Maybe he should give her a tip, to show his appreciation. He rummages in his jerkin.
Later he remembers this moment. The rhythmic thumps against the wall, the muffled giggles. The ceiling beam that smites his head when he jumps up.
WILLEM IS DOWNSTAIRS, back in the tavern. Laughter roars; the violin scrapes gratingly. Reddened faces leer at him as he pushes through the crowd.
He grabs the tavern keeper. “Where’s she gone?” he yells.
“Who’re you talking about?”
“That zakkeroller! She’s stolen my purse!”
“Never seen her.” The man pulls away. “Excuse me.”
“Where’s her brother?”
“Who?”
He isn’t her brother, of course. “They’ve stolen my money!” he screams.
“Who’re you accusing?”
A fist punches Willem’s chin, pushing his head into his chest. The room reels. Somebody seems to be laughing— how could they laugh? Willem falls awkwardly to the floor, pulling a chair with him. Feet kick him and now he feels himself being dragged out of the door, his back bumping over the steps, dragged out into the cold street. He’s yanked to his feet.
“Get out of here, you scum!”
Somebody hits him again, hard across the face. He buckles with the pain; his nose is bursting. He tries to shield his face but his arms are wrenched back.
And then he’s being pushed away. He stumbles against the low wall of the canal. Somebody lifts his leg up. Willem tries to kick him off but there are several men now, pushing him.
He topples over. The water hits him. He splutters and coughs; his lungs fill. The water is freezing; it knocks the air out of his body and now it is closing over his head. He feels himself sinking . . . sinking . . . his clothes dragging him down.
21
Sophia
Put a curb upon thy desires if thou wouldst not fall into some disorder.
—JACOB CATS, QUOTING ARISTOTLE
I get home only just in time. In the kitchen I hang up Maria’s shawl and cap—she is asleep—and bundle her clothes back into the chest. Thank God there are no other servants in the house. Just then, far off, I hear the front door slam.
I race upstairs in my chemise. It is dark up here. Gasping for breath I bang against the doorpost, steady myself and blunder into the bedchamber.
Downstairs I hear Cornelis lock the front door. I stand there, frozen with fear, my lover’s seed sliding down my thigh. Blinded by sin, I feel for the bedpost.
I make it just in time. I hear my husband’s step. Candlelight flickers on the wall as he ascends the stairs. And by the time he comes in I am under the covers, curled up, my arms around my knees.
22
Willem
The foam of water shows itself to be of lesser whiteness the fur ther down it is from the surface of the water, and this is proved [because] . . . the natural colour of something submerged will be the more transformed into the green colour of the water to the extent that the thing submerged has a greater quantity of water above it.
—LEONARDO DA VINCI, Notebooks
For a moment Willem does not struggle. He surrenders himself to the water. He watches himself drowning; his soul has already detached itself. Memories swim up—his mother’s face, with its whiskery mole; his sister sniggering, and pressing her hand to her mouth. . . . He knows he is dying and he welcomes extinction, for do we not bloom sweetly, for just a season, and then perish? Wherever he goes God is there, ready to take him into His arms.
Willem sinks, a piece of flotsam thrown out by this city, he and the dead dogs and meat bones. He drifts down, he and the contents of the nightpots of a hundred and twenty thousand men and women.
Unlike most of the city’s inhabitants, however, Willem can swim. Why he wants to live when everything—his bride, his hopes, his fortune—has been stolen from him, why his rude instinct for survival fights against his desire for oblivion—he has no time to answer, for he is battling his way to the surface and now he splashes and flails, gasping for breath. He swims to the side and claws at the slimy wall. The water slops him bumpingly against the brickwork. He gropes his way along it until he fumbles against a mooring ring. He clings to it, coughing up the water from his lungs. And finally he hoists himself out—how heavy he weighs: the deadweight of a mortal after all. He lies in the street, sodden.
THE NEXT MORNING, battered, bruised and with nothing to live for, Willem packs his bags and makes his way down to the docks. Here he enlists in the navy, and within a few days his ship has set sail to fight the Spanish, the last fightable foe left to him and a more patriotic focus for his rage.
23
Jan
Take linseed and dry it in a pan, without water, on the fire. Put it in a mortar and pound it to a fine powder; then replacing it in the pan and pouring a little water on it, make it quite hot. Afterwards wrap it in a piece of new linen; place it in a press used for extracting the oil of olives, of walnuts, and express this in the same manner. With this oil grind minium or vermilion, or any other colour you wish, on a stone slab . . . prepare tints for faces and draperies . . . distinguishing, according to your fancy, animals, birds, or foliage with their proper colours.
—THEOPHILUS, 11TH CENTURY
Jan is feeling guilty about the boy. He has been too distracted to give him much attention. Jacob has been grinding pigments for him and cleaning brushes—humble jobs; otherwise he has only had a few drawing lessons. The boy has talent; he draws with greater skill than Jan possessed at his age and he is keen to learn. Jacob is less moody than Jan too; less tempestuous. Jan cannot picture him falling catastrophically in love with one of his sitters. One day he will make a good living as a competent, workmanlike painter. Not great, maybe, but who says Jan will be great? Not Mattheus. You have to be courageous, my friend, and unafraid of pain.
So Jan sets his pupil down in front of the double portrait and tells him to finish painting Cornelis—the hands, the spindly, old-man’s shins. Jan cannot bring himself to paint the legs that have lain between Sophia’s thighs. He has painted the old man’s face, but he has only sketched in the rest; he doesn’t want anything else to do with him.
Sophia is finished, but she is a Sophia who is long since gone. Forever she will sit demurely beside her husband, but the real woman, like a ghost, has since risen and come to him. For the first time in his life Jan’s professionalism has deserted him. He cannot bear to carry on; the painting is dead. He will help the boy with the background and then it will be finished.
For he is absorbed in another painting. It is called The Love Letter.
Describe the room where you read my letter, he asked her.
In the bedchamber . . . paneled walls, waxed and polished cabinet.A tapestry behind me, Orpheus in the Underworld . . . the bed —no, he’s not going to paint the bed.
What were you wearing?
My violet silk dress, you have not seen it. Black bodice stitched with velvet and silver.
What were you thinking?
I was thinking: the world has stopped . . . my heart is going to burst. . . .
With happiness? he asked.
With fear.
Don’t be afraid, my love.
I was thinking: all my life I have been asleep and now I have opened my eyes. I was thinking: he loves me too! I felt as if my body had turned to water. (How is he going to paint that?) I was thinking—do I dare? I kept leaving the house and then stopping. I didn’t dare.
Ah, but you did, he said, kissing her fingers.
He loves Sophia for her recklessness—a maid’s disguise! He loves her for her spirit and ingenuity. She is a woman after his own heart.
I was thinking what it would be like to kiss you, she said. And I hated you for making me mock my husband—oh, I am all confused!
Sophia is here in his studio. She is always with him; he talks to her in his head. He sees her standing at the window reading the letter. All painting is illusion. Sophia, though absent, stands here m
ore breathingly real than the solid sitters he has painted in the past. Art lies, to tell the truth. Flowers from different seasons bloom impossibly together. Trees are shifted around in the landscape to frame the composition. Rooms are created like stage sets, furnished with the artist’s own possessions, where models are arranged in a speechless moment of drama. Even straight portraits are only an approximation, filtered through the painter’s eye. Their realism, down to the tiniest detail—this, too, is a deception.
In the foreground, on the table, Jan has arranged a still life from his own collection—goblets and jewelry he keeps in the chest for this purpose. They are not hers, just as this room is not hers, but in the painting they will belong to her. Nor do they have any moral message—no skull, no empty mussel shells, no open lantern lying on the floor. They are simply things of beauty that will exist for this moment, in this painting. They are simply there to celebrate his love.
LATER THAT DAY Sophia visits. She slips in for an hour, on her way home from doing some errands. She wears the violet dress for him; he has asked her to do this. They don’t kiss—Jacob is here, whistling as he paints. Gerrit is banging around in the kitchen.
It’s a sunny afternoon. Sophia stands at the window. The light bathes her face. Jan gives her another letter to read, for they cannot speak openly.
She looks at the paper. You are my life. Come to me and spend the night. I want to hold you in my arms and feel you dreaming. I will love you until I die.
As she reads it she stiffens. He sketches her quickly, with charcoal. She reads it again and turns to him.
“Don’t look at me,” he says. “Read it again—your head, just like that.”
Jacob stops whistling. He is listening to them.
Sophia’s lips twitch. She says: “I’ll read it aloud.”
Jan stares at her. “Is that wise?”
She reads: “Dear Cornelis Sandvoort, your picture is nearing completion. It will be ready for delivery this Tuesday next. I trust it will meet with your approval and look forward to the final settlement of my fee at your pleasure.”
Behind his hand, Jan snorts with laughter. Sophia remains gazing out of the window.
Jacob asks: “What is this painting to be called?”
“The Love Letter,” replies Jan.
“Love letter?” says his pupil. “It doesn’t sound like one to me.”
“All painting is deception,” says Jan. “Haven’t you learned that yet?”
Sophia chuckles. Jan turns back to his drawing.
A smell of cooking drifts in from the next room. Just for a moment there is a feeling of domesticity—Jacob whistling, Gerrit in the kitchen. Gerrit is a terrible cook— Jan usually prepares food himself or goes out to eat—but today it smells delicious. It is all an illusion, of course. Sophia will not eat the hutspot; she will soon be gone. She should not be here in the first place—she has put herself at great risk by coming to his studio in broad daylight.
But what is reality? This feels utterly real and utterly right. Through lies, he is painting the truth. He has reassembled a life here for her, and look how radiant she is! She stands there rereading the letter. When she is gone the radiance will remain.
Jan works fast. He feels alive—thrilled to his fingertips— and it is not just desire, it is something more. So much of the time he feels that he is just putting paint onto canvas. Now he is truly working.
24
Sophia
Run not therefore East or West,
Home for girls is much the best.
—JACOB CATS, Moral Emblems, 1632
I feel absurdly joyful—carefree, in fact—as I step out of Jan’s studio. The street is empty; nobody has seen me. A pied cat streaks past. This, I decide, is a good omen. I create omens to suit myself; I am not like Maria, in thrall to the old superstitions. I am released from that, I have broken the rules, and look—nobody has found me out. Those loading doors, high up in that warehouse—I have stepped out of them and see, I didn’t fall. I flew! I have been given the airy immunity of an angel.
It is a glorious sunny afternoon; spring has truly arrived. Come to me and spend the night. I love Jan to distraction. I know I should feel guilty but I have shut down that part of myself. I am a carriage, being pulled by galloping horses even though my wheels are locked rigid. The wheels are my faith. I am powerless. Punishment awaits me but not yet, not now.
This is how I feel today as I walk past the flower seller (hyacinths; shiny blue in the sunshine), past the front doors (shiny green). I learned this locking-off technique when my father beat me. I shut myself off from my body and my spirit flew free; I could watch myself with detachment. It hurt, of course, but it did not matter.
I have not thought about my father for a long time; I have not thought about anybody. Love has made me self-absorbed. I loved my father and he loved me; he only hit me when he was drunk. He was a passionate man who, disappointed in life, took refuge in wine. When he died I was devastated. Maybe that was why I sought an older man, or allowed myself to be claimed. I was fourteen when he passed away. I thought—if God loves me, why does He give me such pain? It was God’s will, of course, that my father died, but why did it feel like a betrayal?
I couldn’t ask these questions aloud so I shut them away. Ours is a tolerant country; Catholics and Calvinists live together, as I live with my husband. Whatever our faith, however, it is deeply rooted; it is the very foundation of our existence. We live in the presence of God. The glory of this day—the sun, the bunches of hyacinths—belongs to Him, and our celebration of beauty is all in His name. I mock this at my peril.
For I am in mortal danger. The sun lulls me with its warmth; my heart sings. I truly believe I can keep my secret safe. On Saturday my husband is attending a banquet given by the Civic Guard; he will get drunk and come home late. I will slip away and spend the evening with my lover; he and I have planned it. If Maria is sleeping I will borrow her clothes again. She is sleeping a lot lately—dozing during the day, falling asleep as soon as her work is finished. I wonder, in a dreamy way, what is the matter with her. Then my dreams revert back to myself. How happy I am—how blindly happy.
For ahead of me lies the drop—and I really believed I could fly.
MARIA IS SITTING in the kitchen chopping onions. The place is a mess—the fire is dead, vegetable peelings and unwashed cooking pots lie on the floor. I have not entered the kitchen today—this morning I had a singing lesson and I have been out all afternoon.
Maria, too, must have left the house earlier. Her cloak lies in a heap on the floor. The cat sleeps on it, bathed in a pool of sunlight. Maria looks at me. Her face is streaming with tears. For a moment I think it’s caused by the onions.
“Have you finished the ironing?” I ask.
“Madam, I’ve got something to tell you.” Her face crumples. “I’m going to have a baby.”
I HAVE POURED her some brandy. She gulps it down.
“I trusted him! I thought he wanted to marry me. He said he wanted to make an honest woman of me.”
“Where is he?”
“I was worried what had happened to him, it’s not like Willem, see—”
“What’s happened to him?”
“He’s gone,” she wails. “I went down to the fish market this morning; I hadn’t seen him for days.” She takes another gulp. “He promised to marry me.”
“Where is he, Maria?”
“I don’t know. He sold up his share in the business—he had this partnership with his friend—a week ago he sold it up and one morning he just didn’t turn up at the market. He’s gone. Nobody knows where.” She bursts into sobs. “He’s left me. I thought he loved me! I don’t know what to do and now I’m going to have his baby.”
The cat opens its pink mouth and yawns. It rises from the crumpled cloak and stalks off.
“How could he do that to you?” I ask. “Did he know you’re . . .”
She shakes her head.
“You don’t know where he ha
s gone? What about his family?”
“They live in Friesland.” Maria’s nose is running; her hair has escaped from its cap and falls around her face. She sits slumped in the chair.
“You must find him and marry him.”
“But I don’t know where to look! He’s left me; he doesn’t want me—”
“But if he knows you’re carrying his child—”
“He has gone! Don’t you understand, miss? He’s gone.”
She looks plain, her face as heavy as dough. I lean down awkwardly and hug her.
“Oh, my poor girl,” I say.
The cat rubs itself against our legs.
I AM ALL DISORDERED. I should be feeling sorry for Maria— I do feel pity for her—but I am also trembling on my own behalf. I myself could fall pregnant—might easily do so. The father could be either of the two men—would I pass the baby off as my husband’s? Maria is carrying the results of my own iniquity. How easily this could be me, and what would be the consequences then? A greater hand is at work, arranging our fates. A greater power has been observing me and has punished my own maid for my sins.
I sit on my bed, trying to sort out my thoughts. I hear Maria’s footsteps on the stairs. They already sound heavier. She should be preparing the evening meal—I should be supervising her—for soon Cornelis will be home and will wonder what has happened. There is a trapped, static atmosphere in the house; he will guess that something is wrong.
Maria enters without tapping on the door. She sits down next to me on the bed. Such familiarity startles me, but then she is upset.
“My poor girl.” I stroke her hand—how chapped it is. “You must go home.”
“Home?” She stares at me. “I cannot go home. The shame!”
“But you must—”
“My father will kill me!”
Tulip Fever Page 7
