The Miniaturist(13)

‘For once in your life, be quiet.’

Marin reluctantly stands away from the wooden construction. Otto appears from the kitchen and eyes the new arrival with interest. Johannes seems slightly deflated, as if sensing his gesture is beginning to backfire.

The tortoiseshell casing reminds Nella of autumn in Assendelft, oranges and browns caught in motion, of Carel taking her by the hands and spinning her around beneath the garden trees. Pewter has indeed been embedded through like metal veins, fine and flowing over the entire surface, even the legs. There is an odd thrill in the wood and shell. Even the touch of the velvet curtains suggests a certain power.

In Assendelft, Nella knew richer children who’d been given cabinet houses, but none so grand as this. Before her father had drunk away their money there might have been a chance she’d have one too – smaller than this, a practice-instrument so she might learn to manage her larders, her linen, her servants and furnishings. Now she’s married, she’d like to think there is no need.

Nella catches Johannes watching her. ‘The hallway floor is identical,’ she offers, gesturing beneath their feet to where the black and white tiles span out. She places her finger delicately on the correspondent, miniature squares. ‘Italian marble,’ says Johannes.

‘I don’t like it,’ says Marin. ‘And neither does Rezeki.’ Johannes snaps. ‘Well, that’s a bitch’s taste.’ Marin’s face flames red, and she storms to the front door, slamming it behind her.

‘Where’s she going?’ asks Cornelia, sounding panicked. She and Otto watch their mistress’s progress from the front window.

‘I thought it would be a good surprise,’ Johannes says. ‘

But, Seigneur,’ says Nella. ‘What must I do with it?’

Johannes looks at her, slightly blank. He rubs the velvet curtains between forefinger and thumb before drawing them shut. ‘You’ll think of something.’

Johannes disappears into his study with the click of a lock. Otto and Cornelia make a quick descent to the lower ground floor, towards the working kitchen. Alone except for Rezeki whimpering around the hallway walls, Nella considers her gift. Her heart sinks. I am too old for this, she thinks. Who will see this piece of work, who will be able to sit on those chairs, or eat the waxen food? She has no friends, no family in this city to come and exclaim at it – it is a monument to her powerlessness, her arrested womanhood. It’s your house, her husband had said – but who can live in tiny rooms, these nine dead ends? What sort of man buys a gift like this, however majestic its casing, however beautifully made?

‘I don’t need to be educated,’ she says out loud. Rezeki whines. ‘Nothing to be frightened of,’ Nella tells her. ‘It’s just a toy.’ Perhaps the curtains could be cut into a hat, she thinks, pulling them apart.

As Nella stands before the exposed interior, it begins to make her uneasy. Its hollow carapace of elm and tortoiseshell seems to watch her back as if its rooms are eyes. From the working kitchen she can hear raised voices – Cornelia talking most, Otto’s quieter replies. She places a tentative hand over the wood again. It has a cooling effect compared to the velvet, hard as polished stone.

With Marin out and those two downstairs in the working kitchen, I could fetch Peebo and give him a fly, Nella thinks. Johannes wouldn’t notice, and it would be good to see my Peeblet soar. But as she turns from the cabinet towards the main staircase, her thoughts catch again on Marin’s distant keyhole, upstairs at the corridor’s end. Forget this insult of a dolls’ house, Nella cajoles herself, drawing its mustard-coloured curtains shut. You can go wherever you like.

Blood thumping, leaving Johannes’ present stranded on the tiles, Nella makes her way upstairs towards Marin’s room, Peebo quite forgotten. But her hallway bravado begins to feel flimsy. What if I’m caught? she wonders, her imagination surging once again as she scuttles along the corridor as quick as her skirts will allow. What happens to me then?

But Nella pushes open the heavy door and on the edge of Marin’s sanctuary, she is caught short, the extraordinary sight within vanquishing all caution.





Trespasses


Still on the threshold, Nella cannot believe what she is seeing. Nun-small, the room’s contents could fill a convent. She wonders how willingly Marin gave up the dimensions of her old chamber for this overflowing cell of fantasy.

Dangling from the ceiling is the shed skin of a huge snake, draped like a pennant, papery to touch. Plumes of all patterns and shapes, once attached to the most exotic of birds, brush against her outstretched fingers. Instinctively Nella looks for a green feather, relieved to find none that resemble Peebo’s. A butterfly, wider than her palm, is pinned to the wall, the sky blue of its wings overwritten with swirls of black. The room is full of smells. The strongest is of nutmeg, but there is also a sandalwood tang, and clove and pepper imbuing the very walls, such scents of heat and warning.

Nella moves further in. Along the simple wooden shelves is a miscellany of yellowing animal skulls, belonging to creatures she can’t even guess at – long jaws, snub craniums, strong, sharp teeth. Beetle carapaces, shiny as coffee beans, iridescent in the light, glow black with a tinge of red. An upturned tortoise shell rocks gently at her touch. Dried plants and berries, seed pods, seeds themselves – the source of these intoxicating scents – are everywhere. This room is not from Amsterdam, though it shows an Amsterdammer’s drive for acquisition. This is the republic’s reach, in four small walls.