The Miniaturist(27)
‘Of course, Seigneur. I would never doubt—’
‘Van Riebeeck’s corruption at the Goede Hoop, these bloody little emperors at our far-flung outposts,’ Johannes says. ‘Batavian back-handers, black markets in the east – people are craving good product, and I’m telling them it’s coming from you, Madame. The West Indies will end up saving us all, I imagine – but I will not take your sugar to the bourse. The trading floor is a circus, the brokers like crazed harpies. This sugar requires careful, controlled release abroad—’
‘But not the English,’ Agnes interrupts. ‘I hate the English. The trouble they caused my father in Surinam.’
‘Never the English,’ Johannes assures her. ‘It’s well stored,’ he adds smoothly. ‘You can go and check it if you want.’
‘You are most unusual, Seigneur, in insisting you sell abroad,’ Meermans observes. ‘Most good Dutchmen would keep such treasure to themselves, and given the quality of it, it would fetch a handsome price.’
‘I find such amour-propre self-defeating,’ Johannes says. ‘It helps no one. We are seen abroad as untrustworthy. I have no desire to be such a thing. Why not spread your sugar’s reputation?’
‘For better or worse, we have put our trust in you.’
‘I’m keeping a sugar loaf at home,’ Agnes interrupts, pouring balm on heated water. ‘It’s so – beautifully solid. Hard as a diamond, sweet as a puppy. That’s what my father used to say.’ She fiddles with the lace at her neck. ‘I can hardly bear to break it.’
Nella sways, staring at the dregs in her wineglass, slightly drunk.
‘I will sail to Venice for you both,’ Johannes says. ‘Plenty of buyers there. It is not the best time for your sugar to arrive, but be assured there are Venetians who will want to buy.’
‘Venetians?’ Agnes gasps. ‘Papists?’
‘Her father worked very hard, Seigneur Brandt,’ Meermans snaps, ‘not to fill Catholic stomachs.’
‘But a guilder from any pocket is just as useful, is it not? A true businessman knows that. Venice and Milan eat sugar like we Dutchmen breathe—’
‘Come, Agnes,’ Frans says. ‘I’m tired. And full.’ He jams his hat back on his head like a stopper on his thoughts. Agnes stands waiting as the awkward silence grows.
‘Goodnight, then,’ says Johannes finally, his broad smile unable to mask the fatigue behind his eyes.
‘God be with you,’ Agnes says, snaking her arm upon her husband’s. As the couple make their way along the mahogany panelling, the massacred tablecloths, the tipped-over silver jugs and scraps of food, Nella feels a spreading sense of worry.
‘Johannes,’ she says. ‘Marin said we must invite—’
He puts his hand on her shoulder, and she sags at his weight. ‘Nella,’ he sighs, ‘with people like that, you must always leave them wanting more.’
But when Agnes looks over her shoulder and throws her a haughty glance, Nella is not so sure.
Study
On their way back, Johannes lies stretched like a beached seal inside the barge.
‘You know lots of people, Johannes. They admire you.’
He smiles. ‘Do you think they’d talk to me if I wasn’t rich?’
‘Are we rich?’ she asks. The words come out of her before she can stop them, the worry in her voice too obvious, the question mark too loud and accusatory.
He turns his head to her, his hair trapped on the bench beneath his cheek. ‘What’s wrong?’ he asks. ‘Ignore Marin, the things she says. She loves to worry.’
‘It isn’t Marin,’ Nella replies, but then she wonders if it is.
‘Just because someone tells you something with a bit of passion doesn’t mean it’s true. I have been richer. I’ve also been poorer. It never seems to make a visible difference.’ His voice slows, drugged by food and the exhaustion of the evening. ‘You cannot really touch my wealth, Nella. It is in the air, swelling, diminishing. Growing again. The things it buys are solid but you can put your hand through it like a cloud.’
‘But, husband, surely there is nothing more solid than a coin?’
As he yawns and closes his eyes, Nella pictures her husband’s money, no more than moisture, dissolving and reforming without prediction. ‘Johannes, there is something I should tell you.’ She pauses. ‘There was – a miniaturist I hired—’
But looking over, she sees he has succumbed to the oblivion of a full stomach. Nella wants him to wake up, so she can ask him more questions. Unlike Marin, he always gives her an interesting answer. He seemed restless after Frans and Agnes left, his grey eyes shifting over private thoughts, locking her out once more. Why did Meermans seem so much less enthusiastic than his wife in dealing with Johannes? Why did Johannes not invite them to the house?
Nella smells the residue of Agnes’ floral pomade on her hands. Her stomach mewls under her lace petticoat and she wishes she’d eaten more. Johannes’ age is showing in the way his eyelids droop and his chin draws to his chest. He looks craggy, at thirty-nine a face from a fairy tale. She thinks about the silences that follow on from his bright chattiness, before he moves once more into darker distraction. She closes her eyes, putting her hand on the flat plane of her stomach. Much like Brandt will spoil you.