laughs upstairs. I break out in a sweat.
Carel peers inside. “Is that your vader? Perhaps I should talk to him myself.”
“No! No, he is busy. Painting.” It is bad enough to be discovered as a slattern by Carel, but to incur Vader’s wrath in front of him?
“Put it in there!”
“The kitchen?”
“Yes. It’s a good place.” I can hide it there until I get a chance to move it.
Carel steps forward with the canvas, then pauses in the entrance hall. He has noticed Vader’s picture of Moeder in her shift.
“This way!” I yelp. “Quickly.”
I press my hands against my face as he carries the painting through the front room to the kitchen. I am ashamed of the reek of cooked cabbage and the damp, cracked kitchen walls.
“Where should it go?” he asks.
Vader’s voice is at the top of the stairs.
“Behind these barrels,” I say. “Quickly.”
“Cornelia?” Vader calls.
“Surely you have heard about my vader’s terrible temper,” I whisper. “He will not be happy about this.” Not a lie, for certain, though I mean about taking his painting without permission, not his reaction to the buyer’s rejecting it. “We must let his choler cool.”
No matter the true reason, Carel seems to see the logic in this. He dumps the canvas, then hurries after me through the half door leading into the courtyard outside.
We pause on the step. The van Roop girls are on their side of the courtyard, jumping rope in the crisp April air. “Can you walk?” Carel asks over their singsong verses. The wind whips a shoot of the rose vine that grows near the door, nearly lashing my face. I push it away, scratching my hand on its tiny new thorns.
Inside the house, Vader calls.
“I would like to. Yes.”
It is not a walk but a run we break into as we hurry between narrow houses down the alleyway. Several doors away from my own, we burst from the shadows onto the street and are met with the fresh morning sun.
“First warm day of the year,” Carel says.
We look before us. Across the canal, the sunlight catches each shiny holly leaf in the hedge of the New Maze Park, turning it into a wall of glittering emeralds. Yellow-green pearls glow on the tips of the linden-tree branches. A frog hops into the canal, sending coins of silver light bobbing on the brown water. The duck family glides past all in a line, save for a duckling who darts at a dragonfly, then races in a panic to catch up with its brothers.
“I’d like to try to paint this scene,” Carel says. “‘The Canal Near Cornelia’s House on a Sunny Spring Morn.’”
I must not grin like a fool. “Oh, a landscape now? You must have mastered your glass.”
He raises his brows. “You remembered? Well, yes. I can now put reflections in reflections. You should see. I am no van Eyck, but I am getting there.”
I laugh, then cast a look behind me at my house. I see movement in the window of Vader’s studio.
“I would like to paint you,” Carel says.
“Me?”
“I know,” says Carel, “you must be tired of it. You have probably been painted a hundred times.”
“Not really. Sometimes I sit for Neel, but just to hold a position.”
We wait for an old man stumping by with his cane to pass. “Your vader has not painted you? He is mad.” Carel sees my grimace. “I mean, he is missing an opportunity.”
I look doubtful.
“I mean it. If you were my daughter, I would have painted you a thousand times. You are beautiful.”
I search for a sign that he is jesting. I have been called many things. Skittish. Willful. A crazy man’s daughter.
Never beautiful.
A flock of butterflies has been set free in my stomach. I want to throw back my head and crow. I try to think how my book says I should comport myself, but my brain is full of tumbling puppies. I manage to mumble, “So are you.”
His laugh rings out. Two wood doves burst up, their wings whistling, from the linden tree. “You are a different one. No, don’t look like that! I mean it well. I
Carel peers inside. “Is that your vader? Perhaps I should talk to him myself.”
“No! No, he is busy. Painting.” It is bad enough to be discovered as a slattern by Carel, but to incur Vader’s wrath in front of him?
“Put it in there!”
“The kitchen?”
“Yes. It’s a good place.” I can hide it there until I get a chance to move it.
Carel steps forward with the canvas, then pauses in the entrance hall. He has noticed Vader’s picture of Moeder in her shift.
“This way!” I yelp. “Quickly.”
I press my hands against my face as he carries the painting through the front room to the kitchen. I am ashamed of the reek of cooked cabbage and the damp, cracked kitchen walls.
“Where should it go?” he asks.
Vader’s voice is at the top of the stairs.
“Behind these barrels,” I say. “Quickly.”
“Cornelia?” Vader calls.
“Surely you have heard about my vader’s terrible temper,” I whisper. “He will not be happy about this.” Not a lie, for certain, though I mean about taking his painting without permission, not his reaction to the buyer’s rejecting it. “We must let his choler cool.”
No matter the true reason, Carel seems to see the logic in this. He dumps the canvas, then hurries after me through the half door leading into the courtyard outside.
We pause on the step. The van Roop girls are on their side of the courtyard, jumping rope in the crisp April air. “Can you walk?” Carel asks over their singsong verses. The wind whips a shoot of the rose vine that grows near the door, nearly lashing my face. I push it away, scratching my hand on its tiny new thorns.
Inside the house, Vader calls.
“I would like to. Yes.”
It is not a walk but a run we break into as we hurry between narrow houses down the alleyway. Several doors away from my own, we burst from the shadows onto the street and are met with the fresh morning sun.
“First warm day of the year,” Carel says.
We look before us. Across the canal, the sunlight catches each shiny holly leaf in the hedge of the New Maze Park, turning it into a wall of glittering emeralds. Yellow-green pearls glow on the tips of the linden-tree branches. A frog hops into the canal, sending coins of silver light bobbing on the brown water. The duck family glides past all in a line, save for a duckling who darts at a dragonfly, then races in a panic to catch up with its brothers.
“I’d like to try to paint this scene,” Carel says. “‘The Canal Near Cornelia’s House on a Sunny Spring Morn.’”
I must not grin like a fool. “Oh, a landscape now? You must have mastered your glass.”
He raises his brows. “You remembered? Well, yes. I can now put reflections in reflections. You should see. I am no van Eyck, but I am getting there.”
I laugh, then cast a look behind me at my house. I see movement in the window of Vader’s studio.
“I would like to paint you,” Carel says.
“Me?”
“I know,” says Carel, “you must be tired of it. You have probably been painted a hundred times.”
“Not really. Sometimes I sit for Neel, but just to hold a position.”
We wait for an old man stumping by with his cane to pass. “Your vader has not painted you? He is mad.” Carel sees my grimace. “I mean, he is missing an opportunity.”
I look doubtful.
“I mean it. If you were my daughter, I would have painted you a thousand times. You are beautiful.”
I search for a sign that he is jesting. I have been called many things. Skittish. Willful. A crazy man’s daughter.
Never beautiful.
A flock of butterflies has been set free in my stomach. I want to throw back my head and crow. I try to think how my book says I should comport myself, but my brain is full of tumbling puppies. I manage to mumble, “So are you.”
His laugh rings out. Two wood doves burst up, their wings whistling, from the linden tree. “You are a different one. No, don’t look like that! I mean it well. I
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