world is chaotic. All artists know this, but they try to make sense of it. Sophia has made sense of it for him. She has stitched it together like the most beautiful cloak. Her love has sewn it together and they can wrap it around themselves and be safe from the world. Nobody can reach them.
Except that they have had one hour alone together and this is her life and Cornelis is here and why cannot he die?
The library floor is laid with black and white marble squares. It is a human chessboard. Jan narrows his eyes until the room blurs. He lifts up his queen, Sophia. He lands her on the other side of her husband. Then he picks up the husband and flings him away.
JAN PACKS UP. Cornelis bids him good-bye and goes into another room. They hear his footsteps recede; a far door closes.
Sophia accompanies Jan to the door. “I was nearly discovered,” she whispers. “A woman saw me, a woman I know.”
They swing round.
Maria, tears streaming down her face, comes running across the room. She holds a bird by its leg. “The cat killed it. Look—it’s the blackbird that sings in the apple tree next door.”
“Poor thing.” Sophia looks at it. “But don’t cry.”
“It meant so much to me,” sobs Maria. “And you know what’s going to happen when a blackbird dies—”
“Maria! Stop it.” Sophia ushers Jan into the street.
“Eleven o’clock tomorrow morning,” whispers Jan. He drops his paint rag. Sophia bends down to pick it up with him. “At the footbridge . . .” He whispers the name of the street.
“I’m going to bury it in the flower bed,” says the maid.
17
Sophia
The praise of a woman mainly exists in the care she gives to her household. For the turtle is always at home, and carries its house along under all circumstance.
—J. VAN BEVERWIJK, 1639
It is raining. I hurry down the Street of Cheeses, down toward the harbor. The place is deserted. In the shops the huge Goudas sit like boulders; they sit in judgment.
Maybe he won’t come—not now it is raining. Maybe he doesn’t love me enough. I wish there were some people around. There is safety in crowds; I feel exposed, hurrying along alone. Yet my heart pounds with excitement.
Over the past week the city has been transformed. Even if he does not come today he exists, he breathes this air and walks these streets. Every building is dear to me because it is also familiar to him. Yet it is a city of the utmost danger. The houses stand here, slap up against the street; they gaze into it. So many windows, the houses are crammed with windows—vast windows here at street level, closest to me, windows jammed together on the upper floors, rows of spying windows topped by a spy hole up at the top, in the gables. Some shutters are closed, some half open. Shadows lurk behind the latticed glass. Behind an open casement— why is it open?—a curtain stirs.
And then there are all those corners. They are laid with gunpowder; danger waits around each of them. Sophia! Fancy seeing you here . How easily I can be betrayed by those who mean me no harm.
I slip round a corner. The wind slaps my face. I lean into it but it tries to blow me back, back to the Herengracht where I belong. It is March, but winter has returned; my face is numb with cold. I hurry along beside the canal; the salt air stings my nostrils. The merchants’ houses are tall here, six stories high. Up above me doors open into space. Hoists jut from them; hooks hang suspended above my head.
Then I see him. Ahead of me is the footbridge; Jan is hurrying toward me on the other side of the canal. He waves; my heart lurches. I knew he would come. I quicken my steps. A boat is approaching. In a few minutes the footbridge will break open, separating me from my beloved. Laughing, I race toward it.
Jan stops. For a split second I wonder why. Then I see three men, dressed in black, emerging from a warehouse. One of them is my husband. He breaks away from the group and approaches me.
“My dear love,
Except that they have had one hour alone together and this is her life and Cornelis is here and why cannot he die?
The library floor is laid with black and white marble squares. It is a human chessboard. Jan narrows his eyes until the room blurs. He lifts up his queen, Sophia. He lands her on the other side of her husband. Then he picks up the husband and flings him away.
JAN PACKS UP. Cornelis bids him good-bye and goes into another room. They hear his footsteps recede; a far door closes.
Sophia accompanies Jan to the door. “I was nearly discovered,” she whispers. “A woman saw me, a woman I know.”
They swing round.
Maria, tears streaming down her face, comes running across the room. She holds a bird by its leg. “The cat killed it. Look—it’s the blackbird that sings in the apple tree next door.”
“Poor thing.” Sophia looks at it. “But don’t cry.”
“It meant so much to me,” sobs Maria. “And you know what’s going to happen when a blackbird dies—”
“Maria! Stop it.” Sophia ushers Jan into the street.
“Eleven o’clock tomorrow morning,” whispers Jan. He drops his paint rag. Sophia bends down to pick it up with him. “At the footbridge . . .” He whispers the name of the street.
“I’m going to bury it in the flower bed,” says the maid.
17
Sophia
The praise of a woman mainly exists in the care she gives to her household. For the turtle is always at home, and carries its house along under all circumstance.
—J. VAN BEVERWIJK, 1639
It is raining. I hurry down the Street of Cheeses, down toward the harbor. The place is deserted. In the shops the huge Goudas sit like boulders; they sit in judgment.
Maybe he won’t come—not now it is raining. Maybe he doesn’t love me enough. I wish there were some people around. There is safety in crowds; I feel exposed, hurrying along alone. Yet my heart pounds with excitement.
Over the past week the city has been transformed. Even if he does not come today he exists, he breathes this air and walks these streets. Every building is dear to me because it is also familiar to him. Yet it is a city of the utmost danger. The houses stand here, slap up against the street; they gaze into it. So many windows, the houses are crammed with windows—vast windows here at street level, closest to me, windows jammed together on the upper floors, rows of spying windows topped by a spy hole up at the top, in the gables. Some shutters are closed, some half open. Shadows lurk behind the latticed glass. Behind an open casement— why is it open?—a curtain stirs.
And then there are all those corners. They are laid with gunpowder; danger waits around each of them. Sophia! Fancy seeing you here . How easily I can be betrayed by those who mean me no harm.
I slip round a corner. The wind slaps my face. I lean into it but it tries to blow me back, back to the Herengracht where I belong. It is March, but winter has returned; my face is numb with cold. I hurry along beside the canal; the salt air stings my nostrils. The merchants’ houses are tall here, six stories high. Up above me doors open into space. Hoists jut from them; hooks hang suspended above my head.
Then I see him. Ahead of me is the footbridge; Jan is hurrying toward me on the other side of the canal. He waves; my heart lurches. I knew he would come. I quicken my steps. A boat is approaching. In a few minutes the footbridge will break open, separating me from my beloved. Laughing, I race toward it.
Jan stops. For a split second I wonder why. Then I see three men, dressed in black, emerging from a warehouse. One of them is my husband. He breaks away from the group and approaches me.
“My dear love,
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