She turned down a narrow side lane, where the tall buildings cast the cobblestones in shadow, and the chilled air grew still and quiet. No windows faced out onto this street, and the mud coating the street’s stones swallowed the tap of her footfalls. She quickened her pace.
Without any sound or warning, a hand smashed over her mouth. A wide, rough palm drew her, smothered, back against a man’s body.
“Come on then,” a rough man whispered in her ear.
Maria tried to scream but his palm stifled it. Every inch of his body pressed against her back, and she writhed and tried to pull away. She had never felt another body like that, not against her entire length: her thighs, spine, buttocks. She was horrified.
He pushed her over to the wall, and she held out her arms to keep her face from smashing against the brick. Her knuckles scraped against the rough wall, though she hardly felt the burn. He kept one hand on her face, pulling her head painfully back, and his other hand began fumbling around her waist. Even then, drenched in fear, her first thought was a plea that he not take the azurite, and she kept her fingers wrapped around the package. But then, his hand moved lower, grabbing at her skirts, and she would have gladly given him the blue pigment.
He tried to thrust his hand between her legs, and she thrashed about. In doing so, his other hand slipped from the vice grip on her mouth, and one of his fingers plowed, filthy, into her mouth. She bore down. The sharp taste of blood arose on her tongue, and the man cursed. But still he held on to her.
He pulled his free hand back and then bashed her on the side of her face. She reeled, yet he kept his hold on her. She was halfway facing him now, and she glimpsed blond hair and an unshaven face. But his features were only a shifting shadow of a man, not a portrait.
“Come, let’s see that cunt,” he said and grabbed at her breasts. The hand slipped again from over her mouth.
She screamed.
He grabbed at her body, and she stumbled. She screamed and twisted, and he thrust one hand at her neck and the other below, where her legs met. He swiped at her face again, although it did not hurt as much. She felt snared in a moment that would never end, an eternal struggle cycling through waves of fear and pain.
Then, there were voices. Many voices cascaded into the street, and someone yelled. The man stopped squeezing her. He stepped back and ran.
Two men chased him, and a woman trotted up to Maria.
“Are you all right?” the woman asked in a rough voice. “He knocked you about a bit, he did.”
“I think I’m fine.” Her heart was pounding, and she had no idea how she felt. Her body was suspended, somewhere out of her mind’s reach.
“It looks like you’re no worse for the wear,” the woman said. She had dusty brown skirts and broken fingernails. A scent of fish clung to her. Perhaps the woman sold fish.
“Did they catch him?” Maria asked. She did not know what else to say. She wanted to fall into the woman’s arms and sob.
“I don’t know, dear; I’m here with you. Look, you’re fine. Go on home. Would you like me to walk some with you? We’ll tidy you up, first. There we go, tuck your hair back under that cap. And no one will know. No one will be the wiser, will they? You’re lucky that way, dear.”
The woman’s words washed over her, and Maria obeyed without registering the conversation. She needed not to think but rather to cling to this malodorous woman and her arm while she took Maria’s wrist and turned her back toward the center of town. They walked slowly together, and Maria indicated the direction of her home. She held fast to the package of azurite in her sweaty palm. Maria ran her thumb up and down the rough twist of paper while the woman walked over the canal with her and a few more blocks, toward the massive Grote Kerk and the large square adjacent to the church.
“Lucky girl, you,” the woman said. “No harm done. No one needs to know anything, do they?”
“No, nothing.” She tried not to cry. “Thank you.”
The woman nodded, patted her arm, then turned back toward the north and the lake. Maria wished she would stay. The woman carried away the easy comfort of a witness with the intuitive knowledge that Maria needed a gentle touch and kind words after a horror. To find understanding elsewhere, Maria would have to speak of what had happened. While she watched the woman walk away, she cringed at the thought of telling her father, or even Judith. The man’s body had pressed against her as if she had been something to be used, like a horse or chair. She could not confess that. And even if she could bring herself to tell the truth, her father would ask why she had been walking in that part of town and what she had bought. No, she could not explain this. She took a deep breath. The violation was another trial, and perhaps it would make her sacrifice more meaningful. Tears welled up. Maria rubbed her cheek and wondered if the punch would show. Her fingertips brushed over her skin, and to her surprise, her face did not hurt. Perhaps his hand had grazed her. Then no one would ask any questions. When she reached the house, she stopped to look at the familiar brick frontage with its tapering top, like steps leading to Heaven. She closed her eyes then entered. In the cold entryway, the sounds of her father’s humming and the scratch of his quill drifted from his open door a few steps away.
“I’m home, Father,” she called softly from the hallway, without approaching his door. She heard a grunt of acknowledgment. “I don’t feel well; I’m going to rest.” Her throat tightened at the pain of diminishing her injury, but she kept her voice even.
“Feel better, dear.” His distracted tone suggested he had not looked up from his writing.
She blinked back some tears and went upstairs, where she closed herself in her room. A wave of self-pity threatened, but she sat on the bed, wrapped her arms around herself, and tried to still her thoughts. She would channel her guilt and manage her wounds, as she always had.
Chapter 6
DURING THE MIDDAY MEAL, JUDITH sat at the large table a few seats down from the men. Maria was sick and confined to her room, so Judith swallowed her roasted carrots and parsnips without tasting them and then left the house. When the heavy door shut behind her, she turned the key in the lock and took a deep breath of the frigid air. She knew such air bred illness, but she liked how she could feel the heft of it reach down into her lungs. She rubbed her numb hands together and turned toward the main square. An industrious maid swabbing the mud from a nearby home’s entryway splashed her ankles with ice-cold water, and Judith muttered a warning.
She was walking past a shop of used crockery and dishes when a man grabbed her elbow.
“I hear you’ve been looking for me.” He dropped her elbow and narrowed his eyes at her for a moment. Then he picked up one of the heavy earth-colored cups piled outside the shop on display. He held it in the palm of his hand, but kept his gaze fixed on Judith. His black hat had once held some shape.
She took a breath and planted her feet. “That’s right,” she said.
There were a few people in the street, but they were dressed in worn trousers and skirts. No one she knew. She lifted her chin. “Good of you to find me instead. I’m looking for my payment. Or my painting back, if it didn’t sell.”
The man with the misshapen nose flipped the cup over, as though searching for the maker’s mark, and pursed his lips. He had a wide mouth nearly the same color as his sun-leathered face.
“Sorry lady, but I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“You do. My painting, the one with the woman and the wineglass. It was a good one.”
“Oh yeah? Sorry, but I’m still coming up empty. I think you’d better remember that, and stop looking for people you don’t know.”
“No.” Judith stamped a foot, though the impetuousness of the gesture embarrassed her. “I saw the auction. I know my piece sold. And if you don’t give me my money, or find a way to get me my painting back, I’ll report you.” She hadn’t seen the piece sold, but it must have.
“Oh, you will? To whom?” He smiled, a tw
isted grin that looked more like a tear in his face. “Last I heard, you weren’t a Guild member, and I had the impression you did not have permission from your teacher, your master, to sell as much as a painted piece of dog shit. So who, exactly, are you going to report me to?”
“My brother.” She crossed her arms. Perhaps that would conceal the trembling in her hands.
“Now that’s droll.”
He dropped the cup, and it shattered on the gray paving stones. The shopkeeper rushed outdoors, but after one look at the broad man standing by his display, he shrank back inside the dark doorway.
Judith stood and waited.
“I’ll have my money,” she said, trying to keep her voice from shaking.
The man smiled a bit, turned, and walked. She stood, her arms still crossed, and tried to remember to breathe. There must be something she should say.
After a few steps, he paused and plucked his fingers at his dull white sleeve. Then he turned back around.
“You must be one of the only lady painters around here, right?”
“Yes.”
“You’re odd, then. A novelty.”
“I am not odd.” She stood up straight. The menace left his eyes, but it was replaced with a sharp cunning.
“I’ll grant you’ve got painting talent. And if you’re a lady painter, you might be of interest to some. Though, at a discount.” He coughed. “How about we make a deal? You make me another painting, one of something specific. A commission. And I’ll pay you for both.”
“Something specific? I won’t paint anything obscene, you know.”
He grunted, a sort of laugh. “Someone specific. Gerard Snellings. You know the man? The fellow who plays Peecklhaering so well. A picture of him doing his act.”
“A merrymaking picture? I’ve done Peecklhaering before, but it wasn’t Gerard. I don’t know if he would pose for me.” She lifted her chin. “Why him? And I’m not considering anything until you tell me how much you’ll pay me. For both paintings.”
He bent down to pick up a shard of pottery and ran his thumb down the edge.
“Ten guilders. For both.”
Judith laughed, in spite of her nervousness. “That’s absurd. You’re not negotiating with Peecklhaering himself, now. One of my paintings alone is worth near twice that.”
He closed his fingers over the pottery shard.
“Fifteen. Take it or leave it.”
She swallowed. “Fine. But it won’t be any larger than the first.”
“Three weeks from now.”
With Shrovetide only a week and a half away, Judith was not sure she would get Snellings to sit for her. His character Peecklhaering, the “pickled herring” fool, was in high demand during the revelries. “I don’t think—”
“Three weeks. Or there’s no deal.”
She tucked her cold fingers inside her fist, in an effort to warm them against her sweaty palm. “Fine. But I should know your name, or how to find you, in case . . .”
“It’s Lachine. That’s all you need to know. I’ll come get the painting in three weeks, Judith Leyster.”
“I won’t be swindled, Lachine,” she said. A woman in a splattered brown dress walked by them and clucked her approval. “I want an advance payment. To cover supplies.”
Lachine rubbed his uneven nose and sighed. He dropped two guilders in her hand, plus the shard of shattered cup. “I’ll find you in three weeks. And if you can’t deliver, you’ll owe me. With interest.”
He touched his hand to her elbow, a gentle and chilling gesture, and walked away. Judith watched him pull his floppy hat down low on his face and turn down the next street without looking back.
Chapter 7
SHE WAS ALREADY SPENDING THE commission money in her mind as she walked away from the crockery shop.
That much money, plus what she had, would pay a few months’ rent in the room, barely, and by then she could sell more paintings. She would need every penning to purchase the workshop supplies, but she knew how to be thrifty. She might become a Guild member soon. Then, she could paint as she pleased and sell her beautiful images to the world. She smiled to think of it.
When she arrived at the linen-seller’s shop, Chrispijn de Mildt was in the large entryway, speaking to a man with curly hair and a wide hat obscuring his face. It was chilly, even inside the house, but better than waiting outside in the lingering winter’s cold. Judith stood to the side and occupied herself by looking at Chrispijn’s wares—some he had made and other pieces had been woven elsewhere. Possibly by laborers in the southern part of town. Judith rubbed the fabric between her fingers. In the texture she could imagine the looms, shuttles, and calloused hands that had made such a humble thing.
“Judith. I can guess what you’re doing here.” His tone was jovial, but when Judith turned around, Jan Miense Molenaer’s face was still and serious. Or it was for a moment, until he gave a half smile. His pale skin had the gentle tint of a peach.
“Shopping?” She lifted one edge of indigo linen from its roll.
“After a fashion, yes. Exactly what you’re doing.” He tugged at the full sleeve of his dark green jacket, the velvet of which matched the bows tied beneath his knees to ornament the hem of his breeches. He had a head full of curly, dark blond hair, a strong nose, and an incipient belly straining his doublet. Not a handsome man, but he had his charm.
“Judith, I’d like to speak with you outside,” he said.
“I’m sorry, but I don’t have time. I’m shopping, you see, and—”
“It will only take a minute.” He winked. “Excuse us, Chrispijn.” He took Judith’s elbow and turned her toward the door. His touch was firmer than Lachine’s.
She glared at Jan as he held the door open for her.
“What are you doing, ordering me around like that?” They walked out past the cloth displays and down past the cobbler’s shop until they were well out of the linen-seller’s earshot. She crossed her arms and gritted her teeth.
“I know why you’re here. And you know what I want too. Don’t try to pretend otherwise.” He leaned a hip against the red brick wall of the house adjacent to the cobbler’s house.
Judith exhaled loudly, and her breath plumed out in a cold mist in front of her. She once spent a few weeks of her apprenticeship on loan to Frans Hals, and Jan had been an apprentice there at the same time. They struck up a sort of friendship, casual and competitive, as friendships between students often were. Though she had few friends to compare him to.
“What do you want to discuss, then?” She rocked back on her heels and waited.
“An idea. Look, I know you don’t have the money to afford that lovely room with the gorgeous light up there. You know it’s true, no matter what you’ve saved or what you’re dreaming you’ll earn some day. No apprentice or student does, nor even a newly minted master like myself. But together . . . we would have enough.” He smiled, and she felt her cheeks warm. “We could have enough to convince him not to rent to the toymaker. Ah, you didn’t know about that, did you? See, you already need me. Or he could rent to another artist, one of the bottom-dwellers like Karel. The sooner we finalize this, the better.”
Judith shook her head. “You have no idea how much money I have, or how much I can earn.”
“You’re not in the Guild yet, so I know exactly how much money you can earn—hardly any.”
Judith looked at her feet, her scuffed boots barely visible below the hem of her skirt, and she kicked some dirt away.
“People would talk, you know. It’s not appropriate for me to share a space with one man.” Nor would it be comfortable, she knew. A distracting heat sometimes overtook her when she was alone with him. She needed to focus on her painting. And though she often found herself seeking his face in a crowd or smiling like a farm girl when she encountered him, she knew to keep her distance. Men and marriage were like a greedy black pigment, transforming whatever they touched into their own hue. Judith did no
t want to disappear into a coupling, no matter how pleasant.
He waved his hand away. “We’ll invite other artists for inspiration. And the models will be around. All the usual bustle of a workshop. Plus, think, we can share painting props. I have a violin, and you have that fine crystal goblet. It’s for the best. Really. You’ll see.”
Judith wondered why he was not making this offer to one of the other young masters, who must be as interested in the room—and male, a less controversial partner. He seemed to enjoy her company, but she doubted he felt anything more than a brotherly affection. Maybe he thought sharing with her would be easier. That as a woman she would be no threat to his work. Or that she couldn’t influence his choice of subject matter or imitate whatever style he imagined himself inventing. She snorted.
“It’s funny?” He raised his blond eyebrows.
She smiled. “I’ll admit, Jan, it’s an attractive proposition.” She wondered if the flush that she felt upon her cheeks was visible. She should be more careful about her choice of words. “From a financial standpoint. It would be easier to split the rent. But, as you say, the key is finding a space of my own to do my own work. And I know I can’t do it by sharing with another artist.”
“Judith, you must—”
“Consider it a compliment. I need to focus on my painting, and your work would detract from that. I would be too drawn by your lively figures to concentrate on my own. It’s true, you know. Your figures are quite good.” She was putting him off, but she meant what she said.
His mouth curved up into a sad smile.
“We can still help one another out,” she said. “I’d be glad to borrow that violin of yours. I’ve got a merrymaking piece in mind. I’ll trade it for the goblet. But I can’t share a workshop.”
Light of Her Own Page 4
