The Miniaturist(88)
‘Goes against all that is good, all that is right. Your behaviour towards your family, your city, your country, is that of the Devil.’
Johannes looks up to the square of white sky through the high window. The schepenbank fidget in their small chairs. ‘My conscience is clear,’ he says quietly. ‘Everything you accuse me of is as false as your teeth.’
The children in the gallery titter.
‘Contempt of court as well as sodomy—’
‘I might as well be in contempt of court, Seigneur Slabbaert. What will you do? Drown me twice for pointing out your vanity?’
Slabbaert’s toad eyes bulb, his well-fed cheeks draw down with barely suppressed rage. Be careful, Johannes, Nella thinks.
‘When I ask you a question,’ Slabbaert says, ‘answer me with the respect that every citizen must show to the rule of law.’
‘Then ask me a question that deserves that respect.’
The schepenbank seem to be revelling in this exchange, their heads turning back and forth between the two men.
‘You are married?’ asks Slabbaert.
‘I am.’
Nella shrinks back into her seat. Agnes looks over the space at her, a grimace playing on her lips.
‘And what sort of husband are you?’
‘I’m in one piece, aren’t I?’
Some men in the gallery laugh, and Johannes looks up. He recognizes Cornelia’s face leaning over the rail, and manages to smile.
‘That does not answer my question,’ says Slabbaert, his voice rising a little. ‘Are you a good or a bad husband?’
Johannes shrugs. ‘I believe I am a good husband. My wife is content. She is wealthy and secure.’
‘That is a merchant’s answer. To be wealthy does not mean you are content.’
‘Ah, yes, I forget your spiritual agonies when it comes to money, Slabbaert. Try telling that to a journeyman – a man who keeps this republic afloat and yet can barely keep up his landlord’s rent. Try telling him that to be secure should not mean to be happy.’
A few grunts of assent are heard in the gallery and a member of the schepenbank writes something down. ‘Have you any children?’ Slabbaert asks.
‘Not yet.’
‘Why not?’
‘We’re but four months married.’ Cornelia clutches Nella’s hand. Unwittingly, Johannes has thrown the chance of Marin’s baby as a means to save him.
‘How often do you lie with her?’
Johannes pauses. If he wants to make the impertinence of such a question felt, this crass invasion of his bed chamber, it does not work. The schepenbank crane forward, as does Frans Meermans. Agnes grips her hands on the banister, waiting like a carrion crow.
‘As often as I can,’ Johannes says. ‘I have to travel a great deal.’
‘You are late to marry, Seigneur.’
Johannes looks up to the gallery. ‘My wife was worth the wait.’
His tenderness rings clear, and Nella feels a sadness ebbing through her. Two women behind her sigh appreciatively.
‘You have, over the years, employed many apprentices in the various guilds,’ Slabbaert observes.
‘It is my duty as a citizen of Amsterdam and a senior member of the VOC. I am happy to do so.’
‘Some might say too happy. Over the years, a preponderance of young men—’
‘With respect, are not all apprentices young men?’
‘—the number of which is greater than any other senior guild member or VOC representative has employed. I have your figures here.’
Johannes shrugs, his shoulders lifting crookedly. ‘I have more money than most of them,’ he says. ‘People wish to learn from me. One might even argue that is the reason I’m here.’
‘And what do you mean?’
‘The poorest hunters always want the biggest stag. I wonder, Schout Slabbaert – who will take my business if I drown? Will it be you, dividing it up and locking it awayin your Stadhuis coffers?’
‘You insult the city of Amsterdam!’ Slabbaert shouts. ‘You disgust us with your insinuations.’ The Schout looks round to the schepenbank. ‘Taking the city as a plaything, undermining everything we work for.’
‘That is not a statement of fact. That is your opinion.’
‘You also have employed a Negro, have you not?’
‘He’s from Porto-Novo, in Dahomey.’
‘You have kept him close, taught him our ways. You have tamed the savage.’
‘What are you circling, Slabbaert? What do you have in your sight?’
‘Merely to observe that you have a taste for the unusual, Seigneur Brandt. Many of your colleagues will attest to that. Call the plaintiff,’ Slabbaert snaps and at this, Johannes’ eyes widen in shock.
‘The plaintiff?’ Nella turns to Cornelia. ‘I thought today was just to list the charge?’
But no, they hear his footsteps, and the two girls look down in horror as the guards bring Johannes’ accuser through the chamber door.
The Actor
Cornelia clasps Nella’s hand on seeing the Englishman again. Rezeki’s killer wanders into the chamber. His wild hair has lost its lustre and he wears a bloodied bandage on his shoulder.
‘That’s not his blood,’ Nella murmurs. ‘It would have healed by now.’ Jack peers up to the gallery and Nella notices how it is Agnes’ turn to shrink into her seat.