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suffer for allowing me to stay in their village. He wanted all five of us to have our heads crushed—quite amicably of course—to placate the river spirits. It was time for us to leave, so even though I was quite feverish, we did.”
    – 11 –
    ROWLAND VANDERLINDEN SIPPED WATER from his glass.
    Rachel watched him, fascinated. She’d never met anyone who’d been through such things. Here most of us were, she was thinking, preoccupied with nothing but pedestrian ideas—while men like Rowland Vanderlinden were unravelling the mysteries of the universe. She was deeply flattered that he should confide in someone as unsophisticated as she was. She hoped more and more it might be his way of wooing her.
    “Of course, the fetish matter was interesting,” said Rowland. “But what impressed me most was that it was because of his favourite wife’s suicide that he destroyed it. He obviously loved her so much, nothing else mattered to him. Isn’t it astounding what a man will do for the woman he loves?”
    “Yes, it really is,” Rachel said. She was thinking, though she barely knew him, that it would be wonderful to have someone like Rowland die for love of her. But she put that idea out of her head. “I’m so glad you got away. I mean, I don’t like the idea of fetishes. They sound awful and primitive.”
    “Do you mind if I call you Rachel?” he said, smiling.
    “Of course not,” she said.
    “It’s such a pleasure to see you again,” he said. “I’m so glad you agreed to come for lunch. I’ve thought about you often since that night in Queensville. I’m sure your father said something unflattering about me. He has quite a reputation for not liking experts.”
    “Well, he didn’t say he didn’t like you,” she said.
    He laughed at that. “What exactly did he say?”
    “Oh, that he doesn’t think intellectuals really understand what the law’s for,” she said.
    “I’m not surprised to hear that,” Rowland Vanderlinden said. He frowned and tried to sound like her father: “‘You intellectuals can’t see the difference between right and wrong. It’s always shades of grey. You’d never find anyone guilty of anything.’” Rowland laughed. “He’s from the old school, all right.”
    Rachel laughed too, pleased that he didn’t seem to mind her father too much.
    While they waited for more coffee, he told her a little about his own family. Like the Judge, his ancestors had come from Holland long ago—to escape religious persecution. They’d settled in the north country and farmed the land. Rowland’s father had become a schoolteacher and made sure his son received a good education.
    “Isn’t it odd we both have famous names?” Rowland said. “I mean, Dafoe’s almost like Daniel Defoe —you know, the man who wrote Robinson Crusoe .”
    “Yes,” Rachel said. “But I’ve never heard of anyone called Vanderlinden.”
    “Not many people know the name,” said Rowland. “You remember John Locke? He called himself Vanderlinden when he was an exile in Holland. He may actually have borrowed the name from my ancestors.”
    Rachel admitted she’d no idea who John Locke was, either.
    “The philosopher,” Rowland said. “You know: the Essay Concerning Human Understanding and all that stuff about the random association of ideas?” He saw she knew nothing about it and smiled. His fingers touched her fingers on the table to reassure her. “Oh, don’t worry, Rachel. It’s not important. The important things in life aren’t found in philosophy books.”
    She was so thrilled at his touch she could hardly breathe.
    “My mother had Dutch ancestors too,” he said. His voice became so soft she was suddenly aware of the clatter of restaurant noises. “My father always told me that if I ever got married, I couldn’t do better than to get myself a Dutch Wife .”
    Rachel was startled. “A Dutch Wife!” she said. “That’s what my father always called my mother. He used to say, ‘You can’t