hair. “You are my joy, my life.”
We embrace, again, and then he is gone.
18
Willem
Every man is the architect of his own fortune.
—JACOB CATS, Moral Emblems, 1632
Dusk is falling. Willem makes his way toward the Herengracht. The wind has died down. It has been a wild day with a gale blowing from the Baltic. No fishing boats could put to sea. Another whale has been washed up a few miles along the coast. Unlike Maria, he knows that this is a good omen. He has made his living from fish, and look! Today of all days the ocean has belched up the most magnificent catch. God is on his side.
Willem walks briskly, a spring to his step. Countless times, bowed by his basket, he has plodded these streets. This evening the only weight he feels is the purse in his jerkin. He cannot wait to see Maria’s face. She didn’t believe him when they sat in the garden. Let’s just call it a businessventure .
He is still numb with shock. Normally he is not a gambling man but these are not normal times. Before today, before everything changed, he had considered them kappisten —hooded ones, madmen. But he has joined the tulip speculators now and who is he to consider it lunacy?
Money can multiply, just like that. How truly miraculous! . . . A few meetings, his new friends huddled in a cloud of tobacco smoke; numbers, senseless to him, chalked on a board. Packages passed from hand to hand.... How astoundingly easy it has been, for he has gambled at random and struck lucky each time. Until recently money has been doggedly earned—a florin here, some stivers there, a handful of coins. He has worked himself to exhaustion, rising at dawn to tramp down to the fish market, hail and sleet, all weathers. He never complained because he is not that sort, but truly he was a kappisten then. Icy fish, icy fingers pulling out slobbery strings of guts. Bent with his basket, he has tramped the streets in blistering wind, knocking on doors and trying to smile though his face is frozen. Only the thought of Maria has kept him warm.
Maria! Forget whales; she is his prize catch. She says she loves him and he still cannot believe it. He has had little experience of women. They don’t take him seriously. It is something about his face; it makes them giggle. They have been affectionate enough, but when he has tried to make love to them they have burst into laughter. They call him “clown-face,” and when he looks doleful they laugh louder, saying he looks even funnier. It hurts his feelings.
Now he has Maria. But has he? Can she really love him? She is so pretty—plump and ripe like a fruit. And she is such a flirt. The vegetable man was showing me his carrots . Men look at her in the street; she challenges them with her bold stare. Can he trust her? Of course I love you. I feel all shivery when I see you . She refuses to marry him until he has some money. That is understandable; she is a practical woman. Well, wait until he opens his purse; see her face then.
Maria is not expecting him; he will surprise her. Tonight her master and mistress have gone out to play cards; she will be alone. Even so, Willem approaches the side door, down the alleyway, the one he uses when he steals in after dark.
Willem stops dead. A figure emerges from the door. She closes it behind her and hurries off, away down the alley. It is Maria. She slips like a shadow between the buildings.
Willem is going to call out but something stops him. Maria looks so purposeful, so intent. He follows her down the alley, keeping his distance. There is something odd about her. She emerges into the Keisergracht and glances to the right and the left. He can glimpse her more clearly now. Under her shawl she wears her white cap, the one with long flaps that conceal her face.
She turns right and hurries along, keeping close to the houses. How furtive she looks! She moves fast; he has to break into a trot to keep her in sight. This, too, is unlike Maria. She usually ambles, swaying her hips,
We embrace, again, and then he is gone.
18
Willem
Every man is the architect of his own fortune.
—JACOB CATS, Moral Emblems, 1632
Dusk is falling. Willem makes his way toward the Herengracht. The wind has died down. It has been a wild day with a gale blowing from the Baltic. No fishing boats could put to sea. Another whale has been washed up a few miles along the coast. Unlike Maria, he knows that this is a good omen. He has made his living from fish, and look! Today of all days the ocean has belched up the most magnificent catch. God is on his side.
Willem walks briskly, a spring to his step. Countless times, bowed by his basket, he has plodded these streets. This evening the only weight he feels is the purse in his jerkin. He cannot wait to see Maria’s face. She didn’t believe him when they sat in the garden. Let’s just call it a businessventure .
He is still numb with shock. Normally he is not a gambling man but these are not normal times. Before today, before everything changed, he had considered them kappisten —hooded ones, madmen. But he has joined the tulip speculators now and who is he to consider it lunacy?
Money can multiply, just like that. How truly miraculous! . . . A few meetings, his new friends huddled in a cloud of tobacco smoke; numbers, senseless to him, chalked on a board. Packages passed from hand to hand.... How astoundingly easy it has been, for he has gambled at random and struck lucky each time. Until recently money has been doggedly earned—a florin here, some stivers there, a handful of coins. He has worked himself to exhaustion, rising at dawn to tramp down to the fish market, hail and sleet, all weathers. He never complained because he is not that sort, but truly he was a kappisten then. Icy fish, icy fingers pulling out slobbery strings of guts. Bent with his basket, he has tramped the streets in blistering wind, knocking on doors and trying to smile though his face is frozen. Only the thought of Maria has kept him warm.
Maria! Forget whales; she is his prize catch. She says she loves him and he still cannot believe it. He has had little experience of women. They don’t take him seriously. It is something about his face; it makes them giggle. They have been affectionate enough, but when he has tried to make love to them they have burst into laughter. They call him “clown-face,” and when he looks doleful they laugh louder, saying he looks even funnier. It hurts his feelings.
Now he has Maria. But has he? Can she really love him? She is so pretty—plump and ripe like a fruit. And she is such a flirt. The vegetable man was showing me his carrots . Men look at her in the street; she challenges them with her bold stare. Can he trust her? Of course I love you. I feel all shivery when I see you . She refuses to marry him until he has some money. That is understandable; she is a practical woman. Well, wait until he opens his purse; see her face then.
Maria is not expecting him; he will surprise her. Tonight her master and mistress have gone out to play cards; she will be alone. Even so, Willem approaches the side door, down the alleyway, the one he uses when he steals in after dark.
Willem stops dead. A figure emerges from the door. She closes it behind her and hurries off, away down the alley. It is Maria. She slips like a shadow between the buildings.
Willem is going to call out but something stops him. Maria looks so purposeful, so intent. He follows her down the alley, keeping his distance. There is something odd about her. She emerges into the Keisergracht and glances to the right and the left. He can glimpse her more clearly now. Under her shawl she wears her white cap, the one with long flaps that conceal her face.
She turns right and hurries along, keeping close to the houses. How furtive she looks! She moves fast; he has to break into a trot to keep her in sight. This, too, is unlike Maria. She usually ambles, swaying her hips,
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