Analog SFF, June 2009

by Dell Magazine Authors

  “The man's a dedicated vulgarian,” grumbled one of the bearded ones. “We'll have to do something about him.”

  “Why bother?” drawled a manicured specimen in a Burgundy sports coat. “Maybe it'll be a Vermeer to the Great Unwashed, but no respectable dealer would touch it. Nor would any museum curator on pain of excommunication.”

  “A Vermeer by an alternate Vermeer is still a Vermeer,” another suit observed mildly.

  “The hell it is!” growled a shaggy character in tailored jeans and combat boots. “I've been negotiating with the National Gallery for eleven years for their Van der Weyden. They finally broke down and sold it to me for something like the national debt of Liechtenstein. I begged, borrow, and stole, and I'm still in the whole for eight million, but I didn't care because I stood to clean up at the auction. Then Harry Brock had his damn press conference, and now the auctioneer tells me I'll have to—'revise my expectations downward’ is the way he put it. The market for Dutch and Flemish art's going to go to hell. Which is where I hope Harry Brock goes.”

  There was an angry hubbub that threatened to get out of control. The chairman pounded his ivory gavel to no avail until that woman in the hat indicated that she was trying to speak. The angry voices died down as they waited to hear what she had to say.

  “We're getting nowhere, Nelson,” she said. “There's no way to avoid the harsh methods we discussed.”

  “Are you sure, Marietta?” the chairman said.

  “Oh, get on with it, Nelson. We're wasting time.”

  “Very well.” He cleared his throat. “Ziggy's waiting outside.” He pressed a button concealed in the tabletop and the door to the anteroom hissed open.

  The man who slipped quietly through was wide and squat and gnarly, and as bald as an egg. He wore a rumpled gray business suit with shortened legs and lapels that showed half-erased food stains. He waited patiently as a dog, in an expectant half crouch, his long arms dangling at his sides.

  “Gentlemen, this is Ziggy the Ice. Some of you know who he is and have already benefited from his services in the past. Ziggy is our problem solver, aren't you, Ziggy?”

  The bald man nodded modestly, but didn't reply.

  “The fire at the Colophon Gallery four years ago, did you have something to do with that?” someone said. There was a murmur around the table.

  “We won't get into that,” Nelson said.

  The board member who had made the mild observation about alternate Vermeers said, “And how do you propose to deal with our current problem, Mr. Ice?”

  “The way I see it,” the bald man said in a soft hoarse voice that had them straining to hear, “there's no need for hasty methods. You send me back to the point in time where he's just finished the painting. Then I slash it. Maybe I set fire to his studio for good measure. He's demoralized, see? He's not gonna start the painting from scratch again—that is, if he goes back to painting at all. Problem solved.”

  “And what if the problem isn't solved?” the board member queried delicately.

  Ziggy gave him a sorrowful look. “Then I go to Plan B,” he said.

  “We don't need to hear about that, Ziggy,” Nelson said hastily.

  “Call for a vote, Nelson,” Marietta said with an impatient toss of her head. “This is nonsense. We know what we have to do.”

  The vote was unanimous. One of the directors surreptitiously crossed himself.

  Ziggy watched the vote impassively. Then he said, “I'm going to need a big advance in cash. There's a time travel outfit that'll do an unregistered intervention for enough dinero, no questions asked. And I got my own expenses.” He named a sum, and there was an audible gasp around the table.

  There was no discussion. The gavel hit the table, and Nelson said, “You've got it, Ziggy.”

  Ziggy gave a thin smile and the directors relaxed. Nelson and Marietta left to arrange the cash. While they waited, one of the fussier directors ventured, “What are you going to do about the language, Mr. Ice?”

  The smile became noticeably chilly. The temperature in the room seemed to drop. “I won't be there long enough to do any talking,” Ziggy said.

  * * * *

  Harry had provided a bottle of champagne for Peter's send-off, and he raised his glass in a toast while Peter fidgeted at the delay. “See you in...” he began jovially, then stopped. “But I guess I've already seen you, what is it, four hundred years ago? How do you say ‘see you later’ in Dutch?”

  "Tot straks," Peter replied shortly. “And it's Nederlands, not Dutch.”

  Harry's tailor had outfitted him in a costume drawn from Flemish painters of the approximate period—flaring pantaloons, a white collar that looked like a lobster bib, puff sleeves, and a huge floppy hat. The picture was completed by a scraggly wig that hung to Harry's shoulders.

  His new wife, Kimberly, was draped in her fashion designer's conception of what a rich Englishwoman should look like. But the gown was too form fitting, the bodice too low, and the fabric—a twenty-first century nanoweave more lustrous than silk—too opulent. Peter hoped she could get away with it.

  “It can be a little confusing, Harry,” Roy said. “You and Kimberly will leave only a few minutes after Peter, just as soon as we get the coordinates straightened out, but you'll arrive a couple of days later, after Peter's had a chance to set up lodgings befitting your station as wealthy English travelers, and hire a maid for Kimberly. Peter's positioning unit will send out a signal and you'll pop up safely indoor, where no one will see you arrive.”

  “We don't want the English colony in Delft to get wind of you,” Peter explained. “You'd never be able to fool them, accent or not.”

  “Do find us a decent place to stay, Peter dear,” Kimberly said, flashing a brilliant impersonal smile at him. “No shabby boarding houses with bedbugs.”

  “No bedbugs,” Peter promised. “Everything's neat and clean in Delft.”

  “And see if you can find a looker for the maid,” Harry said with a wink.

  “Harry, behave yourself,” Kimberly told him.

  Roy had been studying the monitor screens. He put down his champagne glass. “Time to go, Peter,” he said.

  Peter drained the last of his champagne. “Uh, Harry,” he said. “I'll need my expense money.”

  “Got you,” Harry said. He dug into the heavy silk purse dangling at his waist and poured a fistful of coins into Peter's cupped hands. Peter kept his hands out and Harry poured more coins into them. “Enough?” he said.

  Peter was thankful that Harry seemed to have no idea of the value of a silver coin in the seventeenth century. “It should do,” he said.

  “This way.” Roy took him by the arm and propelled him toward the row of cable-festooned booths lining the far wall. “Do you remember what I told you about using the positioning unit and the little mass indicator?”

  “No problem,” Peter said, patting his inside pocket.

  “I wish I could be that confident about Harry,” Roy said in a lowered voice. “Keep an eye on him, Peter. Kimberly can help. Fortunately she's got a good head on her shoulders. She's not the bubblehead she pretends to be.”

  Peter eased himself into the booth, feeling foolish in what Harry had called his Halloween costume. He gathered the cloak more closely around him. The last thing he saw before the world vanished was Harry and Kimberly staring at him through the glass.

  * * * *

  Delft sprang into existence around him. It looked much like the Vermeer painting that Elphinstone had shown him, but nothing had prepared him for the actual sight. He was standing on the banks of a canal. There were a few people around, but no one within a hundred yards. A woman with a market basket was looking at him, but looked away at his glance. Perhaps she had seen him appear, but as everything was normal now, she chose not to believe her eyes.

  Across the canal was the low jumbled skyline that Vermeer had captured. A church spire poked its way skyward behind the sprawl of brick houses. A sail-rigged barge carrying produce
crossed his vision, the man at the tiller taking his ease and letting the sails do the work. He was staring curiously at Peter too, but he couldn't be sure of what he had seen either, and he wasn't inclined to make a fuss.

  Peter mentally reviewed the old map that Elphinstone had given him a copy of, and oriented himself. Behind the waterfront was the Volders gracht, the street where Vermeer's father had once had a tavern. The spire he could see across the canal was the Nieuwe Kerk, Vermeer's parish church, but Vermeer didn't worship there any more. He had married a Catholic wife and now accompanied her to the Oude Kerk, where it was legal for Catholics to worship as long as they didn't make a display of themselves. He found the nearest bridge and crossed to a market square that was fronted by the town hall. It was crowded with market day shoppers filling their baskets at the busy stalls. The square was a cheerful bedlam, with small children running back and forth, ignored by their elders, and stray dogs sniffing around, hoping for handouts. Nobody seemed to take an interest in Peter, so the outfit that the temporal clothier had chosen for him must have passed muster.

  He crossed another bridge over another canal, and found himself on a street he knew to be the Oude Lange dyck, the street where Vermeer now lived with his mother in law. It was two bridges up. He'd approach Vermeer later, but he wanted to get an unobtrusive look at the place.

  He counted houses as he walked, and when he came to the house that Elphinstone had presumed to be Vermeer's on the old map, he knew he had hit the jackpot. The house was abutted by a narrow alley that was roofed over to provide some kind of storage area. It was the only house on the street with that particular arrangement, and it exactly conformed to Vermeer's painting of a street scene in Delft. So Vermeer had painted his own house. Elphinstone would be glad to know that he had settled the matter for the art world.

  He slowed down as he drew nearer and sauntered by, giving his best imitation of an English tourist checking out the neighborhood. The house was a three-story brick affair topped by an attic with a shuttered window. A woman with a white cap and shawl sat in the open doorway, sewing. Another woman, a maid, sat on a bench outside, peeling potatoes. Neither looked up as he passed.

  He continued down the street, looking for a tavern. Taverns were much the same in every time and place, with a few exceptions, like America's Prohibition era. He would have a few beers, strike up a conversation with whatever idlers were sitting around drinking at this time of day, and with any luck, get a line on whatever houses with readymade servants around here might be available to rent, and where he might find a reliable maid for an English lady.

  * * * *

  “Why can't I go with you?” Kimberly said.

  “Because it's a business arrangement,” Peter explained again, and you're expected to wait home like a good wife while your husband takes care of it. And besides, I don't think it's a good idea to let Vermeer see you until he's arranged to do the portrait.”

  “But what am I supposed to do?" she said.

  Harry cleared his throat. “Study your phrase book,” he said, sounding uncomfortable. “Have the maid do your hair. I don't know.”

  “Oh no! I'm not letting that girl touch my hair! Where did you get her anyway, Peter?”

  It had been over an hour since Harry and Kimberly had materialized in the ground floor chamber that was to be their bedroom. Peter had sent Mevrouw Coornhert, the widow whose house it was, on an errand, so that she would not wonder about the miraculous arrival of her new lodgers. The maid had been at the rear of the house with the Coornhert servants and summoned to meet Harry and Kimberly when they could have been presumed to have entered by the front door.

  “Mathilde's a steady, reliable girl, and she comes with a good recommendation,” he said stiffly.

  “She gives me the creeps,” she said. “And she doesn't understand a word of English.”

  “That's all to the good, isn't it?” Peter said. “She won't pick up on anything we might let drop.”

  “You could have picked up a better looker, Pete,” Harry put in.

  “Oh, shut up, Harry!” Kimberly said. “When you and Peter get back, I expect to be taken out to dinner in the poshest restaurant in town.”

  Peter spoke quickly, to forestall a promise by Harry. “It doesn't work that way. Harry and I could get a meal at a tavern, but as a respectable vrou, you're supposed to stay home. We'll eat here. Mevrouw Coornhert has a fine cook. We'll dine royally.”

  Peter could see Kimberly working up to an explosion, and so could Harry. They left hastily before there could be a scene that would scandalize this serene household.

  “So, Peter,” Harry said as they strolled along the Oude Lange dyck toward Vermeer's house, “what did you tell Vermeer?”

  “I didn't tell him anything,” Peter said. “He was up in his studio, working. They don't dare disturb him. I talked to his mother in law, Maria Thins. She owns the house, and she runs everything but her son in law. I told her I was the secretary to a very rich Englishman, and that he had come to Delft to have his wife's portrait painted. I said you were willing to pay top guilder, and her eyes lit up. He's a slow worker, and they're always short of money. She said he'd see us today.”

  When they reached the house, they found the front door open and an old woman sitting in the doorway mending a piece of lace. “That's Maria Thins,” Peter whispered. “She's waiting for us.”

  She looked up as they approached, but didn't rise. “He's not here,” she said without preamble. “He's having lunch at the Guild.” She tossed her head, almost belligerently. “They elected him head, you know.”

  He told Harry what she had said, and a cloud of displeasure crossed Harry's face. The woman saw it too, and added grudgingly, “He should be back soon.” She laid aside and stood up. “You might as well come inside.”

  “Don't they believe in introductions around here?” Harry said. He and Maria Thins seemed to have taken an instant dislike to each other.

  "Dit is Mijnheer Brock," Peter said hastily. "Van Engeland."

  "Ja, ja," she said. She led the way down a hallway whose walls were crowded with paintings, mostly interior scenes with two or three figures. They ended up in a large, dim room with more pictures on the walls. She did not invite them to sit down. “I'll let you know when he comes,” she said, and disappeared.

  They found two straight-backed chairs and sat. Harry looked around at all the paintings. “Lotta pictures,” he said.

  Peter remembered what Elphinstone had told him. “None of them are by Vermeer,” he said. “He sells them.”

  “What is it with that broad?” Harry said. “I thought you said they needed the money.”

  “She didn't want to look too anxious,” Peter said. “You of all people should understand that. Don't worry, Harry.”

  It wasn't a long wait. They heard subdued voices in the front hall, but couldn't make out what was being said. Maria thins returned and told them, “He's back. You're to go up to the studio.”

  They climbed two flights on uncarpeted stairs. A maid with a dust cloth was on the landing, dusting the banister. She stared at them open-mouthed as they stopped in front of the closed door. Peter got the impression that it was a big deal in this household to enter the studio.

  “We should knock,” Peter said.

  “The hell with that,” Harry said, and pushed the door open. Peter followed him inside.

  It was a large room, flooded with daylight from the big windows facing the street. It was sparely furnished, with a couple of leather-seated chairs, a small table holding pots and jars containing brushes and pigments, and a storage cabinet with narrow drawers. The floor was a checkerboard pattern of black and white tiles. There were two easels, the larger one holding an unfinished painting that Peter recognized from the art books that Elphinstone had shown him. It depicted a hulking man in a blue robe—"The Astronomer"—reaching out to examine a celestial globe. The model for the painting, Elphinstone had said, was Vermeer's friend Leeuwenhoek.

  The man
at the easel turned around to face them, a brush in his hand. He had unremarkable blunt features and shoulder-length brownish hair flowing from a floppy black beret-like hat. He was shorter than either Peter or Harry. He showed no inclination to speak, so Peter spoke first.

  "Aangenaam, Mijnheer Vermeer. Ik heet Pieter Van Gaas. Ik kom uit Engeland. Dit is Mijnheer Harry Brock."

  Vermeer still showed no inclination to speak, and Harry jumped in, in blustery mode and at full volume. “Let's not beat around the bush, fella. I heard you were the best painter around, and I want you to paint my wife. She's a real looker, like you've never seen, and I can afford to pay top dollar.” He glanced at the picture of Leeuwenhoek. “You can finish that later.”

  Vermeer had followed Harry's glance, but his face remained impassive. Peter offered a more genteel translation and apologized for Harry's brusqueness. “He's a very rich, important man, and he's used to getting his own way,” he said.

  A long, delicate conversation followed, with Harry breaking in constantly to demand, “What'd he say? What'd he say?” Vermeer explained obliquely that he didn't ordinarily paint portraits, but when Harry offered him a thousand guilders, his eyes widened and he allowed that he sometimes did character paintings—tronie or something called juffers. Peter did not understand the distinction, but it seemed to be important to Vermeer. In the end, Vermeer dismissed them with vague assurances and told them to come back tomorrow with the young lady.

  * * * *

  Kimberly was displaying her usual edgy coolness on the surface, but Peter thought he could detect a certain hidden excitement underneath. He was afraid she was underdressed and overjeweled. Under the cloak she had worn in the street, her gown revealed even more bare flesh than the dress she had arrived in; it might have belonged on a fashion show runway or at the Academy Awards. And the jewelry—a modernistic platinum and diamond ring from Gucci, a diamond-emerald bracelet from Cartier's and a black pearl necklace from Tiffany's—surely didn't belong in the seventeenth century. But it was no use trying to talk to her; Harry liked it, and that was that.

  Maria Thins was at the door. “He's waiting for you upstairs,” she said. She looked Kimberly over. “Well, my girl, you look more like a vriendin than a wife.” Peter didn't tell Kimberly what she had said, but her tone had said it all.