The Miniaturist(21)
She picks up the wrappings in order to discard them, then realizes there are more things inside. This cannot be correct, she thinks, her gloom warping into curiosity. Everything I asked for is already on the bed.
She tips the packet up, and three wrapped items fall onto the coverlet. Nella fumbles with the material encasing the first, and discovers two exquisite wooden chairs. Lions the size of ladybirds have been carved on their arm-rests, the backs are covered with green velvet, studded with copper nails. On each of the arms, sea monsters writhe in acanthus leaves. Nella realizes she’s seen these chairs before. Last week in the salon downstairs, Marin was sitting on one of them.
Beginning to feel uneasy, she unwraps the next item. Something small but bulky waits in the folds of cloth, and she wrenches it free. It is a cradle, made of oak, with intricate floral inlays, tin runners and a fringe of lace at the hood. A quiet miracle of wood, its tiny presence nevertheless makes Nella’s throat constrict. She places it in the middle of her palm, where it rocks in a perfect motion, almost of its own accord.
This has to be a mistake, she thinks – these pieces are intended for someone else. Chairs, a cradle – perhaps the usual things a woman might ask for a replica of her house – but I didn’t. I definitely didn’t. She rips apart the wrapping on the third package, and beneath another layer of blue material is a pair of miniature dogs. Two whippet bodies no larger than moths, covered in silky grey fur, with skulls the size of peas. Between them, there is a bone for them to chew, a shank of clove painted yellow – the smell is unmistakeable. Nella picks up the animals and peers closer, her blood charging round her body. These dogs are not any dogs. They are Rezeki and Dhana.
Nella drops them quickly as if they have stung her, and jumps off the bed. In the dark and unlit corner of the room, the cabinet waits for its new deliveries. Its curtains are still pulled open, like unseemly lifted skirts. She allows herself a brief glance down to the whippets’ scattered bodies. The same curve and colour of their flanks, their wonderful streamlined ears. ‘Come on, Nella Elisabeth,’ she says to herself. ‘Who says they’re the same whippets curled up by Cornelia’s stove?’
She holds both miniature dogs up to the light. Their bodies are slightly spongy, their joints articulated, covered in grey mouse-skin and soft as an earlobe. When Nella turns them over, her blood slows to an uncomfortable thump. On one of the dog’s bellies is a small black spot, in exactly the same place as Dhana’s.
Nella stares around the room. Is someone here? She tries hard to be reasonable. Of course not, Nella, she thinks – you’ve never felt more alone. Who might want to trick her? Cornelia wouldn’t have the money to play such games, nor time to think of them. Nor would Otto – and surely he would not willingly write to a stranger?
Nella feels a sense of invasion, as if she is being closely observed in her bridal foolishness. It’s Marin, she thinks. Marin is taking revenge for Johannes’ marriage and me getting in her way. She spills my lily perfume, she forbids me marzipan, she pinches me hard on the arm. She was the one who gave me Smit’s List. Why wouldn’t Marin pay the miniaturist to frighten me? For her, it’s just another idle amusement.
And yet. Idle and amusement are not words one might associate with Marin Brandt, and even as she thinks of her sister-in-law, Nella knows it doesn’t make sense. Marin eats like a mouse and shops like a nun, except for her books and her specimens probably purloined from Johannes’ travels. This can’t be Marin’s doing, because it involves spending money. But as Nella looks over the unasked-for pieces again, part of her actually hopes it’s her sister-in-law. Because if it’s not Marin, she wonders – what other sort of strangeness have I invited in?
Someone has peered into Nella’s life and thrown her off centre. If these items aren’t sent in error, then the cradle is a mock to her unvisited marriage bed and what’s beginning to feel as though it’s an eternal virginity. What sort of person would dare such impertinence? The dogs, so particular; the chairs, so exact – the cradle, so suggestive – it’s like the miniaturist has a perfect, private view.
Climbing back onto her bed, Nella registers the disturbance these pieces have created, how her curiosity churns with a cusping terror. This will not do, she thinks. I will not be bullied from afar as well as near.
As she listens to the constant tock of the gold pendulum, surrounded by these inexplicable deliveries, she writes a second note to the miniaturist.
Sir,
I thank you for the items I requested, delivered today by Jack Philips of Bermondsey. Your craftsmanship is exceptional. You work miracles with your fingertips. The marzipan is particularly good.
Nella’s pen hovers, but before she can change her mind, the nib meets the paper in a fever of words.
However, you expanded the delivery in a way I did not foresee. The whippets, whilst accurate, might suggest a lucky guess, Seigneur, for many people in the city own such dogs. Yet I am not many people – and these dogs, the cradle and chairs, are not mine. As wife of a high-ranking VOC merchant, I shall not be intimidated by an artisan. Thank you for your work and time, but I will curtail our transactions forthwith.
Yours in good faith,
Petronella Brandt
She hides the pieces under her coverlet and calls for Cornelia, placing the newly drafted, sealed note in the maid’s hands before she can change her mind. She will admit that the possibility is quite real. Perhaps I have rejected something here, she thinks – a challenge, a hidden purpose to these surprise pieces, never to be discovered. Will I have a sliver of regret? No, Nella corrects herself. That’s just your imagination.