Smit’s List
Above Nella’s head, Peebo flaps and chirrups in delight around her room, his black eyes glittering. ‘Marin might behead you,’ she tells her little bird, drawing her shawl close against the morning chill, trying the threat for size. In daylight, it now seems ridiculous, but the rules of this house are written in water. I must either sink or swim, Nella thinks. Her bruise, day-old, like a small splash of wine, truly hurts when she presses it. It is staggering, really. Does Johannes not see his sister? He has done nothing to tame Marin, despite her obvious dislike of his new bride.
A sharp knock at the door makes Nella’s stomach flip. ‘Come in,’ she says, irritated by how apprehensive she sounds.
Marin appears on the threshold, looking pale. Nella stands and drops her shawl to expose the darkening mark. Stiffening, Marin stares instead at the parakeet, now perched on the end of the bed. She has a book clutched close to her chest, and her slender fingers tighten round it.
‘I will keep him in my room,’ Nella says.
‘Here,’ is all Marin’s reply, her voice cracked, hand outstretched, offering the book.
‘What is it?’
‘Smit’s List. A register of all craftspeople and businesses in this city.’
‘And why would I need Smit’s List?’ Nella asks, prising it from Marin’s grasp.
‘To decorate your house.’
‘Which one, Marin?’
‘If you leave that cabinet empty, you’ll turn Johannes’ gift into a crime of profligacy. You must do something with it.’
‘I don’t have to do anything—’
‘Here,’ Marin rushes on, ‘these are promissory notes with my brother’s stamp and signature.’ She pulls out a sheaf from the book, her fingers tangling them in a fluster. ‘Any seller you buy from can take their note to the Stadhuis and have it exchanged. You just fill in the amount and countersign.’ Marin extends the promissory notes towards Nella as if she’s keeping the devil at bay. ‘No more than a thousand guilders per note.’
‘Why are you doing this, Marin? I thought the Bible says it doesn’t pay to flaunt your wealth,’ Nella says, but she feels excited about the money. She is not as far as she would like to be from that awful day when her papa died, when Arabella found nothing in the coin jar but a button and an upturned spider. Marin would never understand such relief, she thinks.
‘Just take them, Petronella.’
Aggression spreads between them, a familiar stain. When Nella duly lifts the promissory notes from Marin’s hand, she notices how miserable her sister-in-law looks. If this is a game, we’ve both lost, she thinks, but as she rubs her fingers over the notes she can feel their invisible power.
‘And what will my husband say about this?’
Exhaustion blooms on Marin’s face. ‘Don’t worry. My brother knows the danger of having nothing to do.’
After Marin has gone, Nella attempts to put all thought of her sister-in-law and the love note aside. She carries Smit’s List to her writing desk and opens it up. The book is neatly laid out in alphabetical order of trade. Apothecaries, astronomers, chandlers, chocolate-makers, librettists and locksmiths are but some of the sundry craftsmen paying Marcus Smit a fee to appear. The advertisements are self-penned, with no restriction on how they are written.
Outside her window, the canal is full of life. Boatmen call to one another about the winter nip in the air, on a far-off corner a bread-seller cries his wares, and two children holler with a hoop and stick. Within, however, all is quiet and still, the only sound in her room the light tock of the golden pendulum. As Nella continues to flick through the book, an entry under M catches her eye:
MINIATURIST
Residing at the sign of the sun, on Kalverstraat Originally from Bergen
Trained with the great Bruges clockmaker, Lucas Windelbreke ALL, AND YET NOTHING
It is the only entry under Miniaturist, and Nella likes its brevity, its odd ring. She has no idea where Bergen is, nor what a miniaturist does, nor indeed that clockmakers could be considered great. The miniaturist is certainly not from Amsterdam, that much is clear. Therefore he cannot be a member of its city guilds – and it is illegal to undertake work for which registered citizens could earn money. Her father taught her that. He was from Leiden, and claimed the draconian guild laws were more to blame for his downfall than the flagons of beer. Not that there can be a guild for miniaturists, surely? Nella is surprised the advertisement is in Smit’s List at all.
Free from the pressure of Marin’s presence, Nella can feel her defiance solidifying. Marin didn’t even apologize for pinching her as if she were a naughty child. Marin, with her maps and bossiness, Johannes and his ever-closing door, Cornelia and Otto – their shared sanctuary, their silent language of chopping, polishing, the slop of mop and flash of knife— Nella jumps up, desperate to be rid of her own thoughts, what Marin calls the danger of having nothing to do. She cannot care for the cabinet – it is an insult to her womanhood. And yet, when she fans the promissory notes, she’s never seen so much potential money in her entire life.
As Peebo circles Johannes’ expensive paintings, Nella takes up her pen at the desk and explodes her fury in a burst of scrawl:
Dear Sir,
I have seen your advertisement in Smit’s List, and wish to solicit your help.
I have a house of nine rooms, on a miniature scale, that is to be displayed in a cabinet. I venture these three requests to you and await your response. I cannot guess but that you are trained in the art of small things. The list is by no means exhaustive, and I am amply able to pay.
Item: One lute, with strings
Item: One betrothal cup, filled with confetti
Item: One box of marzipan
In advance gratitude,
Petronella Brandt, at the sign of the dolphin, Herengracht