The Miniaturist(96)

The chamber is captivated by Meermans’ account. Johannes has bowed his head, hunching his creaking body into a position of resistance.

‘Frans Meermans,’ Slabbaert says, ‘you have known Johannes Brandt for many years. Despite this moment you witnessed – despite your good wife’s Bible-sworn testimony – now is your chance to confirm there may be good in this man.’

‘I understand.’

‘Brandt has said that you knew each other well.’

‘As young men, we worked together.’

‘And what kind of man was he?’

Meermans seems to be struggling. He cannot even look at the curve of Johannes’ back, preferring to stare instead into the pointed black cone of his own hat. ‘Astute,’ he says. ‘Prone to his own philosophies.’

‘Johannes Brandt was selling your stock, is this correct?’

Nella feels a slowing sensation inside her, as if her heart has begun to leak the last of its strength. Yet another accusation is going to fall at Johannes’ feet – lazy trading, no small crime in Amsterdam.

‘It is correct,’ says Meermans.

‘And with regard to that deal, was the sugar well kept – was Brandt doing his job?’

Meermans hesitates. ‘Yes,’ he says. ‘He was.’

Nella sits up. Why has Meermans said such a thing? According to this account, the sugar in its entirety is pristine. As a couple of the men from the schepenbank write something down, she realizes that Meermans has no desire to reveal his anger at Johannes. By concealing the issue of the unsold sugar, Meermans denies Johannes the chance of exposing it as a motive for his revenge. He is blocking the channels of Johannes’ defence. Meermans wants this to seem a clean case of unholy behaviour against God and the republic, nothing else. And it is unlikely, she supposes, that Johannes would admit to a sluggish sale. To do so would make him the author of his own damaged reputation.

Nella has not thought Meermans would be so calculating. And yet, she thinks, glancing over at Arnoud Maakvrede – with this very public assurance that the whole crop is good, Meermans may have handed the Brandts a gift for selling it in the future. Guilty for this feather-tip of pleasure, Nella tries to concentrate on the moment in hand.

‘So you would say that he was a good merchant?’ Slabbaert asks. Meermans takes a deep breath. ‘You have sworn an oath to tell the truth,’ Slabbaert presses. ‘Well?’

‘Under oath, I – would question that description.’

‘You think he is a poor merchant?’

‘Historically, I think his reputation has masked a self-centredness. His successes are not all deserved.’

‘And yet you employed him to sell your stock?’

‘My wife . . .’ He trails off.

‘What has your wife got to do with this?’

Meermans drops his hat on the floor and retrieves it. Johannes lifts his head, never taking his eyes off his old friend.

‘Brandt has always pursued his will with a defiant insistence,’ Meermans says, turning to Johannes. ‘But I didn’t realize how defiant you really were. The bribes you gave, the debts you grew – not just to me but to guilds, to clerks and friends—’

‘Who are these men?’ Johannes says. ‘Is that a formal accusation? Show them to me. Show me their ledgers.’

‘It is your soul I am here for today—’

‘I have no debt to you, Frans. Nor any man—’

‘But God has spoken to me, Johannes.’

‘God?’

‘He has told me that my silence is no longer enough.’

Even as Meermans speaks he sounds surprised, as if he has caught himself in the act, overwhelmed, by his own compulsion, by the bitter relish everyone can taste in his performance.

‘You have never been silent, Frans, when it comes to denigrating me.’

‘My old friend needs salvation, Schout Slabbaert. He is broken. He is living in the shadow of the Devil. I couldn’t see what I saw that evening and remain silent. No citizen of Amsterdam could.’

His speech over, Meermans lifts his head as if expecting relief – but there is none, just Johannes in front of him, his face a picture of disgust. Slowly, Johannes straightens his back in agony. Even from above, Nella can hear the clicks of his bones.

‘We are all of us weak, Frans,’ Johannes says. ‘But some are weaker than others.’

Meermans bows his head; the hat slips from his hands and this time he leaves it where it lies. The sight of his heaving shoulders keeps the crowd in mute suspense. Johannes is a mirror for Meermans to look at himself, and the man has seen a dark hole in place of a reflection. No one touches Meermans, no one comes forward to console or congratulate him for what he’s done.

‘Frans,’ says Johannes. ‘Have you not netted a sodomite, a rapacious taker of what he pleases – haven’t you helped cleanse these canals and city streets? Why is it, then, that all you can do is cry?’

The chamber erupts into shouts and whistles. Slabbaert calls for quiet so that he and the schepenbank can decide their verdict.

‘No!’ Johannes calls loudly, his gaze breaking away from Meermans and turning to the Schout. ‘That is not right.’

The court hushes, the gallery craning to see this man with his glamour and his dangerous nature, who has ripped open their neatly ordered community. Johannes stands up with immense difficulty, leaning on the chair. ‘It is customary that the accused may speak.’