The Miniaturist(18)
The paper used to wrap the cakes looks expensive, and comes in a variety of colours: scarlet, indigo, grass-green, cloud-white. Cornelia looks meaningfully at Hanna, gives her a dip of the chin that the older woman seems to understand. ‘Please, Madame,’ Hanna says to Nella. ‘Do have a look around.’
Dutifully, Nella roams the shop, looking over the waffles, the spiced biscuits, the cinnamon and chocolate syrups, the orange and lemon cakes, the fruit rolls. As she watches Arnoud through the arch, bashing the cooled stubborn trays of honeycomb, she tries to listen to Hanna and Cornelia as they keep their voices low.
‘Frans and Agnes Meermans wanted only the Seigneur to distribute it,’ Cornelia says. ‘They know how far his business spreads abroad. And Madame Marin’s encouraging it. Even though she hates sugar, even though it belongs to them.’
‘It could make them all a lot of money.’
Cornelia sniffs. ‘It could. But I think there’s other reasons.’
Hanna ignores this, more interested in the business side of things. ‘But why not sell it here? With no guild to control these rapscallions, so much of this city’s sugar is cut at the cheap refineries with flour, chalk and God knows what. There are pastry chefs and bakers along the Nes and the Street of Buns who can do with better product.’
Arnoud curses loudly, finally dislodging the honeycomb.
‘Try something,’ Hanna calls brightly to Nella. She reaches over the counter and comes back with a little crinkled parcel. Nella, confused to see pity in the older woman’s eyes, unwraps the offering and discovers a fried ball of dough, covered with sugar and cinnamon.
‘Thank you,’ she says, returning her gaze to Arnoud firing up his oven, pretending her attention is solely on the fat confectioner.
‘Hanna, I think it’s happening again,’ Cornelia whispers.
‘You were never sure the first time.’
‘I know, but—’
‘You can do nothing, Cornflower. Head down, that’s what they taught us.’
‘Han, I wish—’
‘Shh, take this. It’s nearly the last of it.’
Nella turns in time to see a packet pass between the women, disappearing swiftly from Hanna’s fingers into Cornelia’s skirts.
‘I have to go,’ says Cornelia, standing up. ‘We must pay a visit to the Kalverstraat’ She weights the word, a shadow passing her face.
Hanna squeezes Cornelia’s hand. ‘Well, give the door a kick from me,’ she says. ‘My five minutes is up. I must go and help Arnoud. Anyone would think he was hammering armour the way he bangs those trays.’
Back outside, Cornelia hurries along. ‘Who is Hanna?’ Nella asks. ‘Why does she call you Cornflower? And why are we kicking a door?’
But Cornelia is morose and mute; the talk with Hanna has released an unexpected gloom.
The Kalverstraat is a long, busy street away from the canal, where many sellers ply their trade. They no longer sell calves and cows there, but the manure from horses lends it a meaty, pungent atmosphere amidst the print and dye shops, the haberdashers and apothecaries.
‘Cornelia, what’s wrong?’
‘Nothing, Madame,’ comes the eventual, sullen reply. But Nella has already spotted the sign of the sun. A small stone sun has indeed been engraved on a plaque, embedded in the brickwork. Painted freshly gold, it’s a heavenly body come to earth; bright stone rays shoot from a glowing orb. It is so high up in the wall that Nella cannot touch it. Beneath the sun, a motto has been engraved: Everything Man Sees He Takes For A Toy.
‘Thus is he always, forever a boy,’ Cornelia says wistfully. ‘I haven’t heard that saying for years.’ She looks up and down the street as though in search of something. Nella knocks on the small, plain door, barely noticeable amidst the noise and bustle, and waits for the miniaturist to reveal himself.
There is no reply. Cornelia stamps her feet with cold. ‘Madame, there’s no one there.’
‘Just wait,’ Nella says, knocking again. There are four windows looking onto the street, and she thinks that perhaps there is a shadow at one of them, but she cannot be sure. ‘Hello?’ she shouts, but no answer comes.
There is nothing for it; she slips her letter and the promissory note as far under the door as possible. Only then does Nella realize that Cornelia is no longer with her. ‘Cornelia?’ she calls, scanning the Kalverstraat.
The maid’s name dies in Nella’s throat. Several feet away from the miniaturist’s door, a woman is watching her. No, not watching – staring. She stands still amidst the milling crowd, her eyes fixated on Nella’s face. Nella experiences the unprecedented sensation of being impaled – the woman’s scrutiny is like a beam of cold light dissecting her, filling her with an awareness of her own body. The woman does not smile, but she drinks Nella in, her brown eyes nearly orange in the weak midday light, her uncovered hair like pale gold thread.
A chill, a sharp clarity, enters Nella’s bones. She draws her shawl tight, and still the woman keeps staring. Everything seems brighter, thrown into relief – yet the sun is still behind cloud. Nella supposes it could be the old bricks, the damp stone accounting for the sudden lack of warmth. It could be, but those eyes – no one has ever looked at Nella like that before in her life – such a calm, transfixing curiosity.