Dancing with Rembrandt

ONE-4

The first moment that Hannah held her precious child, nearly five years earlier, she had determined to make each day a better one for Allie than the day before. She had focused her ambition on creating a normal life for her daughter. She ignored any thought for herself as she pursued mere survival. Shame evaporated when her eyes met those of her child at the end of each day upon the stage. Allie’s existence produced in Hannah a sense of purpose and a glimmer of hope for a brighter future.

But today had been difficult. Peering around the vacant room, listening to the gale and rainfall, Hannah reflected on the sheer multitude of things that had misplayed. The gentle purr of Allie’s rhythmic breathing clashed with the dangerous circumstances surrounding them. The wind pummeled the warehouse with an invisible hand of power so severe that the boards groaned to keep the roof attached. The tree limbs whipped in an airborne frenzy like serpents. The rain fell in such quantity that the gutters immediately dislodged the water over the rim. As Hannah reflected upon the events of the day, she could not help but view herself as a magnificent failure. Homeless. Broke. Unemployed. Scared, in a warehouse, surrounded by tempest and gale.

At last sleep overwhelmed her tears.

Hannah awoke from her slumber. She heard the storm raging on outside. The trees whistled in the penetrating wind. The gate pummeled against the metal post in the gale. Competing with the wind, however, emerged a soothing sound of a ‘scritch-scratch’ of pencil upon paper. She smiled, seeing that Allie had found a way to occupy herself.

“Good morning, Allie.”

Her daughter did not look up from drawing. “Good morning to you, too.”

Hannah rubbed her eyes, accustoming her vision to the percipient light of dawn entering from the window. “How long have you been awake?”

“A long time.”

Hannah rubbed her temples, trying to summon the energy to arise from the sofa. Instead, she pulled the coats around her as she reclined deeper into the cushions of the sofa. “What are you doing?” she asked, as she massaged her throbbing temple.

Allie lifted her head to respond. “I am coloring a picture for Raymond.” A set of keys on a necklace tapped the desk as Allie wavered on the chair.

“Can I see it?”

Allie climbed off of the chair, bringing a sheet of paper. In her other hand, she dragged something that made a gentle murmur upon the carpet. “Look, mommy.” She handed the sheet of paper to her mother. “Will Raymond like it?”

Hannah squinted her bloodshot eyes to view the picture of a boat sailing on a smooth sea, next to an island with a tree on it, underneath a smiling sun illuminating the island.

“I want to make the boat have a nice day, not like this boat.” Allie handed a large, flat object wrapped in a transparent envelope to her mother.

Hannah felt what appeared to be a canvass with rough edges. She slowly examined the canvass. The image revealed a painting of a boat teetering on its keel. Dark, ominous clouds surrounded the vessel with only a patch of clear sky, a hint of peace, coming from a small corner of the canvass. The tempestuous sea pelted the boat, producing anguished expressions of fear and doubt upon the men. The torment depicted upon their faces suggested an individualized response to the natural forces of the storm surrounding them. Hannah caught her breath. Her fingers trembled as she touched the rough edges of the canvass. She dabbed away moistness on her cheek with her sleeve.

“Mommy,” began the child, “why are you crying?”

Hannah wiped the tear, yet the emotional response she perceived from the painting produced many others.

“Why are you crying, mommy?” repeated Allie, clearly troubled by the strong reaction.

“It’s so beautiful, Allie,” managed Hannah, still transfixed at the painting in her hands.

“No, mommy,” she stammered. “It’s scary, mommy.” Allie hesitated. “The storm in that picture is scary.”

Hannah stared at the painting, half-listening to her child, slowly counting the members of the crew on board the boat. Allie soon joined her, patiently imitating, “…eleven, twelve, thirteen, fourteen.”

“Fourteen what?” asked Allie.

Hannah glanced toward the inscription on the rudder. She recognized it instantly. A misty column of tears slowly glided down her cheek.

“Fourteen what?” repeated Allie. “Why are you crying?”

Hannah struggled to regain her composure. After a moment, she collected herself to offer an explanation that a perspicacious nearly five-year old would understand. “Allie, this is a painting of the most famous storm in the world. There are twelve fishermen in this boat. They are the ones who are scared. Do you see them?” She placed the painting upon the desk. “Step on this chair, and look at them.”

Allie climbed upon the chair and peered at the painting. She pointed at one of the figures in the boat. “That man is sick.”

“Yes,” said Hannah. “Look at the other men. What do you see?”

“All of them are afraid, except this man.” She pointed toward the center of the boat, where a man with a glowing sheen around his face appeared to sleep. His face, relaxed and confident, contrasted from the anguish depicted upon the others.

“He is the leader of the group,” explained Hannah.

“This man holding the rope isn’t scared, either, mommy.” Allie pointed toward the figure in the middle of the boat, looking directly toward her.

“That is the artist who painted this piece.”

Allie studied the scene. “What’s his name?”

“The artist?”

“Yes, mommy.”

“His name is Rembrandt van Rijn.” She omitted the middle name for convenience.

Allie giggled. “That’s a funny name.”

Hannah smiled, agreeing completely with her daughter.

“Allie,” she managed with all the calmness she could muster, “where did you find this painting?”

“In a room out there.” Her child pointed out of the supervisor room.

“Where, exactly, did you find this painting?”

“In a silver box, next to a truck.”

Hannah quivered. “Can you take me to see the silver box?”

“I’m not finished with my picture.”

Hannah carefully smoothed out the transparent envelope that contained the canvass. She caught her breath. “Allie, this is really important. Will you please take me to see the silver box?”

Allie stopped scribbling on her paper. “Ok, mommy.” She put her pencil down. “I will show you a picture with some horsies, too.”

“You mean horses,” corrected Hannah.

“Horses,” repeated Allie. She took her mother’s outstretched hand. “I will show you a picture of a man wearing a funny hat, and another man with a hat like Raymond wears.”

Hannah took a deep breath, preparing herself for what lay ahead. She gently grasped her child’s hand, allowing her daughter to lead through a labyrinthine path toward the central part of the warehouse. As they passed the tree penetrating the warehouse wall, Hannah pulled her sweater tightly around her, eschewing the bitter cold. The sound of wind and rain outside reminded Hannah of the danger they had faced during the night. Allie led her through a sliding door that yielded a room next to the dock. Standing in front of them was a shipping container, a Ford minivan, and a silver box with four wheels. The box, constructed from metal, had a series of compartments with drawers that slid inside. On the top was a handle.

Hannah approached the box, afraid to touch it. She walked around the box, examining it closely. She noticed that most of the compartments were opened. “Allie, did you open any of the pieces of this box?”

Her daughter nodded her head. “All of them, except the one on the very top because I can’t reach it.”

“What did you find?”

“Lots of pictures.”

Hannah gasped as she looked into the interior compartment of the Ford van. Allie had scattered a few paintings on the seat and on the floorboard.

Allie held up a canvass. “This funny picture has a man sitting down next to two funny ladies,” Allie exclaimed.

Hannah caught her breath. “The Vermeer,” she whispered.

“What’s that funny man doing with those ladies, mommy?”

Hannah recovered slightly. “Some people say he is playing the piano, and some people believe he is toying with the two sisters.” She continued absorbing the detail of the painting.

“Why is the man playing with those ladies like a toy?”

Hannah quickly chose to change the subject. “Did you find other things?”

Allie Morgan scratched her head. “I found lots of pictures.” She wandered to the opened door of the Ford van. Hannah observed her daughter pick up a canvass. “Here is one with a man on a horse following another man on a horse.”

“La Sortie de Pesage,” whispered Hannah.

“What?” asked Allie, paying attention to the different language her mother spoke.

“It’s a painting about a racehorse,” answered Hannah.

Allie examined the detail of the drawing. “Why is that man riding the horse into that house, mommy?”

Hannah smiled. “It’s not a house, honey. It is a race track.”

“Oh,” answered her child, innocently. “Like when Raymond goes to Portland to play the ponies?”

“How did you learn about that?”

“Raymond is my friend,” she exclaimed. “Raymond told me he goes to win, place and show with the ponies in Portland.”

Hannah paused, thinking of a retort, but dismissing the only one that immediately came to mind.

Allie returned to the van, placing the first canvass on the floorboard of the back seat, and retrieving another canvass. “I found this picture with a man wearing a funny hat,” continued Allie. She giggled as she pointed to the pipe stove hat.

“Chez Tortoni,” whispered Hannah again, expressing astonishment that she was near to a painting that the world had not seen in two decades.

“Mommy, you’re talking funny again,” teased her child. She toddled toward the box, opened a drawer, and pulled out a pen-and-ink rendering. “Here is my favorite,” she proudly exclaimed, as she held a small drawing above her head. “This funny man has a hat like Raymond.”

Hannah almost fell backward from the breathtaking vision. “The self-portrait of Rembrandt,” she gasped.

“The man in the boat?” asked Allie, whose perception clearly surprised Hannah.

“Yes, Allie,” said Hannah. “It’s Rembrandt again.”

“The boat didn’t sink?”

For a moment, Hannah analyzed the question. “No, Allie, the boat didn’t sink.”

“Good, because storms are scary and Rembrandt is funny.”

Hannah examined the silver box and the paintings that Allie had scattered around the Ford. “Did you take any more of these paintings out of the box?”

“Yes, Mommy. I looked at them, but I didn’t like them.”

Hannah held her breath, concerned with a nagging fear of a possibility of damage.

“I taked them out of the box because I wanted to see them.”

“Took, Allie.”

“Ok, mommy, I took the pictures out of the box.”

“Did you take any of the paintings to any other room in this building?”

“No, mommy.”

Hannah exhaled a breath. Her relief began to grow. “Let’s put all of the paintings back into the box.”

“Ok, mommy.” Flashing an innocent grin, her child pulled each painting together from the Ford, and ran to her mother.

“Somebody lost these pictures,” ventured Allie, as she helped her mother arrange the paintings back into their designated slots within the silver transport box. Hannah locked the items inside their designated spaces within the box. She put the necklace around her neck, and pushed the keys between her shirt and her skin.

Hannah nodded. “Many years ago, some very bad men took these art pieces away from a beautiful building. The good people in the beautiful building were so sad when they found out that the bad people had taken the paintings, that they cried for days and days and days.”

“That’s sad, mommy. Those bad people make me want to cry, too.”

Hannah tussled her child’s hair.

“The people in the beautiful building are still sad that they do not have these beautiful paintings.”