Girl Reading (10 page)

Does God answer? What, or who, will be his instrument?

Maybe it is the mercurial doctor who announces it is dead. It is worse than any of them thought; the baby is dead and in order to save the mother the legs and arms must be amputated inside the womb. He is taking the implements from his bag, reverently lays them out; eyes and blades glint with fascinating light.

Jurina screams, the mere sight of them sending her into histrionics.

It is normal to be apprehensive under the circumstances, but let me reassure you—

Elinga is beside himself. Helplessly he paces back and forth, nerves in tatters, allows bloody thoughts to overwhelm him.

A quack. Sheer quackery. At best the man is deluded; at worst he is a rogue. Yet it is this devil to whom they defer, his perverted expertise, his distorted sensibilities. Lack of sleep and food, anxiety, mortal pain . . . all have taken a terrible toll. Rationality is defeated.

Fortunately, amid turmoil, a vibration of good judgment can
prevail. The shock is wearing off and Jurina succumbs again to her body, disorientated, drowsy, making the surgeon’s job easier so he thinks. But he is dismissed by the deaf-mute maidservant.

Absurd. He is insulted.

She cares not a whit for his indignation. Her gestures are unmistakable: Go! It is done before the master and mistress are truly aware of it.

A warm, nutritious broth rouses the lady, carrots and beetroot and chicken and herbs, with Esther at the bedside gently feeding her. It is accepted gratefully, humbly. Two women from a neighboring house answer the appeal for help (you should have come to us sooner) and the labor is resumed.

They deliver Baby Lucas, whole and perfect. For a time, Jurina will brook no discussion about Esther leaving.

Esther and Young Pieter sit by the Singel, feet dangling over the edge, shoes removed and laid beside them so they do not drop into the canal. They are playing their game, which involves pointing at what they can see. They take turns to be the teacher. Esther shows Pieter the sign and Pieter shows Esther the mouth shape. Practice and repetition help the lessons to stick.

Rope. Reflection. (Esther’s hands form each one and Pieter copies.) Green. Fat. Wet. Canal.

And they make up phrases to test themselves. Pieter’s goes like this: I saw a fat man wearing a green hat and he made a reflection in the canal. If I pushed you in, you would be wet and I would need a rope to pull you out.

I would like to see you try.

I would like to see you fall in. Basket. Old. Gray. Apron. Window. (Pieter says each word aloud and Esther studies his lips.) Flying. Fighting. Bone.

Esther’s story is: I carried a bone in my basket to give to the old gray dog. People were fighting in the street and I looked out of my window, then I put on my apron and went flying over the houses.

Pieter exclaims, No you did not, that is nonsense.

I do fly, I do it when you are not looking.

It is a lie!

Esther assures him it is the truth and then gives him some words to do: Bricks. Woman. Fish. Parsnip. Short and . . . Esther.

If the short woman who smells of fish sent Esther away, I would put bricks in her bed and I would never eat another parsnip.

The boy gazes at the maid loyally, unashamedly.

Esther reminds him he must treat his parents with respect.

Lucas, all of nine years and nearly ten, has an instinct for other people’s crises. His knack for smelling the truth is so much a part of his nature he is barely aware of it . . . and there is a new scent on the air. Not the ludicrous number of departing servants; anyone can see them for what they are, unimportant, uninteresting, unappealing. But what about the change in Esther? Stupid, dumb Esther who prefers Young Pieter—of all people—to handsome, clever, lovable Lucas. Who but a man with his father’s weaknesses and a child as intelligent as he could detect a difference so subtle? Who in the household but canny, perceptive, astute Lucas could anticipate the chaos that will follow in its wake?

He sits alone deep in contemplation of the eddying currents at work in the family home.

Probably Esther is cleaning. Probably Father is drunk. Mother is out.

Then he is climbing the winding stairs before he thinks to do it.

Esther is a tall woman (taller than her mistress), adept at her role, has outlasted all the staff introduced above her. She sweeps
dust into a pan in one of the bedrooms, oblivious to her master, Pieter Janssens Elinga. Her head is bowed over her broom and her white lappet cap obscures her peripheral vision. She is concentrating on her work, and why would anyone have cause to stand and watch her without declaring himself?

The artist, his back to the wall, tightening throat—what does he look at?

Her profile. The veins showing through her transparent wrist. The slope of her back under her jacket. A tiny scar where she once burned herself on a pan. Her poise, her purpose, her motion: he looks at that. The folds of her skirts, the hem moving to and fro. She goes into and back out of a corner, sweep sweep turn sweep; the floorboards will be spotless when she is done. That she pauses to scratch her nose, that she continues where she left off, it is endearing, has resonance. She is methodical and pretty in her way, and he cannot help himself.

Being alone in her presence fills him up. He feels it. He has experienced this sensation before, tastes the familiarity of it. He craves her body (he tells himself), to uncover her, to reveal her, to be in her. Yes, he wants her, but no, not quite, not exactly.

Of course he would—if she ever came to him, he would. Though she is somewhat older and shapelier than he prefers, he would probably risk everything for her. He has imagined it often, imagined them together, imagined plenty of obscene details when he is fathering the children promised to his wife. Esther’s face, Esther’s skin, Esther’s tongue, Esther’s hips, on him, beneath him, bent in front of him. What prevents him then from having what he wants? If he has managed it before without compromising his reputation, made the arrangements before, found replacements, honed the techniques to make it discreet, enjoyable, and perfectly possible from start to end?

She picks up a thread from the floor, displaying her angular
ankle, and puts it in her pocket. She slips her hand under her cap to adjust the hair beneath. Upturned eyelashes.

He watches because he likes her spirit. He wants to be acquainted with it, intimate with it. He likes her for herself. He likes . . . her.

If she came to him, only if she came to him, only if
she
came to
him.
Even her silence is alluring—nothing to remonstrate or criticize or nag with—merely patience, admiration, empathy, the splendid qualities he attributes to her passivity. Regal and untouchable. He comprehends, finally, it would not be like the other maidservants, not a bit, and the feeling is familiar because it is the same as
Beatrix.

Unlucky Pieter Janssens Elinga. Wretch. It has taken him more than ten years to discover this truth and when it happens, he is devastated, hardly anything left of a man. Your body tremors, Pieter Janssens Elinga.

At last the maid sees him, eyes vivid. Should she reproach him? A scowl?

He crosses the room, is too close to her too fast for her to believe it. All these years he has never shown any interest in—

Despite his high-minded sentiments and pure motives, he reaches out to twist her hair, is touching her cheek, is drawing a line along her jaw with his thumbnail, construes her astonishment as curiosity, her reluctance as shyness. Would have her after all. This is part of the dream he has woven: their telepathy, their connection, the round, pink open mouth that lacks a kiss—

She does not find it charming. That he has caught her off guard has contributed to her predicament, but composure is returning. How to repel him without turning him against her? She tries to pull away but Elinga tightens his grip, making indentations on her pale throat.

The absence of sweeping is most suspicious to Lucas. And he
did not hear Father go to his studio at the top of the house, his sanctuary from his family. He wants to know what the grown-ups are doing, peers within rooms, finds them at last.

And what does Lucas see? Father holding Esther near to him; and the maid’s hand reaching up to reciprocate, to clasp his, pressing her face into his palm like a cat.

Lucas’s intake of breath alerts his father. Elinga stares at his treacherous son and while his guard is lowered, Esther peels away from him, dips down to pick up the dustpan and broom, and escapes, strides directly for the doorway, straight at Lucas.

He squeaks (would Esther beat him with her broomstick for what he has seen?) and flees, hastening down, down the awkward staircase, running the whole way to the yard, heart pounding pounding out into the sunlight—

His little sister and baby brother are hunched on the ground, playing with wooden clothes pegs. Anna does well to occupy Allart. The pegs are his toy army; she lets him give the orders in his burbled speech, sending them into war to be victorious, or killed, as he chooses.

Lucas crosses the yard to the opposite wall, presses his head to it with his arms around his face, as though counting for hide-and-seek, stays there a while. Then he appears to stop counting (did he reach his goal of one hundred?) and kicks the wall instead, once, twice, repeatedly, rams his fist against it as if he would knock it down. Allart pays him no attention; Anna pretends not to.

Lucas is not crying. Lucas never cries.

Then he stops and immediately assumes authority—he is the captain now and the captain musters his rabble crew (the smaller children) for inspection. They are for him and with him, willing and impressionable, deserting the wooden army on the battlefield in favor of stronger leadership and a better game. Get them moving seems the best plan, get them busy busier busiest. Lucas resolves
that his brother and sister will run around in a large circle with himself in the middle of it. He shouts his instructions.

Anna is seven (bonny and moonfaced); she screeches with delight, relishes the attentions of her admired older brother.

Faster if you can, lazy dog, chants Lucas.

Anna obediently tears about the yard. Waf-waf! Waf-waf! If she is the dog, Lucas must be the human.

Run, run, lazy dog. Catch the rabbit. Lucas encourages or reproves their progress.

Anna fizzes with excitement and chases Allart, who has been consigned to the role of prey.

Allart, too little to care about becoming someone’s dinner, is enjoying the game. He nods his blond head repetitively, as though in agreement with every command and insult Lucas throws at him, while Anna still shrieks with pleasure. If Allart trips over, he hauls himself up again on his chubby legs, bottom first, body following. Anna overtakes him more than once, doubles back when it pleases her.

In the yard (or is it a forest?), the dog captures the rabbit. The rabbit wriggles free but with further incitement from the human is apprehended again, giggling and hot.

Anna growls at Allart because she is thoughtful and knows how to inhabit a role.

Good dog. (Lucas pats her on the head.) Bad rabbit for trying to get away. (He wags his finger at Allart, and the rabbit laughs harder in response.) And now it is time to skin the rabbit.

Yes! Yes! Skin the rabbit! Skin the rabbit!

Anna says, But how can we when we have got no knife?

Simple, we will tickle him until his skin falls off. And then we will eat rabbit stew and I will have a new pair of gloves for the winter.

Lucas and Anna set to work. Allart is rolled on his back and transforms into quite a different animal, from a rabbit to a tortoise
stuck on its upturned shell—he chuckles merrily and enjoys being the center of attention. The laughter is shared by the three children, who have a pitch and pattern similar to one another. Anyone hearing them, like three bells ringing together, would think it delightful. Good fun and easy to join in with (at least at first). They grow louder, exhilarated, hysterical.

Eventually Anna feels the joke wear off, tires of it. As the only girl she has to be sensible. Her tickles have subsided, become less vigorous, less frequent, and then are finished. That is enough now.

Lucas does not agree; he is just getting started.

Allart’s face glows and tears form in his eyes and still he laughs his helpless laughter, squeals belting out.

I think it is time to stop.

He likes it!

Allart is short of breath, gulps from the back of his throat, bursts of noise indistinguishable from cries. He is too small to fight back. Lucas tickles him all the more—some of the tickles resemble pokes, some are barely concealed pinches.

Lucas, I think you’re hurting him—

But Lucas is determined.

Anna backs away. It is not fun anymore, has turned quite nasty. (Why does Lucas have to spoil it?) She does not like being an accomplice and is now confronted with a horrid decision: to watch, to tell, or to run away. She frowns at the cruelty of men while she considers her choices but is spared the anguish of committing to one—Esther is upon them in a trice, grabs both brothers, separates them, halts the attack.

Esther stands Allart up, loosens his buttons, rubs his back, checks him for bruises and lumps, dries his eyes. He recovers quickly but is gasping, bewildered, and flushed. Odd laughing sounds still escape him, as though, already shaken loose, they must all come out until he is empty.

The maid beckons Anna, puts her in charge of Allart. Anna will take him inside, splash cold water on his face, clean him up, calm him down. Anna does so without complaint because she reckons she has got off lightly.

Then Esther straightens to her full height, folds her arms, glares down at Lucas.

Normally Lucas would launch into his defense: they were only playing—it was an accident—it was someone else. Ah, but this is not a normal day . . .

Between them is the incident that took place upstairs, what was seen, what was perceived, what might be said or left unsaid, what consequences will follow.

Lucas looks back at her intensely, as though she has injured him, then he flings his arms around the maid, hugs her tight at the waist—too tight; he is strong for his age.