Midnight Blue

by Simone van der Vlugt

  ‘It isn’t enough,’ I say one morning at the end of September. ‘If I’m to be able to paint the Chinese figures well, I can’t carry on doing flowers and dragons. How can I paint people if I have no knowledge of anatomy?’

  ‘But the Chinese wear baggy clothes.’ Carel is standing before a recently finished painting that is about to be picked up by a client. ‘You can hardly take part in the lessons with live models. I understand it’s frustrating, but it simply isn’t possible.’

  ‘How can women ever become master painters if they can’t study the human form? Men get every opportunity to do so!’

  ‘There are women enrolled in the Guild of Saint Luke. Judith Leyster from Haarlem, for example. A highly talented artist.’

  ‘I know, there’s one in Alkmaar too: Isabella Bardesius. So how were they trained?’

  ‘Same as you, by specialising in still lifes. Though they have also done portraits.’ Suddenly Carel turns the canvas he’s been staring at so that it’s facing me, easel and all. ‘Be honest, what’s wrong with this kind of painting?’

  I go and stand next to him. I hadn’t seen his latest work yet, it’s only just finished. The paint is wet and gleams in the morning light. On the canvas there’s a little bird with yellow feathers and a red beak. Despite its fierce gaze, it’s clear that this is a pet because the tiny creature is chained by its foot to a special perch fastened to a wall. It’s a small, intimate painting. I look at it, struck dumb by its simplicity and beauty.

  ‘Magnificent,’ I say eventually.

  ‘I’m calling it The Goldfinch. I don’t really want to part with it.’

  ‘I understand. Wouldn’t you rather keep it yourself?’

  ‘Yes, but that way I’d die of hunger.’

  We examine the painting in a companionable silence.

  ‘You’re right,’ I say. ‘There’s nothing wrong with still lifes at all.’ I go back to my place behind my easel. ‘How did you end up in Delft?’

  For a moment it seems as if Carel hasn’t heard me, because he keeps his back to me and doesn’t react. It’s only when I resume painting that he starts to talk.

  ‘Alice was my great love,’ he says, his eyes focused resolutely on the painting. ‘She was pretty, funny and my best friend. We grew up together, she was my neighbour. When we were little we agreed to marry each other when we were older.’ He turns and adds, ‘And that’s what we did.’

  I can hear from his voice that this isn’t the end of the story.

  ‘Alice wanted to move to Amsterdam. She had wealthy relatives there, who helped me to pay my apprentice fees. That’s how I was apprenticed to Rembrandt, and I soon received my own commissions once I was a master painter myself. It was a wonderful time, Alice and I enjoyed life. But things never stay as they are. Everything that’s good and beautiful always falls apart.’ He comes and sits down next to me, staring with unseeing eyes at the canvas I’m working on. ‘Alice was desperate to have children. When she was still a child herself, she already knew what their names would be. We had three children, and not one of them made it to their first birthday. Alice died in childbirth during her third labour.’

  ‘How awful …’

  ‘My career was going from strength to strength, but I’d had enough of Amsterdam. I went back to Middenbeemster and there I stayed until I met Agatha a couple of years ago. She was a widow, we understood each other’s grief. After we got married we came to live in Delft, where she’s from.’

  ‘What a sad story,’ I say softly.

  ‘It’s a normal story, there are so many of them. Sooner or later we all get our fair share of sorrow. The only thing you can hope is that it comes later rather than sooner, so you can at least know some happiness first. But I don’t need to tell you that, do I?’

  I look at him, confused.

  ‘I know you, Catrin. I know who you are.’

  ‘You know who I am?’

  ‘How many years separate us? Ten or so? De Rijp, Graft and Middenbeemster are right next to each other. I’ve got friends and relatives living in all three villages. I knew Govert, your husband, very well. And I go home sometimes, so I’ve heard the rumours.’

  This news comes like a kick to the gut. To hide my feelings, I carry on painting even though my hand is shaking. ‘What rumours?’

  ‘I think you know exactly what I mean. Is that why you left, Catrin?’ His face is friendly, his voice contains no accusation. ‘I know what Govert was like. He had two faces. On the outside he could be quite charming, but he had another side. I’m sure you found that out for yourself.’

  Unable to speak, I sit still as stone, like an animal in a trap. ‘Yes,’ I say eventually.

  ‘So you’ll have been relieved when he died.’

  ‘He was stone drunk. He was lying in bed, sleeping it off. When I left the room he was snoring loudly, when I came back half an hour later, he was dead.’

  He frowns. ‘Why did you leave De Rijp?’

  ‘Why not? I always wanted to leave, even as a girl. After Govert died, there was nothing to keep me there.’

  ‘There are those who saw it as running away.’

  ‘It was. I was running away from the confinement of that village. I wanted a new life, to be free, to meet new people.’

  ‘And do you like it?’

  I stare at him in confusion. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘What I said. Do you like your new, free life?’

  I have to think about that for a minute. ‘Yes,’ I say finally. ‘I miss my family, but I don’t want to go back. I can’t go back.’

  ‘No,’ says Carel under his breath. ‘If I were you, that would be the last thing I’d do.’

  24

  The week after that I attempt a portrait for the first time. Carel has received a commission from Simon Simonszoon, the verger of the cathedral, to paint his portrait, and Carel has his apprentices do the same.

  Before we’ve even got started, Carel realises there’s no more oil to mix paint with. Annoyed, he sets the empty jar on the table. ‘If one of you uses the last of it, it’s helpful if that person tells me.’

  ‘It’s my fault, I’m sorry,’ I say, ashamed.

  ‘Go and get some more then. And be quick about it.’

  I get up at once, pull on my jerkin and glance apologetically over at the verger, who’s sitting ready in his best linen suit. He nods reassuringly. ‘It looks as though there’s enough for now.’

  I flash him a grateful smile, grab the empty jar and hurry out of the door. I run as fast as I can to Old Delft Street. At the oil merchant’s, I get them to fill the jar to the brim, after that I head straight back again.

  It’s a glorious October day and the streets are busy. The hatches on all the shops are open, wares are on display and maids and housewives are doing their shopping from the street. I protect the jar with my arm as I move through the crowd. Just as I turn onto Fish Street there’s a deafening crack, like an explosion. The noise is so overwhelmingly loud that I duck and lose my balance. The jar shatters and I smash into the wall. All around me people are running for cover or throwing themselves to the ground.

  Before I’ve even understood what’s going on, a second boom resounds. Panic breaks out in the narrow street, people fight to get away, pushing and shoving. The stench of smoke and powder burns my nostrils. I get to my feet, push a woman out of my way and run.

  At the end of the street I come to a stop. Ink-black clouds of smoke are rolling towards me. I turn back in panic. Throngs of people block my path. I turn right, along the water of Verwersdijk.

  Meanwhile it’s getting darker and darker around me. Coughing, I look up at the cloud of smoke spreading ever wider above me and hanging like a black blanket over the city. A couple of streets further, flames roar; people are screaming, ‘Fire, fire!’

  A third explosion thunders through the city. A roar so loud it seems to come straight from hell itself makes the houses and pavement shake and windows crack and fall to pieces. I feel glass pierce my
skin but the pain I anticipate doesn’t come. The only thing I feel is all-consuming terror.

  In the distance, some kind of storm is raging towards us. It’s as if the hand of God is tearing through the streets, sweeping off roof tiles left and right, smashing in gables, ripping off doors and shutters and casting them down. The water in the canal is boiling, slopping over the edge of the quay. Boats are being turned to matchwood, debris flying everywhere, people are snatched up and thrown down again yards away. The storm howls down on me with terrifying speed.

  I turn and run for my life. The wave of destruction is pursuing me, it will be here in a few seconds. I scream as I’m picked up and carried along with it. The next thing I know, I’m crashing to the ground.

  I look around, dazed. To my surprise, I’ve been blasted into a house. The walls of the hall bulge back and forth, the wooden beams creak as if they could give way any second. When I try to move, my vision goes black. The pain goes through me in waves. I pass out. When I come round, I hear fire crackling. I open my eyes in alarm and look through the hole in the demolished roof, straight into hell. There’s smoke everywhere, flames are roaring through the upper parts of the house and inching their way down.

  With my teeth clenched I ease myself upright until I’m in a sitting position. The air around me is thick with smoke, making it harder to breathe. A shower of sparks falls on me, eating holes into my clothes. At the same time, I feel a burning pain in my scalp and smell something foul. I slap wildly at my head with both hands. My cap is gone and my hair is fertile ground for the sparks. I ignore the pain in my hands and beat out the flames. After that, I crawl to the hole where the door had been. Every movement is agony but I don’t seem to have broken anything. The remains of the roof creak above me and before I can make it to the door, the whole thing comes down on me with a huge crash.

  I scream, trying to protect my head with my arms. All kinds of things fall on me, planks, roof tiles, stones. I lie motionless in a cloud of dust, my eyes squeezed tight and my face pressed into the floor. Stabbing pains bite into my legs.

  I wait, coughing, until the dust settles and I can breathe again.

  I try with all my might to crawl out from under the rubble. Something on my legs stops me. No matter how much I struggle and twist, I can’t find the strength to free myself. Meanwhile, sounds begin to float in from outside, shouts and cries, interspersed with piercing screams. The abrupt silence that follows makes me panic. You don’t need much imagination to understand what’s happening further on in the city. The fire has reached the far side of the canal and is destroying everyone and everything in its path. People like me, who aren’t in any fit state to get away. The one faint hope I can cling to is that I have more time. The flames have yet to reach the buildings on this side. It won’t be long, because most of the houses are made of wood and embers are raining down onto the street.

  Once more I attempt to free myself from the weight on my legs. The wreckage is too heavy for me to kick it off, so I try to slide out from underneath. I grit my teeth and draw my legs towards me. Something sharp tears open my flesh and I scream. I lie panting. I’ve only managed to move an inch or so and the pain is so intense I don’t know whether I can do it a second time. But I don’t have much choice.

  I take some time to overcome the waves of pain and muster the courage for another attempt. Almost in tears, I pull my legs up again. Blood streams over my skin and I give a raw cry to spur myself on. I gain another little bit of ground. Too little. One leg now has a bit of space to move, I can’t move the other at all.

  Lying on my side, I look at the street opposite, where the glow of the fire keeps getting redder. The ships on the canal are ablaze now, flames jump from them to the trees onto the freight on the quayside. I heave at my legs, again and again, with short, jerking movements. With every wrench, I grow shorter of breath and my vision keeps going dark more and more often. Whatever it is that’s on top of me, it’s not budging an inch. I feel the heat of the approaching fire and scream. My parents’ and brothers’ faces shimmer before my eyes, then those of Evert and Matthias. Before merciful unconsciousness overtakes me, I feel a brief but deep sorrow that I won’t see them again.

  25

  Something’s pulling at me. Muffled voices bring me back.

  ‘Easy,’ someone says. ‘That leg’s broken. I’ll count to three and then we’ll lift.’

  I open my eyes. There are figures bending over me. They count and I feel the weight being lifted off my leg. A chunk of stone is thrown aside with an enormous crash. Strong arms carry me outside. My leg dangles loosely as we move. The pain is terrible and I slip away.

  When I come round for the second time, I’m on a wooden stretcher surrounded by an enormous crush of bodies. People are shouting to each other, jumping over the stretcher and knocking my wounded leg. I scream and a furious voice sends the bystanders away. I faint again, and the next time I wake I am in a bed. Not at home, judging by the foul smell coming from the sheets and the racket all around me.

  I open my eyes and look to one side, into a room. The walls are lined with bunks from which a loud groaning emanates. More casualties are lying on the ground, on stretchers or on the flagstones. People force their way in between the bodies; people searching for family members, nurses. I surmise that I’m lying in the inn on Corn Market. And that I’m alive. I was saved from burning to death just in time.

  I close my eyes and thank God. The relief is so great I can stand the pain a little better. I don’t know exactly what’s wrong with me, but I’ve got bandages almost everywhere. The worst injury is to my right leg. I can’t make a single move without it sending a shock through me.

  Gingerly, I lift the blanket and peer underneath. My leg is bound to a small plank. The strips of cloth binding it aren’t particularly clean. They look grey and blood is seeping through them. My own blood or that of the previous patient?

  My slight movement has already created dark spots before my eyes. I close them and try to ignore the chaos around me.

  ‘Catrin …’

  A familiar voice. Urgent and a little hoarse. I open my eyes, turn my head to the side and see Evert’s face close to mine. His eyes are red and he’s deathly pale. I raise my hand, which is also bandaged, and smile reassuringly at him.

  ‘You’re alive. Thank God you’re alive. I thought …’ He shakes his head speechlessly.

  ‘I’d just left. Fetching oil for the paint.’

  ‘It saved your life. The whole neighbourhood exploded.’

  ‘Carel?’

  ‘He’s in here too, he’s badly injured. His chances of recovery are slim. His apprentices are dead and so is Simon, the verger.’

  I close my eyes and let this information sink in. ‘What happened?’

  ‘The artillery depot exploded. They still don’t know what caused it. There must have been an enormous amount of powder in there, because the whole neighbourhood went up.’

  ‘How terrible …’

  For a while we watch the stream of casualties still being brought in. The floor of the makeshift infirmary is full and the innkeeper gives instructions for them to take over the nave of the church next door. The wailing, screaming and shouting is deafening. There’s blood everywhere and a heavy smell of iron in the air. An amputation is being carried out somewhere in the room and the patient is resisting, screeching mindlessly. The stench of burning oil, used to cauterise the blood vessels, mixes with the smell of burnt flesh.

  Evert’s face contorts with revulsion. ‘I can’t leave you here. You’re coming with me.’

  ‘I can’t, my leg’s broken.’

  ‘We’re going to get you home. On a wagon or a stretcher.’

  The mere thought of having to bump and jolt my way through the city makes me shudder. ‘No, please. How am I going to cope alone at home?’

  ‘I’ll take you to my house.’

  His suggestion is touching, but I shake my head. ‘That would only give Delft another thing to gossip about.
And incidentally, you have no time to be nursing me.’

  ‘Anna, my housekeeper, can do that.’

  I shake my head once more. ‘I can’t bear the thought of being taken anywhere else. If I move even a tiny bit, the pain almost kills me. Really, this is the best place for me.’

  Evert looks around, unconvinced. ‘I think leaving you here is a terrible idea. It will be weeks before a break like that heals.’

  ‘I’ll be feeling better in a week or two.’

  ‘Then I’m coming to fetch you in two weeks, whether you want me to or not.’

  Carel dies the same afternoon. Johannes and Digna tell me the news.

  ‘Maybe it’s for the best,’ Digna says. ‘The poor man was burnt to a crisp. He would have been terribly maimed for the rest of his life.’

  Johannes says nothing, he stares fixedly into the distance, as if he can’t believe he’s lost one of his best friends.

  ‘We’re so happy you survived.’ Digna places her hand on mine. ‘You must have had an angel on your shoulder.’

  ‘Yes … I don’t know what I’ve done to earn it.’

  ‘It’s all arbitrary,’ Johannes says hoarsely. ‘Luck, misfortune, death, survival. God acts at random.’

  His mother looks up at him, shocked. ‘Johannes!’

  ‘But that’s how it is, isn’t it? I know no better man than Carel. Always concerned with the weak and needy, always ready to give alms, went to church every Sunday. What did he do to deserve a death like that? And don’t say it’s all part of God’s great plan, Mother, because I can’t hear that any more. I don’t understand those plans at all.’

  Digna frowns and opens her mouth to silence Johannes, but I get in there first. ‘Johannes is right. I don’t understand it either.’

  ‘That’s not for us to do. Be grateful that He saved you.’

  ‘Of course I’m grateful.’ I look into the room and allow my gaze to fall on a young woman who sits crying beside her little boy, whose arms have been amputated. ‘But I don’t understand it all the same.’