The Empty Space
When Nella returns to the house, Cornelia is waiting for her at the door.
‘What is it?’ Nella asks, seeing the stricken look on the maid’s face.
‘The Seigneur’ Cornelia whispers. ‘He’s back from Venice. He’s already asking where Rezeki is.’
‘What?’ Nella feels the quality of the air thicken, and a nub of fear lodges itself in her throat. She pictures Rezeki’s bloodstained body waiting in the cellar – and Johannes, unaware, waiting for the tip-tip sound of her shapely paws.
‘It has to be you who tells him, Madame,’ Cornelia pleads. ‘I cannot.’
Nella closes the front door quietly, scanning the floor, relieved there is no more blood to be seen. Cornelia has mopped and mopped, dousing the tiles in vinegar and lemon juice, a bath of boiling water and lye over the stains. Yet upstairs in the cabinet house, it wasn’t possible to rub away the cross-like mark on Rezeki’s miniature head.
‘But why me, Cornelia?’ she asks.
‘You’re strong, Madame. It’s better coming from you.’
Nella doesn’t feel strong. She feels ill-prepared, daunted by the story she will have to tell. All I needed was a bit more time to sweeten this truth to some sort of a lie, she thinks. How does anyone start such a conversation?
Johannes is standing in the centre of the salon, his gaze resting on the hollowed picture frame propped against the painted mural that stretches round the walls. He has brought two rugs back with him, thick weaves with mathematical patterns. They already have twenty, thirty of these tapestries, Nella thinks. What is the point of more? The room is freezing, and he is still in his travelling cloak.
To her surprise, Johannes’ eyes light up. Her husband actually seems pleased to see her.
‘Johannes,’ she says. ‘You are home safely. Was Venice – enjoyable?’ She hears Jack’s crooked Dutch in her ear – more fresh fish.
Johannes sniffs the air, wrinkling his nose at the lingering scent of vinegar wafting in from the hall. Nella prays that Cornelia’s bubbling kitchen pots will soon overwhelm it.
‘Venice was Venice,’ he says. ‘Venetians talk a lot. And there was too much dancing for my knees.’
To her astonishment, he takes her in a huge embrace. Nella’s head only reaches Johannes’ breastbone, and he presses her ear to where she feels the thump of his heart. As he digs his chin onto the top of her head, she finds the awkward hold an unexpected comfort. She has never touched this much of Johannes before. Her feet begin to lift off the floor as if she’s clinging to a raft. As she closes her eyes, Rezeki’s bloodied face rises into view, and no amount of scrunching her eyelids will make it go away.
‘I am glad to see you, Nella,’ he says before putting her down. ‘Why is there no fire in this room? Otto!’ he calls.
‘And I am glad too, Johannes,’ she replies, her mind reaching for words that simply slip away every time they feel her coming. ‘I – shall we sit?’
He collapses into a chair with a sigh, and Nella finds herself still standing.
‘What’s wrong?’ he asks, and she thinks the concern in his voice will break her.
‘Nothing, Johannes. There’s – I – Agnes was angry with me,’ she blurts. She cannot do it – she cannot say the words. It is easier to choose the subject of Agnes Meermans over news of his beloved dog.
Johannes’ expression clouds. ‘And why was Agnes angry?’
‘I – saw her at the Old Church. She says that all their sugar is still in the warehouse. That it might start to crystallize.’
Johannes draws his hand down the side of his face. ‘She had no right to speak to you like that.’
Otto appears at the threshold of the salon, carrying a basket of peat. He hovers, barely able to look up.
‘Ah, the fire,’ says Johannes. ‘Come in, Otto, and make us warm.’
‘Seigneur. Welcome home.’
‘What’s Cornelia cooking?’
‘Pig-liver pudding with barley, Seigneur.’
‘My favourite for December! I wonder what I’ve done to deserve it.’ Johannes smiles, sniffing the air again, running his hand over the empty frame. ‘What happened here? This was one of my favourites.’
Otto seems almost grey in the half-light, and Johannes looks at him shrewdly.
‘An accident,’ says Nella.
‘I see. Well, pile up the kindling, Otto. My feet are so cold they might fall off.’
Nella turns to see Marin, standing at the door. Her face is pinched, and she hesitates before she glides in, remaining near the wall.
‘How many loaves did you sell in Venice?’ Marin asks.
‘Make it a big fire, Otto.’
‘Brother, how many did we sell?’
From his seat, Johannes places the empty frame upright on his lap. His upper body is in the middle, and he gestures in the hollow. He picks a regent’s pose, self-satisfied and ridiculous. ‘It was as slow as I predicted it would be,’ he says. ‘It would have been better to go in the new year.’
‘Then perhaps you will light such a gigantic fire when the sugar is actually sold?’ Johannes’ ensuing silence appears to incense his sister. ‘The greedy will bring ruin to their households.’
‘Your welcomes are getting worse, Marin. You’re the one that pushed me out on a ship to Italy in the dead of winter. Do not speak to me of greed. And please, don’t keep quoting the Bible. It becomes tiresome, given your own doubtful piety.’
Marin laughs, a strange sound which cuts the air. ‘You are the constant provocator, not me,’ she says, her every word straining on a leash.
He pulls off his travelling cloak and throws it in a bundle. ‘And stop talking about this household as if it’s yours. It belongs to Petronella.’
These words shoot through the air towards Nella like a bolt of light, but Marin stares at him in disbelief. ‘Then Petronella may have it,’ she says.
As easy as that? Nella thinks, turning to her. It doesn’t seem possible; Marin cannot mean it.
‘I’ve wasted my whole life keeping yours smooth,’ Marin says, stepping towards her brother. ‘We’re nothing more than prisoners to your desire.’
Johannes sighs, holding his palms up to the fire to warm himself. ‘Prisoners?’ He turns to Otto, kneeling on the other side of the growing flames. ‘Otto, do you feel like a prisoner?’
Otto swallows, his voice barely a whisper. ‘No, Seigneur.’
‘Nella, do I keep you under lock and key?’
‘No, Johannes,’ Nella replies. Though, she thinks, those empty nights waiting for your visits have felt like prison enough. She wants to be up in her room right now, alone, buried under the coverlet.
‘This house is the only place any of us are free.’ Johannes leans over in his chair and puts his head in his hands. ‘And, Marin, you of all people cannot deny it.’
‘Don’t be a fool,’ Marin snaps. This argument feels well trodden to Nella, and like the fire, its heat is rising fast. ‘You are so selfish. It suits you to have me here, whilst you barely bother to hide the things you do.’
Johannes looks up at his sister. Nella sees how exhausted he is, face drawn, eyes dark. ‘You think it suits me, is that the tale you tell yourself?’ he says. ‘Marin, against the counsel of my soul, I married a child. And I did it for you.’
‘I’m not a child,’ Nella whispers, finally sinking into a chair under the force of his words. And yet, she does feel childish. Johannes has transformed her in a moment, and she wants her mother, someone to notice her pain, someone else to take Rezeki’s body away.
‘And nothing’s changed,’ Marin says, oblivious to Johannes’ plea. ‘The careless attitude to Meermans’ sugar, our future—’
Johannes kicks the empty frame and it splinters, skidding across the polished floor just as Cornelia enters, her sleeves rolled up, perspiration on her brow. Holding a tray of wine and bread, the maid stares at the broken frame and hovers by the door.
‘You’ve never had to compromise!’ Johannes says.
‘It’s all I’ve ever done. You think you can buy abstracts, Johannes. Silence, loyalty, people’s souls—’
‘You’d be surprised—’
‘So tell me – what happens when you’re actually caught? What happens when the burgomasters find out what you are?’
By the fire, Otto seems to choke on his breath.
‘I am too rich for the damned burgomasters,’ Johannes says.
‘No.’ Marin’s voice is hard. ‘No. You’ve not been paying attention. I am the one who looks twice at the ledger books. I am the one – and let me tell you, the story they tell is a sorry one indeed.’
Johannes stands from his chair, seeming to seize up inch by inch as Marin’s words plot upon him with thirty years of practised ease.
‘You always thought you were different, didn’t you, Marin – not marrying, interfering in my business. Do you really think, that because you have some maps of the East Indies up on your wall, some books on travelling, some rotten berries and a few animal skulls, that you know what life is like out there? What I do to keep you comfortable? You are the one who has no idea.’
Marin’s eyes bore into him. ‘I’ve got bad news for you,’ she says.
No, Nella thinks. Not like this. Otto drops a large piece of peat onto the floorboards. Its black crumbs spray onto the wood.