Johannes de Renialme sips his drink, decides not to pursue it, is confident that if Elinga’s family is as hard up as he thinks, the artist will soon come round.
The mistress dismisses her, and Esther takes the empty tray away (annoyed because they were talking about her).
To Jurina’s consternation, Rembrandt van Rijn follows the maid, his feet flapping on the tiles all the way to the kitchen.
Esther knows who he is, folds her hands demurely at this breach of etiquette.
Rembrandt stands respectfully in front of the woman. In low tones he asks, Can you understand me, miss?
She nods.
Rembrandt smiles, a wrinkly, mild, jocular smile that unmasks his severity, makes her smile back. I am very fond of faces, and I like yours. If ever you wish to be painted by me, if your mistress can spare you, come and see me.
The artist doffs his hat.
Esther beams.
Bodies crammed together surge into the East India House courtyard. On the threshold of ambition and uncertainty the men and boys thrust themselves forward, a crush of folk, the strongest climbing over the weakest. From slums, villages, orphanages, and foreign countries—brought here by poverty, bankruptcy, aspiration, and pimps. Waves of meat. The crowd bottlenecks at the archway, regroups, and scrabbles to the entrance steps of the VOC headquarters, where marshals struggle to hold the mob back so they can be seen individually within. The gang vents its frustration by jostling and grumbling at the front, by pushing and yelling at the back, where they strain to see what is happening. They press onward. Desperation and conviction swell the throng, each applicant eager to catch the eye of the Committee, impatient to be signed up. Advance, advance, stand out from the masses. Be fearless. Many will be turned away.
The son of a painter, more timid than most, huddles down and presses between the shoulders and torsos of his rivals. He is kicked
and punched. The new suit of clothes his parents gave him marks him out as middle class, may get torn before he is seen. His nose may get bloodied or his teeth knocked out. If he stumbles, they will trample him. He pushes toward the front of the multitude. He digs deep.
At the same time, elsewhere in the city, a maid works vigorously through the rooms of a house, brushing, scrubbing, shaking out. When she has finished a job, she slaps the furniture or object, admonishing it for becoming dirty. Now she makes the beds,
smack
for being slept in. Now she empties a dustpan,
bang
for getting dusty. She picks up her mistress’s shoes and drops them,
thud, thud,
find your own way back. It is only when she is standing on a chair forcefully rubbing at the windowpanes that her energy subsides, the glass gleaming, the latticed sunlight streaming in. She has expended some of her anger.
Esther can only be this way when she is on her own. Is it really the best use of her solitude? Closing the widows gently and stepping down from the chair, she looks about to see what is left to do in the lady’s bedroom. Cushions to be set straight, jewelry to be put away, the mirror on the wall needs a polish. It is too early to move the cradle in, but perhaps time to sort out baby clothes from the storage trunks. She wipes her hands down her apron, tries not to think of Young Pieter.
Certain there are some in a chest here, she opens it and examines the contents. Jurina’s dresses and petticoats are at the top; these Esther sets aside in neat piles. Beneath are the shifts, bootees, and bonnets each of the children has outgrown; blankets, swaddling, a christening gown. Jurina should choose. Carefully Esther excavates the layers and separates this from that. A few family documents and letters and sheet music are kept here. Milk teeth in a jar. A perfume bottle from the Orient. Spare leather. Embroidery thread. And books. Only three, all unwanted gifts. The maid knows these. Jurina’s books, literature, are neglected. She prefers her Calvinist Bible.
At this moment—when temptation invites, when it hurts no one and discovery is unlikely—a pause. Esther covets this. Not wealth, not the station of her mistress, not the person of her master. She covets
this,
the liberty to sit, to choose. A suspension. The awareness of an indistinct version of herself who comes into focus, who steps into the light.
The beautiful story of the knight Malegis, who won the famous horse Baiart and undertook many wonderful adventures.
The rhythms of the story fill her up.
Esther does not have the disposition to dwell on who deserves what, and why she should be born to one class and not another, for reality is reality. She is concerned with her own spiritual well-being and goes to church for that. She is good at her job, for if she has to work, she will work well. But who is this other Esther, stirred into life when she is permitted to read stories? She remembers her from childhood—the girl who picked wildflowers for their magical properties, who had imaginary friends, who would stare at the fireplace alive with dancing, wicked goblins. This is the Esther to whom her parents would tell and retell parables and folk tales, and she would sit and listen without interrupting while their hands made dancing shadows.
The romance she is engrossed in has made etchings in her mind’s eye; she retraces them easily. The wind that convulses trees, the coolness of a spring, the snort of hot breath from Baiart’s nostrils, his stamping hoof, an outline of a castle on a hill. Esther’s heart is with Malegis at each test of strength and virtue: do not drink from the poisoned chalice—hold fast—fight back. She fears for his safety and wills him to win. They travel for miles together. Parts she has forgotten she rediscovers; the imprints of favorite passages burn bright with renewed color and feeling. If she reads on, the horse will reveal his fabulous qualities and save Malegis’s life.
It is time to stop at the end of this paragraph this page this chapter. She reminds herself she can return to a given point in the knight’s journey another day. Malegis will not leave without her.
The shadow of Esther, the twin, the companion, has a stubborn streak. She wants more and has elaborate ways of keeping the world at bay—as he rides the hero looks over his shoulder and has the face of a man outside the Portuguese synagogue.
The maid chides herself for her idleness. She cannot indulge in this any further; it is dangerous. Only in bed, in private, may she permit foolish thoughts. The practical Esther, her mother’s daughter, is roused into action. She shuts the book. Still, a niggling, a reluctance. Rather than returning it, perhaps she could hide it in the kitchen under her pillow for a while? No, that is risky. It would not matter that the book is never read, that its absence has gone unnoticed. Were one of the children to discover it, were Esther to be accused of stealing . . .
Esther stands. Book, contents, lid, chair must be put back immediately and it is done. Cushions are beaten into shape. Garnet brooch and diamond necklace dropped into their cases. Cleaning rags pocketed, the shoes she almost falls over reunited. She will take the baby garments downstairs for Jurina when she has given the mirror a quick clean. Esther wipes the looking glass and sees behind her Pieter Janssens Elinga, watching.
This is the first time she has been on her own with him since he compromised her, and it strikes her hard. She does not wait to see what he will do next, does not consider how long he has been there or ponder his intention (good or bad). Practical Esther is in charge. She snatches up the baby clothes and hurries away, knocking past his open, insulting hand.
At the company’s headquarters Young Pieter signs a bond, takes possession of two months’ wages in advance and an appointment to the VOC ship
Prosperous.
* * *
Jurina wants Esther. To sew a button for Lucas, to buy some cloves because Allart might have a toothache, to lift a heavy object for her. Has she gone out? She must have done, and Jurina’s bile gives her pain.
The lady has only herself to blame. Esther is doing what was asked of her, cleaning and tidying Elinga’s studio while he keeps an appointment at Johannes de Renialme’s office. Cups and plates have been discarded up there, some of his clothes have been draped and abandoned. Jurina said it offhandedly, Do the studio today, will you? Remember, the composition and the materials must not be disturbed.
Elinga is consumed by painting once again, has a project he is executing quickly, zestfully. It fulfills him and calms his mind, and he suspects the picture will fetch a decent price when finished. Jurina wants to encourage the optimum conditions for his creativity and yet has forgotten her instruction, or rather has fixated on the notion that the maid has gone out without permission.
Esther has felt the change in the atmosphere. Esther—who thinks always of self-preservation, who fears being blamed for accidents, who avoids going into her master’s private space unless explicitly directed—is wary. She feels a threat from what she might see in there.
Jurina hastens from room to room in search of the maid. It is ludicrous that she cannot call her but must go and get her. She navigates the narrow stairs, up, up as far as the second floor, no farther, then down, down back where she started, her pulse and breath increased. She will confront the maid about this.
Esther can carry out her task without necessarily seeing the work in progress. The easel, camera obscura, and an arrangement of furniture are at one end of the studio, and by averting her eyes she
need not discover the true content. Collecting the dishes, a cursory dab of the duster, and laying the stockings and undershirts over her arm, she can circumvent the working area completely if she desires. But she does not quite desire. She prefers to know.
A knock at the front door, a figure visible through the window—and Jurina must answer it herself. No, she will not. She makes Lucas do it, adds this to the list of Esther’s mistakes. Female voice. Lucas comes back to his mother, fiddles his fingers coyly. Well? (Lucas grins without answering.) You are the least helpful sort of child. Jurina—impatient with her son, with her servant, with everything—goes to meet the unwanted person so she can send her away again.
Esther sets down her master’s forsaken garments to inspect the scene unencumbered. From here, viewing the arranged furniture without proper sight of the canvas, what she can see is essentially a vacant interior. Two frames and a mirror hung up, a chair pulled near to the window at a peculiar angle, two more set either side of a closed chest with a cloth cover by the wall. There is a fruit bowl pertinently left on the upholstery (strange choice), a cushion and a pair of lady’s shoes on the floor. She knew that Elinga had gone back to genres but from here, without a model and an activity to complete it, she cannot tell what the composition is doing. There is no musical instrument, no writing desk, no needle and thread, no foot warmer, no basket of linens, no clue about the story being told. Every picture contains a story, be it history, fiction, legend, or myth.
In the hallway, there she is, with her back to Jurina, the back of her white cap, the looped bow of her apron down the back of her skirt. Jurina knows better than to bother saying her name. She strides up behind Esther and taps her hard on the shoulder. The maid turns but it is not Esther. Jurina has never seen her before.
At last, Esther steps in front of the easel, and it becomes clear. Though unfinished, the components slip into place like marbles
dropping into holes. The artist’s model, Margaretha, is being a maid reading a book. Jurina’s book. (Esther throws her glance to her master’s bench—there it is among his effects, waiting to resume its place in context.) Yes, it is, the moment when Pieter Janssens Elinga caught her in the act of reading her mistress’s book. But it is not the same, not exactly. The artist has changed it, cleaned it, emptied it of domestic clutter. The sorted baby clothes and familial belongings have evaporated; the room is a fictitious one, not Jurina’s. The eye is drawn to the patch of sunlight glowing on the floor, giving a sense of the personal and serene. Crucially, it is not Esther. She exhales with relief. She rests her hands on her hips.
In her haste, Jurina must not have looked at the woman properly. The woman has a similar height and build to Esther, but the cap is new cambric, the jacket a deep red. She has a spotty complexion and is not so attractive. When asked her name, she haltingly replies that she is Margaretha, working for the master in the studio. The model? Yes, he did say he was using a model this time. Jurina has not met her; she is always shown straight through.
No, not Esther. There is nothing in this painting to betray her. Nothing that puts her employment at risk.
(Lucas covers his mouth. He guesses this is not a coincidence but a street conjurer’s trick—and his mother is the dupe.)
Esther looks again, properly. Not her; not Margaretha either. The woman in the painting has her back to the viewer, estranged and unidentifiable, her face and hair obscured totally by her white cap. It might be anybody.
Jurina berates herself for her lack of composure. The master is out on business. (What does this mean?)
What does this mean? Esther folds her arms. Could someone construe the subject to be her?
Lucas, go and see to your brother.
He scurries away.
Well . . . ?
Madam?
(Madam thinks, Silly bitch.) I said, the master is not here. Come back in an hour.
Margaretha shows herself out.
Jurina leans against the wall. What does it mean? She tries to assemble her thoughts and calm her body for the sake of her child. What, exactly, does it mean? Maybe nothing.
Esther wonders: Could anyone have grounds to demand to know whether it is her or not? Then her future would rest on how Pieter Janssens Elinga chose to answer. He would surely reply that it is only Margaretha, a poor girl who sat for him playing the part of a negligent maid. He would surely explain it is a typical genre painting that panders to the tastes of the modern Dutch family.
Jurina decides that the girl has only a passing resemblance to Esther, the same resemblance most maids have to each other from behind when their heads are covered, their bodies hidden in frumpy clothes. She strokes her bump for comfort.