The Miniaturist(40)
‘Unlike you, Cornelia, I can go wherever I want.’
It will be interesting to see her husband in his place of work, to witness his efforts at solidifying his wealth. It is a way to understand him. Nella turns onto the Kloveniersburgwal, within reach of the sea-smell, the masts of the tall ships in the middle distance. As she walks along the canal, she even considers showing Johannes the models of his precious dogs. Surely they would please him.
She walks through the main arch of the Old Hoogstraat entrance to the VOC house, near the armoury, where shields and breastplates are clanked and sorted for size. This place is the hub of the whole city, some might say the whole republic. Her father once told her that Amsterdam had funded over half the entire country’s war chest. He’d sounded suspicious of the city’s wealth and power, but mingled with that wariness was a wistful awe.
Nella walks the perimeter of the first courtyard, dizzied by the repetitive brickwork. Two men are talking in the far corner and as she passes them, they drop to low bows. She curtsies and they consider her with curiosity.
‘We never see women at the VOC,’ the first man says.
‘Except at night,’ his friend chimes in, ‘with the fragrance of vanilla musk.’
‘I’m looking for Johannes Brandt,’ she replies, her voice tight with anxiety at their suggestive manner. A spray of red pimples covers the second man’s forehead. He’s little more than a boy. God has been malicious with his paintbrush.
The men exchange a glance. ‘Go through that arch, into the second courtyard, and there’s a door on your far left,’ says the first. ‘It’s confidential up there,’ he adds. ‘No women allowed.’
Nella can feel their eyes on her back as she walks under the second arch. No one answers when she knocks on the far-left door, and with impatience she pushes it open. Salt has infused the sparse furniture and walls, making the room dank. At the back is a spiral staircase and Nella begins to climb it, up and up, until she reaches an airier floor, a long corridor at the end of which is another large oak door.
‘Johannes?’ she calls.
I am always calling after him, she thinks. Always waiting at his doors. She runs towards his office, fleet-footed as a cat, her excitement growing as she thinks of his surprise.
The handle at the end of the corridor is stiff, and as Nella pushes it hard and the door bursts open, her husband’s name mangles in her throat.
Lying at the back of the room, Johannes is stretched out on a couch, eyes closed, naked, so naked, unable to move for a head of dark curls that hovers over his groin.
The curls seem stuck there on her husband. And then Nella sees that the head is moving, up and down, up and down. The head is attached to a body, a lean torso, a pair of kneeling legs, half hidden behind the couch.
Johannes’ eyes open on the sound of the door slam, widening in horror as he sees his wife. His body starts to buck. The head of curls lifts and it’s Jack Philips, mouth open, eyes shocked, turning his pale face towards her. He rears upright on the other side of the couch, his slicked bare chest drawing Nella’s horrified gaze.
Moving as if underwater, Johannes does not, or cannot cover himself. He is slow and seems unable to breathe. His thing, his worm, is a mast – so meat-like, so upright, so glistening wet. He pushes Jack away and rises like a burly courtesan from his bower, his broad chest so hairy compared to the younger man’s.
The day’s grey light is a pallor on them all.
‘Nella,’ her husband says, but her head is on fire and she can barely hear him. ‘You’re not supposed. You’re not—’
The spell breaks as Jack tosses Johannes his shirt. They fumble – arms, fingers, knees – both ungainly, both of them panicking, and as she watches their hasty dance, Nella’s own knees begin to give way. From the floor she looks up and sees that her husband has managed to stand. He reaches out – for her, for Jack, for clothes, she cannot tell – it’s as if he’s grasping at invisible ropes in the air. And there is Jack from Bermondsey, topless, running his fingers through his curls. Is he grinning or grimacing or both at once? The idea dies in the roar of her head and her hands fly up to her eyes.
The last thing she sees is Johannes’ penis, beginning to loll, long and dark against the top of his thigh.
The silence bellows down Nella’s ears, pain bursts from the centre of her heart. Humiliation spreads from one black spore to thousands, and the hurt that has been hibernating finally finds a voice.
She doesn’t know if he can hear her, if words are coming out. ‘Idiot, idiot, idiot,’ she whispers, her eyes shut tight. Her legs are leaden, her skin hot, her body heavy as a millstone. She feels men’s hands upon her, and, lifted, her head lolling, she sees the five white toes on one of Johannes’ feet. It is the first time since Marin’s pinch that anyone has touched her.
‘Nella,’ says a familiar voice.
It is Cornelia. Cornelia has come. Nella allows herself to be dragged from the room, fumbled rapidly down the endless corridor, as if the two of them are running from a wave.
Johannes is calling her name. Nella can hear him, but she can’t answer, and would she want to even if she could? Her mouth won’t make words. They choke upon her tongue.
Cornelia descends with her down the last steps, orders her to move one foot in front of the other, Jesus Christ, Madame, just walk, please just walk so we can get you home. They pass the same men still standing in the courtyard. Cornelia has to drag her, shielding Nella’s head so no one can see the devastation smacked across her mistress’s face.