She held one hand up, shaking her head vehemently. “Stop right there. I can’t deal with you and Pietro at the same time.”
Her phone began to ring, startling them both. Zelda picked it up off the floor and checked the screen. “Now he has time for me? Unbelievable. Don’t you say a word.”
She turned away from him as she answered. I wonder what the bastard’s excuse will be, she thought. “What?”
“Zelda, mi amore, my love.”
Hearing him whisper those words used to melt her heart. “After three months of living with you, I know what mi amore means. The question is, do you?”
“Do not believe a word my sister said to you, Rosa was playing a cruel joke on you. She was angry I was not there to help her with the harvest.”
“Bullshit.”
“Zelda, I do not know what I can do to – ”
“How’s your grandmother feeling today?” The line was silent. “Don’t bother lying Pietro, Rosa told me she died five years ago.”
“You are my true love, Zelda.”
“But am I your only love?”
Pietro’s split second of hesitation was long enough to confirm what she knew to be true.
“Can’t a heart love more than one person?” His voice sounded so sweet.
“No, it can’t, at least not when I’m involved. Don’t you ever call me again, you lying piece of shit. You don’t deserve me, you never did.” Zelda punched the end call button and threw the phone across the room.
“Man, I’m batting a thousand today; I screwed up my internship, master’s degree and relationship in just five hours. That must be some sort of record for destroying your life,” she moaned, dropping onto the couch and letting her head fall into her hands.
As Friedrich moved in to comfort her, she jumped up and began throwing open her drawers and cabinets, surveying their contents. “I might as well start packing. What do I have to stay here for now? I’m going to get kicked out of the country in a few weeks anyway. If I get in touch with some headhunters back home, they might be able to line up a computer gig for me.” Her practicality was offset by the shrill tone in her voice. She couldn’t believe she was uttering these words of defeat, but she had no idea what else she could do. Her whole world had collapsed in the span of a few hours. Surely the combination of events was some sort of sign from the universe telling her to give up and go home. What other options did she really have? None.
“Do you really want to go back to Seattle?” Friedrich quietly asked. “Back to computer programming, endless project meetings, nightmare traffic; all the things you’ve repeatedly said you hate about big American cities and corporate jobs?”
“Of course I don’t want to go back, not like this, with my tail between my legs.” She felt another surge of anger welling up. “I’ve never been as happy as I have been these last nine months. I’ve found a career I’m passionate about and Amsterdam feels like home.”
“Come on, show some backbone. So what if Huub thinks you’re tenacious and stubborn – you’re an American, the selection committee would expect nothing less. Your mentor Marianne Smit knows what you’re like, yet she still recommended you. And Pietro – well, he’s just a fool. You didn’t come to Amsterdam because of him and you weren’t planning on staying here for him, so why should you go home and give up your dreams just because he’s an idiot?”
“You might have a point,” she mumbled.
“You are only going to get kicked out of the country if you don’t get into the master’s program. You still have time to talk to Marianne and explain your version of events before your interview with the selection committee. Sure, she’ll probably be angry at first, but you have to try. She’s been your biggest advocate since you arrived in Amsterdam. And even if she doesn’t agree with your actions, she can’t stop you from showing up and doing your best.”
“Without Marianne’s blessing I don’t stand a chance. I might as well not show up.”
“You don’t know what Bernice or Huub told Marianne about this morning’s meeting. And you did show a lot of initiative; she might be impressed by what you managed to accomplish in such a short amount of time,” he teased, doing his best to get a smile out of her.
It worked. Maybe everything wasn’t as hopeless as it seemed. She still had a shot at impressing the selection committee. And Zelda couldn’t forget how her mentor had stood by her all these months, encouraging her to follow her passion, even when she felt like ever working in a museum was a pipe dream. Why should Marianne accept Huub’s version of events as the truth? Zelda had already mentioned they didn’t get along very well. Her mentor would at least want to talk to her about his accusations before writing her off as a troublemaker, wouldn’t she?
She rubbed at her red-rimmed eyes and sat up a little straighter. “It is too soon to give up and run away, isn’t it?”
“Yes, it is,” he smiled encouragingly.
“I’d better call Marianne and see what the damage is. Hopefully Huub and Bernice were too busy with the police inquiries to have called her already.” Zelda looked around the room, searching for her agenda when she spied a pile of documents lying on top of her desk.
“Oh no, Arjan van Heemsvliet’s letters!” she yelped. “If I don’t get them back to Gerard before someone from the museum contacts him, I really am screwed. I told Bernice I only looked at them, not that I’d taken them with me.” Zelda felt the stress returning. Yet another lie to unravel. She ordered herself to breathe normally and remain calm. As long as Bernice or Huub hadn’t already contacted Gerard, it would be easy enough to rectify this situation.
She turned to her friend, “Can you do me one more favor?”
“Sure,” he grinned, “a ride to Urk perhaps?”
THIRTY-FIVE
“Have you read any of the letters yet?” Friedrich asked, gesturing towards the pack on Zelda’s back. They were slowly making their way to Gerard’s house, their bellies full after a three-course lunch in a café overlooking Urk’s marina. On their left, the large fishing boats and small pleasure craft filling the harbor bobbed softly in the lapping water of Lake IJssel. Small shops lined the right side of the wide boulevard, occasionally interrupted by narrow cobblestone streets snaking up the small hill upon which most of Urk’s residential homes were built. The perpetual sound of waves splashing against the high brick walls of the haven muffled most other noises, making her feel like they were walking along the seashore, not through the heart of a busy village. This sensation was only strengthened by the stench of sea salt and rotting fish permeating the air.
“I’ve read about half of the twenty-two letters,” she said with a sigh, thinking back to the three late nights she’d spent hunched over her desk, painstakingly translating his long, gossipy letters to his family. “It took forever to translate them. So far they’re almost exclusively questions about their mother’s various illnesses and Gerard’s monastic training; Arjan rarely mentions his gallery or life in Amsterdam. Gerard did say his brother knew no one in his family was really interested in art. He’s made several references to charity events and parties he’d attended and mentions the names of people he’d talked with. But it’s not clear to me if they were family friends or important people back then and Arjan was bragging. I was hoping to ask Gerard about that today.”
“But what about Arjan’s boyfriend or being blackmailed?” Friedrich asked. “I thought that’s what makes them so significant?”
Zelda nodded, troubled she’d not found a single mention of the Nazi blackmailer or live-in lover thus far. “I took Gerard at his word,” she replied. “The information he shared with us must be in Arjan’s later letters, that’s all. He started saving their correspondence in 1939, before the war even started, and I’ve only read through the spring of 1941. Arjan does mention a man named Gijs Mansveld a few times, but there’s nothing sexual about his remarks. He sounds more like a personal assistant or butler.”
“I hope for your sake you were right to believe Gerard
. Karen’s lawyer sounds pretty aggressive; without definitive proof of Arjan’s lover or blackmailer, he’ll have Gerard’s assertions dismissed immediately.”
“I know that,” she responded irritably. “But why would he lie to us? He gave me the letters to give to Bernice Dijkstra. He knew they would be read by professional researchers.”
“You should ask him to be more specific, to tell you which year you should be looking at and save yourself some time.”
“Or we should return the letters and let the professionals deal with it. There’s nothing I can do for Rita anyway, not anymore. I just want to get these back to Gerard before Bernice or Huub found out I took them in the first place,” she grumbled, suddenly darting to the right and up the street that led to Gerard’s house. All she wanted was to be done with this errand and forget about the Wederstein painting. She’d given up all hope of Rita Brouwer ever seeing Irises again. Huub Konijn had made abundantly clear that, as far as both he and the museum’s director were concerned, Karen O’Neil was the rightful owner. End of story.
Zelda touched the cell phone in her pocket, willing it to ring. She’d left a voicemail for Marianne Smit a few hours before and knew that until her mentor called her back, she had to stay positive and hope for the best. Perhaps Huub Konijn had been too busy dealing with the police to call Marianne and complain. After she returned these documents to Gerard, she needed to focus her energy on getting her mentor back on her side and impressing the selection committee. The Masters in Museum Studies was her reason for wanting to stay in Amsterdam, not Pietro Moretti, the internship at the Amsterdam Museum, or Rita Brouwer’s search for her father’s treasures.
Her pace automatically slowed when she reached the next block, confused by the flashing red and blue lights reflecting off the windows of the houses and parked cars lining both sides of the road. For a moment she thought there was a party going on, until she looked further down the street.
Friedrich jogged up to her side. “Are those police cars?” he asked, slightly out of breath.
Two police cars were indeed parked on the curb up ahead, their lights still on. White and red tape was strewn around a white-washed house on the left-side of the street, its number partially hidden by the thick carpet of ivy covering the façade.
“Hey, that’s Gerard’s house!” she exclaimed, stopping suddenly. Friedrich plowed into her, almost knocking her over.
An officer was posted next to the front door. Through the windows she could see other uniformed officers swarming around Gerard’s living room. Or what was left of it. It looked like someone had taken an axe to his furniture. Shards of wood and bits of textile were strewn across the floor. Books, LP records and framed photographs had been tossed into wobbly heaps and piles. Feathers and bits of foam floated around the room, sent airborne by the police shuffling around the ruins. Zelda and Friedrich stood gaping at the sight before them, unsure of what to do.
“What happened here?” he wondered aloud.
Zelda shook her head. “I don’t know, but I’m guessing Gerard didn’t make that mess himself; he could barely walk up the stairs let alone break the legs off his couch.”
“We could ask that officer.”
“It’s a real tragedy, isn’t it?” An elderly woman’s voice called out to them in Dutch. They turned to see Gerard’s next-door neighbor hanging out of her kitchen window, a large mug in her hand.
“Do you know what happened to Mr. Van Heemsvliet?” Zelda spoke carefully, hoping the woman would understand her Dutch.
“He’s been murdered!”
“Murdered?” She suddenly felt light-headed and swayed a little. Friedrich grabbed her elbow to steady her.
“Oh my dear, I’m sorry to be so callous. Please come inside,” the neighbor rushed to open her front door, waving them inside.
“Did you know Gerard?” she asked as Friedrich and Zelda followed her into the kitchen.
“No. Yes. Not very well,” Zelda sputtered, as they settled around a large oak table. The woman grabbed two more cups and poured them tea. Zelda wrapped her hands around the warm mug and slowly asked, “What happened?” She was having a hard time processing Gerard’s death and speaking in a second language at the same time.
“There was a robbery,” the woman whispered conspiratorially, her eyes gleaming. She was clearly enjoying being the bearer of bad news, Zelda thought. “They tied him to a chair then tore his house apart. Maybe they didn’t mean to kill him, but still, he died of a heart attack while he was bound and gagged. It must have been the stress. Can you imagine someone breaking into your own home and mishandling you like that? How scary that must have been for him,” she shook her head in bewilderment.
Zelda nodded, amazed Gerard’s neighbor had learned so much so quickly. But then, she could follow the police’s investigation from her kitchen window.
“No one here can remember the last time there was a robbery in Urk, let alone a murder.”
“Technically it wasn’t murder but accidental death, if he died of a heart attack.” Friedrich mused.
Gerard’s neighbor glared at him for nitpicking her story.
“When was he, I mean, when did the police arrive?” Zelda asked softly. If they were still in his house, it couldn’t have happened long before she and Friedrich got to Urk, she realized. They’d arrived an hour and a half ago, but she had treated them to a late lunch, figuring Gerard wasn’t going to be going anywhere. And thanks to her disastrous morning at the museum, she hadn’t eaten anything all day and was faint from hunger. Were the robbers still in his house when they’d arrived in the village? Or was Gerard already dead?
“I heard the police sirens about an hour ago, a few minutes after I got back from the shops. I’d popped down to the butcher’s for some sausages. Johan, our mailman, noticed Gerard’s front door was ajar, but no one answered his calls. When he went inside and saw the state of the living room, he called the police. Johan said there wasn’t a piece of furniture or nick-knack that hadn’t been smashed or bashed in. He always comes down our street around three-thirty in the afternoon. It couldn’t have happened much earlier because little Marijke brought Gerard his groceries around noon. Gerard opened the door himself. Nothing was amiss or she wouldn’t have gone inside.”
The woman sipped her tea, a sad look in her eye. “He waved at me. If I had known…” she glanced wistfully out the kitchen window.
“But why Gerard? I didn’t get the impression there was much to steal?” Zelda asked.
“Gerard van Heemsvliet was a good, honest, God-fearing man. He was not financially wealthy, but spiritually and morally he was richer than most. Heaven knows why someone would want to hurt him, let alone steal from him,” the woman was obviously troubled by similar thoughts. “But the police don’t think this was random. And they certainly were professionals. I mean, I never saw them come or go and I was probably home when poor Gerard…” her voice trailed off as she looked again towards her neighbor’s home, now encircled by police tape.
Zelda imagined if anyone in Urk had seen the burglars enter Gerard’s house, it would have been this woman.
She sipped her tea, trying to wrap her head around everything that had happened this afternoon. Most of all, Zelda was reeling at the timing of Gerard’s death. When she and Friedrich left for Urk, Arjan’s brother was probably still alive. But when they reached the tiny fishing village less than an hour later, there were thieves in his house, tying him to a chair, literally scaring him to death. What if she and Friedrich had gone directly to Gerard’s home instead of having a late lunch? Would the police be investigating a triple homicide right now? The thought sent shivers up her spine.
THIRTY-SIX
Friedrich and Zelda drove back to Amsterdam in silence, he fixated on the road ahead and she on Gerard’s untimely passing. Why him? Why now? His neighbor couldn’t think of why anyone would want to steal from him, let alone kill him. The extreme and seemingly random violence that ended Gerard’s life really spooked her. She
’d never known anyone who’d been murdered before. Last week she and Friedrich were having coffee and cookies with him and now he was gone, his life taken from him by persons yet unknown, for reasons only to be guessed at.
And here she was, stuck with his letters. The museum researchers have to have them, Zelda decided as she gazed unseeing out the car’s window, even if no one bothered to actually read them. That was the least she could do to honor the memory of both Gerard and his brother Arjan, and the only thing she could still do that might help Rita Brouwer’s claim on Irises. If she mailed them to the Amsterdam Museum’s director tomorrow morning, there was a chance Leo de Boer would think Gerard had posted them before he died. There was no need for Bernice Dijkstra or Huub Konijn to know she’d taken the letters with her. It didn’t really matter how they were sent, she reckoned, so long as they ended up at the right place.
After she put the letters in the mail, she needed to concentrate on her own imminent future. Her mentor still hadn’t called back, but she was so unbelievably busy teaching classes, researching new book ideas and giving lectures that it usually took her a few days to return anyone’s call. Still, her nerves were about to crack. She reminded herself to stay positive. She’d already made it through the first selection of 200 students, albeit with Marianne’s help, and still had a shot at being accepted into the Museum Studies program.
Zelda frowned at her reflection in the window, realizing if she did get in, she’d see Pietro regularly. Several of the classes required for the Museum Studies program were also compulsory for the Art History students. A week ago that thought filled her with joy, now it brought a sick feeling to her stomach. All she wanted to do right now was forget her Italian boyfriend ever existed. But damn it, Friedrich was right. Pietro was simply icing on the cake and certainly not the only reason she’d wanted to get into the master’s program or stay in Amsterdam. As long as they didn’t end up in too many of the same classes together, she would be able to keep her emotions in check.
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