The Miniaturist(16)

As Peebo circles Johannes’ expensive paintings, Nella takes up her pen at the desk and explodes her fury in a burst of scrawl:

Dear Sir,

I have seen your advertisement in Smit’s List, and wish to solicit your help.

I have a house of nine rooms, on a miniature scale, that is to be displayed in a cabinet. I venture these three requests to you and await your response. I cannot guess but that you are trained in the art of small things. The list is by no means exhaustive, and I am amply able to pay.

Item: One lute, with strings

Item: One betrothal cup, filled with confetti

Item: One box of marzipan

In advance gratitude,

Petronella Brandt, at the sign of the dolphin, Herengracht



Her new surname seems so truncated, so brusque compared to the one she’s had for eighteen years. Writing it still feels uncomfortable, like donning a particular costume that’s hers but doesn’t fit. She crosses it out and puts instead the words Thank you, Nella Oortman. He’ll notice that, Nella thinks. And he’ll probably laugh. She tucks the letter into her pocket along with a promissory note of three hundred guilders, and goes down to the working kitchen to see if she can quickly swipe a late breakfast from Cornelia’s scarred worktop. A roll, a slice of meat, anything but herring.

Cornelia appears to be stuffing a goose with a carrot, not scrimping on the brutality of insertion. Behind her, Otto is sharpening pins and using them to prick holes in walnuts. Nella wonders why he’s doing it, but doesn’t ask, supposing that the answer will be his usual generous evasion. Over the fire, a sauce bubbles. Cornelia and Otto look for all the world like a married couple in their cottage, handling their daily meal. Again, Nella feels their comfortable closeness, and it makes her wretched. She grips the letter in her pocket, trying to gain strength from her subversion of Johannes and Marin’s attempt to tame their new arrival. Oh, I will decorate my house, Marin, Nella thinks – with all the things that you detest.

‘Does it hurt, Madame?’ Cornelia asks, carrot peelings now suspended in her hands like muddy orange streamers.

Nella pulls her shawl around her. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Your arm.’

‘Were you spying?’

Otto glances at Cornelia, but the maid laughs. ‘She’s like a crab coming out of her shell for a nip, Madame! We ignore it and so should you.’ Cornelia lays the peelings down. ‘You took your bird,’ she says, looking almost impressed. ‘I’ll tell you a thing. Madame Marin only wears black, but underneath’s a different story.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Cornelia,’ Otto says, a warning in his voice.

‘The lining,’ Cornelia carries on, seemingly determined to offer Nella this crumb. ‘Sable fur and velvet, under every dress. My mistress – who quotes us Ezekiel – “I will put an end to the pride of the mighty” – walks around in secret furs.’

‘Really?’ Nella laughs, overwhelmed by Cornelia’s offering. Encouraged, she yanks down her shawl to show her wound.

Cornelia whistles. ‘That’s going to be pretty,’ she says, glancing at Otto. ‘But it’ll fade. Like everything else.’

Nella, who had hoped for a more motherly reaction, now feels foolish. ‘Were you up late again last night?’ she asks, concealing her bruise.

‘Why, Madame?’ Cornelia chucks the carrot skins in the fire and picks up her mop.

Nella can feel the friendly atmosphere ebbing away with every question she asks.

‘I’m sure I heard voices.’

Cornelia stares into the bucket of dirty water.

‘We’re too tired to hear voices,’ Otto says.

Dhana trots out of the gloom, nuzzling Nella’s hand. She rolls on her back and offers her belly, a small black marking on the fur. Cornelia considers this display of affection. ‘She doesn’t do that to anyone,’ she says, a sliver of admiration in her voice. Nella turns and makes her way up the stairs. ‘Here, Madame,’ Cornelia calls. Her palm is outstretched. A hot roll, buttered; Nella takes it. Peace offerings in this house come in rather strange shapes.

‘Where are you going, Madame?’ Otto asks.

‘Out. That’s allowed, isn’t it? I’m going to the Kalverstraat.’

At this, Cornelia shoves her mop into the bucket. The water slaps against the side, its surface like a broken mirror.

‘Do you know where that is, Madame?’ asks Otto, gently.

Nella feels drops of butter running down her wrist. ‘I’ll find it,’ she says. ‘I have a good sense of direction.’

Otto and Cornelia exchange another, longer glance; Nella catches the almost imperceptible shake of Otto’s head.

‘I’ll come with you, Madame,’ says Cornelia. ‘I need some air.’

‘But—’

‘You’ll want a coat,’ says Otto. ‘It’s very cold.’

But Cornelia grabs her shawl and ushers Nella out.





On the Kalverstraat


‘Sweet Jesu,’ mutters Cornelia. ‘Otto was right. This winter is going to be awful. Why do you want to go to the Kalverstraat?’

‘To leave a message for somebody,’ Nella replies, piqued at the ease with which Cornelia interrogates.