The Miniaturist(61)
‘Get out,’ Marin hisses. ‘Do you hear me? Get out.’
Nella backs away, shocked by the ferocity in Marin’s voice, the fury stretching her face, the shocking smear of blood upon her cheek. Slamming the cellar door, she trips up the kitchen stairs into the hallway. Rezeki’s red mark mingles in her mind’s eye with Marin’s crimson cloths, as she stumbles through the front door and down the steps into the dawn.
Sweet Weapons
The Kalverstraat, with its long strip of trade and noise, is still relatively quiet. There is the occasional fruit-seller trundling his barrow, and an enterprising ginger cat, sorting through the animal bones which didn’t make it to the canal the night before. His yellow eyes shine at Nella and he stretches his fat body, witness to his forage-cunning.
Nella finds the sign of the sun. She stands before it, breathing the damp air, the residue of mist, the smell of waste covered hastily in straw. She knocks on the door, a sharp confident rap, and waits. No one comes. But I will wait, Madame Tulip, she thinks, patting the note in her pocket. I will wait and wait until I get my answer.
She takes a step back, looking up at the four windows, the golden sun and the motto engraved beneath it. Everything Man Sees He Takes For A Toy. It seems a taunt, and Nella bristles. I don’t, she thinks. At least, not any more. There is nothing toylike or comforting about her miniature Peebo, or Rezeki and her blood-mark.
‘I know you’re in there,’ she shouts despite the early hour. ‘What do I have to do?’
Immediately, the door behind her swings open. Nella turns and sees a fat man in an apron, squat-faced, his gut overhanging his boots by a good foot, standing with his hands on his hips. Beyond him, a small, cool room displays long hanging yarns of undyed wool and several sheepskins nailed to the walls.
‘Girl, there’s no need to bellow to Antwerp.’
‘I’m sorry, sir. I’ve come to see the miniaturist.’
The man raises his eyebrows. ‘The what?’
Nella looks up at the house again and the man stamps his feet in the cold. ‘Oh. Her. She won’t answer you,’ he says in a kindlier voice. ‘There’s no point trying.’
Nella swivels back to him. ‘So I’ve been told. But I am happy to wait.’
He squints up at the house. ‘Well, you’ll freeze to death doing it, because no one’s been in that building for over a week.’
A small desolation pitches in Nella’s stomach. ‘That isn’t possible,’ she says. ‘Just yesterday, she sent—’
‘What’s your name?’ asks the wool-seller.
‘Why?’
‘I might have something for you.’
‘My name—’ She pauses. ‘– is Petronella Brandt.’
‘Hold on.’ He dips back into the gloom of his shop. He re-emerges, holding a small packet in his hand, inked with the sign of the sun. ‘Left on the doorstep opposite. I thought one of the cats might have had a go. Seems her English boy’s stopped delivering, so I kept it safe.’
He places it on Nella’s outstretched palm and looks up again into the burnished sun engraved above the miniaturist’s door. ‘What does it even mean?’ he asks. ‘Everything Man Sees He Takes For A Toy?’
‘It means we think we’re giants, but we’re not.’
He raises his eyebrows. ‘I see. I should think so little of myself, should I?’
‘Not at all, sir. Just that things – aren’t always what they seem.’
‘I’m giant enough,’ the wool-seller laughs, his arms out wide. ‘Pretty sure of that.’
Nella gives up, smiling wanly, looking over his shoulder into the gloom of his shop, holding her packet tight. ‘Do you have someone working for you – a man with smallpox scars?’
‘Oh, yes. Hauled wool for two weeks then upped and left.’
‘Why did he leave?’
‘He was spooked.’
‘Spooked?’
‘Completely terrified. Ran off in the night. God knows what happened to him.’
From the near distance comes the sound of marching, thump-thump up the Kalverstraat. The wool-seller goes back into his shop. ‘The St George Militia,’ he mutters, throwing down the front shutter. ‘Move out of the way, girl, or you’ll get crushed.’
‘Wait!’ says Nella, maddened. ‘Where has she gone? Did you see her go?’
But the St George Militia loom on the horizon, the yellow-eyed cat scurrying away only just in time. All the guards have strapped red ribbons over their wide chests, and the colour catches the winter sunlight like a streamer of blood. Their steel-capped boots scuff the path and over-zealous weaponry clanks at their hips, pearlized pistols and hanging donderbusses for everyone to see.
Nella sees Frans Meermans among their number, his chest puffed out, scowling at the sign of the sun. ‘Seigneur?’ she calls, and on seeing her he turns away, drawing his pike nearer to his chest. They are gone in a cloud of dust, marching effortfully into the Amsterdam morning.
The street falls silent, and Nella notices how numb her toes have become in the cold. She rips the packet open, furious with Frans Meermans’ rudeness, incensed with the miniaturist for eluding her yet again. Every time I search for her, she thinks, I am left with only myself.