At the top of the hill lies the center of the world. From there, you can see everything: the village nestled on the slopes, the medieval church, the river below with its little Roman bridge, the hay carts and the flocks passing slowly, just like the hay carts and flocks from a thousand years ago.
There, sheltered beneath the branches of an old ash tree thick with saplings and roots, we hear the following dialogue:
– My life was cowardly, weak, miserably lived…
– Why do you say such things?
– Because I’ve always been a coward, a weak man, a miserable one…
– Don’t say such ugly things…
– But you, my child, you can have a different fate!
– What do you mean, Grandpa?
– You can look into my eyes and see what you don’t want for yourself, glimpse yourself now in a future time…
– But Grandpa, how can you believe what you just said? You’ve always been kind to everyone.
– I killed all my dreams, turned away from every woman for fear they would turn away from me, ignored the warnings, dismissed good advice, believed myself old at every stage of my life…
In the end, I wasn’t even able to put an end to the terrible remorse that eats me alive!
– What do you mean by that?
– You know… Ending everything…
– Grandpa!
– But you are different, my child! I’m telling you, a different fate awaits you. I’m telling you to go! Go while the shadow of your own feet is not yet heavy enough to drag you down, nor strong enough to turn your head back… Go, and never look behind you!
The clouds drift up above. The hill is gentle, like the curve of a fruit. All who love a good story know how vain words can be—and how fond they are of a fine pastoral setting.
“Never look behind you!”
Indeed, when walking forward, one must never turn back. It is a universal truth.
Vase with Twelve Sunflowers. Vincent van Gogh, 1888
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Mrs Marshall arranged the sunflowers with the greatest care. In the vase, set upon the oval of the large mahogany table that occupied the centre of the room, they were to appear as innocent and cheerful as in a painting from the late nineteenth century.
“What do you think, dear?”
Mr Marshall offered no comment. He did not so much as glance at the colourful display which, instinctively, stirred in him a sense of unease. Mr Marshall was reading the newspaper with meticulous fingers and eyes.
“There’ll be a war soon!”
Mrs Marshall adjusted the violent yellow that flared within the crystal. No, those sunflowers must seem as innocuous and pure as a child’s toy. When the statesmen sat down around that arrangement, perhaps they might spare a thought for life, for childhood, for those creatures who quietly hold a vital place in our hearts.
“Before the war comes, anything is worth doing to prevent it,” said Mrs Marshall.
Before war comes, everything has always been worth trying to prevent it — so say we.
Fishing for Souls. Adriaen Pietersz van de Venne, 1614
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I crossed the Museumplein as fast as I could toward the Rijksmuseum. Lunch — a hot dog hastily eaten at one of the Hema shops near Vondelpark — was rising in my throat. Heavy showers had fallen earlier in the morning, in stark contrast with the scorching start to that early October afternoon. I had to dodge puddles and splash my face with water before arriving at the office of the curator, Evelijn van Buyten.
“Christiaan, I don’t quite know how to explain this. It’s a strange case. The best thing is to start with a field inspection…”
I was led to the Flemish Masters section on the second floor and placed in front of De zielenvisserij by Adriaen Pietersz van de Venne. Then, in a gesture worthy of a detective, Dr. van Buyten said:
“Please, see if you notice anything unusual here!”
I scanned the painting. The canvas (a masterpiece dated 1614, with the considerable dimensions of 98.5 by 187.8 centimeters) depicts a river densely filled with boats and shipwrecked souls between the overcrowded banks of a typical Dutch polder: on the left, in somber black and beneath leafy trees, the Protestant mob; on the right, more flamboyant and splashed with the red of prelates, a Catholic crowd in the wake of Archduke Albert of Austria.
The fishing for souls is intense, the boats threatening to capsize from the weight. The Pope himself, adorned with his array of symbols, participates in the pious collection of souls. In the background, the only sign of Christian unity, a pale rainbow forms a bridge between the two enemy processions.
“Let me have a closer look…”
I adjusted my glasses, raised the magnifying glass, and carefully reviewed the details. The oil painting, in tones characteristic of the Dutch school, displayed a wide chromatic range from bistre to sky blue. The figures seemed authentic, the Bibles remained open, the beards pointed, the hands piously raised…
“The horsefly, Christiaan!” the curator interrupted impatiently.
Indeed, the horsefly had vanished. I was stunned by my own oversight. The horsefly, which van de Venne had placed like a satirical signature on the greenish waters, was gone.
“Good heavens, we’re dealing with a forgery!”
“You have to see something, Professor,” said the head of security.
“What you’re about to see goes beyond us… It’s simply absurd,” Dr. van Buyten announced.
I was taken to an overheated room, where countless monitors connected to a multitude of surveillance cameras showed the Rijksmuseum’s inner workings. Then, by fast-forwarding footage recorded during the night, they showed me a video clip.
“It starts here,” said Jan Nerrings.
In the computer pixels, a crowd began to move, noisily, on both sides of the river. Heads turned, arms were raised, eyes opened wide, prayers and curses were uttered, oars struck the water, the barges rocked as a wave rippled through the current, the fishermen strained to pull in the naked bodies. Like a film animation, for no more than thirty seconds, the trees swayed and birds crossed the horizon. Then, as the other figures froze once more, the large insect, seemingly weary of its exogenous presence, beat its wings and fled.
Over a remarkable journey, which successive cameras captured, it flew through rooms and corridors of the Rijks, looped and hovered over other masterpieces, and finally headed for an air duct and disappeared.
“From this point on, we can’t see anything else,” Nerrings lamented.
“Absurd, completely absurd…” the curator murmured.
I asked to see the footage again. I reviewed it several times. Then I returned to the canvas. I suspected a prank. A dreadful thought struck me—that I had become trapped inside a solipsistic mind. Perhaps I was dreaming. I could neither confirm nor dismiss any theory. None of it was even remotely plausible.
“Absurd, completely absurd…” repeated Dr. van Buyten, perplexed, inconsolable.
As expected, the event stirred strong passions in the public. That an animal would seek its freedom—even after four centuries—should not surprise us so much, noted an expert in ecology and international law.
