Midnight Blue

by Simone van der Vlugt

  I’ve spoken to her a few times before and instantly felt a strong, mutual connection. That feeling comes from Quentin too, who is always full of chatter about his wife and children and about the new baby on the way.

  ‘I hope it’s a boy this time,’ he confides in me one day. ‘Angelika gets furious when I say that. Any child is welcome as far as she’s concerned, as long as it survives. And she’s right, of course. But I still hope we’ll have a boy.’

  ‘I can understand that,’ I say. ‘It’s something special for a man to have a son, just as it is for a woman to have a daughter.’

  Now that Angelika is standing before me, I’m forced to think back to that conversation.

  ‘Isn’t the fair a bit busy for you?’ I ask.

  Angelika shakes her head, exasperated. ‘You’re as bad as Quentin! He’d like me to stay at home all day. As if pregnancy is some kind of illness. A woman’s body is made to carry a child. My previous births went fine, so it will be all right this time too.’

  I can’t help but agree. ‘I’d love to go to the fair. I’m curious to see whether they celebrate it the same way here as in my village.’

  ‘Probably. In the end it all comes down to the same thing.’ Angelika mimes knocking back a beer, and I have to laugh.

  ‘And you two? Are you going to the fair too?’ I turn to the little girls, who seem a bit embarrassed at the attention. Katherine is five, Gertrude only three, and they nod without saying anything. Standing there in their little jerkins and skirts, their caps sitting jauntily on their curls, they’re so adorable I feel a stab of longing. If he had lived, my little son would have been a year old now.

  My eyes meet Angelika’s. She is watching me with a tender expression. ‘The time will come for you too, Catrin, I’m certain of it.’

  ‘Are you?’

  ‘Yes. Haven’t you seen the way Evert looks at you? And he talks about you the whole time.’

  ‘We work closely together.’

  ‘He even introduces you to his friends. Believe me, he never did that with Frans or Quentin.’

  I burst out laughing. ‘No, I can’t imagine he did. But to be honest, I don’t know what to think of the situation.’

  ‘What situation?’

  ‘Evert’s wife who died. Everyone says I bear a resemblance to her. Is it any wonder that Evert looks at me? He’s seeing her.’

  Angelika thinks for a moment. ‘I don’t think so,’ she says finally. ‘Gesina has been gone for four years.’

  ‘That isn’t long for such a terrible loss.’

  ‘No …’ Angelika hesitates before continuing. ‘The loss of his children was the hardest thing for Evert.’ She gives me a searching look. ‘He said you were with his brother, Matthias. Is that true?’

  ‘It wasn’t anything serious. If it had been, Matthias wouldn’t have gone away for a year and a half.’

  ‘Some men find that all too easy to do. They think women will wait for them for centuries. Listen, I don’t want to be nosy, and you don’t have to tell me anything. I only wanted to make it clear that Evert is a completely different kind of man. And he’d be a good husband for you. Love is wonderful, but in the end you’re better off with a man who’s there for you.’

  22

  At the end of July, the whole of Delft turns out for the fair. Even the rich lower themselves to mix with the ordinary people. Dressed in their finest clothes, they parade among the pedlars, tooth-pullers and clowns.

  Delft’s fair isn’t all that different from the one in De Rijp, I realise as I make my way through the crowd with Evert, Quentin, Angelika and their children. It is, however, much bigger. There’s more to see and do.

  But even here the more hard-line parishioners, led by the pastor, warn of the sinful influence of the fair, which began as the yearly market on the day the Catholic church here in town was first dedicated. It is therefore an abomination to the Protestants. Most of the inhabitants of Delft are Protestant, but no one else seems to have any problem getting into the festive spirit.

  On the market square, they’ve built a podium where one play after another is performed, and on the corner of the street there’s a puppet show for the children. There are gypsy women in little tents who tell fortunes, astrologers, tightrope walkers and fire breathers. Not only the square but the streets around it are full of carts where you can stuff yourself silly on lardy cakes, spiced buns and other sweet treats.

  We bump into Isaac and Adelaide with their twins. We say hello, make polite conversation and keep walking.

  There’s enormous interest in the exhibition of physical curiosities. Giants and dwarves, hunchbacks and deformed people, all are thoroughly examined and discussed.

  A little further on the Republic’s Strongest Woman shows off how high she can lift a tree trunk into the air. A murmur of amazement ripples through the audience.

  ‘Well, it looks like a man.’ I eye the woman’s muscles with suspicion.

  ‘It is,’ says Evert. ‘He probably borrowed his wife’s clothes.’

  ‘Evert doesn’t believe anything.’ Quentin nudges his friend, grinning. ‘Have your fortune told, Evert. I did that last year and was promised a son.’

  ‘I could make a prediction like that. You’ve got a fifty per cent chance of being right.’ Evert looks over at the fortune-teller’s tent with a disparaging expression.

  ‘Shall we go in?’ Angelika asks.

  ‘Yes, you two go in. And ask exactly when the baby’s coming.’ Quentin grabs his purse and produces a coin.

  ‘I can tell you that myself: not long now,’ Angelika says as she takes the offered coin. ‘Come on, Catrin, we’re going in.’ She hands her daughters off to her husband and grabs my arm.

  I look to Evert for help but he just laughs. ‘Why not?’ he says. ‘As long as you don’t take all that twaddle too seriously.’

  The tent is open, showing that the fortune-teller isn’t with a customer, and we go in, feeling a bit giggly. Swags of dark cloth create an air of mystery. It smells strange, I can’t put my finger on the scent.

  A young gypsy woman dressed in a light-green robe with a transparent veil over her face smiles at us. ‘Take a seat, honoured ladies,’ she says in a soft, well-spoken voice.

  We sit down and her eyes go immediately to Angelika. Without saying anything she puts out her hand and, after a slight hesitation, Angelika places hers in it. The fortune-teller closes her eyes and sits silently for a long time. Then her lashes flutter open. ‘I see a long, blessed life. Great wealth is on its way.’

  ‘You mean my child. Will it be a boy?’ asks Angelika eagerly.

  ‘Yes, it will be a boy. The birth will go well. And after him you’ll bring many more healthy children into the world. But I was referring to your wealth in business too.’ She looks deep into Angelika’s eyes, as if reading her future there. ‘You and your husband are going to start a business that will continue from generation to generation. It will become a big, successful company.’

  ‘My husband is an assistant potter.’

  ‘Then it’s time he goes into business for himself.’ The gypsy’s gaze turns to me. She lets go of Angelika’s hand and takes mine. This time her eyes don’t close but widen. She stares at me for several seconds. A feeling of dread comes over me.

  ‘What?’ I ask, fearful now.

  ‘You must beware,’ she whispers. ‘Danger is lurking around the corner.’

  A shiver runs down my spine. ‘What sort of danger?’

  ‘Several dangers. You must be strong and pray a lot to ward it off.’

  ‘Be strong? But what am I supposed to do?’

  ‘Leave,’ says the woman firmly. ‘Go far away. That is the only solution.’

  A heavy silence falls in the tent. I swallow with an effort and see that Angelika is staring at me in shock. The fortune-teller has now closed her eyes but she keeps hold of my hand. When she starts trembling, I break free.

  ‘I think you’re talking rubbish,’ I say decisively, but even
I can hear the fear in my voice.

  ‘Yes, I think so too. Come on, Catrin, we’re going.’ Angelika slaps the coin down on the table and stands up.

  I get unsteadily to my feet, still watching the gypsy woman.

  ‘Run,’ she urges, ‘while you still can.’

  It only takes one glance at my face for Evert to see something is wrong. He puts his hand on my shoulder. ‘You don’t believe all that nonsense, I hope?’ he says, sounding concerned.

  ‘I don’t know … It’s not all rubbish. There are people who have real gifts of prophecy. It says so in the Bible.’

  ‘True, but there are many more who are charlatans. What did she have to say?’

  Quentin comes to stand next to us and studies me with knitted eyebrows. ‘Angelika told me what that fortune-teller said. That you’re in danger.’

  ‘She said it would be better if I went far away.’

  Evert’s face contorts in fury and he marches into the tent with long strides. We all look at each other uncomfortably. He isn’t in there for long. When he comes out his face is grim and he’s pushing the fortune-teller ahead of him. ‘This woman has something to say to you, Catrin.’

  The young woman falls to her knees and grips my hand. ‘Forgive me, milady, I was only saying whatever came to mind. If I predict a glittering future for everyone, people don’t believe me any more. I didn’t see anything particular, so I made something up.’

  People crowd around and stare at me, wondering what’s going on. Mortified, I try to pull my hand away, but the gypsy woman won’t let go. ‘I’ll try again and give you your money’s worth.’ She turns over my hand and examines it frantically. ‘You have a long lifeline, that’s good. And I see—’

  The bystanders start to jeer and I wrench my hand away. ‘It’s fine, I believe you.’ I turn to Evert. ‘Please, can we go?’

  He nods, puts an arm around me and steers me through the growing crowd. Quentin and Angelika follow with the children. Behind them, people are yelling at the fortune-teller and pelting her with horse droppings. By the time we’re standing in a quieter part of the square, I can see the fortune-teller’s tent being broken down and torn to pieces.

  Quentin sees my face. ‘Fortune-tellers know they’re running a risk. According to the Church, they’re not even allowed to be here. A hundred years ago they would have been flogged, so they’re getting off lightly. Shall we have a drink?’ He nudges Evert, who looks as if he doesn’t think flogging is such a bad idea, and laughs. ‘Come on, it’s the fair!’

  Evert relaxes and turns to me for confirmation.

  ‘That seems like a good idea,’ I say.

  We go into the Mechelen Inn, which is already pretty full. Digna and her daughter Gertrude wave to us but are too busy to stop and chat. Johannes is behind the bar. He makes time to come and stand with us for a minute.

  ‘Catrin, I want to introduce you to someone,’ he says, putting his hand on a man’s shoulder. ‘This is Carel Fabritius, my former master and one of my best friends.’

  A skinny man of about thirty with dark hair around his shoulders bows slightly. ‘I’ve heard about you, madam. You are the talk of Delft.’

  I laugh. ‘Is that so? All good, I hope.’

  ‘Very good. And now that I see you, I understand why. You’re from De Rijp, I hear. And where else could you be from? Such a fresh, blonde beauty could only come from thereabouts.’

  ‘Carel was born in Middenbeemster,’ Johannes says meaningfully.

  ‘That’s near De Rijp,’ I say, surprised. ‘Has everyone from those parts moved to Delft?’

  ‘It is indeed a coincidence. What’s your surname?’

  ‘Barentsdochter,’ Johannes supplies helpfully. ‘But you have been away from there for a while, Carel, so I don’t think you’ll have met before – or have you?’

  ‘If we had, I am certain I would have remembered.’ Carel gives another small, courtly bow. ‘Indeed, I have been away for a while. I lived in Amsterdam and I’ve been in Delft for four years now.’

  ‘Johannes told me. You were apprenticed to Rembrandt van Rijn, weren’t you? I met him once, in my previous job. And one of his apprentices, Nicholas Maes. The woman I worked for had painting lessons from him,’ I say.

  ‘I hear you paint yourself, too.’ Carel regards me with interest.

  ‘A little. Not all that well.’

  ‘Don’t sell yourself short. Johannes and I have something to confess. We looked at your painting. Evert showed it to us. He thinks you have talent and you should do something with it.’

  My eyes dart to Evert, who is watching from a short way off and beaming.

  ‘Did he say that?’

  ‘Yes, and he asked whether one of us wanted to give you lessons,’ says Carel.

  ‘Which I would very much like to do, but I’m so busy at the inn that I hardly have time to paint myself,’ says Johannes.

  ‘So I’m the one you’re left with. I can’t take on an apprentice for full training, but I do have time to teach you a few things. If you’re interested, of course. I understand from Evert that you can be spared on Mondays, so I propose we begin this coming Monday.’ Carel looks to me for a reaction.

  I’m dazed. Me? Painting lessons? My eye strays to Evert again, who has remained at a distance though he continues to watch me, a tender expression on his face. Bewildered, I turn to Carel.

  ‘I’m content with the work I’m doing, but I would very much like to learn to paint better.’

  ‘Then it’s agreed. I’ll see you Monday morning at eight at my studio on Doelen Street.’ Carel nods and walks away.

  Johannes winks at me and gets back to work.

  Evert cuts a path through the crush in my direction and we stand looking at each other.

  ‘Thank you,’ I say softly.

  ‘Are you going to do it?’

  ‘Yes, my first lesson’s on Monday.’

  ‘That’s splendid,’ Evert says with satisfaction. ‘I was able to agree a very reasonable price with Carel.’

  ‘I’m paying for it myself.’

  ‘Let me do this for you.’

  ‘I have money, I insist on paying for my lessons myself.’

  ‘And I insist on doing it for you. You’ve done me a great service by suggesting that we copy the Chinese porcelain. And what’s more, I’ll see what you learn with Carel in your work.’

  I can’t do much in the face of this many arguments. All kinds of emotions are fighting inside me: surprise, gratitude, and something else that leaves me confused and in a dither. But the only thing I say is, ‘Thank you.’

  23

  Long past midnight, I’m sitting next to Evert on the edge of a set of steps, gazing out at the empty market square. A lone reveller is still staggering about, drunk and shouting, but otherwise the square is deserted. Flaming torches give off some light in the darkness, the pale moon is likewise doing its best. I fiddle with the bracelet I got from Matthias, but stop when I see Evert is looking.

  ‘You have beautiful hands,’ he says. ‘So small and delicate. You should see mine.’ He holds up his hands, which are covered in scars, and we both laugh. ‘And a lovely bracelet. That’s lapis lazuli, isn’t it?’

  I nod. ‘I got it from Matthias before he went away.’

  ‘I thought as much.’

  We both stare out at the square for a while in silence.

  ‘Do you still love him?’ Evert asks after a time.

  His question hangs in the air like a bubble until I sigh. ‘I don’t know. I was completely in love with him, but that feeling is fading. It would have been more difficult if he’d been here.’

  ‘It will pass.’

  I nod. ‘And Gesina?’

  Now it’s his turn to be silent. ‘Gesina and I were young and in love when we got married,’ he says eventually. ‘She was very beautiful, and I couldn’t believe my luck when she said yes. Mostly because she came from a rich family and I wasn’t such a good prospect for her. But the future looked promisi
ng. I inherited the pottery from my parents – along with my brothers, of course. I bought them out. I was determined to make something of the business. It didn’t go as well as I’d thought. The competition in everyday earthenware was fierce and the rich preferred the exclusive porcelain from China. I did my best, but I couldn’t give Gesina the life of luxury she’d been expecting. She hated having to help out in the shop, which she saw as a terrible insult to her dignity. Though she did it, I could feel her silent resentment. Even our children helped out in the business, as little as they were. I was training our son, Cornelis, as a potter; both the girls did chores.’

  He falls silent and it’s only after a few minutes that I ask quietly how many children he had.

  ‘Three,’ says Evert. ‘Cornelis was the oldest, then came Magteld and Johanna. They were twelve, eight and five when they died. Between them came two others, but they died as babies.’

  I don’t say anything, I just squeeze his hand.

  ‘For a long time I thought I could have rescued them. That I should have run upstairs, even though it was already an inferno, or at least tried to get up there. I know it would have been pointless. By the time I made it up there I would have been burned to a crisp, I’d have died with my family. And that’s how it should have been. Instead, I shrank from the flames, I stood hesitating for seconds, while upstairs I could hear my children screaming. I’ll never forgive myself for that. And neither will God: he punishes me for it every night in my dreams.’

  A heavy silence stretches out between us.

  ‘Sometimes I wonder,’ I say, ‘whether we don’t punish ourselves much more harshly than God does.’

  ‘That might be true.’ He looks at me, but the darkness hides the expression on his face. I only have his voice to go on, and it sounds endlessly sad. Then he seems to rouse himself. He sits up a bit straighter and asks, ‘And what about you? What’s your story?’

  I shrug. ‘I’ll tell you some other time.’

  As the summer wears on, each Monday finds me standing outside Carel’s door on Doelen Street at eight o’clock. I’m not his only pupil but I am the only woman. On the other days of the week they paint nude models, but for the most part I paint city scenes and flowers.