to see if Mathijs was close by - but he was nowhere to be seen.
Rembrandt got out from behind the table and went to the middle of the bar floor. He turned and once again and pointed a threatening finger at the old man. 'This man,' he shouted, 'fakes other people's paintings and sells for huge sums of money.' He slammed his fist down on the table where the old man was sitting. He remained calm, and shook his head in disagreement.
The threatening finger remained raised, 'This man copied and sold works of art under my name and fled the country escaping a trial and possible hanging.'
At that moment soldiers rushed into the Inn. Rembrandt backed away from the table - took on a stance - held his head up high, then turned to them and cried. 'Soldiers, arrest this man for impersonating the greatest artist who ever lived. Take him out and hang the bastard from the highest tree.'
One of the soldiers grabbed the old man with the pipe and pulled him to his feet.
'You can't do this,' he screamed.
'And why not?'
'That imbecile claims to be the greatest living artist of all time. He is not. He's the impostor, not I.'
The soldier stared at both men, then looked to Mathijs who had now reappeared behind the bar.
'How much have they had to drink?'
'Not much, half a litre, no more.'
Rembrandt grabbed the soldier by the shoulder. 'Are you going to hang him or not?'
The old man pulled Rembrandt's hand off the soldier. 'The impostor is trying to hang the impostor. Ha, what a farce.'
The soldier looks more confused than ever. The people at the bar do not seem interested, in fact everybody looked quite amused.
He turns to his fellow soldiers who looked equally confused. A couple of them shrug her shoulders. 'Enough. Let's get out of here.'
Rembrandt and the old man watch them leave. The door slams shut - all eyes are on the two old men in the middle of the Inn. They take a step back - eyes locked - their arms reach out and they kiss one another on the cheeks with tremendous vigour. Everyone in the Inn roars with laughter.
The historian sank into his chair, totally confused by the whole situation.
'It's been years,' Rembrandt tells him. 'Where have you been all this time.'
'Going after commissions you failed to receive.'
'And still copying my work no doubt.'
'How else am I to remain a master.'
'Come, I want you to meet someone. This young man is more curious about me than any woman I have ever met.'
Rembrandt took the old man with the pipe by the arm and guided him towards the historian. 'Young man, I would like you to meet a true brother and the boy of my youth, Jan Lievens.'
The historian hastily wiped his hand in his jacket. 'Sorry, excuse me, the fat from the meat ? my hands are not very? '
Lieven's grabbed his hand before he could say anything else then shook it with vigour.
'Do not worry young man, they could never be cleaner than mine.'
Rembrandt called to Mathijs at the top of his voice. 'If my friend Jan Lievens is still capable of consuming some beer we would like to order three pitchers.'
'Should you be drinking so much at your age? It's not good for your health' Mathijs said.
'My own doctor has the most beautiful painting of himself hanging in his chambers. He lets me drink as much as I please.'
Rembrandt took his seat next to the historian - Jan Lievens sat on a stool on the other side of the dark oak table. He shook his head at the sight of the man in front of him, then turned to the historian.
'He really was the better master. He could paint portraits when he was still pissing in his pants. Then I came along and thought him how to piss in the right direction, and his work achieved notoriety.'
'Look at him.' Lieven's said, and leaned in toward the historian. 'Rembrandt van Rijn. Who could have ever thought a Millers son could paint so many beautiful works of art. Our fathers were not part of the aristocracy, and only the aristocracy were deemed to have such talent as we. I do admit, it did present a problem, but to others we were a folly to be taken into their hearts.
'However they liked you more than they liked ME.' Rembrandt boomed.
'Not because of my work but as you can see my friend needs a lot more wind in his lungs to say what he has to say. I was somewhat? quieter. Van Rijn is cut from a very different tree then I.'
Rembrandt looked at him with suspicion - Lieven's continued. 'How he manages to paint such great works remains a mystery to me.'
'I told him earlier how we used to roam the streets of Leiden selling our paintings.'
'The only problem was that in some parts of the city my paintings were more popular than his and in other parts his paintings went to the highest bidder.'
'Except we did not want to compete with each other. To us all our paintings were masterpieces.'
'So we decided to use one style to sell both our paintings. If a buyer was interested in the Lieven's he got a Lieven's. If he was interested in Rembrandt he got a Rembrandt. The name we added to the painting later.
'We made a lot of money then,' Rembrandt cackled, with a glint in his eye.
'Some of us managed to hold onto it.'
'It's a fact of life, I cannot deny it. My pockets have holes the size of which no man can imagine. What does it matter, money is only important when you don't have it.'
'That is why money is so important to you.'
Rembrandt slammed his fist down on the table. 'Where is our beer.'
'Coming,' Matthijs shouted from the bar.
'When we were still teenagers this mad artist had accumulated enough money to buy five mills.'
'Ahh, but I didn't. Instead I went to Amsterdam to make a bigger fortune.
The historian turned to Jan Lievens. 'What did you do?'
'I went to London and made a bigger fortune.'
Rembrandt jumped up out of his stool and began to parade around the Inn in a haughty manner. 'My friend and colleague here at the age of twenty-four travelled to England,' Rembrandt announced in a snobbish voice, 'where he made portraits of the King himself, the Queen, the Prince of Wales, his son and his daughter the little princess.'
He waved his hands about and made courteous bows. 'All very proper and grand with their white powdered faces and ceremonious wigs, ho ho ho.'
'They paid me very well for my paintings.'
'They didn't pay you for your paintings, don't be stupid. That was compensation for having to put up with the most boring family on this Earth.'
'Did you stay long? The historian asked.
'I left after three years.'
Rembrandt returned to his chair. 'Yes you did, only to come back to paint for the Jesuits,' he said and pulled a sour face.
'What is wrong with the Jesuits?'
'Why someone of your talent would waste their time on painting for a group of men who vow their life to obedience, chastity and poverty. How on earth can you sell paintings to people who have vowed poverty. What did they pay you with, rainwater and sour bread?'
'No, but they did pay me? '
'Oh yes I know,' Rembrandt interrupted. 'They waved a cross over your head, took your painting then told you to go home and paint another. Meanwhile they revelled in their monastery drinking wine and toasting and laughing at another fool who had fallen for their cunning deception.'
Lievens took his white clay pipe out of his mouth and tapped the charred remains of tobacco onto the wooden floor. 'Actually I know they did sell one of my paintings, and made a tremendous amount of money.'
Rembrandt turned to the historian with a wild eyed look. 'See? I told you so.'
'It went to one of the richest men in the city. The money they made went to caring for hundreds of people stricken by the plague.'
Rembrandt stared him from head to toe with distain. 'You seem to have survived,'
Lieven's waved his hand above Rembrandt's head. 'It is wondrous what a wave of a little cross can do.'
Lieven's l
ooked toward the window. 'It is getting dark, I have to be on my way. Got an appointment with another Jesuit,' he said and winked at the historian.
They all stand. Jan Lievens pulled Rembrandt in close and hugged him. 'Take care my friend,' he whispered in his ear. It is good to see you in good health. Who needs money when you have your health.'
'I do,' Rembrandt replied.
They all laughed as Jan Lievens made his way into the crowd, then disappeared.
Rembrandt slowly sank into his seat, seemingly lost in a dream world. 'When we were in Leiden he was closer to me than any of my own brothers, and I believe we still are. The old fool is the closest to family I have.'
For the next few minutes they sat in silence as they finished their meat and drank their beer. Matthijs appeared at the table, and began to clear away the empty plates. 'Your credit is not good here anymore.'
Rembrandt looked up at him in shock. 'What? Why not? An hour ago there was not a problem with my credit.
'You don't have a problem. It's just that you don't have any credit. Your friend settled your account just before he left,' Matthijs said, then headed back to the bar.
'Ah, see what I mean? A true friend.' Rembrandt slammed down on the table, and called out. 'Matthijs, bring us another round of beer.'
An hour later, through the sound of the crowd laughing and singing, the door of the Inn opened and Rembrandt - supported by the historian under one arm, left the building.
'I'm not really a drinking man you know,' Rembrandt proclaimed. 'It clouds the mind and prevents the making of a masterpiece.' He leaned in close to the historian. 'But when you are among friends ?' He slapped the historian on the back. 'I want you to come back to my house. I want to show you something.'
They made