The Mystery of the Third Lucretia (21 page)

All this time Lucas and I hadn't said a single word. Now, under my breath, I said, “It's all Arnold Schoenberg's fault.”

Obviously the wrong thing to say.

Mom raised her head and said, “Okay, that does it. You two are grounded for the rest of the entire time we're in Amsterdam. You will not leave this room unaccompanied. That's for what the two of you did. Kari, I was going to ground you for three weeks when we got home, but because of that stupid remark we'll make that four. And just for good measure we'll throw in the weekends on either end. That makes it five whole weekends. I'll take your cell phone, and you'll have no phone or IM or e-mail privileges the whole time. Maybe that'll teach you to take responsibility for your own actions. Lucas, I'm going to have to tell your parents about this. They'll have to determine your punishment.”

I started to say something, but decided not to.

“It's after eleven now, and I wish we could finish this discussion in the morning,” Mom continued, as if it had actually been a discussion, “but frankly, after your behavior tonight, I don't trust you to tell me the truth about anything if you have a chance to consult each other in advance. So tell me now exactly what you were doing in that part of town dressed the way you were and exactly what happened. I want the whole story. Everything.” Lucas and I looked at each other. Another mistake.

“Don't test me,” Mom hissed through clenched teeth. “Talk. Now.”

So we talked. I didn't want to, and when I said something I did it mostly with my lips closed as much as possible. Lucas wasn't as mad as I was, so she told most of it.

We started out telling her about our trip to the Quarter that night, but we weren't very far into it when Mom said, “How did you know where this studio was located?” I looked at Lucas who, without looking at me at all, told her about following Jacob the day before.

“So where was this, exactly?”

“At a corner on a street we can't pronounce. Owdsomething ach-ter-burg-wal,” Lucas sounded out.

Mom said something like, “Oud-uh-zites ahk-ter-burgvahl,” correcting our pronunciation out of habit. “Smack in the heart of the Quarter. Whose idea was it to go over there tonight?”

“Mine.” Lucas said it firmly, and kind of loud. “And I want to be the one who gets the most punishment. Kari didn't want to go, and I talked her into it. I'm sorry for all the trouble I caused.” One thing I've got to say about Lucas: once she's caught, she's never afraid to take responsibility for what she's done.

I'm not always as good at that as she is. In fact, I have to admit I sometimes try to keep from getting in trouble by covering up, blaming somebody, or once in a while telling a little white lie. But Lucas inspired me. “It was my idea to dress that way, though,” I said, and I felt good about saying it.

Mom swore, which she almost never does in front of me. “I can't believe it. I can't even believe it.” She put her hands over her face for a minute, put them down again, and said, “So, which of you went up the stairs, or did you both go?”

“Nobody went up. There's a mission across the street.” We explained about Sister Anneke coming out, and Sister Katje. Mom just kept on shaking her head.

“Get ready for bed,” she said abruptly.

So, silently, the three of us got into our pajamas and washed up and brushed our teeth, and one by one we all got into bed, and finally Mom switched off the light. I noticed that she didn't put in her earplugs like she usually does.

 

 

I couldn't get to sleep. I could tell that Lucas was awake for a long time, too, and once while we were lying there I reached out and gave her arm a squeeze, and she found my hand and squeezed it back. Then, not much later, I heard her breathing steadily.

For at least a half hour I lay there trying to get over all the feelings I was having. I was still really mad at Mom for putting us through that drama with her shouting and shaking and crying and telling us how she'd never trust us anymore.

Then suddenly I remembered something Mom always says about anger. She calls anger a “covering emotion.” She says almost all the time when people get angry they think they're just mad, but mostly, without knowing they're doing it, they're covering up another feeling, like fear or hurt or guilt or grief. Something they'd rather not feel. And then I started thinking about what Mom was probably covering up. Just thinking about how much anger she'd needed to cover her emotions, I figured out how incredibly afraid she must have been when she found out we'd been alone in the Quarter, and how hurt she was that we'd lied to her, and maybe how guilty she felt for leaving us alone.

That helped me understand why she'd been so mad. And after I figured that out, I realized that part of my own anger had been covering up how guilty I felt and how hurt I was at having lost Mom's trust. For a minute I let it sink in that what Lucas and I had done had blown the good relationship Mom and I had even after what Lucas and I had done in London, and it would take months to earn that trust back, if I ever did. And I started to cry. Then I thought of what a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad night it had been, and all I'd been through since yesterday, and I cried even harder.

Things were quiet around our hotel room the next morning. But while Mom was taking her shower, I said to Lucas, “Could you believe that lecture last night?”

“We had it coming. We lied to her, we disobeyed her on purpose, we were going to cover up what we'd done, and I suppose we put ourselves in a dangerous situation. We did do something bad, and letting us off easy wouldn't make sense. That's why they give bigger sentences to criminals who do worse things.

“Really, it's me you have to blame,” she continued. “I knew we'd get in big trouble if your mom found out, and I talked you into doing it anyway. I'm sorry.”

Lucas was working up to being a know-it-all again. I could hear it coming, and I was too tired and sad and cranky to put up with it.

“What do you mean, you knew? Like you're the only one of us who knew, like you're so much more mature or something? I was the one who didn't want to do it in the first place!”

“I said I'm sorry!” Lucas snapped, and just that minute Mom turned off the shower, or we'd probably have gotten into a real argument.

We were quiet through breakfast. All three of us looked tired, and for me even eating took a lot of effort.

The worst moment came when we were back upstairs. Mom said she was going to have Tony, the hotel owner, check up on us every so often, just to make sure we didn't go anywhere. It made me realize how little she trusted us. What made it worse was that I knew we didn't deserve to be trusted.

I took a nap after Mom left, and that made me feel better. About eleven, Tony came up with two Cokes, a plateful of Miesje's cookies, and a stack of books. At one he brought us sandwiches for lunch. I wrote in my journal. Lucas wrote a postcard to a friend. We read and listened to our iPods. It was all very quiet and very boring. I don't know if Lucas and I were still mad at each other or just exhausted or what, but we didn't seem to have much to say.

 

 

Mom came back at five and took us for a walk by the canals for a little exercise, and we stopped to eat at a restaurant by the Concertgebouw. Mom said it was an authentic Dutch place, and we all ordered croquettes, kind of like deep-fried balls of mashed potatoes with little bits of ham in them, which are a Dutch specialty.

While we were sitting there, waiting for our meal, I said, “Mom, I've been wondering about those nuns and what they do in their mission.”

You might think this was a stupid thing to ask, since it brought up the whole subject of the Quarter and everything, but Mom also knows some nuns and she really likes them. I thought getting her talking about them would keep her from thinking about what I did wrong.

But I also asked because I really wanted to know. I'd been thinking a lot about the nuns, and the mission they called a Safe Place for Women, and the women I'd seen in the Quarter.

“Interesting subject,” Mom said, and I knew I'd been right to ask the question. “I think nuns have always helped out women in trouble, for centuries and centuries.”

“But why would those women get in trouble in the first place? I mean, what I can't figure out is how they end up in that part of town, living that kind of life.”

“Well, in the old days, of course, a lot of women were thrown out ‘onto the streets,' as the saying goes, if they did something disgraceful. Got pregnant without being married, for example. Or if they were caught having an affair, or were raped.”

“Like Lucretia,” I said.

“Exactly like Lucretia,” Mom answered. “I suppose that's at least part of the reason why Lucretia killed herself. She didn't want to have to live that kind of life. Things changed later in the Roman Empire when morals began to deteriorate, particularly among the privileged classes—” She stopped herself, probably because she saw us starting to look bored.

This gave Lucas a chance to say, “There weren't nuns then. That was before Christianity. Christ wasn't born yet.”

“Good point. Anyway, it's different today, thank goodness. Women have choices. Nowadays, most of the women you see in the Quarter were probably abused as children.”

“Aren't a lot of them runaways?” Lucas asked. “I think I read that somewhere.”

“Mm-hmm. And usually they run away from home because they're abused, either physically or sexually. I'd bet ninety-five percent of the women you saw over there come from that kind of background. Don't get me wrong. A huge majority of people who were once abused overcome their past and live good, healthy lives. But a few of them don't. They fight the feeling they're not worth much. So they go and make their life with other outcasts from society.

“As for the nuns, they must feel that God wants them to ‘minister to these women,' as they might put it. I'm not sure just what goes on, but I'd guess that the mission is a place women can go to talk and hang out, get something to eat, have a cup of coffee, that kind of thing. Maybe they have a place where women can stay for the night. They might even offer other things for women who want to change their lives, like money and clothes and a place to live.”

Just then our food came, and we changed the subject. But for a long time I kept thinking about Anneke and Katje, and what good people they were to spend their own lives trying to help other women make their lives better. I know this sounds weird, but I also wished there had been nuns back in Roman times so that Lucretia wouldn't have had to stab herself.

The next morning was a lot like the day before. I finished the Agatha Christie mystery I'd started. Tony came and went, and brought us lunch from downstairs. Lucas and I started to talk to each other a little more. We both said how bad we felt about what we'd done and about Mom being mad. I also told Lucas that I hadn't appreciated it when she acted like a know-it-all the day before, especially after she'd gotten us into the whole mess to begin with. Lucas actually apologized. And I apologized for being nasty to her.

The afternoon was better. Earlier in the week, Mom had had this big idea and called Uncle Geoff, who of course has a key to our house, and asked for a favor. She asked him to get our painting of the hands from my closet and send it to us. It came that afternoon, and since we knew what it was, we opened it up while Mom was gone.

Looking at the picture reminded us of our adventures in London, and we started thinking about what it would be like when the forgery was found out. Then we practiced what we'd say to Bill's friend the journalist about how we'd discovered all about Jacob and the Third Lucretia.

The morning had started out gloomy, but now it was sunny and pleasant outside. Our room had big European-style windows that went all the way down to the floor. You opened the windows like a set of doors, and you were protected from falling out by a little railing that had a flower box hanging on it. There weren't any screens.

At five thirty we were leaning out over the railing when we saw Mom come around the corner and look up.

“Hey, guys. Whaddup?” she said.

What a relief! Mom was back in a good mood, at least for the time being.

We knew why right away, because when she got upstairs she threw open the door and said, “I have now officially met and had an incredibly good interview with Jacob Hannekroot.”

“What's he like?” Lucas said, at the same time I said, “Tell us about it!”

“Well, he's charming,” she said, kicking off her shoes and falling onto the bed. “Very sexy, actually, if you didn't know he was a diseased rat. Get this: he said that in his opinion the Third Lucretia is one of the most beautiful and powerful of all Rembrandt's works. I about threw up. What a hypocritical, egocentric, self-congratulatory . . .”

“Meep,” I supplied.

“Exactly. And he talked about how generous Mrs. Mannefeldt had been to
donate
the painting ‘for the good of the Netherlands,' instead of putting it up for public auction. Evidently he calls selling something for twenty million bucks a donation. Oh—and you'll love this—when I told him I'd seen the two Lucretias on display together, he said how fortunate I'd been, that he'd seen both paintings at separate times, but he hadn't been able to find time in his schedule to see them hanging together.”

“What a liar!” Lucas said.