The Miniaturist(54)
Cornelia laughs. ‘You sound like the Seigneur.’
Marin says Nella should shut the window and draw the curtains. ‘People will see you, hanging out the window like a washerwoman – or worse,’ she hisses as Cornelia scurries away. She paces behind Nella in the dark of the unlit hall, but as Nella keeps listening to the musicians, so does Otto, standing a little further off.
As the recorder pipes faster, the drummer beats a heady, insistent rhythm on the taut pigskin, thumping in response to Nella’s heart. Otto said she shouldn’t kick a hive, but part of her will always be a country girl. She thinks of Jack upstairs – all of them, wedged in those miniature rooms, waiting for something to happen. No, Nella decides. I’m not afraid of anything that comes with a sting.
The Fox Is Feverish
The next morning, refreshed by her musician rebellion and her decision to stay for Christmas, Nella plans to make her way to the Kalverstraat with her longest letter yet for the miniaturist.
Dear Madame (I know you are Madame – you have neighbours willing to talk),
I thank you for the eight dolls, and the miniature of my parakeet. I am sure it was you on the Herengracht bridge, watching my despair as I realized I had lost my childhood’s last surviving link. Is the reappearance of my little bird an offer of comfort or a sharp lesson?
Do you know what your delivery boy has done, the unhappiness he’s caused? I assume it was you who returned the Englishman’s puppet back to our front step – be you proud artisan or pesterer, I cannot tell. I am sorry that your excellent work was hurled upon the ice, but your intentions remain a mystery, and some people are unnerved.
They tell me the burgomasters have banned images of people in all forms. I wonder whether you fear their wrath – the worlds you make, your tiny idols which have crept into my mind and plan to stay. You have not sent me anything for a while, and though it is true that I worry what you might send, my greater concern is that you will cease completely.
I assume I still have it in my power to request items, do I not? Therefore, kindly make for me a verkeerspel board, my favourite game of strategy and chance. I am not returning to my childhood home for Christmas, and my life is short of such amusements. Therefore, content me with a miniature version.
One day, we will meet, you and I. I insist upon it. I am sure that it will happen. I feel you are guiding me, bright star, but there is terror in my hope that your light is not benign. I will not rest until I know more of you, but in the meantime, written missives must take the place of better understanding.
Enclosed is another promissory note, for five hundred guilders. Let that be the oil on your front door’s stubborn hinges.
With thanks and anticipation,
Nella signs the letter: Petronella Brandt.
She looks out of her window to admire the white stretch of ice. The city is beautiful tipped in frost like this, the air thin, the bricks redder and the painted windowframes like pristine eyes. To her surprise, she sees Otto hurrying along the canal path. It piques Nella’s curiosity, so not bothering with breakfast or putting on a coat, she puts the letter in her pocket and follows him quickly, slipping out of the house unseen.
Otto crosses Dam Square, past the looming new building of the Stadhuis, where Frans Meermans has a post and may be working even now. Sell his wife’s sugar, Johannes, Nella thinks, sending him a silent message as she skips over the sand which has been scattered for easy passage on the cobbles. Again, she remembers Marin in her bath, questioning the air, ‘What have you done?’ It would be better if the Meermanses were not in their lives at all.
After the suppression of St Nicholas’s Day, the people of Amsterdam seem to be taking full advantage. The sun is high, the Old Church bells ring to the sparkling rooftops, and the sound is magnificent. Four high bells peal to the skies, ringing the coming birth of the Holy Child, and one lower bell – God’s voice, deep and true and long – strikes under their clamour. In the name of communal obedience, it seems some music can play loud.
The smell of cooking meat fills the air, and Otto walks past a spiced-wine stall which has been erected, flagrantly facing the front entrance to the church. Pastor Pellicorne shoos the vintners away, whilst Amsterdammers look longingly at the trestle bowing under the weight of the wine-tureens.
‘Tighter than a piglet’s arse, that one,’ a man mutters. ‘The guild arranged it, the burgomasters gave permission!’
‘God before guilds, my friend,’ replies his friend, putting on a haughty voice.
‘That’s what Pellicorne wants us to think.’
‘Cheer up. Look,’ says the second man, revealing under his coat two small flagons of steaming red liquid. ‘Even got a piece of orange in it.’
They hurry off to less salubrious surroundings and Nella feels pleased they have got away, even more pleased that they don’t stop to gawp at Otto. Pellicorne’s glance rests on her, but she pretends she hasn’t noticed.
Otto enters the Old Church, his head down. Nella shivers as she steps inside, for the church seems colder than the air. Even though she’s supposed to be following Otto, she can’t help looking round for a bright blonde head, a gold beacon among the plain brown and white of the church interior. She pats the letter in her pocket. At this festive time, might not the miniaturist make another visit – to remember her family in Norway, to pray for clemency from the Burgomasters? The threads of Nella’s imagination begin to spool, embroidering conversations, patches of which it stitches loosely together. Who are you, why are you, what do you want? The problem is this – heading straight towards the miniaturist seems to make her disappear. And yet, she is so often there, watching and waiting. Nella wonders which one of them is hunter, which one prey.