The Miniaturist(10)
‘Seigneur Brandt had that made,’ says Otto, following the direction of her gaze.
‘It’s clever.’
‘It’s a trick,’ he replies. ‘It’ll peel off soon enough in the damp.’
‘But Marin told me that this house is dry. And that pedigree counts for nothing.’
Otto smiles. ‘Then she and I must disagree.’
Nella wonders to which of Marin’s two statements Otto is referring. She surveys the enormous shelves built into the wall, where three huge glass panes protect various plates and pieces of porcelain. She has never seen such a large collection. At home, they had a small array of Delftware and little else, for most of it had to be sold.
‘The Seigneur’s world in a set of plates,’ says Otto. Nella listens, trying to tell his voice for pride or envy, but hearing neither. Otto’s tone is studiedly neutral. ‘Delft, Dejima, China,’ he goes on. ‘Spanning the seas in crockery.’
‘Isn’t my husband rich enough for someone to travel for him?’
Otto frowns at the knife blade he’s buffing. ‘You have to keep your wealth afloat and no one will do it for you. It’ll run through your fingers if you don’t take care.’ He finishes, folding his soft cloth into a neat square.
‘So he works hard?’
Otto makes a spiral motion with his finger, to the fake glass dome above their heads, toward the illusion of depth. ‘His shares have gone up and up.’
‘And what happens when they get to the top?’
‘What always happens, Madame. Things will spill over.’
‘And then?’
‘Why then,’ he says, ‘I suppose we sink or swim.’ Picking up a large soup spoon, Otto looks at his warped features shrunk into the convex silver.
‘Do you go with him to sea?’
‘No.’
‘Why not? You are his servant.’
‘I no longer sail.’
Nella wonders how long he’s lived upon this man-made land, shored up from the marshes with deep polders and determination. Marin called him a Dutchman. ‘The Seigneur’s spirit belongs on the seas,’ Otto says. ‘And mine does not, Madame.’
Nella pulls her hand out of Peebo’s cage and takes a seat next to the fireplace. ‘How do you know so much about my husband’s spirit?’
‘Haven’t I ears and eyes?’
Nella is startled. Such boldness was not expected – but then Cornelia too feels this free to speak her mind. ‘Of course you do, I—’
‘The sea is something the land can never be, Madame,’ Otto says. ‘No patch stays the same.’
‘Otto.’
There is Marin, standing at the doorway. Otto rises, his cutlery laid out like an arsenal of gleaming weapons. ‘He’s working,’ Marin says to Nella. ‘With much to do.’
‘I was only asking him about the Seigneur’s—’
‘Leave that, Otto,’ Marin says. ‘You need to send those scrolls.’
Marin turns away and disappears. ‘Madame,’ Otto whispers to Nella under the receding footfall. ‘Would you kick a hive? It’ll only get you stung.’
Nella cannot tell if this is a piece of advice or an order. ‘I’d keep that cage shut, Madame,’ he adds, nodding at Peebo. She listens to his step up the kitchen stairs; perfectly measured and soft.
The Gift
For the next two nights in the house, Nella waits for Johannes to put his hands on her and start her life anew. She leaves her bedroom door ajar, the key hanging off the thick oak panel – but when she wakes in the morning, it is, like her, untouched. He seems to be working late. At night, she hears the front door creak open, and often in the early morning when the sun cracks low along the sky. The dull light seeps into her eyes as she sits up, followed by the realization she is yet again alone.
Once dressed, Nella wanders aimlessly around the rooms on the ground and first floors. At the back of the house, further away from any possible guests, the rooms are plainer, for all grandeur has been saved up for the ones whose windows overlook the street. These front chambers seem at their most beautiful when no one is in them, wearing their furniture down or placing muddy footprints on their polished floors.
She pokes her head round marble pillars and empty fireplaces, roving an untrained eye over the paintings – so many paintings! Ships with crucifix-like masts rising to the sky, hot-looking landscapes, more dying flowers, upturned skulls like brown root vegetables, broken-stringed viols, sprawling taverns and dancers, gold plates, enamelled seashell cups. To stare quickly at them all has a sickening effect. The gold-leaf leather wallpaper on the walls still smells vaguely of pig, reminding her of the Assendelft farmyards. Turning away, unwilling to be reminded of a place she thought she was so keen to leave behind – Nella is confronted with vast Bible tapestries hanging from the panels; Mary and Martha with Jesus, the wedding at Cana, clever Noah and his sturdy ark.
In the best kitchen, Nella notices Johannes’ two lutes that Cornelia keeps polished and hanging on the tiles. Reaching up to take one off its hook, Nella jumps with shock, for a restraining hand is already on her shoulder.
‘It’s not for playing,’ snaps Marin. ‘It’s a piece of craftsmanship that will be ruined by your plucking.’