Tulip Fever (29 page)

—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?”