City of Dreams (16 page)

It was Van der Vries who finally turned and pointed to the far field at the edge of the clearing. They stood among the barley and the peas. Nearby were the corn and the squash and the pumpkins. Beyond them the saladings, the green pot herbs that made up much of their diet and all of their medicine. And beyond the saladings, the field of flowers that held the attention of Jacob Van der Vries. Poppies in full bloom, red heads nodding.

“Those look well grown to me. Ready to pick. So you are making laudanum, are you not?”

“I am not. It is too early. First the petals must drop. That will occur in a few days, perhaps a week. Then I harvest the seed capsules. After which I do my simpling.”

Van der Vries nodded. “So we must wait a little longer. A few more days perhaps.”

“A few more weeks, maybe a month.”

“Impossible. You just said those flowers would drop their petals in—”

“A week or less. Yes. But laudanum takes time to prepare. It can’t be rushed.”

“I see. Well, I am sure you and your brother will work as hard as you can to get some ready quickly.” This time he was staring not into her eyes but at her belly. “All things considered, I’m sure you agree that would be wise.”

“And all this time, while he was going on about the laudanum, the pair of you were just standing out there in the garden?” Lucas demanded incredulously. “In the hot sun?”

“It wasn’t so long. Ten minutes, perhaps.”

“But why didn’t you take him into the cabin, give him some of your root beer or a draught from the ale barrel? For God’s sake, Sally, if you could have distracted him, charmed him even, perhaps he—”

“Charming gentlemen is not among my talents, Lucas. As you well know. And distracting him by taking him inside and dosing him with beer of any sort was not possible.”

“Why not, Sally? You’re clever enough to—”

“And you are a fool. Look at me, Lucas. Watch me.” They were in the big room—big only by comparison with the rest of the cabin. Sally took four paces to the south wall, then turned and strode six paces to the north. After that she stopped and waited for her brother to comment.

“So?” Lucas asked.

“Are you blind? I don’t walk, Lucas. I waddle. If I were standing absolutely still, wearing a loose garment like this one, you might not be sure I am with child. See me walk, with my belly thrust out before me, and you would have no doubt.”

“I see. You’re right, of course. But you think that even though you didn’t walk, Van der Vries guessed.”

“I know he did.”

“You can’t know.”

“Yes, I can. I do. And I know something else, Lucas.” Sally turned away so he would not see how her face burned. “Jacob Van der Vries believes you fathered this child upon me.”

A young black woman opened the door. Lucas had frequently seen her around the town. She was Van der Vries’s Hetje, a girl some eighteen years old, born not in Africa but in the slave compound up in the woods north of the wall. Van der Vries had bought her soon after he arrived. Lucas pushed past her. “Where is your master? Is he here?”

“Yes, but—”

“Which door? This one?” Lucas threw open the door to his left. He saw a large room with chairs ranged around the walls. It was empty. “Where is he? Come, do you mean me to beat it out of you?”

“He be over there.” The woman pointed to a door at the rear of the hall. “You wait here. I’ll tell him you—”

“I’ll tell him myself.” Lucas shoved her aside and walked the length of the hallway. The door gave at his touch. The windows were open to the summer twilight and the room was full of the sweet smell of tobacco. Van der Vries was sitting in a chair beside the empty fireplace, puffing on a large, curved pipe, cradling the bowl in his pudgy hand. He looked up. “Lucas Turner the barber,” he said softly. “Come in, man. I’ve been expecting you. Though perhaps not quite so soon.”

“You went to see my sister.”

“
Ja
. Today I saw her. This morning. I was concerned, since you said she was ill. Then, when I saw her, of course I realized …”

Lucas balled his hands into fists, but he kept them at his sides. “What did you realize? That’s what I came here to ask about.”

“
Ja
. I know. But first we must have a glass of something. What do you prefer, barber? Ale, perhaps? Yes, I think so. It’s too hot for rum or geneva. Even for wine. Hetje! Come!”

The girl appeared in the open door, got her instructions, then left. The physician turned back to Lucas. “Now, please, sit. Do you smoke, barber? I can offer you a pipe if you did not bring your own.”

“I prefer to stand. And I don’t use tobacco.”

“Ah, I see. Well, we all have our own pleasures, do we not? The things we enjoy, whatever the upright citizens might— Ah, here is Hetje with our ale.”

The slave brought two pewter tankards filled to the brim. Lucas had run all the way from the cabin to Van der Vries’s house on Pearl Street. He drank half the ale on the first go.

“You are thirsty, barber. It is a long way to town from that isolated cabin of yours. Hetje, bring us a jug of brew and leave it here.” Then, after she had gone, “Isn’t this cozy, Lucas Turner? Where but in the New World would a barber and a physician have a drink together as if both were gentlemen?”

Lucas drained the last of the ale, then put the empty tankard on a table. “I am thinking of beating you senseless, Jacob Van der Vries,” he said quietly. “You might do well to curb your tongue while I consider the matter.”

“Beating me? In God’s name, why? And if you do, how will that help you?”

“You know why. Because of the foul things you have implied and—”

“The foul things, as you call them, are not my doing but yours, barber. And you can beat me as much as you like, but it will make your unmarried sister no less pregnant, no less a woman about to be branded as a fornicator and stoned for her crime.”

Lucas lunged forward and grabbed the other man by the lapels. He yanked him out of the chair. The Dutchman was at least a head shorter than his attacker. Lucas looked down at the red hair, the small red beard, the flowing red mustache. “You are wrong. Do you understand me, you gross and stupid pig, you are wrong. Now, ask me why I am not afraid to come here like this and tell you so to your face, even though you are a man of power and influence in Nieuw Amsterdam and I am the barber. Go ahead, you bloody fool! Ask me!”

“Let me go. I will—”

“Ask! If you don’t, I’ll hurl you through that window.” Lucas tightened his grip and raised Van der Vries higher. The fat legs dangled in the air. Lucas took a couple of strides toward the window. It faced a newly planted orchard. “I imagine your apple trees will survive, mijnheer. But you may break your neck. At the very least a few bones. And I assure you, I will have no interest in setting them.”

Van der Vries was kicking furiously, but connecting with nothing. “Wait! Wait! What do you want me to ask? I don’t understand what—”

“I want you to ask why it is that I am not afraid of you, worm that you are, Jacob Van der Vries. Why I am not troubled by your filthy accusations. Now, go ahead, you idiot, ask!”

“Ja,
very well. I am asking. Why? Why do you come here and—”

“Say it!” Lucas roared. “Filthy mind and filthy accusations. Say it!”

“Filthy mind and filthy … whatever you said.”

Lucas dropped him. The Dutchman went down on his knees and stayed there. “Now I will tell you why,” Lucas said softly. “But first I will drink.”

Lucas turned back to the table. Hetje was standing beside it, holding the jug of ale her master had ordered, but she was looking at Lucas, not Van der Vries. She was thin, but tough and wiry. Hetje, Lucas knew, could have come to her master’s aid. She could have used the heavy pewter jug as a weapon. Or picked up the poker beside the fireplace. She’d done neither. She approved of anything that put Jacob Van der Vries on the receiving end of a little discomfort.

Hetje and Lucas looked at each other. Lucas held out his tankard. Hetje filled it. “Thank you,” he murmured. “Now, leave the rest of the ale and go.”

Hetje hesitated. She looked toward her master. He was still kneeling on the floor, wiping his face and trying to catch his breath. She looked once more at Lucas. He understood.

“Get out,” Lucas yelled. “Go or I’ll kill the both of you!” The slave set the jug of ale on the table. Lucas winked at her. Hetje ran from the room, slamming the door shut behind her.

Lucas refilled his tankard and drank again. Finally he turned to Van der Vries. The Dutchman had stood up and moved away from the open window. He seemed to be edging toward the fireplace. The heavy brass poker gleamed in the half light.

“Now, to return to our discussion, mijnheer.” Lucas spoke with studied calm. “The reason I am not afraid of your filthy mind or your filthy accusations is because I realize that you are unable to be happy without laudanum. And my sister and I are the best—nay, the only—source of supply in Nieuw Amsterdam. Quite possibly in all of Nieuw Netherland.”

“I see,” Van der Vries said softly.

“Indeed. I thought you might. I presume you see as well that it is not in your best interest to stir up trouble for Sally. Or for me. The making of first-quality laudanum takes a great deal of skill. My sister has no equal.”

“
Ja
, I am sure she does not.”

“Good, then there is nothing more for us to discuss. I’ll be going.”

Lucas started toward the door. “Barber,” Van der Vries called. Lucas hesitated, then turned to face him. “Do not be in such a hurry, barber. Since you are here … I have a proposition for you.”

“I’m not interested.”

“Ach, not so quick to make up your mind.”

Lucas’s gut told him to walk out the door, that no good would come of talking longer to the Dutchman. His head told him to listen to what the man had to say. He stayed where he was.

“Very good,” Van der Vries said softly. “Now, there is one thing I must ask you. Since you insist it is not you who fathered—” Lucas made a move toward the physician. Van der Vries held up his hand. “For God’s sake, calm yourself. I believe you. But if not you, who?”

Lucas stared at him. He made no reply.

“Come, what harm can it do to tell me? We have agreed that everything that transpires will go no further because that is contrary to our best interests. Who, barber? Which one of our upstanding neighbors has been frolicking with your—”

“Hold your tongue or I’ll rip it out. She was …” Lucas choked on the word. “She was raped.”

“Ach … A terrible thing. The poor creature.” Van der Vries reached for his pipe, began filling it. “Who did this? A trapper, perhaps?”

“A savage. Don’t look so surprised, man. God knows she’s not the first.”

“No, of course not. Only … To be outraged by an Indian and still have her scalp … I thought they either took the women captive or killed them.”

“We quarreled, and she went back to our cabin. I followed and got there in time to kill the savage.” He hadn’t told it that way to make himself look like a hero. His version of the story was easier to believe.

“How fortunate,” Van der Vries said softly.

“Yes. Now, why did you want to know? What difference does it make?”

The Dutchman took a couple of long puffs on his pipe. Lucas could smell the smoke, but he couldn’t see it. The room was growing dark. “Because,” Van der Vries said at last, “I am proposing to marry the juffrouw. So the father of her bastard is of some interest to me.”

“Marry! You’re insane. Sally would never accept you.”

“It is not necessary that she accept me, barber. Only that you do. You are truly her brother, are you not? Her sole guardian.”

“I am.” Even those two words were difficult for Lucas. His mouth had suddenly gone dry and his tongue felt thick.

“Good. Then we need discuss only what you and I wish to do in this matter. The juffrouw will surely obey the brother who is her lawful guardian.”

“No. She won’t. Not when—”

“Stop talking like a child, barber. The woman is unmarried, and she is pregnant by, she claims, a savage who attacked her. Under the circumstances, do you not think the burgomasters might conclude that you are lying to protect her, and that she was the Indian’s willing companion?”