The Miniaturist(59)
Cornelia places the slices of fried bacon in front of them, and Nella sees how blanched she is with worry.
‘The Seigneur saved me,’ says Otto. ‘He taught me everything. And look how I’ve repaid him. Rezeki—’
‘That was Jack’s doing, not yours. And there’s never been a debt to pay,’ Marin says. ‘My brother bought you for his own amusement.’
Cornelia drops a heavy pan into the sink and curses under her breath.
‘He employed me, Madame,’ says Otto.
Marin wipes a piece of bread back and forth in the bacon fat, but doesn’t eat. Nella cannot work out her mood. She seems determined not to be overwhelmed by these events, yet here she is, provocative as ever.
‘The boy’s alive,’ Marin snaps. ‘You haven’t killed anyone. Johannes will be more concerned with Rezeki than with you.’
This statement seems to hit Otto in the chest. ‘I have endangered you,’ he says. ‘I have endangered all of you.’
Marin reaches out for Otto’s hand. It is an extraordinary sight – their fingers, the dark and light together – and Cornelia cannot pull her eyes away. Otto withdraws and heads up the kitchen stairs, and Marin watches his departure, the colour drained from her face, her eyes exhausted. ‘Petronella, you need to change,’ she says, her voice barely a whisper.
‘Why? What’s wrong with me?’
Marin points at her, and when Nella looks down, she sees her corset and shirt are covered in the brown stains of English blood.
Upstairs, Nella sits shivering in her undergarments as Cornelia sponges off the specks of Jack. Putting Nella in a robe, the maid asks to be excused. ‘I’m worried about Otto, Madame. He has no one else to talk to.’
‘Then you must go.’
She is relieved to be alone. Her body aches from the tension of the morning, the imprint of Jack’s grip on her arms. She scoops up her own doll from the cabinet, lying inert in the miniature kitchen, and presses her little figure, as if to do so will push the pain away. Her own ribs ache as she squeezes her miniature tight, and for a brief moment she believes there is no difference between the miniaturist’s minor version of herself and her own human limbs. For what am I, she wonders, but a product of my own imagination? Yet the little bean-face looks up at her, giving nothing away, whilst Nella remains in tumult and grief remains.
On Nella’s bed is the parcel from the miniaturist, brought to her just hours ago by Jack. She almost left it under the chair in the hallway, unsure if she wanted to open it, and now, observing it again, a wet sort of dread spreads through her. But who else is there to open these parcels? She couldn’t bear for it to be anyone but her.
If the miniaturist is a strange teacher who will not stop, Nella feels a most reluctant pupil. She has failed to catch the meaning of these lessons. She yearns for just one piece that will explain what the miniaturist wants from her. Pulling open the package, she sees there is only one item.
A tiny verkeerspel board nestles in her palm. The board’s triangles aren’t simply painted, but have been inlaid with wood – and there are counters too, in a minuscule pouch. Their scent reveals that they are coriander seeds sliced in half, painted black and red.
Nella drops the board and fumbles through the pockets of her skirt. The long letter she wrote this very morning, addressed to the miniaturist and requesting a verkeerspel board, is no longer there. But I had it, she thinks. I had it today. I followed Otto to the church, I felt it in my pocket, I spoke to Agnes and I ran home to find Jack pacing in the hall. After that, all thought of it had been forgotten.
Time has melted; the hours mean nothing when you cannot keep hold of them. Nella tips up the packet and a piece of paper flutters out.
NELLA: THE TURNIP CANNOT THRIVE
IN THE TULIP’S PATCH OF SOIL
She’s used my name, thinks Nella, the personal pleasure of this dissolving quickly in the oddness of the statement that follows. She feels an embarrassment creeping in – does the miniaturist mean I’m a turnip? Turnips and tulips are entirely different phenomena of nature – one practical and simple in its structure, the other decorative and engineered by man.
Nella touches her face instinctively, as if the neat handwriting will transform her cheeks into a dense and rotund earthiness, a dull vegetable from Assendelft. The miniaturist is the brilliant one, graceful and colourful, her power drawing the eye. Is this her way of warning me to stay away, Nella wonders – to tell me I may never come to an understanding?
Reaching into her cabinet house, Nella takes the doll of Jack and pulls off his leather coat. Pinching one of the tiny fish knives between her forefinger and thumb, she drives it in the front of his chest like a pin, near enough to the throat that he might choke. It makes a satisfying entry, slipping into the soft body, a protruding silver dart.
Placing Jack back in the cabinet, his doll-self now more accurately reflecting their dire situation, Nella picks up the painful reminder of Rezeki’s body. Johannes should have taken you with him, she tells the little doll. How will it be, telling him what has happened to his favourite pet? I will offer this miniature as a memento of her life, she thinks, as a guiltier thought enters her mind. It will remind my husband what Jack is really like.
Stroking the head, Nella’s fingers freeze between the blades of the dog’s neck. There, on the tiny body, is an uneven, red mark almost the shape of a cross. Nella moves to the window; it is unmistakeable, the colour of rust. Her heart begins to throb, her throat goes dry. She cannot remember if the mark was there before today. She did not look closely enough.