Tulip Fever (30 page)

I have been sleeping for a long time. The storm is over; sunlight streams through the window. I will remain here, out of sight, until Jan comes to collect me. Mattheus and his wife are hiding me here in their house; they are sworn to secrecy. They are the only people alive who know the truth, apart from the doctor and the midwife who delivered me, for I am newly born too. The two men who carried me here assumed I was just a body. How roughly they handled me! Where is the respect? When life has departed we are nothing but a sack of turnips and I have the bruises to prove it. After all, our soul has flown.

“Bones! Muscles!” booms Mattheus through the floorboards. “That’s what’s under our skin. If you can’t understand how a body works, how on earth can you bloody paint it?”

I still cannot catch up with what has happened. Last night has the stagy unreality of a theatrical performance. It
was
a performance. We mouthed the words, we acted our parts. Much of the time I was alone, screaming my painless screams to nothing but my dusty bridal coronet that hung from the ceiling. My fellow actors were upstairs with Maria, working for real.

I tell myself: I will never set foot in that house again. I will leave my clothes in the closets, my tasks half finished, for I am dead.

The enormity of it has not yet hit me. The house is just a stage set from which, when the show was over, I slipped away into the night.

I do not want to think. Because once I do, I shall realize what I have done to my husband.

53

Gerrit

Where the knot is loose, the string slippeth.

—JACOB CATS, Moral Emblems, 1632

Gerrit plods along the street. His legs ache; he has crossed the city once and now he is halfway back. Not far now, and he will be home. He will deliver the packages, Jan will pay him and then he will be a free man.

He hears, far away, the banging of a drum. Faint music floats in the air. The sound tugs him as if he is a bullock, pulled by a rope. He follows it and finds himself in the market square. A crowd has gathered. Clutching his packages, he eases his way through. He stops, entranced, and gazes at the scene.

A group of traveling entertainers has set up in the corner of the square. A man, dressed as Harlequin, juggles balls. Gerrit loves jugglers. Next to him a swarthy magician stands on a box, flourishing scarves. Gerrit loves magicians even more. The drum rolls. The magician shakes open a scarf: out flies a dove. The crowd roars. Gerrit’s jaw drops.

The magician holds an egg in the palm of his hand. Grinning, he shows it to the crowd. He closes his hand. The drum rolls. He opens his hand. It’s empty. Then he puts his hand behind his ear and—hey presto!—pulls out the egg.

The crowd roars louder. Gerrit stands there, his mouth hanging open. How does the fellow do it? It’s magic! Gerrit’s wits try to grapple with this; it is beyond his understanding. It is like these pigments, here in the parcel. Just lumps and crystals, that is all they are. Jan will make them disappear. He will transform them into trees. The sky!

Gerrit stands there, as enchanted as a child. There’s another fellow, dressed as an Oriental. He’s swallowing nails.
Nails
. Gerrit cannot bear to look. He squeezes his eyes shut and next moment, when he opens them, the man is blowing flames out of his mouth.

And then a donkey is dragged on. It is pitifully thin and wears a dunce’s hood on its head. The man looks like a gypsy—wizened, with a flourishing mustache. He is dressed up as a teacher and carries a blackboard, which he props up in front of the donkey. He cracks his whip; the beast won’t budge.

Gerrit stands, rooted to the spot. A cripple rattles his tin at him but he takes no notice. The man cracks his whip again.

“Time for class, Dobbin!”

The crowd titters. Gerrit is a simple, softhearted man. He loves all defenseless creatures—puppies, kittens. He especially loves donkeys—their big, furry heads, their ears. Maybe it’s because he has been called a donkey himself; when Jan gets angry with him he calls him an ass.

The donkey refuses to go down on its knees. It stands there on its dainty hooves, its great head hanging. It looks so sad, its ears poking out of the holes in its hood. They move back and forth, separately.

“Time for your sums, Dobbin!” The man cracks his whip again. The donkey lifts up its head and brays—a noise of bottomless despair.

Suddenly the man loses his temper. He whips the donkey once, hard. The crowd titters. Then he starts whipping it in earnest—hard, stinging strokes.

Gerrit’s eyes fill with tears. The poor dumb creature. The crowd is laughing now. How could they? The donkey stands there, rocked by the stings of the whip.

Something snaps. Gerrit drops his parcels and pushes through the crowd.

“That’s not n-n-n-nice!” he bellows.

The man gazes at him. Gerrit grabs the whip out of the man’s hand.

Like a showman, Gerrit flourishes the whip. It hisses above his head. The crowd gasps. Then—
thwack
!—he hits the donkey man. He whips the bastard harder and harder; the whip sings through the air. The man cowers, backing off, his hands over his face. The crowd roars louder.

And now Gerrit is chasing the donkey man across the square. The crowd applauds, pressing back to let him pass. The fellow zigzags around the stalls and vaults over a box of apples. Gerrit thunders after him in pursuit. The man sprints down an alley and is gone.

SUDDENLY, GERRIT IS A HERO. People are patting him on the back. He is being propelled into the nearby tavern. Voices jabber around him. “You saw him off and no mistake!” Gerrit feels limp. He trembles with shock, for he is not a violent man. In fact, he has never hit anybody in his life.

Somebody sits him down at a table. “He deserved it,” says a voice, “the cowardly rascal!”

“It just didn’t seem right,” mutters Gerrit modestly. “Poor donkey . . . poor dumb creature. I’m a poor dumb creature, but does my master beat me?”

There is an explosion of laughter. Gerrit blushes, pleased at his own wit. A tankard of beer is put in front of him.

“It’s on the house.” A big, blowsy woman smiles at him.

“Just the one,” he says. “Then I must be on my way.” He is still trembling; he can hardly lift the tankard to his lips.

“I heard the commotion,” says the woman. “I saw what you did. Know something? I’ve buried two husbands and you’re more of a man than both of them put together.”

Gerrit is gazing, mesmerized, at her breasts.
Both of
them
. . . They are the largest breasts he has ever seen. They have a life of their own, shifting like creatures trying to get comfortable under her blouse. He gulps down his beer.

Other people join them. The lady tells them about Gerrit’s valiant exploit.

Gerrit says: “I’m a poor old donkey myself, but does my master beat me?”

They roar with laughter all over again. He is hugely enjoying himself now.

A boy comes in. He puts three packages on the table. “You dropped these,” he says.

Gerrit stares at them. Phew! That was a near miss. All this excitement, it has been wiped clean from his mind. He nearly lost them. Truly he
is
an ass.

He rises to his feet. “I’d better be off.”

Someone sits him down again. Another brimming tankard is put in front of him.

54

Jan

By so much the more are we inwardly foolish, by how much we strive to seem outwardly wise.

—JACOB CATS, Moral Emblems, 1632

There is a knock at the door. Thank God! Gerrit has returned.

Jan jumps to his feet and opens it. His landlord steps into the room.

“Oh,” says Jan.

“Just checking,” says the man. He is a skinny, shrewd fellow who lives in the next street.

“You too?” asks Jan. “Think I’m going to leave without saying good-bye?”

“Just checking. Can’t be too careful. Seeing as you owe me two months’ rent. Seeing as—let’s admit it—we’ve had some arrears in the past.”

Doctor Sorgh shifts in his seat. He darts a look in Jan’s direction. He sighs, as if his suspicions were indeed well founded.

“You’ll have the money by the end of the afternoon,” says Jan. “So will these other gentlemen. I’ll bring it round personally.”

“I think I’ll wait here.” The landlord looks at the doctor and the boy, sitting there. “I assume that’s what you’re doing too? May I join you?” He sits down.

“Gerrit will be here shortly,” says Jan. He adds pathetically: “He’s bringing us cakes.” Where in God’s name is his servant, the bumbling ass? He turns to the doctor. “What time is it?”

Doctor Sorgh takes out his pocket watch. “Ten minutes past three.”