T
hey took coffee in the private salon on the first floor. It was a cozy room with a piano and piles of illustrated magazines and an Aubusson carpet that caught the colors of the ceiling, which showed heaven glimpsed through parted clouds.
“Jacob de Wit.
Dawn Banishing the Figures of Night
,” said Maarten, when Piet admired it. He had bought the canvas three years before and paid a fair price although its owners were bankrupt and would have settled for less. He had altered the whole room to accommodate it. “Rather fine, don’t you think?”
“Very fine, sir.”
Constance and Louisa sat together on a cushioned daybed between the bookcases. Once Hilde Wilken had handed round the petit fours and deposited the tray of Meissen cups and steaming pots before Jacobina, Constance said, with a note of friendly challenge in her voice, “Entertain us, Mr. Barol.”
Piet could play bridge and discuss with authority the paintings of several “Living Masters.” He read very well, with a deep sonorous voice equally suited to Scripture and fiction. He also had a number of well-turned anecdotes, refined by repetition; such a range, in fact, that the introduction of one to the general conversation rarely seemed forced. Tonight he sensed instinctively that music was required, not words. With a little bow he rose and went to the piano.
Nina Barol had taught Piet not only to accompany her students but to sing with them, too. As a little boy he had taken the soprano role in duets with aspiring tenors and when his voice broke had continued to sing these parts in a sweet falsetto. This facility had developed into a party trick of proven impact. Piet knew that the spectacle of a man like him singing in the high, true voice of a boy was alluring, that it delighted women and pacified the competitive instincts of other men. He sat down on the piano stool and told the touching anecdote of how his adored mother, now dead, had taught him to sing the female parts of the great operas.
“Why don’t you give us something from
Carmen
, Mr. Barol?” said Jacobina, hardly looking up from her embroidery.
“Oh do!” cried Constance. “I adore Bizet.”
Nina Barol had seen the premiere of
Carmen
and been conquered for life. She had sung Piet to sleep after childhood nightmares with Micaëla’s song of a mother who loves her child and sends him money and forgiveness and a kiss. But it was not maternal affection the situation called for. Piet looked at his new employer, beaming by the fireplace as Didier Loubat poured him a brandy, and felt a pulse of thrilling, compulsive guilt. He liked Mr. Vermeulen-Sickerts. He felt instinctively that they could be friends, but the inspiration sparked by Jacobina’s sly suggestion was too brilliant to ignore.
He sat down at the piano, paused once to pacify his conscience, and began the aria Carmen sings to Don José, in which she promises to take him carousing on the ramparts of Seville if he risks prison for her sake. “Yes, but it’s dull to be alone,” he sang, devilishly. “True pleasure requires a pair.”
Didier Loubat replaced the decanter of brandy on the cocktail tray and stood silently by the door, his face absolutely expressionless. Hilde Wilken took an empty coffee cup from Constance’s hand and curtsied. She looked at Didier, whom she loved desperately; to whom she had rendered her carefully preserved virginity. She did not speak French and did not understand the words Piet sang. But she caught the erotic charge of the music and when Didier did not return her glance, as he so easily might have done, she knew suddenly that he did not love her back; that he was bored of her. It was a certainty that had been creeping up on her, stealthily, for some time. As it sunk its claws into her back she thought she might faint. Instead she picked up the tray and left the room, digging her nails into the flesh of her palms to guard against tears.
On the other side of the door, Piet was singing, “My poor heart, so easily consoled, my heart is as free as the air.” He was giving it beautifully and he knew it. “I have admirers by the dozen, but none of them are to my taste.”
It was a devastating choice, because the words gave form to feelings within Jacobina of which she had been quite unaware even six hours before. Her heart
was
poor and worthy of consolation. She longed to feel as free as air. She thought of the dozens of suitors who had adorned her youth and glanced at her husband. Then she looked at Piet, a young
galent
entirely to her taste; and though she knew that she should be ashamed of herself for inviting this peacock into her nest, in fact she felt as though life had taken an exciting turn.
Maarten coughed. The sound brought echoes of his snoring and reminded her that he had done no more than kiss her—and that all too rarely—since Egbert’s birth. For ten years she had submitted to this denial of affection and after one explicit rejection on the night of their eighteenth wedding anniversary had not again sought to arouse her husband’s interest. What Jacobina Vermeulen-Sickerts did not know was that Maarten had woken on many nights to find himself stiff with dreaming of her and feasted his eyes on her warm body beside him. It was not because he did not wish to touch his wife that he did not touch her.
It was because of a promise he had made to God.
M
aarten Vermeulen was twelve years old when he found in the ruins of a burnt-out farmhouse a charred section of beam in the shape of a cross and took this as divine confirmation of that morning’s sermon. It was a winter’s day of uncompromising harshness and the flames of hell had been vividly evoked by the charismatic young vicar of the Johanneskerk. This gentleman had read every word John Calvin ever wrote and had no time for spineless modernists who softened his teachings. Walking home from church, Maarten said nothing to his parents; but as soon as they had eaten he set out across the dunes of Drenthe to look for a sign.
He was at first reluctant to believe that God had decided, long before his birth, whether he was to be saved or damned; but the burned beam convinced him that the vicar was right. God
had
decided. Moreover, His decision was final and irrevocable. This begged the further question: what was the Almighty’s judgment in his, Maarten Vermeulen’s, specific case? When he pressed for an answer the following Sunday he was informed that such mysteries are not revealed before the End but that clues might be deduced from his behavior through life.
From that day, the question of whether or not he was predestined for salvation consumed a significant portion of Maarten’s time and energies, and though he searched for a sign and detected many, none was ever as unequivocal as the charred cross he had found.
His career and the good works he went to great lengths to perform gave him some cause for comfort—as did the delectable Jacobina Sickerts’ decision to marry him, though she had grander suitors. God had smiled on his idea of transporting ice great distances to slow the decay of perishable food. The fledgling concern had often come close to failure, but each time God had intervened and rescued it. Once he was reliably prosperous, Maarten had given 12 percent of his profits away each year: 20 percent more than the Bible instructed. He hoped his generosity was a sign that he was destined for heaven, but to make sure he went further than passive philanthropy. He threw his considerable energies into improving the lot of the less fortunate. He built bread factories and founded societies for land reclamation. He extended the city beyond the Singelgracht and built safe, watertight houses for the poor. He gave his workers a week’s annual holiday and paid for their care when they fell sick and was rewarded by God with two healthy girls—but no son. When he still had no male heir after fifteen years of marriage he began to take this as evidence of heavenly disfavor, and when Jacobina fell pregnant for the third time he fasted for three days and made a bargain with God.
If the child were a boy, he would abstain forever from the pleasures of the flesh.
The child was a boy, and for a time Maarten felt serenely secure. But he was soon punished for this presumption. His boy did not behave as other boys did. Egbert did not like to run and play. As he grew bigger he slipped further into a world others could not see. When he began to refuse to venture beyond the house, Maarten took this to mean that the future of his own soul hung in the balance. He continued to fight against his sexual desires, with no thought for the impact his self-restraint would have on his wife. But though his business prospered greatly, his heir’s behavior grew more, not less, odd; and sometimes he woke in the night from lurid dreams of hell and its eternal fires.
In many respects Maarten Vermeulen-Sickerts was a rational man, but the doctrine of predestination, once absorbed, proved impossible to shake; and because he shared his fears with no one, he was compelled to face them alone. Piet’s polished performance, superior in every way to the embarrassed awkwardness of Egbert’s previous tutors, was deeply reassuring. After the party had broken up and he had said his prayers, he went to sleep feeling calmer than he had in years.
P
iet took off his tie and began to unbutton his shirt, standing in front of the mirror in his comfortable new bedroom. He felt giddy with relief.
There was a knock at the door. Didier Loubat put his head round it. “Did you survive?”
“I think so.”
“You did much better than the last man at his first dinner. It’s important not to cross the girls. D’you want a drink?”
“I thought it wasn’t allowed.”
“Blok’s in bed, and the witch doesn’t come up here after lights out. I’ve got Chartreuse.”
“I’m in, then.” Piet spoke nonchalantly, but in fact he had never tasted Chartreuse and was eager to try it.
“I’ll get it. I suppose you’ll need nightclothes, too.”
Didier disappeared and returned with two chipped tumblers and a bottle containing five inches of emerald liquid. He had taken his tie off and opened two buttons on his shirt. “Borrow these till yours arrive.” He handed Piet a pair of blue-and-white-striped pajamas, sat on the edge of the bed and poured the drinks. “I’m glad you’ve come. The last few tutors have been stuck up beyond belief.”
Though Didier Loubat was a footman, he was a good footman and did not consider himself beneath anyone else who earned an honest wage. When he saw that there was no condescension in Piet’s manner, he decided to reward the beauty of his face by giving him the benefit of an insider’s experience. “You’ll enjoy yourself here if you’re sensible.” He handed Piet his cup. “It’s much the best house in Amsterdam and the family’s all right once you know how to handle them. The one to watch out for is Constance. She expects every man to fall in love with her.” He raised his glass in a silent toast. “But you mustn’t. If Vermeulen catches you with one of his daughters you’ll finish at the bottom of the Herengracht with lead weights tied to your balls.”
“I’ll remember that.”
“Gents as handsome as us need to be wary, that’s all.” Didier made this observation without embarrassment. He had a lean, athletic frame, high cheekbones and a seductively crooked smile. The simmering arousal of Piet’s interview with Jacobina remained and he wondered briefly whether Didier might help him relieve it.
No
. He was in the great city now. It was time to put away the habits of boyhood. He drained his glass in one manly swig and coughed.
Didier looked horrified. “That’s last year’s bonus. Treat it politely or you’ll miss it.” He poured Piet another inch. Consumed sparingly, the Chartreuse was delicious. Didier smiled to show that he did not judge Piet for his lack of experience with exotic liqueurs.
Piet was touched by this and relieved to have made an error so early on in their acquaintance. It removed the necessity of feigning sophistication. “What about Louisa?” he asked.
“Never says a word, but she’s sharp as a dagger. Nothing escapes her.”
“Do the sisters get on?”
“They adore each other. But if they decide you’re affected or stupid, beware. Don’t let their politeness fool you. They’re vicious when they choose.”
“How so?”
“They like to humiliate people—but subtly, so their target never knows. Lately they’ve taken to leading their victim through a conversation in alphabetical order. Very funny when the poor fool doesn’t catch on.”
They talked for an hour with great amiability and Piet learned that Didier was the son of a Swiss chauffeur at Maarten Vermeulen-Sickerts’ Amstel Hotel; that he had been a page there before Mr. Blok spotted him and promoted him to the house. “He got me a uniform with trousers so tight I could barely breathe when I first came. I had to get my mother to make me a new pair, for modesty’s sake.” Didier related the story of his seduction of Hilde and ended with the declaration that he and Piet should stick together in this swamp of sexual predators. It was a joke, of course, and both men laughed. “Careful!” Didier put his finger to his lips. “You don’t want Blok to know we’re awake or he’ll join us. When I first arrived he used to come into my room, hoping to find me undressed. He’ll do the same to you.”
“Was he ever successful?”
“Once or twice before I learned.”
“What about the other servants?”
“Naomi de Leeuw’s a bitch, but she’s a bloody good housekeeper. This place is run like the best hotel in Europe. The attic floor’s raised so the family doesn’t get woken when one of us lesser mortals goes for a piss in the night.
You
get the royal treatment too when you’re with them.”
“I’m looking forward to it.”
Didier rose and bowed. “ ‘Bow, eye contact, smile, action, bow.’ ” He caught the housekeeper’s joyless intonation perfectly. “You’ll feel like the czar of bloody Russia. When I do it, remember it’s
my
Chartreuse we were drinking up here tonight.”
“I’m grateful, believe me.”
“Don’t be. It’s a relief to have someone to talk to. The other tutors were hopeless, the chef never speaks to anyone, and otherwise there’s only Blok.”
“Who’s in charge, him or Mrs. de Leeuw?”
“He’s meant to be, but she really is. Keeps everyone
very
firmly in line, and if you annoy her she’ll find a way to have you dismissed. She loves Agneta Hemels and for some reason she puts up with Hilde. I think it’s because she knows she can break her completely and rebuild her in her own image.”