The doctor shrugs. “I would prefer not to put it quite like that—”
“You don’t trust me?”
There is a silence. The three of them look at Jan. The doctor says: “Please do not take it personally. I would just be happier if you and I stay here together and you send your servant.”
Jan gets to his feet. “Why don’t you accompany me?” He goes to the door. “If you don’t want to let me out of your sight, come with me. We’ll all walk there together.”
The boy replies: “I’ve got orders to stay here with you. Not to leave your house until I have the money in my hand. That’s my orders, sir.”
It is a stalemate. Jan looks from one face to the other. Doctor Sorgh examines his sleeve. The boy fidgets with his cap, turning it round in his hand as if he is primping pastry.
“Send your servant,” repeats Doctor Sorgh. “Then we can get this whole . . . matter . . . over and done with.”
Jan sits down heavily on the bed. Gerrit, with his stupid, trusting face, raises his eyebrows. He is unsure, exactly, what is happening, but he is upset to see his master in a state of distress.
IT IS NOT AN IDEAL SITUATION. Jan trusts Gerrit with his life, but does he trust him with this? Gerrit is waiting; they are all waiting.
Jan takes him into the kitchen. “Gerrit, you heard what the fellow said. I want you to run some errands for me. As fast as you can. No loitering, understand? Just think of it as your final errand, for old times’ sake.”
Gerrit nods. “W-w-what do you want me to do?” He has always stuttered, as if his tongue is too big for his mouth.
It is vitally important that Gerrit does not understand the value of the package he will collect from Claes van Hooghelande’s house. Jan has a nightmare vision of Gerrit’s reaction—even trustworthy, faithful Gerrit—if he knew that in his hand he held the price of a house in the Prinsengracht. It would test a saint. Even if Gerrit doesn’t run away with it he might be tempted to brag. Jan pictures him bumping into one of his drinking companions, pointing to the package and saying, Never guess what I got in here. Even if Gerrit doesn’t steal it, there’s a real danger that someone else will. Gerrit keeps even lower company than Jan.
Jan must think up some more errands to disguise the importance of this one. He presses some money into Gerrit’s hand. “Get me some pigments—here, I will make a list. And get me half a dozen cinnamon tarts, from the pastry shop, for these gentlemen here. And get me a package. It is waiting for me at this address.” He writes it down on a piece of paper; his hand is shaking. “It is in the Sarphatistraat, on the other side of the city. Can you manage that?”
Gerrit nods.
“And come straight back here, is that understood?”
“Yes, sir.” Gerrit turns to go. Jan pats him on the back, as if he is a father sending his son out into the big world for the first time.
Jan stands at the window. He watches Gerrit lumbering off down the street. At least he is going in the right direction.
Jan thinks: this man has my life in his hands.
48
Cornelis
The old man . . .
Although his limbs all grow stiff, his heart is quick,
He knows that no one will stay here, which is why
He fixes his limits and pays close attention
To the path and Word of God, towards the Gate of Life.
—D. P. PERS, 1648
Cornelis is writing the death announcement. It has pleased the eternal and immutable wisdom of Almighty God to call to His bosom from this sinful world to the blessed joy of His eternal kingdom, on the thirteenth day of this month, at the eleventh hour of the night, my beloved wife Sophia, after the noble lady had been confined to her bed in childbirth—
He stops. He realizes, quite suddenly, that he has lost his faith. The words are just marks on a piece of paper; pious scratchings, as meaningless as an invoice for a bale of cotton. More meaningless. In fact, entirely devoid of any sense whatsoever.
God does not exist. Cornelis’s small resurgence of faith has been extinguished. For thrice-twenty years he has paid his dues—in tears, guilt and fear—and what has he got in exchange? What is his return on his investment? Two dead wives and two dead children. What sort of a bargain is that?
All his life predicants have thundered at him from their pulpits. God will punish you! God will seek you out, oh, sinner! Prepare yourself for the flames of eternal damnation! Once, when he was a little boy, he had wet his breeches. They rail against the theater, against tobacco smoking, against coffee drinking, against excursions to the countryside on the Sabbath, against festivities, against pleasure, against life.
Who were they, these miserable men with their lank hair and screeching voices? Who were they to tell him anything? What did they know? Why did they presume that they were the saved, these narrow-minded bigots who saw sin in the smallest child and whose only joy was to kill the joy of others? What God would appoint them as his mouthpiece? If they wanted to rant, why not rant against a God who allowed a lovely young woman to die, in agonies, while giving birth to Cornelis’s child?
Cornelis sits at his desk. He replaces his pen in its stand. He thinks: has it really pleased the eternal and immutable wisdom of Almighty God to call Sophia to His bosom? What sort of a bosom is that? And she is not a noble lady. She was his darling sweetheart. How pompous he has been in the past. He remembers her polite face as she listened to his pronouncements. Such pontifications. How could he have presumed to know anything when he knows nothing at all?
It is a strange, airy feeling, not unpleasant. Cornelis feels as light as a husk. One puff of wind and he will float up from his chair. Perhaps this is shock. Maybe his grief at her death has made him temporarily insane.
He feels more sane, however, than he has ever felt in his life. In recent years his doubts have troubled him. Now Sophia’s death has set him free. Far from deepening his faith it has removed his belief altogether and he feels like thistledown—up, up he floats to join her. Except she is not there in heaven, of course, because it does not exist.
Downstairs, down in the real world, he hears Maria singing to the baby. How lucky he is to have her. Maria is untroubled by theological doubt; she has the robust good sense of those who pay lip service to God and then get on with their lives. Her earthiness is deeply reassuring. She couldn’t care less that he has lost his belief. She only cares for the child, and that is all that matters now.
He will call his daughter Sophia. Her beauty touches his heart. Already, at one day old, he sees a resemblance to her mother. And his own hair, before it turned white, was dark like this. He is glad now that she is not a boy. She is the daughter he never had and he will teach her everything he knows. He will teach her that everything he knows is open to doubt, and that this is the only way to learn. And he will learn to listen to her questions. She will grow up free in spirit for she is not a child conceived in sin. She will not tremble in fear and wet herself in church. She is just a child—beautiful, and loved. That is the gift her mother has given her.
49
Gerrit
Fools grow without watering.
—JACOB CATS, Moral Emblems, 1632
Gerrit is not going to touch a drop. He has plenty to celebrate: it is his last day working for Mr. van Loos. Six weeks’ wages he’s owed plus, he hopes, a hefty tip. It is a nice sunny day; his bunions have stopped hurting. There is always something to celebrate, in Gerrit’s view.
But he is not going to, not today. He has a job to do and he is going to do it. It is his duty. Mr. van Loos has been a good employer: tolerant, easygoing and—when he has the money—generous with his tips. Gerrit is not going to let him down. He has done so in the past, he admits it. He recalls, with shame, certain episodes. The demon drink is to blame. It wipes everything out of his head—and, in truth, there wasn’t a lot there in the first place. Once he has sobered up he is overcome with remorse, of course, and Jan always forgives him. He is a good man; Gerrit is not
going to let him down.
Gerrit has crossed the city and found his way to the Sarphatistraat. He knocks on the door. Inside he hears children yelling. Mr. van Hooghelande opens the door, just a slit.
“I’ve come for the package,” says Gerrit.
The man narrows his eyes suspiciously.
“The package for Mr. van Loos.” Gerrit’s voice is stern.
He is taking his mission seriously. “The painter.”
Mr. van Hooghelande disappears. Gerrit hears footsteeps descending some stairs, a key clanking, a door opening. Far away, echoing, there’s another door opening and closing.
“Who are you?” A child is staring up at him.
“Gerrit.”
The child inserts its finger up its nostril and twists it round, as if unstopping a cork. “There’s monsters down there.”
“Where?”
“Down there. My pappa talks to them.”
More clanking and Mr. van Hooghelande comes upstairs. He carries a small parcel. It is wrapped in brown paper and tied with string. He gives it to Gerrit, taps the side of his nose and closes the door.
Gerrit saunters off. Why did the man tap the side of his nose? Who are the monsters that live in his vault? Gerrit kicks a twig out of his way—the streets are still littered from last night’s storm.
A drowned dog floats in the canal beside him. Bluish and matted, it is distended like a bladder. Poor gek, he thinks. That could be me, when I have had a skinful.
But he is not going to have a skinful, not today.
50
Cornelis
How can a mother better expresse her love to her young babe, than by letting it sucke of her owne breasts? As this is a testimonyof love, so it is a means of preserving and increasing love: for daily experience sheweth that mothers love those children best to whom they themselves give sucke.
—WILLIAM GOUGE, Of Domesticall Duties, 1622
Cornelis says: “We must engage a wet nurse.”
“Oh, but I have,” replies Maria. “I didn’t want to trouble you, sir, and as I knew of one I took the liberty of engaging her services on your behalf.”
“Where is she?”
“She came at noon but she’s gone now.”
“Did the baby suck?” he asks.
“Oh, yes,” says Maria dreamily. “Oh, yes, she sucked all right. Hungry as a horse.”
“Who is this woman? When shall I see her? Have you prepared a room for her?”
Maria pauses. “The problem is, sir, she’s lame. It’s a trial for her, walking here. So I thought I would just—well, take the baby there, when the little darling is hungry. We don’t want the wet nurse to keep your daughter at her lodgings, do we?”
“No! I want my Sophia here, in her home. You agree?”
“Oh, yes, sir.” Maria nods. “Her place is here, with us. I have grown very fond of her, sir.”
Cornelis feels a little confused. What happens if the baby wakes at night? However, Maria seems to understand the arrangement; she has taken charge and for this he is profoundly grateful. Besides, he has never had dealings with a wet nurse before—Hendrijke fed their sons herself. If this is a usual measure, so be it. The important thing is to keep his daughter here. He has already lost everything else; he cannot lose his precious child to a stranger.
“We’re her family now,” says Maria, lowering the baby into the crib.
Cornelis says: “She has my nose, don’t you agree?”
Maria’s face is buried in the crib; she is nuzzling the baby. Her head moves, but he cannot tell if it is yes or no.
For the first time in months, Cornelis inspects his servant. She is essential to him now; she has stepped out of the wings into the center of the stage and he feels a rush of affection for her.
“You look much diminished, my dear,” he says. “All this sadness. You must eat and keep up your strength. We need you, Sophia and I.”
Sophia. Saying the name makes him feel strange. It is too soon to transfer all the love that is stored in that word to a new, tiny, empty vessel. He must give it time.
“I don’t think she looks like anybody,” says Maria, raising her flushed face. She smiles—a dazzling smile. It quite startles him. “She just looks like herself.”
51
Gerrit
Know—one false step is never retrieved.
—JACOB CATS, Moral Emblems, 1632
Gerrit is making admirable progress. He has collected the pigments from the shop: umber, indigo and burnt sienna. He has visited the baker’s shop. There were only two cinnamon pastries left, so, to make up the number, Gerrit has bought four vanilla ones too. Four and two makes six. See? He can do his sums. Now he is making his way back toward Jordaan, mission accomplished.
But, oh, his throat is dry. It has been a long day; he has been up since five this morning, unloading barrels. Thirsty work, and he hasn’t touched a drop since breakfast. Bells are tolling the hour—two o’clock. He has a few coins left in his pocket. It seems wrong, somehow, to leave them there when they could bring him such relief. But he is managing.
Gerrit walks round a corner. He nearly bumps into his friend Piet, who is taking a piss outside the Lion.
“You old cock!” cries Piet, adjusting his breeches. “You old tosspot! Come in for a jar. That old fornicator Andriesz’s inside; he’s had a win on the lottery.”
Gerrit hesitates.
“A hogshead of Rhenish, no less,” says Piet. “Nobody’s paying for drinks today.”
Gerrit stands there. This is torture. A roar of laughter comes through the open door. He smells roasting fowl. He realizes that he is ravenously hungry; he hasn’t eaten since five o’clock either, and then just a plate of porridge. It is truly a monumental struggle. Noble instincts pull him one way; temptation the other.
“What are you hanging about for?” asks Piet.
Gerrit shakes his head. “Got to get back.”
Gerrit walks away on leaden legs. A tricky moment there, but he has done it. Duty has triumphed.
Doesn’t he deserve a drink, as a reward? Gerrit, smiling grimly at his joke, walks toward the Bloemgracht, where his master waits.
52
Sophia
The maid is not dead, but sleepeth.
—MATTHEW 9:24
I am not dead. I am merely sleeping, for what is our life but a long sleep from which we shall wake to the joyful trumpets of the Kingdom of Heaven?
These bedclothes are my shroud. When I rise it will be to a new life. I will break out, like a butterfly from a chrysalis; I will shed my past like Maria’s cloak and disappear across the sea to my own Promised Land.
“Call that an arm!?”
Through my dreams I hear a voice. I will be reassembled. My arms and legs, lying scattered, will rejoin my body and I will rise again from death, my own small resurrection.
“Call that a leg? Have you no eyes in your head?!”
Mattheus’s voice floats up through the floorboards. He bellows loud enough to wake the dead.
“This is a head. It sits on the shoulders, am I correct? Two arms, one each side.” His studio is below this room; he must be giving a drawing lesson to his pupils. “Have you no understanding of human anatomy at all? Know what your parents are paying, for you to waste my time like this?”
I have been sleeping for a long time. The storm is over; sunlight streams through the window. I will remain here, out of sight, until Jan comes to collect me. Mattheus and his wife are hiding me here in their house; they are sworn to secrecy. They are the only people alive who know the truth, apart from the doctor and the midwife who delivered me, for I am newly born too. The two men who carried me here assumed I was just a body. How roughly they handled me! Where is the respect? When life has departed we are nothing but a sack of turnips and I have the bruises to prove it. After all, our soul has flown.
“Bones! Muscles!” booms Mattheus through the floorboards. “That’s what’s under our skin. If you can’t understand how a body wor
ks, how on earth can you bloody paint it?”
I still cannot catch up with what has happened. Last night has the stagy unreality of a theatrical performance. It was a performance. We mouthed the words, we acted our parts. Much of the time I was alone, screaming my painless screams to nothing but my dusty bridal coronet that hung from the ceiling. My fellow actors were upstairs with Maria, working for real.
I tell myself: I will never set foot in that house again. I will leave my clothes in the closets, my tasks half finished, for I am dead.
The enormity of it has not yet hit me. The house is just a stage set from which, when the show was over, I slipped away into the night.
I do not want to think. Because once I do, I shall realize what I have done to my husband.
53
Gerrit
Where the knot is loose, the string slippeth.
—JACOB CATS, Moral Emblems, 1632
Gerrit plods along the street. His legs ache; he has crossed the city once and now he is halfway back. Not far now, and he will be home. He will deliver the packages, Jan will pay him and then he will be a free man.
He hears, far away, the banging of a drum. Faint music floats in the air. The sound tugs him as if he is a bullock, pulled by a rope. He follows it and finds himself in the market square. A crowd has gathered. Clutching his packages, he eases his way through. He stops, entranced, and gazes at the scene.
A group of traveling entertainers has set up in the corner of the square. A man, dressed as Harlequin, juggles balls. Gerrit loves jugglers. Next to him a swarthy magician stands on a box, flourishing scarves. Gerrit loves magicians even more. The drum rolls. The magician shakes open a scarf: out flies a dove. The crowd roars. Gerrit’s jaw drops.
The magician holds an egg in the palm of his hand. Grinning, he shows it to the crowd. He closes his hand. The drum rolls. He opens his hand. It’s empty. Then he puts his hand behind his ear and—hey presto!—pulls out the egg.
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