Tulip Fever (33 page)

59

Jan

Love laughs at locksmiths.

—JACOB CATS, Moral Emblems, 1632

Mattheus and Lysbeth are waiting in the kitchen. The goose turns on the spit. Drops of fat fall from it, hissing in the flames. Their spaniel watches, strings of saliva hanging from its mouth.

When Jan comes in, Mattheus rallies. He pours him a glass of brandy and puts his arms around him. “You poor old rogue,” he says. “You’ve always been a fool when it comes to women.”

“She’s not women.”

“So what are you going to do now?”

Jan drains the glass. “We can still sail tomorrow, but we need your help.”

He asks for a loan. Mattheus agrees.

Lysbeth takes Jan’s hand. “We’re glad to be of help. Soon you will be gone, and you can put all this behind you.”

At this moment their eldest son, Albert, wanders in.

“Time for your dinner,” says Lysbeth. “Call the others.”

“Who’s that woman?” asks the boy.

“What woman?” asks Jan.

“That woman who came running down the stairs,” says Albert. “In the blue cloak. Is she a model?”

“Where is she?”

“She’s gone.”

60

Sophia

None can clean their dress from stain, but some blemish will remain.

—JACOB CATS, Moral Emblems, 1632

There is a full moon tonight. No painter can reproduce the perfection of God’s work; what presumption to try! The moon is a perfect circle, more perfect than the orbs that Jan painted in his moonlit landscapes, more perfect than the rows of greedy O’s that he drew when he was hunched over his sums . . . those empty O’s that led us to this.

The streets are deserted. They are bathed in ghostly light as I run through them, my slippers pit-patting. For once I do not care if I am seen, for I have reached my final surrender. Last night I died to the world, but tonight I shall disappear for good. The relief makes me light-footed; I skim along.

The moon, reflected in the water, accompanies me. The heavens have fallen; in one convulsion my world has been turned upside down. No wonder that print haunted me when I was little, that drowned world where the bells tolled underwater and the dead swayed. I thought that their arms waved in supplication; now I realize that they waved in greeting. I knew that I would arrive here in the end.

The waters of this city mirror us back to ourselves—the vanity of it! Maria dressed up in my clothes; she gazed in the mirror and dreamed herself as me. My own vanity is far more profound. I have presumed to turn the natural order inside out. I have meddled with God’s plan; my pride is the pride of our people who wrenched our country from the sea.
The making of new land belongs to God alone
, wrote one of our engineers, Andries Vierlingh,
for He gives to some peoplethe wit and strength to do it
. What double-thinking is this? We use God to justify our actions when in fact it is our own instinct for survival that pushes us on.

But why survive? This world is but a chimera, a dazzling reflection. Did we suspect this, when we built our city upon mirrors? Once I dreamed of a life with Jan. I gazed into the water and saw a dream world, mirroring my own, where I could be happy. How wrong I was. For it was nothing—just the glitter of moonlight on the surface, the sheeny satin luster of a dress. That was all it ever was. Through lust and pride, those deadly sins, I blinded myself to the truth.

Tonight I shall bid good-bye to this optical illusion. I shall disappear from this world and truly be reborn, for Jesus waits for me, His arms outstretched like a lover. And nobody, not even my darling Jan, will be able to find me.
There’s only one way to escape
, we said, all those months ago,
and for him never to think to look for me
.

I am standing on a bridge now. I look down at the pewtery sheen of the water. I think of all the things I have loved in this world: my sisters, flowers with dewdrops trembling in their freckled throats . . . the smell of clean linen, the smell of a horse’s neck when I bury my face in its fur . . . the taste of warmed wine as Jan poured it from his mouth into mine, of his skin against my lips . . . I remember the first night we lay together, our fingers laced, gazing at each other with terrible seriousness . . . in our end was our beginning, for we knew in our hearts that we were doomed . . .

There is no time to lose. He will be searching for me now and I have not gone far—just a few streets from Mattheus’s house. I lean over the parapet, gazing at the moon’s reflection. Like my own face, it gazes up at me.
Vanity of vanities, all is vanity
. . .

I pull off my cloak and drop it over the edge. It floats on the water—my last, shed skin.

61

Willem

What waters are not shadowed by her sails?
On which mart does she not sell her wares?
What peoples does she not see, lit by the moon,
She who herself sets the laws of the whole ocean?

—JOOST VAN DEN VONDEL

Down in the port, six ships of the fleet have docked. Crowds of sailors pour down the gangways, setting foot in their homeland for the first time in months. Some fall to their knees and kiss the ground, thanking God for their safe return; others head for the stews. The seafront seethes with activity—relatives, pickpockets and whores mill around the new arrivals. Hawkers shout their wares. Lights glow in the waterside taverns; the brothels throb with music.

A young man weaves his way through the crowd. He carries his belongings in a bag, slung over his shoulder. The flames of a brazier illuminate his face. Eight months at sea have transformed Willem. He has lost his puppy fat; his face is lean and brown. He walks with confidence. The sea has made a man of him—a fine young man, tall and upstanding, though the streets still roll beneath his feet. He is not the same Willem who left in March, battered, beaten and stripped of his illusions. He has lost his innocence— that will never return. However, something more profound has taken its place: wonder.

The sights he has seen! Mountains, for a start. He is a Dutchman; he has never seen such things before. Who could believe they could be so steep? He has seen waves as high as mountains and mountains so tall they must be scraping heaven. He has seen whales the size of mountains, whales hoving into sight, water spouting through their blowholes, water sluicing off their sides, whales plunging into the depths, a moment of stillness and then their great tails rearing up and following them. He has seen shooting stars in a spangled southern sky; he has seen flying fish glittering like silver arrows. He has seen cities to dream about: the gleaming domes of Constantinople; the ravishing, mirrored streets of Venice, corrupt and seductive, like Amsterdam’s wanton sister.

Willem has both seen wonders and caused wonder in others. After his first disastrous encounter with a whore he has made up for lost time, and the reaction has been gratifying. In three languages women of easy virtue have marveled at his astonishing member. (
Wat heb je een grote lul!
. . .
Che grozzo kazzo! . . . Ku kuzegar o khar o kuze faroush!
) It has done battle and so has he. He has battled against storms in the Bay of Biscay, scaling the rigging and lashing the ropes. He waged war against the fever and survived. Most gratifying of all, he has fought the Spanish and has a full purse to prove it.

For Willem has gold in his pocket. Not the fool’s gold that fattened his purse the last time he walked these streets—this is real cash, plundered in a spirit of patriotism. While engaged on escort duty to a merchant fleet sailing to the Levant, his ship was attacked by a Spanish vessel. After a fierce engagement the Dutchmen captured the ship, plundered its cargo and divided up the spoils. His captain and fellow crewmen have taken their percentage of the bullion.

It is not surprising that Willem feels a profound gratitude to the sea. She has yielded up two livelihoods: her fish and then her gold. With this booty, plus his wages, he has enough cash to discharge himself from the navy and start a new life. His expectations are still modest. A little shop, he would be happy with that. Not fish, however; he is sick of fish. He wants to set up in a little cheese shop, with Maria at his side.

All these months he has tried to forget her but he cannot do so; she is lodged in his body like lead shot. Maria has made him a chronic invalid. Maybe the wound has healed but she lies beneath his skin; the slightest movement inflames the pain. He misses her desperately. The bitterness is still there; it has eaten away at his heart but it has failed to destroy his love for her. She is his soul mate; it is as simple as that. With rented arms around him it was Maria to whom he made love; it was through her eyes that he marveled at the minarets of Alexandria.