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Rembrandt. I’d imagined him so differently, but his face was entirely ordinary: broad with a biggish nose. The eyes as alive as the boy’s, but the rest of his face was slack, lifeless – as if some part of him was absent. And the boy? His face was replete with what his master’s lacked – faith and hope.
    Then, suddenly, Rembrandt clapped his hands, saying, ‘That’s it, boys,’ and turned to us. He greeted the two gentlemen and I prepared myself to speak, but he just nodded at me with a smile and I curtseyed, something I’d never done before, but a nod did not seem enough. Geertje stood grinning at me, apparently finding my curtsey very funny.
    The boy playing Jesus looked strangely moved, almost to the point of tears. I wondered why and warmed to him, because his every emotion was displayed on his face.
    â€˜Now take turns and sketch the scene and don’t introduce a mountain of objects, like fruit and tableware – they’ll only distract from what’s important,’ Rembrandt told the boys.
    Then he instructed the gentlemen to swap places with the boysat the table, calling the one with the locks Johann Ulrich, the one with the short hair Dirck and the Jesus-one Samuel. I made sure to remember their names.
    The boys settled themselves with their sketching utensils on footstools either side of Rembrandt.
    Geertje was gesturing to me to fill the mugs with beer, which I did on a side table. She watched me as if she feared I’d spill it. I piled the empty mugs on the tray, still observing the goings-on. Rembrandt got up and paced around as he spoke.
    â€˜Well, boys, what are we going to do?’
    â€˜Choose the most powerful moment of the story,’ said Dirck.
    â€˜Yes, we want the viewer to hang with his eyes on the painting like a baby on his mother’s nipple.’
    The boys groaned at the metaphor.
    Rembrandt asked them, ‘So which moment would you choose?’
    â€˜When they finally recognize Jesus at Emmaus,’ said Johann Ulrich.
    â€˜With their hearts,’ added Dirck.
    So, it had not been the Last Supper – I should have realized, I thought.
    â€˜Why that moment and no other?’ asked Rembrandt.
    â€˜Because that’s when we can show the very strongest emotions on the disciples’ faces and by seeing these intense feelings the viewer will be moved the most,’ said Dirck.
    â€˜Quite right,’ said Rembrandt, ‘perhaps even be changed by what he sees. That’s how you conquer the viewer’s attention and keep it.’
    They all nodded.
    Rembrandt seated himself again and he and the boys started drawing. I could not fit any more empty mugs on the tray, nor were there more to fill, but I remained, hoping no one would notice my idleness. Rembrandt sat in his chair, legs crossed, a wooden tablet with drawing paper on his thigh, wearing a well-worn tabard. There was nothing about his appearance or his demeanour that suggested he was a master, rather his authority was bestowed on him. It showed in the way each pupil worked with perfect single-mindedness and in how they glanced over his shoulder, as if his drawing contained all the answers.
    Not quite every person shared in this veneration, for when Geertje saw that I now occupied myself distributing the filled-up mugs, she said loudly, ‘They’ll help themselves if they’re thirsty.’
    So I made to leave, bending down to pick up the tray of used mugs. I felt the distinct brush of a hand against the side of my leg. When I looked up, Johann Ulrich’s eyes were staring at me with a curious expression, as if he’d posed a question to which he half knew the answer. It was that strange look more than the touch which alarmed me. I turned away and left quickly so he would not notice the heat in my face.
    When we were in the kitchen Geertje said, ‘Never mind Johann.’ Did she have eyes in the back of her head? ‘If you