His partner, an American named Lionel Dermont, whom he had met in the first-class dining room of the French liner
Provence
, appeared to have much less money now than he had seemed to have then. Indeed, Maarten was no longer sure Dermont had ever had the sums he claimed. Over his six weeks in the United States he had developed an energetic dislike for the man, who dressed so elegantly and told everybody what to do and contributed little of tangible worth to anything.
Lionel Dermont was a talker. Maarten Vermeulen-Sickerts, except with his closest associates, was not. Mr. Dermont’s talk was generally the greatest rot and this did not make his monologues easier to endure. He had a thousand sincere ways of explaining the delay of a check, and though he had long ceased to contribute to the construction costs he was fiercely loyal to his vision of a hotel “fit for potentates” and determined to spend as much of Maarten’s money as was necessary to achieve it. In this he was gleefully abetted by the architect and the gentleman responsible for the interiors. Through his acquaintance with these three men Maarten derived the inaccurate but unshakable impression that all Americans are brash and acquisitive and painfully dull dining companions besides.
Mr. Dermont’s stylish postponement of his latest installment of capital had inspired Maarten to investigate how best to cope with future emergencies alone. He lunched with his bankers at the Knickerbocker Trust Company and sounded them out on the possibility of a further loan. But the shiny confidence expected of men who attempt to borrow large sums of money in New York was impossible for Maarten to emulate, since it would have been so unacceptable in Amsterdam. As he left their monumental offices on Fifth Avenue, he was aware that he had not done well.
This knowledge preoccupied him throughout his return voyage, during which he began to believe that God disapproved of his spending such sums and energies on a monument to human vanity. By the time his own door was opened to him he was feeling morose and apprehensive. Though he had not hesitated to spend $180 on an evening cloak for Louisa and only slightly less on gowns for Constance and Jacobina, he knew that he should not have bought them. It was a further challenge to the deity.
Jacobina was unusually solicitous when she came to chat in his dressing room before dinner. As he embraced her, he felt a tug of violent desire that horrified him and made him step backwards to avoid giving his Creator further offense. He could see that this annoyed his wife and did his best to be bright and amusing at dinner; but in fact the only thing that lifted his spirits was the way in which Constance and Louisa appeared to have dropped their guard with Piet Barol. Maarten was glad of that. He had often been cruelly cut by ladies like his daughters when he was a young man. He was pleased for Piet that it was 1907, not 1877, and that the world had moved on.
When dinner was over, Egbert was allowed to come down, having dined on sugared bread and milk in his room; and watched impassively by Didier Loubat the whole family unwrapped their gifts and exclaimed over them as the salon filled with tissue paper and ribbons.
Observing this happy scene, Piet saw that his father’s presence disturbed Egbert and that he took care not to come into contact with any of the brightly colored paper; also that he shifted surreptitiously from foot to foot over the wreathed roses in the carpet, following a secret dance of his own.
Maarten had brought the boy a bright red fire engine and knew at once that Egbert did not care for it. He had no idea that the Shadowers were deeply suspicious of primary colors and that merely holding such an object required tremendous courage. This meant he was unmoved when Egbert carried it the whole way across the room to give to Hilde Wilken to take upstairs. Maarten saw only a sullen, pampered child, too fussed over by women, and this depressed him and reignited his anger over Mr. Dermont.
Jacobina knew her husband well and understood that Egbert was likely to be shouted at if his father’s mood did not improve. Maarten’s mounting impatience irked her and added insult to the injury he had done her in his dressing room. “Do sing us a duet, darling, with Mr. Barol,” she said. Maarten had a decent voice and was always happier after using it. “Why not something by Bizet?” she added slyly, to punish him for his failures as a lover and a father.
Maarten, who had no appetite for conversation, was touched by his wife’s suggestion. “Capital idea. What say you, Mr. Barol? Do you think we might manage it? We have
Carmen
somewhere.”
But Piet had a better idea. He took out the
Pêcheurs de Perles
and suggested that they sing the duet commonly called “Au fond du temple saint.” “Two old friends are reunited but fall in love with the same divine beauty. It nearly makes them enemies but in the end they swear eternal friendship.”
“A splendid theme.” Maarten took his glasses from their case and peered over the music. He remembered it was devilish tricky to fit the words to the notes.
Both men were baritones and the duet called for a tenor, so Piet took the higher part and sang it in falsetto. He had played the piano arrangement so often he had no need to look at his hands, and this left his eyes free to direct the meaning of the music as he wished. As he sang of the crowd falling to its knees, astonished at such loveliness, he stared fixedly over the piano lid and into the room beyond. Constance and Louisa were on the daybed, as usual. Egbert sat on a little stool at his mother’s feet. Jacobina’s chair was against the farthest wall, and her children could not see her face without turning round. This meant that when Piet sang “Look! There is the goddess!” no one saw that he did so straight into Jacobina’s eyes; nor did anyone observe that she met his gaze unflinchingly.
Now Maarten joined him in rapt appreciation of the heavenly figure’s beauty. But when he sang “O vision! O dream!” he was looking at Piet’s hands to make sure his timing was accurate, and it struck Jacobina as significant that he should sing these words without even thinking of her. This made her bolder and she put down her embroidery. Now the male voices joined forces in rapturous major thirds, and though Maarten’s pitch wobbled occasionally they made a fine sound. Singing straight to Jacobina, Piet declared that love had taken their hearts by storm and was turning them into enemies.
At this, Jacobina smiled.
But now the music was gaining control of them and Maarten was confident enough to look up from time to time, which meant that he was looking directly into Piet’s eyes when he sang, “No, nothing will separate us!”
Piet Barol was genuinely moved. He had chosen the duet in order to communicate with Maarten’s wife, but the passion of the music, the platonic fidelity of the male lines, drew him increasingly towards the man he had cuckolded. As they swore lustily to be friends forever, to treat each other as brothers, and promised that the goddess would unite them one day, Piet began to feel a mounting filial devotion. He
did
love Maarten, and the soaring declarations they made to each other dimmed his consciousness of all else. They sang the last chorus triumphantly, in a perfect unison of pitch and pace that left them feeling tender and inseparable, enormously refreshed, as though Bizet’s rich harmonies had released the toxins from their souls.
T
en hours after closing his eyes, Maarten woke with the conviction that Piet Barol could be a useful ally. He had built his fortune on recognizing exceptional talent and did not consider that a man of Piet’s gifts was best deployed teaching German verbs to a troubled little boy.
Maarten was a fearless realist. He did not pretend to himself that he had gained the confidence of his American bankers in their gaudy offices. As he lay propped up on his pillows, contemplating the soft-boiled egg Hilde Wilken had brought him, he was annoyed by this failure—but it did not induce panic. He knew many wealthy men in Holland and was confident he could persuade them to lend him large sums. In his own country he had a greater renown and surer touch than would ever be the case in America.
He got out of bed, knelt beside it and said his prayers, in which he apologized sincerely for the waste of his American hotel. Then he opened his eyes and put this penitential mood aside. There was no retreating now, if he was to keep his wife and children in the luxury that was their natural atmosphere. The damned thing had cost more than ten million dollars already. It would probably cost another two million to finish, and then there would be staff salaries and interest to pay.… There was, perhaps, a further $500,000 to be borrowed from the Knickerbocker once his current credit was exhausted. This would be nowhere near enough.
Maarten had never had his collection valued, but it seemed to him that it would be wise to do so now, discreetly. He was too proud to introduce economies at Herengracht 605 and though he could postpone the building of his country place for another year, this would not release sufficient sums to cover his obligations. He had a great deal of furniture, far more than he needed, and he knew there were men across Europe who would pay high and confidential prices for the jewels of his collection. He needed someone he could trust to catalog and record them.
After his bath he rang for Mr. Blok and told him to ask Mr. Barol to wait on him at ten o’clock.
P
iet Barol had already sketched several dozen objects in the house and chosen the finest pieces; and this was to Maarten Vermeulen-Sickerts a triumphant affirmation of his faith in the lad. As Piet showed him his drawings it seemed miraculous to Maarten that he should have anticipated his need, and fulfilled it in advance, without knowing anything of his difficulties.
Maarten’s preoccupation with his own salvation had left him alert to the ways in which God communicates with Man, and he read great significance in what Piet had done. It was vital no one should suspect him of valuing his treasures with an eye to raising money on them. His credit depended on the confidence of the public, which would be fatally undermined by the leaking of such news. Now there would be no need to hire a photographer whose loose talk might spoil everything. Turning the pages of Piet’s sketchbook he could have kissed him. His execution was as precise as anything a machine might achieve, but so much more refined.
As he accepted the book to look over later, the memory of his son’s behavior the night before recurred to him and seemed to complicate the message God had sent. “It is useful to me to have this little inventory,” he went on, more briskly, “and I should be glad if you would devote some time each day to continuing it. However”—he grew sterner—“I have a serious matter to discuss with you. Please sit down.”
To a conscience as tender as Piet Barol’s, this was a disturbing instruction. The life he would return to if he lost this man’s favor became vivid again, as it had not been in months. The shivering indignities of an outside toilet, his father’s joyless gloom, the cold winter nights, the tepid entertainments of the university clerks, their petty hatreds and intrigues rose up and seemed to choke him.
“I am extremely distressed to discover that my son is no better,” said Maarten. “We have greatly enjoyed having you in the house, but there has been no improvement in Egbert, and there must be improvement.”
Maarten intended to sound peremptory, but Piet heard the hopelessness in his voice. He looked at his face. It was plain that his employer had no idea of his true transgression. He began to float with relief, but at the same time he wished that Maarten was not Jacobina’s husband—because he longed to treat him worthily. It was no use pretending he would never touch his wife again. He had tried too many times to stop and never once succeeded. Here was an opportunity to atone for his repeated betrayals in another way.
“I will save Egbert for you, sir,” he said fervently. “I know I can, and I will.”
P
iet Barol had never yet turned on Egbert Vermeulen-Sickerts the totality of attention he had so far devoted to every other member of his family. As he left Maarten’s office he felt exhilarated by the challenge of getting to the bottom of his mysteries. Piet had great faith in his ability to make people love him. He was not daunted by the layers of calcified sediment that separated Egbert’s humanity from the world beyond it.
Maarten had given him a green velvet box and asked him to sketch its contents; had told him, moreover, that he might ask to see anything in the house, whenever he had the inclination, so long as he undertook to draw it. To have the dread of the morning resolved so happily was wonderful. He passed beneath the statues of Paris, Aphrodite and Athena, taking the stairs two at a time and whistling. It was clear now that Jacobina would never confess. He was pleased that her reunion with her husband had not turned her into an hysterical penitent.
In the hall he encountered Mr. Blok and asked him breezily to fetch from the cabinet in the ballroom an object of such price he had never dared examine it: a jewel box, covered in golden vines and studded with pearls, that had been made for Catherine de Médicis.
“That would require Mr. Vermeulen-Sickerts’ express permission.”
“By all means seek it.” Piet waited in the hall while the butler went upstairs. When he returned, Piet placed the jewel box on top of the green velvet case and went into the house next door, feeling full of the joys of life.
This mood was broken abruptly by the music coming from the schoolroom—a sad, lost music, in no discernible key.
At his Bösendorfer, Egbert was engaged in a negotiation of the utmost delicacy over his handling of the red fire engine the evening before. He had risen at 4:00 a.m. and lain submerged to his ears in iced water as the sky lightened. Faced with a keyboard of black and white, he sometimes found he could communicate with his tyrants more subtly than words alone permitted. He had abased himself and asked their forgiveness. This had been withheld. He had begged for it and been told that toying with primary colors was an offense that merited prolonged punishment.
By the time Piet Barol entered his aunt’s house, Egbert was close to tears; and when his tutor opened the schoolroom door the Shadowers rebuked him for allowing their conference to be overheard. He broke at once into a frenetic rendition of the C Minor Prelude, taking care to play each note with identical force. The music’s repeating patterns blocked his bid for freedom at every turn, and Bach’s sly insinuation of a major note at the very end compelled him to begin again, and again, as Piet took a seat at the table and opened the velvet case.