taking her time.
For a moment he loses her. She has darted left, down the Berenstraat. A dog barks, flinging itself against a closed door. Where is she going, and why so fast? It is dark now. She avoids the main thoroughfares; she darts down side alleys, flitting like a ghost. Behind shutters, men roar with laughter. Light briefly illuminates her, as she passes a window. Then she is gone, swallowed up by the night.
She is running now. How light she is; she is almost flying! Willem pants behind her, keeping his distance. But she never turns; she seems oblivious. Pots clatter in kitchens; roasting meat mingles with the smell of drains.
Behind doors people are eating their dinners but Willem feels oddly sealed off. It is as if he and this flitting figure have become detached from the normal life of the city. It is just him and her, drawn by some powerful tide. His lungs burn; his purse bumps against his thigh.
They are in the Bloemgracht now. Maria taps at a door. Willem hides behind one of the trees that line the street. He hears a tiny, wet sneeze, strangely human. It is a puppy, playing in the dust. It darts at his leg; he nudges it away with his foot.
The door opens. Candlelight flickers on Maria, briefly, and she steps in.
Willem’s heart is hammering. He crosses the street and approaches the window. The lower half is closed by shutters. The upper glass, however, is illuminated from within. Willem thinks: perhaps it is a doctor’s house. Somebody is ill and Maria has run here for help. He thinks: maybe she is friends with a servant here, to whom she has lent some household item. She needs to retrieve it before her master and mistress return.
Why then is his heart beating so fast? There is a bench beside the front door. Willem climbs onto it.
He looks down, into the room. He sees bare floorboards, an easel and a chair. For a moment he thinks that the room is empty but he hears faint voices. Then they move into view.
It is Maria and a man. He cannot see Maria’s face; she is below him, her back to the window. The man is laughing. He rests his forehead against hers, shaking with laughter. His black curly hair presses against her cap. Then she takes his head in her hands. It is a gesture of the utmost tenderness. She raises his face to hers, her hands threaded through his hair. She holds his face in her hands as if it is the most precious object she has ever held. And then she kisses him.
Willem’s legs buckle beneath him. He slides down to a sitting position. Then he gets up and stumbles away, blindly.
19
Sophia
Fresh mussels can be compared to
The blessed women-folk
Who speak modestly and virtuously
And always look after their household;
All wives must regularly bear
The burden of their mussel-house.
—ADRIAEN VAN DE VENNE, Tableau of Foolish Senses, 1623
Jan has already turned the sandglass upside down again. Time is running out, for when this hour has trickled through I must go. How strange, that a heap of sand has contained so much joy! Jan’s past is in there too, measured in grains, but these two hours belong to us.
“If you were a truly great painter—”
“If?” he snorts. “If?”
“Could you paint an hourglass and fill the painting with such joy that everyone who sees it can understand what has happened?”
He gazes at me tenderly. “Has it ever happened to anyone else like this?”
We are lying on his bed. Jan drinks from his glass. Then he turns my face to his, opens my lips and spills the sweet wine into my mouth. “It’s you I want to paint—now—just as you are.”
“No, don’t leave me.”
He strokes my cheek with his thumb. “How could I possibly?”
Maria’s clothes, my spent disguise, lie on the floor. They look somehow emptier than normal clothes, as if exhausted by the role they have had to play. They are my chrysalis; I split them and emerged, a creature transformed. I am a butterfly whose life span is just one hour.
Jan slices a piece of ham. I watch the
For a moment he loses her. She has darted left, down the Berenstraat. A dog barks, flinging itself against a closed door. Where is she going, and why so fast? It is dark now. She avoids the main thoroughfares; she darts down side alleys, flitting like a ghost. Behind shutters, men roar with laughter. Light briefly illuminates her, as she passes a window. Then she is gone, swallowed up by the night.
She is running now. How light she is; she is almost flying! Willem pants behind her, keeping his distance. But she never turns; she seems oblivious. Pots clatter in kitchens; roasting meat mingles with the smell of drains.
Behind doors people are eating their dinners but Willem feels oddly sealed off. It is as if he and this flitting figure have become detached from the normal life of the city. It is just him and her, drawn by some powerful tide. His lungs burn; his purse bumps against his thigh.
They are in the Bloemgracht now. Maria taps at a door. Willem hides behind one of the trees that line the street. He hears a tiny, wet sneeze, strangely human. It is a puppy, playing in the dust. It darts at his leg; he nudges it away with his foot.
The door opens. Candlelight flickers on Maria, briefly, and she steps in.
Willem’s heart is hammering. He crosses the street and approaches the window. The lower half is closed by shutters. The upper glass, however, is illuminated from within. Willem thinks: perhaps it is a doctor’s house. Somebody is ill and Maria has run here for help. He thinks: maybe she is friends with a servant here, to whom she has lent some household item. She needs to retrieve it before her master and mistress return.
Why then is his heart beating so fast? There is a bench beside the front door. Willem climbs onto it.
He looks down, into the room. He sees bare floorboards, an easel and a chair. For a moment he thinks that the room is empty but he hears faint voices. Then they move into view.
It is Maria and a man. He cannot see Maria’s face; she is below him, her back to the window. The man is laughing. He rests his forehead against hers, shaking with laughter. His black curly hair presses against her cap. Then she takes his head in her hands. It is a gesture of the utmost tenderness. She raises his face to hers, her hands threaded through his hair. She holds his face in her hands as if it is the most precious object she has ever held. And then she kisses him.
Willem’s legs buckle beneath him. He slides down to a sitting position. Then he gets up and stumbles away, blindly.
19
Sophia
Fresh mussels can be compared to
The blessed women-folk
Who speak modestly and virtuously
And always look after their household;
All wives must regularly bear
The burden of their mussel-house.
—ADRIAEN VAN DE VENNE, Tableau of Foolish Senses, 1623
Jan has already turned the sandglass upside down again. Time is running out, for when this hour has trickled through I must go. How strange, that a heap of sand has contained so much joy! Jan’s past is in there too, measured in grains, but these two hours belong to us.
“If you were a truly great painter—”
“If?” he snorts. “If?”
“Could you paint an hourglass and fill the painting with such joy that everyone who sees it can understand what has happened?”
He gazes at me tenderly. “Has it ever happened to anyone else like this?”
We are lying on his bed. Jan drinks from his glass. Then he turns my face to his, opens my lips and spills the sweet wine into my mouth. “It’s you I want to paint—now—just as you are.”
“No, don’t leave me.”
He strokes my cheek with his thumb. “How could I possibly?”
Maria’s clothes, my spent disguise, lie on the floor. They look somehow emptier than normal clothes, as if exhausted by the role they have had to play. They are my chrysalis; I split them and emerged, a creature transformed. I am a butterfly whose life span is just one hour.
Jan slices a piece of ham. I watch the
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