Tulip Fever (19 page)

31

Sophia

Conduct thyself always with the same prudence as though thou went observed by ten eyes and pointed at by ten fingers.

—CONFUCIUS

I want to hold you in my arms and feel you dreaming. His writing is branded in my heart. It is childish writing—Jan is an artisan; he has had little education, less than me, in fact. Words of love will forever, for me, be clumsily formed.

We are going to spend a night together. Not just one night, two!—for such is my greed. My husband thinks that I am going to Utrecht. By now I have written to my family, telling them about my condition. They would have been eager to see me. I feel as guilty about betraying them as I do about Cornelis. At some point I must, indeed, visit them, but I have been putting it off—they know me so intimately that they are bound to tell I am lying. My little sister Catharijn, in particular—she is sharp-eyed; she will guess there is something suspicious going on. I shall have to face them sometime but not now, not yet.

Come to me and spend the night
. I cannot believe it is really going to happen. When I slip into his studio during the day we cannot be alone—his pupil is there, sometimes his servant; once we were interrupted by a man coming to look at Jan’s work and I had to hide behind the bed curtains. As for the evenings—even when my husband goes out it is riskier, now, to leave the house, because it is high summer and the light lingers until nine. I have lost my ally, the darkness— that vast cloak that enveloped me more effectively than my own. Even when I succeed in getting there we only have an hour. At ten o’clock the night-watch trumpet sounds and those who are out return to bed. What a blameless, hard-working nation we are. In bed by ten, faithful husbands and faithful wives. It is no city for lovers, for those out late on the streets are viewed with suspicion.

It is mid-morning. Cornelis is at work when I leave the house. He has given me some gifts for my family. I have hidden them in the attic. For some reason this seems as wicked as my larger deception.

I cross myself, praying for a safe voyage. No gale-tossed ocean holds more terrors than these sunny streets. No Spanish fleet, its guns trained in my direction, is as dangerous as my neighbors on their way to market.

TIME EXPANDS AND CONTRACTS. We hoard it like misers or watch it spill out like shaken cloth in front of us. Our dreams are broken by it—at night they are punctuated by the whir of the night watchman’s rattle and his singsong voice, jolting us awake to the hour. Then silence closes over us again. When I am alone in the house it seems endless— minutes crawl past.

In Jan’s studio, however, I urge it to stay still. How can the sand fall so fast? But time spent there, when finished, has no end; it is with me always. And now time has a new momentum—nine months, which quicken as they carry us helplessly toward November. From that moment it is unimaginable. In November, we step out of the building into space, and this time I cannot imagine flying.

Just now, however, time feels motionless. Jan and I have spent the day in his bed. I have no idea of the hour; outside, the street noises seem miles away, in another country. He has sent Jacob home and given Gerrit the day off. He has stocked up with food for a siege of love.

On the floor, among my discarded clothes, lies my cushion. I am only five months pregnant; it is a small cushion, green velvet, that I have stolen from the library. Now that it is detached from my body it looks absurdly humdrum. I have grown fond of my fabric child, my plump accomplice.

I say: “I will have to use a pillow soon.”

“What are we going to do, Sophia? We have to face it sooner or later.”

“Live for the moment,” I reply blithely. “Isn’t that what you said, when you were painting our portrait? Grasp it while you can.”

“But what’s going to happen when the baby is born? Even if we run away he will find us.”

“Ssh—let us not talk about it now.”

“He’ll track us down. There’s nowhere we can go that is far enough.”

Jan is right. We have realized, upon reflection, that our plan will not work. Cornelis is a powerful man with influential connections. He knows the ships’ captains; how can we travel undetected? Should we arrive at the East Indies, even then we would not be safe. Cornelis is in communication with traders there; he owns a spice plantation. Nowhere in the world will be safe.

“God will give us an answer,” I reply.

“You really think that He’s on our side?”

“Where’s your Bible? Get a key.”

Maria has told me about this. It is her transaction with God when she has to make a decision. Jan climbs into bed, carrying his Bible. It rests like a paving stone on our knees. I close my eyes, open a page at random and place his hand, holding the key, on some words.

“Read it out.”

He reads:
“Thy breasts are like two young roe deer that are
twins, which feed among the lilies. . . . Thy lips, o my spouse, drop
as the honeycomb; honey and milk are under thy tongue.”
Jan closes the Bible. “That’s our answer.” He laughs, rolling on top of me. The Bible falls to the floor with a thud; the bed vibrates.

BEFORE WE SLEEP Jan sponges my face with warm water. I squat on his nightpot. As I do so he kneels beside me, unfixing my hair. These tender preparations make me weak with love. Every object here moves me, for he has touched it. Even the dusty floorboards, for they have borne the weight of him. The smell of linseed oil is more aromatic than all the spices of the East.

That night I sleep in his arms.
My beloved is white and
ruddy; his cheeks are as a bed of spices, as sweet flowers, his lips
like lilies dropping sweet-smelling myrrh
. I have never slept naked with a young man before. How sweet is his body, how sweet his breath! We sleep entwined. His skin is firm and smooth. He stirs and turns, cupping himself round my back, cupping my breasts in his hands. I am as tall as he is; we were made for each other. He presses his feet against mine, twin feet.

Far away, through my dreams, I hear the singsong:
two of
the clock! . . . three of the clock!
My happiness is measured in hourly beats. Throughout the city citizens lie together, husbands and wives, in their wall cupboards. In the drawers beneath them lie their children, lawfully begotten. Families sleep, snug in their furniture. I have left all that behind; I have pulled out to sea . . . tonight I am adrift and there is no returning to my former life.

Jan breathes into my hair. He exhales his dreams; they seep into me like sea mist. Shamefully I think: if only Cornelis would die. My lover and I could sleep together every night, for the rest of our lives.

This is such a monstrous thought that I put it from my mind. Instead, I dream of how it would have been if I had met Jan first and were free to marry him, to love him blamelessly. It was nobody’s fault that I married Cornelis— oh, there was pressure from my mother, but I could have resisted her. I have only myself to blame for what was, I now see, a sacrifice of my youth and my hopes. I did it to save my family from ruin, but what terrible ruination awaits us all now, if I cannot think of a way to extricate myself and Jan from this reckless plan we have set in motion?

If only Cornelis were dead
.

Suddenly I sit up, wide awake. Jan stirs; he runs his tongue down my backbone.

“I have thought of a plan,” I say.

“What plan?” he murmurs dozily.

“There is only one way we can escape. And for him never to think to look for us.”

It is an idea so obvious, so breathtakingly simple, that I am amazed I didn’t think of it before.

IF THIS PLAN is to succeed we need money, a large amount of money. Quite how much, we need to find out. We need some now, to put it into action. Then we will need a great deal more money in November, when the baby is born.

We are sitting on the bed; sunlight streams over the half-shutters. A bird sings outside the window; a child shouts. We have lost track of time. We have eaten nothing. I still feel winded, as if I have been hit with a sackful of sand.

“Remember what my husband said, about the madness that has gripped our country?”

“You are the madness, sweetheart.” He strokes my wrist. “You are the one who’s gripped me.”

For once I don’t respond. “This tulipomania.”

Of course he knows of it. Everyone has been infected, it has spread like fever; in the past year it has grown out of control. Secret deals are struck in taverns; huge fortunes have been made. Our staid burghers have become men possessed.

“One bulb—remember what he said? One bulb sold for all those goods—horses, silver . . .”

“What are you suggesting?”

“One bulb sold for the price of a
house
—I heard last week—the freehold of a house on the Prinsengracht . . .”

I am damp with sweat. We sit there, wedged together on the bed. I am wearing his nightshirt. On my lap a red drop appears. For a moment I think it falls from the ceiling. Another drop appears, and then another. I have a nosebleed. This happens when I am agitated.