there they will carry grain to southern Europe. In August a fleet of twenty ships is due to return from the East Indies laden with spices, ivory and two hundred tons of gold apiece. If God grants them a safe passage Cornelis will make a substantial profit.
“And God remembered Noah, and every living thing, and all the cattle that was with him in the ark; and God made a wind to pass over the earth, and the waters assuaged . . . and Noah removedthe covering of the ark, and looked, and behold, the face of the ground was dry.”
Cornelis closes the Bible. It is time for bed. Later, he remembers this evening as one of profound contentment. It is as if he already senses the joy to come.
For in bed, when he lays his hand on Sophia’s breast, she gently removes it.
“My dear,” she says. “I have some news that I know will please you as much as it delights me.” She strokes his fingers. “I visited the physician today and he confirmed what I have suspected. I am carrying your child.”
28
Sophia
Except the Lord built the house, their labour is but lost that built it. Except the Lord keep the city, the watchman waketh but in vain.
—PSALM 127
When I was little there was a picture that gave me nightmares. Back in Utrecht, where I grew up, my father owned a print shop. Our front room served as the shop; it opened onto the street where, under the canopy, more prints were displayed. Below street level, downstairs in the vault, that was where the printing press thrummed and clattered. My father printed pamphlets and leaflets—moral verses, sermons and edifying works recommended by the predicants: The Threshold of Paradise, The Delight of Piety . He also printed etchings and engravings of paintings.
The one that haunted me was pinned to the wall—perhaps it haunted him too, I never asked. It was a print of the great flood of 1421, the St. Elizabeth’s Day flood that drowned whole villages forever. The picture shows an expanse of water. Poking through the surface are tree tops and the spires of churches. The water has swallowed them up.
I gazed at it for hours—the stillness of the water, the tips of the spires, the horrors that lay beneath. God had saved Noah; why did these people deserve to be damned? I heard the bells tolling, calling drowned men to worship. Way below were bloated cattle with sightless eyes; they moved in the current, bumping against the roofs of barns. In one convulsion the world had been turned upside down. Deep in the water the dead moved helplessly. Their arms waved like weeds, but nobody came to their rescue.
JAN STARES AT ME. “The Lord preserve us! You really intend doing this?”
We are sitting on the rim of a water fountain, a few streets from his house. His neighborhood is full of artisans’ workshops—carpenters, goldsmiths, painters. Beside us there is a metalworker’s premises. Hammer blows ring out. We meet in the open because it is less risky than me being seen going into his house. Maria, our lookout, stands at the end of the alley. She is my partner now. If we sink, we sink together .
“Surely he will notice?” asks Jan. “He will notice that Maria’s getting fatter?”
“She’s a big girl. The difference will scarcely be discernible, if she wears her apron higher.”
“But surely—”
“My husband is shortsighted,” I reply breezily. “He never looks at her anyway—she is a servant; she is simply an item of furniture.”
“But what about you? How are you going to grow bigger?” Jan looks shaken. He seems to be more nervous than I am. “He will notice you .”
“I’ll feign the symptoms. After a few months I’ll stuff a pillow down my dress—”
“But he’s your husband, he shares your bed, surely he’ll discover you—”
“Ah, that is the beauty of my plan. You know that I cannot bear him touching me. I cannot bear . . .” I stop. “I told him that from now until my confinement we have been forbidden conjugal relations. The doctor ordered it,
“And God remembered Noah, and every living thing, and all the cattle that was with him in the ark; and God made a wind to pass over the earth, and the waters assuaged . . . and Noah removedthe covering of the ark, and looked, and behold, the face of the ground was dry.”
Cornelis closes the Bible. It is time for bed. Later, he remembers this evening as one of profound contentment. It is as if he already senses the joy to come.
For in bed, when he lays his hand on Sophia’s breast, she gently removes it.
“My dear,” she says. “I have some news that I know will please you as much as it delights me.” She strokes his fingers. “I visited the physician today and he confirmed what I have suspected. I am carrying your child.”
28
Sophia
Except the Lord built the house, their labour is but lost that built it. Except the Lord keep the city, the watchman waketh but in vain.
—PSALM 127
When I was little there was a picture that gave me nightmares. Back in Utrecht, where I grew up, my father owned a print shop. Our front room served as the shop; it opened onto the street where, under the canopy, more prints were displayed. Below street level, downstairs in the vault, that was where the printing press thrummed and clattered. My father printed pamphlets and leaflets—moral verses, sermons and edifying works recommended by the predicants: The Threshold of Paradise, The Delight of Piety . He also printed etchings and engravings of paintings.
The one that haunted me was pinned to the wall—perhaps it haunted him too, I never asked. It was a print of the great flood of 1421, the St. Elizabeth’s Day flood that drowned whole villages forever. The picture shows an expanse of water. Poking through the surface are tree tops and the spires of churches. The water has swallowed them up.
I gazed at it for hours—the stillness of the water, the tips of the spires, the horrors that lay beneath. God had saved Noah; why did these people deserve to be damned? I heard the bells tolling, calling drowned men to worship. Way below were bloated cattle with sightless eyes; they moved in the current, bumping against the roofs of barns. In one convulsion the world had been turned upside down. Deep in the water the dead moved helplessly. Their arms waved like weeds, but nobody came to their rescue.
JAN STARES AT ME. “The Lord preserve us! You really intend doing this?”
We are sitting on the rim of a water fountain, a few streets from his house. His neighborhood is full of artisans’ workshops—carpenters, goldsmiths, painters. Beside us there is a metalworker’s premises. Hammer blows ring out. We meet in the open because it is less risky than me being seen going into his house. Maria, our lookout, stands at the end of the alley. She is my partner now. If we sink, we sink together .
“Surely he will notice?” asks Jan. “He will notice that Maria’s getting fatter?”
“She’s a big girl. The difference will scarcely be discernible, if she wears her apron higher.”
“But surely—”
“My husband is shortsighted,” I reply breezily. “He never looks at her anyway—she is a servant; she is simply an item of furniture.”
“But what about you? How are you going to grow bigger?” Jan looks shaken. He seems to be more nervous than I am. “He will notice you .”
“I’ll feign the symptoms. After a few months I’ll stuff a pillow down my dress—”
“But he’s your husband, he shares your bed, surely he’ll discover you—”
“Ah, that is the beauty of my plan. You know that I cannot bear him touching me. I cannot bear . . .” I stop. “I told him that from now until my confinement we have been forbidden conjugal relations. The doctor ordered it,
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