutes ago I had not known that such pictures existed and now it turned out that it belonged to its own category – complete with a set of pictorial conventions for the making of indecent etchings.
    â€˜What would one expect?’ I said.
    â€˜I’d better go downstairs,’ he said, taking three sheets he’d put to the side. ‘they are waiting for me.’
    I did not want him to go, with that dreadful thing still on the table.
    He added, ‘You must not think ill of the master. This kind of print is normally for, uhm, you know, folk . . .’ he must have meant men , ‘to enjoy in private, but not this one. It’s not for that. He neverpaints the obvious. It’s the work of the painter to lift the veil from what is hidden, to reveal the inner essence of things.’
    I nearly laughed. This was hardly a piece of work to start quoting Rembrandt’s high ideals over. Then Samuel left. Kind soul , I thought, but so gullible. I suppose he could not help always seeing the best in his master. The print was still there. How could an image like this be enjoyed by men? But this one was supposedly different. I had a closer look. At least no flesh was exposed. Except, there, in a shaded area, the man’s shirt had ridden up, revealing the curve of his buttock. But it was their faces that claimed my attention; he was gazing down at her and she in turn looked at him with such a sweet smile. Or was she looking past him, lost in some kind of bliss?
    I contemplated again the way one of her legs was wrapped around his calf and the other planted so firmly on the bed like a buttress. I tried to imagine his rod inside her and wondered why she was pulling him towards her with both hands. Her legs, her arms, everything added up to her wanting him to come further into her.
    The plush bed below, the drapes and canopy above, so sumptuous and warm. I put the print down, but I knew it was as good as etched on my mind. Perhaps there was some truth in what Samuel had said, for there was something unusual about the picture. It moved me in the most surprising way, whether I wanted it to or not. The stillness between the two lovers; the way they were so safe and happy within the canopied bed and within one another. Perhaps it was not only about lust.
    *
    Later, in bed, I wondered if it depicted what occurred between Rembrandt and Geertje. As if on cue, I heard her leave her room. Titus, who slept in her bed, must be a sound sleeper. I followed her – I had to. I told myself it was because I needed to decide whether to stay or go.
    I crept up the stairs, feeling bad because as children we’d always been told not to pry or spy. What was private must be kept private. A matter of respect and good housekeeping. I’d even mastered the art of keeping things private from myself, when necessary.
    I hastened past the door to Rembrandt’s room, up the further flight of steps to see through the little window. Until now I’d listened in on conversations more or less by accident but this was by design. How I had changed in less than two weeks. What would I become if I stayed?
    Rembrandt was standing a few feet away from the bed, wearing his nightshirt. But where was she? Probably inside the box bed. He had his arms crossed and now walked over to an armchair and sat down, arms still crossed like a belligerent child having a stand-off with a parent. Geertje emerged from the bed wearing her nightshirt. She strolled towards him, crouched down and put her hand on his arm. I could not hear what she said. He shook his head, averting his eyes from her. Now he pointed at the door, as though he were asking her to leave. She put her hand on his thigh. He