Rembrandt's Mirror by Kim Devereux Page B

the cow, trying to get his long, gangly organ into her, while he tottered precariously on his hind legs. I looked. He’d wedged himself, thighs and all, between her legs. His arms were stretched out, holding on and pulling on her while thrusting his body against her, into her. The bull, compared to this, had displayed finesse. This was brutal, monstrous. He was monstrous. Her body was shunted forward each time he pushed into her.
    I crept back down the stairs, holding on to the banister, my knees forsaken by bone and sinew. As I passed, the bedroom door rattled; and then something banged against it: thump, thump, thump . . . I could hear it all the way down the stairs.
    When I reached my bed I heard strange cries and shrieks. I wondered in earnest whether it was my Christian duty to help her. It did not seem like something anyone would willingly submit to, yet she had knelt down of her own choosing. I was stalled by my uncertainty, my cowardice and the feeling that she was more victor than victim.
    The cries and banging from upstairs continued. I grabbed abucket and stared at its bottom but nothing came. With shaking hands I set about packing my satchel and then lay in bed waiting for the church tower to strike four, the end of curfew.
    I must have fallen asleep because I woke to Geertje’s words, ‘Up, up, lazy sleeper. You’ll need to light the fire in the studio.’ It was bright daylight.
    How catastrophically stupid to have fallen asleep. Now I’d have to tell him or Geertje to their faces that I was leaving. I transferred the peat that was in the kitchen hearth to a basket. I needed time to think, so it was best to get on with lighting the fire. Strange that he wanted the fire lit. It was summer, after all. Geertje was singing as she scrubbed a pan, looking nothing like the battered figure I’d imagined. If anything she seemed happier than I’d ever seen her.
    I was glad to get away from her. I entered the studio and thankfully there was no sign of Rembrandt. The stove was stone cold. I should have brought embers from the kitchen fire. I recalled seeing a tinderbox in the studio’s small storeroom. It was little more than a walk-in cupboard and as I entered I could barely see a thing as it was dark apart from the light that fell in through the doorway. There was hardly room to move with all the canvas cloth and other materials that had been crammed in. I waited for my eyes to adjust to the darkness – how pleasant it smelled in here – and then I searched the shelves for the tinderbox.
    â€˜What are you looking for?’
    I nearly jumped out of my skin. What was he doing here in the dark?
    â€˜The tinderbox. I can’t find it,’ I said, trying to sound unperturbed.
    I heard him move about and finally spotted him emerging from a corner. As he came towards me, there was that nice smell again – it was his smell. I took a step back, reminding myself to be afraid and on my guard. His eyes looked sunken and he seemed without vigour. He reached with his arm behind my head to retrieve the tinderbox. Like a fool, I remained standing in his way until his chest was only inches away from my face. My one unhelpful thought: no wonder cats roll around in certain fragrant plants as if bewitched.
    He stepped away, tinderbox in hand. ‘Here,’ he said.
    â€˜Thank you,’ I muttered, and followed him back into the bright studio. He sat down at his desk.
    After layering up the peat, I made a separate pile of straw as tinder. I heard him behind me, sharpening a pencil. I opened the box and took out fire steel, flint and tinder cloth and then knocked the flint against the steel with the tinder cloth next to it. That charred piece of cotton was meant to burn easily but no matter how hard I knocked, no sparks were produced. While I caught my breath, I waited for the sound of his pencil on paper but it did not come. Was he watching me?
    â€˜The air is very damp