The Miniaturist(53)
‘Well, you can never be sure,’ observes Cornelia. She, like the other two women, is wrapped up in layers of clothing, swaddled tightly in her Haarlem shawls.
‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ Marin snaps. Nella imagines tiny sugar crumbs gathered like snow in the corner of her sister-in-law’s solemn mouth as she weeps in another bath. Wearing her hidden fur, eating her secret stash of candied walnuts, protecting her unholy brother, Marin lives in two worlds. Is her deathless public propriety really a fear of God, or a fear of herself? What lies beating in that carefully protected heart?
Freezing air whistles through the crevices of the dining-room walls. The house does feel colder – as if the air from the night seeped in and hasn’t shifted. ‘The fires are lit,’ Nella says. ‘But it doesn’t make the slightest bit of difference. Have you noticed that?’
‘It’s because our wood supplies have thinned,’ says Otto.
‘It does us no harm to experience the cold,’ Marin replies.
‘But must experience always be endurance, Marin?’ Nella asks.
They all turn to Marin. ‘In suffering we find our truest selves,’ she says.
Nella follows Cornelia down to the warmth of the working kitchen, Jack still in her pocket. Cornelia clatters the plum compote jar and brandishes a rolling pin to attack some pastry for a pie. Otto follows, taking up a cloth to polish a battalion of Johannes’ spring boots lined up along the kitchen door. ‘Otto, will you sneak some peat from the attic? Madame Marin won’t notice.’ He nods, distracted. ‘She loves her privations, but we are feasters to our core,’ Cornelia observes. ‘Behind closed doors, I will bet you my entire set of pans that gingerbread men are being gobbled into women’s stomachs, no matter what the burgomasters say.’
‘Or husbands, nibbling effigies of their wives,’ Nella adds. Her joke is heavy, hanging undigested in the air; this talk of wives, of edible men to be held in the hand. Never to be nibbled, Nella flushes with shame. To distract herself, she imagines cheerier scenes behind doors other than theirs. Celebrations turned inwards – houses draped in paper chains and fir branches, buns fresh from the stove, laughter and kandeels of cinnamon wine. It is happening all over the city today, St Nicholas’ Day, the patron saint of children and sailors celebrated in a carnival of hidden defiance. Sinterklaas belongs to them. As does their gluttony, so does their guilt.
It is hard right now to imagine the Magi in the boiling desert, travelling to worship the soon-to-be-Christ. Nella wants the doors and windows open, to let in the spirit of revelation. An open window might maintain an open mind. ‘Christmas soon,’ Cornelia says, ‘and then – Epiphany.’ Her voice hints at a private bliss.
‘What’s so special about Epiphany?’
‘The Seigneur lets Toot and me dress up like lords and eat at his table. No chores all day. Of course,’ Cornelia adds, ‘I still have to make the food. Madame Marin doesn’t let it go that far.’
‘Of course not.’
‘I’ll make a King’s Cake too,’ Cornelia says. ‘Hide a coin in the mix. Whoever bites it will be king for a day.’
Otto laughs, a sound with a bitter edge. It makes Nella’s head turn, it sounds so unlike him. And when she looks at him, he will not meet her eye.
‘This came for you,’ Marin says, making her way down the kitchen stairs.
Nella’s heart lifts that something new has come from the miniaturist, but the writing on the front flushes a melancholy through her before the letter is even opened. It is her mother’s wiry hand, inviting her daughter and son-in-law to spend some of the festive season back in Assendelft. Carel misses you. The loops and lines are a painful reminder of a life which for Nella no longer exists.
‘Will you leave?’ Marin asks.
The pleading note in her question comes as a surprise. Something has slipped in Marin over these three weeks, and amidst her flashes of ill temper she has a new vulnerability. She really seems to want me to stay, Nella thinks – and could I even bear to go back, my flat stomach wrapped in a dress of Bengal silk, no growing child to brag of, my marriage a hollow victory? Johannes could perform the role of loving husband without much fuss. He is complacent when it comes to keeping his wits. But I would let mine go – they would fall from my grasp the moment I saw my mother’s hopeful face.
‘No,’ she replies. ‘I think it best that I stay here. I’ll send the gifts I bought. We’ll go next year.’
‘We’ll have a feast of sorts,’ Marin offers.
‘No herrings?’
‘None at all.’
The women’s two pledges flit between them like a pair of moths, charging the air with a new sort of energy.
Nella reinstates Jack in the cabinet house with mixed feelings. It still seems better to have him where she can keep an eye on him, although his presence remains unnerving. Later in the evening, some illicit musicians come to risk a song outside for money, and Nella leans out of the hallway window to hear their low singing. Otto and Cornelia hover, looking half-desperate to see the musicians, half-terrified of what Marin might say. ‘The St George Militia might come,’ Cornelia says. ‘You should see their swords. They patrol to keep the peace but there might be blood.’
‘Smashed violins? I look forward to it,’ says Nella, drily.