Ensuring he was out of the librarian’s sight, he hid the booklet in his briefcase and left the library without checking it out. As he departed, he felt compelled to take a parting shot at the old librarian, but he thought it wiser to keep his thoughts to himself. He mumbled: “She should be my next customer; she has a face I would like to immortalize in a death mask.”
Manus’ father started his day with a pipe brimming with tobacco and a cup of black coffee. However, today was far from ordinary. He could not forget last night’s dream. On her deathbed, she had told him about their Circassian ancestry for the first time. The family had migrated three hundred years ago from the Northern Caucasus Mountains to Holland, where they were persecuted by tribal hordes who invaded their lands from the East. It was the start of the first genocide in Europe. The Circassian people had no choice but to leave their homeland. During their northward migration, they had lost many members of the Habers family troupe; she told Antonius they had fought back with valor to maintain life and freedom. During his mother’s last hour, she expressed the hope that Circassians would someday return to their ancestral lands on the shores of the Black Sea. Since her death, Antonius had kept this information to himself as a secret.
Yesterday, in an old shoebox, Antonius had found his mother’s prayer card that was read at her funeral. It showed a picture of her when she was a young and beautiful woman. Black curly hair and a radiant smile gave her a seductive look. The name on the card said “Anna Maria Petrovsky,” a Circassian surname and, according to family lore, she was hot-tempered, never hesitating to vehemently speak her mind. After her funeral, Antonius became fascinated with the Circassians. But he did not share his feelings with anyone. At the local library, disappointment awaited him with the scarce resources on the subject of Circassians. He had found a copy of the Nart Sagas, ninety-eight stories about the traditions and family customs of these people. He read that the Circassians were considered the oldest ethnic population in Europe. Over the millennia, they developed a strong tradition of raising their children in the “Circassian” way. They were a unique people, best known for their deep-seated pride in their ethnic identity, combined with a love of freedom and a strong fighting spirit; they would defend their beliefs to the death.
Antonius wondered why he had not delved deeper into the history of his ancestors. He knew that he had inherited the courage and perseverance to achieve success in his artistic endeavors from his mother, and he was an accomplished artist. Still, as the family patriarch, had he failed his family? Should he not have raised his sons more openly under the Circassian family principles? He felt his responsibility more than ever to take action as the family patriarch.
Manus struggled to find the ideal image of the Virgin Mary in his drawings.
While a student at the Academy, Manus had shown talent drawing religious figures, such as Mary and Jesus. But he failed to come up with his own style. Day after day, he diddled and dawdled with pencil and paper to refine the facial expressions in his sketches. Finally, his father took some time to review his son’s work. He detected in his drawing a common element in the facial expressions: the downcast eyes, reflecting the uncertainty of life and the longing to find a light somewhere in the distance. Their mouths showed a determination to succeed, but the corners curled up into a question mark as if pulling back with hesitation. These were faces showing doubt and defeatism. Manus was shocked when his father first pointed out the similarities in the faces he had drawn. It was as if Manus had looked in the mirror and painted his own face on paper. His father’s observations helped Manus realize that he had incorporated his own inner life combining the restlessness of a man searching and questioning life’s trials and tribulations. He must find a way to allow his own style to take hold, to supplant his reaction to despair.
Sometimes a stroke of luck brings fundamental change to a troubled individual. For Manus, good fortune presented itself as the opportunity to make death masks. He thought about how it had all come about quite unexpectedly.
Manus had ridden his bicycle in the rain to the Academy office to pick up paperwork for his father. The rector of the Academy, Dr. Moller, was having second thoughts about dismissing his father over the editorial issue. Had he been too harsh? He saw Manus across the street and waved him over.
“I need to discuss something important with you!” Dr. Moller called. Walking his bicycle across the street and parking it against the building façade, Manus removed his raincoat and followed the rector inside. He pointed to a chair opposite him and looked Manus in the eye. “Did your father mention that my mother passed away yesterday after a long illness?” Dr. Moller asked him.
“No, my father has not mentioned it,” Manus responded, shaking his head. “My condolences, Rector.”
“Thank you for your expression of sympathy. I want to discuss a matter of importance,” explained Dr. Moller. “As has become tradition, my family decided to have a death mask made of our mother. They want to have it ready for the funeral in three days. Your father told me you are an aspiring sculptor, and even though making a face mask is not exactly what you may be looking to do, I wanted to ask if you would take on this task as a learning experience for becoming a sculptor.” Manus felt like he was sinking into a well of disbelief. He had no experience in this field, and when Moller told him that he’d already asked two other students at the Academy, Manus shrunk to think he was the third choice.
“Why did you choose me?” he asked in disbelief.
“Let me get right to the point, Manus. We are fully aware of your financial struggle to become a sculptor. About a month ago, your father and I had a long conversation about your future. I want to help. Descriptions of death masks are found in archaeology books, going back to ancient Egypt. In the thirteenth century, European sculptors made death masks before creating busts and statues of royalty. In museums, you will find masks of Henry III, Edward III, Isaac Newton, and Napoleon Bonaparte as evidence. This practice helped sculptors shape the form of the head. Manus felt a surge of interest; now he was getting interested. He had discovered a new method of creating a better way for the facial expressions in his drawings, and eventually his sculptures. He wanted to know more.
“Where are death masks kept?” he asked.
“As in many cultures, family members like to keep the memory of their deceased for as long as possible … they usually display the mask on the wall in the drawing room. A death mask stands as the gateway between life and death,” explained Moller. “It bears a supernatural character, very different from our experiences of sunrise, nightfall, and another day. While being molded, something of the mystery of death passes through the hands of the maker into the mask itself.” Manus looked at his hands, realizing they could become part of the mystical transformation of the living face into the plaster form. He felt bewildered, yet anxious to get started. “None of my students have shown an interest in helping us. You are my only candidate. Are you interested?” Moller inquired. “You will receive a substantial financial reward if you undertake this project. Due to the economic recession, not many people have the money for a death mask. They have barely enough to cover funeral costs. But I see a resurgence of this art form. Most importantly, it will help you to develop your own style.” Manus recalled his father’s comments about his style in the facial expressions, but he was still not convinced he should take this job.
“Are you not looking for work?” Moller prodded. “Here is a start that could launch your career.” Manus went into a panic about drifting into an area in which he had no experience. Never in his life had he considered making death masks and he had no idea where to start. He would have to overcome his fear of touching the cold face of a deceased individual. “You are the logical candidate, and I know that your father will be able to guide you through the process.” Manus was surprised at this conciliatory remark about his father. To ensure that Manus was up to the task, he asked, “Do you have any practical knowledge
of working with plaster models?” Manus knew he had to bluff if he wanted the job.
“I have worked with clay models and plaster forms. I have the necessary tools in my workshop,” he answered truthfully, realizing he was now committing himself to the task.
Riding home on his old bicycle with the rickety chain that needed grease, he could not wait to announce the good news to his parents. “Guess what? I got my first assignment!” he blurted out. “Rector Moller asked me to make a death mask of his mother, who just passed away.” His family, already seated at the dinner table, dropped their eating utensils in unison, looking at each other without a word and rolling their eyes.
“How does this sit with you?” asked his father, surprised at Moller’s offer. “Will you take it on?” Habers had good reason to ask since Moller had dismissed him as editor of the newsletter. What made him so kind to his son? Or was there something else behind this offer, he wondered.
Manus knew that he had no experience in making masks, but, with his face in his food, he nodded as he ate dinner. A cloud of silence, like chunky pea soup, drifted over the dinner table as the family let the news slowly sink in, one pea at the time. They looked at each other in disbelief. The idea of making face masks is ridiculous, his mother thought. She could not bring herself to believe that something positive could come from it. Still, Manus would earn ten guilders, a hefty sum for the time, which would help with the family finances.
“Well, Son,” his father began, breaking the uneasy silence. “It is a start, and this will help prepare you to become a student sculptor after all.” He wondered if this was the time to bring up their Circassian courage to take risks and undertake challenging tasks. To help Manus make a decision, he father suggested, “Go to the cemetery, where you will see several grave sites with tombstones carved with religious reliefs and statues of Jesus and Mary.” By the end of his meal, Habers stuffed a wad of tobacco in his mouth and started chewing. Without saying a word, his mother left the table in a dark mood, wondering what was to come of Manus. Alone, Manus sat at the dinner table finishing his meal. What would his brother say about him making death masks? He should be home soon.
For several days, Manus did not feel well but was too embarrassed to tell his family about the physical problem with which he suffered. Here it was again—a boil on his bun! What an embarrassing problem! Sitting became a real pain. The problem grew larger every day. The last thing he wanted was to be melodramatic about it. He decided to try a quick cure he had heard about involving Epsom salt.
Late at night, while his parents slept, he filled the washtub with warm water to give himself a soak. Lighting a candle, he placed it on the floor next to the tub. Naked, except for his French beret and pipe, he lowered himself in the tub, spilling half of the water on the floor. He would clean it up later. With the newspaper in hand, he started to read.
Just then, the back door swung open, and Arie arrived, heading for the kitchen. Not quite making it to the kitchen door, he backed up a few steps toward the tub in the darkened room, suddenly stopping, turning, and looking down at the crumpled figure covered by the newspaper in the washtub. What a bizarre scene, he thought. Was his brother sitting in the water, barely fitting in the tub, his kneecaps touching his nostrils? Arie laughed uncontrollably.
“What in the world is this?” he asked, snorting incredulously. “Why are you reading the paper in the tub? I have never noticed how scrawny you are!” Arie continued. “What happened today?”
Manus was embarrassed to tell his brother about the death mask. “I got my first commission to make a death mask of Rector Moller’s mother, who just passed away,” he finally brought himself to mumble. “I’m in the tub because I have a painful boil on my rear end,” he confided, looking away from Arie. The expected ridicule came in full force. Arie burst into wild laughter, tears streaming down his cheeks.
“I wish I could marry these two ideas, face masks and bun boils!” he guffawed. “This makes my day! Show me the boil.” Manus answered by splashing water on Arie’s face.
“Get out of here!” he yelled, pointing at Arie with his pipe.
The next day, he arrived late to begin his assignment at the home of the deceased. Moller led Manus to the drawing room, where he adjusted the heavy curtains to let in a beam of daylight. The corpse, dressed in a white linen gown, lay on a Victorian-style bed. Six lit candles were spaced throughout the room, which was permeated by an eerie silence. Manus stood in reverence at the foot of the bed with Moller. This was Manus’ first experience being near a cadaver. As he walked around to take a closer look at her face, he noticed right away the deep sunken eyes and protruding cheekbones, indicating she had lost weight before her death. Much work awaited him, including correcting the noted features to make her face look younger.
Moller turned towards the dresser and pointed to a photo of his mother, taken twenty years earlier. Manus hoped he had brought enough cotton balls to fill up the sallow cheeks. He soaked the strips of plaster gauze and gently applied each to cover her facial features. He was pleased with the effect the cotton balls had on filling in her oral cavity. Worried that he might have missed some essential element, he stepped back to survey his work and let the mask dry. Moller invited him for a cup of coffee in the kitchen.
“It looks to me like you have the technique well under control. Are you sure this is your first mask?” Moller asked. His words of encouragement lifted Manus’ spirits.
Taking his leave, Manus carefully placed the plaster negative in his satchel, making sure not to break the form as he headed home. At home, he hung the negative plaster form from the kitchen ceiling to dry.
“Is this for real?” Arie mocked, unable to resist teasing his brother. “It looks like you still have a lot of work ahead of you before it becomes a death mask. Here is an idea: How about a face mask of Hitler? It’ll sell like hotcakes in Holland!”
“One day when I’m a famous sculptor, you’ll be surprised at my creations!” Manus retorted, trying hard to keep his temper. “You’d better leave before I make a death mask of you!” Arie stomped off in a huff.
Three months later, Manus would make a death mask of his own mother—his most exceptional work of art to date.
Chapter 7
The Rembrandt Tulip
In May, painters in Holland swarmed the fields, capturing the beauty of the multi-colored tulips. This year, they were after the notorious Rembrandt Tulip. For several years, a select group of growers had worked in secrecy to enhance the color and markings of the Rembrandt’s petals. During this same time, agricultural researchers were working on a new method of engineering unique colors with colorful striping in the petals. Scientists at the University of Leyden achieved this feat by injecting a transmittal virus into each bulb. They were confident they would succeed beyond their wildest imaginations, naming their masterpiece the “Rembrandt Tulip.”
Within the next weeks, the Rembrandt would be at its peak, revealing its full blossom. The scientists successfully created a stunningly beautiful tulip. Its intense and stunning coloration earned it the prestigious and rare Queen Wilhelmina Tulip Award. Once a year, the judges considered all entries based on splendor, color, and uniqueness in the markings on the petals.
Despite its beauty and accolades, the Rembrandt tulip’s fame was short-lived. As the growers celebrated, this tulip variety had captured the attention of the Dutch Department of Agriculture. The government subsequently issued a ban on farming Rembrandts, sure to doom its destiny. Notices went out to all growers requiring them to immediately cease cultivation of the Rembrandt and ordering them to destroy and burn all related plant materials, including bulbs. The government said the virus injected into the plant to cause its transmutation could spill over into the human gene pool, with dire consequences for Holland’s people.
The news about the impending destruction of the new tulip variety growers had counted on to revive the sluggish indus
try dashed any expectation of improvement. As the tulip industry suffered severe losses in sales due to the economic recession, the death of the Rembrandt caused the tulip growers to sink into despair.
The people of Mill were angry with the government and demanded answers. The City Council scheduled an emergency meeting at City Hall in response to the public’s outcry over the government regulation. On the day of the meeting, the hall filled quickly with agitated growers and ordinary townspeople. They stomped on the floor in unison with their wooden shoes, “a-one and a-two,” while clapping their hands as if executing a war dance. They wanted action. In the end, the City Council came up with a solution to honor this unique flower in a painting. The council wanted to immortalize the Rembrandt on canvas, in all its glory and splendor. Antonius Habers was the unanimous choice for the assignment.
When he received word that the City Council wanted him to paint the famous Rembrandt, he was overjoyed and immediately set out to create several sketches on paper. He wanted to make sure that he captured not only the glorious beauty of the Rembrandt but also the sentiment of “a memorial” of the vanishing tulip. However, before he could put his first brush strokes on the canvas, he needed a vase for the tulips.
Time was of the essence, with the government order to destroy all Rembrandts immediately. He needed a dozen tulips from the most reputable grower in town, Dierckx Growers. They delivered the first grown tulips every year to the Royal Dutch family, earning them the reputation of purveyor to the Royal Court.
Madonna On the Bridge Page 7
