The Miniaturist(19)
A boy with a barrow trundles past, almost running Nella over. ‘You nearly broke my foot!’ she shouts after him.
‘Never did!’ the barrow-boy yells back.
When Nella looks back, the woman has gone. ‘Wait!’ she calls, making her way up the Kalverstraat, spying the back of a head the colour of shining wheat. But the sun comes out from behind the clouds, obscuring Nella’s vision. ‘What do you want?’ Sure she has seen the woman disappearing up a narrow passage, Nella begins to push harder through the crowd. Plunging down this dark alleyway, her heart leaps to see a figure up ahead – but it is Cornelia, alone at the end, pinch-faced, trembling at a large front door.
‘Where is she? What are you doing?’ Nella asks. ‘Did you see a woman with blonde hair?’
Cornelia aims a swift kick on the panel of the door. ‘Every year,’ she says. ‘Just to remember how lucky I am.’
‘What?’
Cornelia closes her eyes. ‘My old home.’
The noise of the shoppers on the Kalverstraat is now muffled by the tight walls of the passage. Nella steadies herself against the kicked door. A plaque depicting children dressed in city colours of black and red, grouped around a giant dove, has been placed above the architrave. Beneath it, the words span out a humourless rhyme:
We’re growing in numbers and our walls are groaning
Please give what you can to stop our masters moaning.
‘Cornelia, an orphanage?’
But the maid is already walking back up the passage, towards life and light and noise. Nella can only pursue her, still hollowed by the fair-haired woman’s gaze.
On returning to the Herengracht, Nella discovers that Marin has arranged for the cabinet to be put in her room. Too wide to fit through the bedroom door, it has been winched up the front of the house.
‘It couldn’t stay in the hall,’ Marin says, drawing open the mustard-coloured curtains to reveal the nine empty rooms. ‘It’s far too large. It was taking up the light.’
Aside from the intrusive presence of the cabinet, Nella’s room now also stinks of lily. That night, she discovers her perfume bottle from Assendelft, knocked on its side, the oil pooled to the floor in a viscous mess beneath her bed.
‘It was the delivery men,’ Marin says when Nella shows her the glass shards and asks for an explanation. Unconvinced, Nella throws some of the embroidered wedding cushions onto the stain. Glad not to be reminded of those taunting marriage emblems, she hopes their bulk will absorb the smell.
Lying back, listening to Peebo clicking in his cage, the air tinged with the ill-advised gift from her mother, Nella thinks about Otto and Cornelia. The slave boy, the orphan girl. How did Cornelia get from there to the Herengracht? Was she ‘rescued’ like Otto? Were you rescued too? Nella asks herself. So far, life here feels the opposite of escape.
In the dark of her room, she conjures the white-blonde head and unusual eyes of the woman on the Kalverstraat. It was as if she was skinning Nella, like one of those animals in Johannes’ paintings, and then dismantling her body bit by bit. And yet, simultaneously, Nella felt so concentrated. Why was the woman there, on the busiest street in the city, just standing, staring – had she nothing better to do? And why was she looking at me?
As Nella drifts to sleep, she imagines great silver dishes and Johannes spinning them, his face turned to his counterfeit ceiling, towards the depth that doesn’t exist. Ascending into this restless, spiral nightmare she is woken by a short, high cry that sounds like a dog in pain. Perhaps it’s Rezeki, she thinks, wide awake, her heart hammering.
The silence descends again, heavy as damask, and Nella turns to the empty cabinet. Monumental, almost watchful, as if it has always stood there, in the corner of her room.
Delivery
Three days later, Cornelia is with Marin at the meat market. ‘Can I come?’ Nella had asked. ‘It’s quicker with two of us,’ came Marin’s swift reply. Johannes has gone to his VOC offices on the Old Hoogstraat, and Otto is in the back garden, planting bulbs and seeds for next year’s spring. The garden is his domain. He is often out there, making new hedge patterns, conversing with Johannes about the dampness of the soil.
As Nella crosses the hallway with some pilfered nuts for Peebo, a rapid set of knocks on the front door makes her jump. Pocketing the nuts, she draws back the bolts and pulls the heavy door.
A young man stands before her on the top step, a little older than herself. Nella’s breath catches in her throat. His long legs are wide apart as if he’s trying to take up all the space. Dark tousled hair crowns a pale face, and his cheeks are carved with symmetrical precision. His clothes are fashionable but messily arranged. Cuffs spill from the arms of his rich leather coat, and a pair of boots, even newer than the coat, cling to his calves as if they don’t want to let go. His shirt laces are loose, and a triangle of skin at the top reveals a few freckles. His body is a story in itself, starting sharp with an uncertain end. Nella holds on to the door frame, hoping that she is shining back at him, as he seems to know he’s shining at her.
‘Delivery,’ he says with a smile. Nella is surprised by his voice. The accent is unusual – unmusical, flat. He knows the Dutch word, but it’s clearly not his mother tongue.
Rezeki bounds up and starts barking at this boy, growling when he tries to pat her head. Nella looks at his empty hands. ‘You’re supposed to use the lower door for deliveries,’ she says.