The Guilder and the Doll
Agnes could have had this doll for months. She was jealous of my cabinet, Nella thinks – pretending she had one, giving herself away on the outside steps after the sugar party. I want mine to be better than hers, she’d said to Frans. And surely there can be only one place Agnes procured me? This doll is so pertinent, so accurate. It is painful to accept it’s been made for someone else.
Nella puts her shining self in her pocket with Arnoud’s guilders and rushes down the steps in search of Meermans. The rain has eased a little, the light is misty. Spectators hang around in the narrow street, avoiding the puddles. Nella spies the old-fashioned white ruff, the tall black smock of Pastor Pellicorne. His immaculate face, his crown of grey hair, those maddened-preacher eyes. Others have gathered round him, like burrs on wool. ‘This is sin,’ he pronounces as the rain patters down. ‘You can smell it. Johannes Brandt has led a sinful life.’
‘It’s the consequence of luxury,’ the woman next to him observes.
‘But he’s made the city money,’ says a man. ‘He’s made us rich.’
‘Who exactly has he made rich? And look what it’s done to his soul,’ says Pellicorne. He whispers the word, as if disposing with one last breath the abomination of Johannes Brandt.
Nella can hardly breathe. Smells of rotting food rise as the thick, smoky stench of tavern meat rolls down the walls. Pellicorne glides his eyes over her.
‘Are you not well, girl?’ asks one of the women with Pellicorne, but Nella does not answer.
‘The wife,’ someone whispers, and more heads turn.
Look at me then, Nella thinks. Look at the wife. ‘Yes,’ she shouts. ‘I am his wife.’
‘God sees through doors, Madame,’ says the first woman. ‘He sees it all.’
Nella walks in the opposite direction, squeezing the doll in her pocket. She tries to picture the house without Johannes. No, she thinks, feeling her husband’s life slipping through her grip. You cannot let him die.
‘Madame Brandt.’
She turns. Frans Meermans is standing before her. Be calm, Nella Elisabeth. ‘Seigneur,’ she says. ‘I have been looking for you. Where is your wife?’
Meermans pushes his hat on his head. ‘Agnes has gone home and will return tomorrow. She has been – out of sorts, ever since she saw the horror—’
‘You have to stop this, Seigneur. Is it worth killing your friend for guilders?’ She hesitates. ‘Or making Marin this unhappy?’
Meermans puts his foot into a puddle. ‘Johannes Brandt is not my friend, Madame. And Agnes is a witness before God. I am sorry for Madame Marin, but what your husband did with that boy cannot go unpunished.’
‘It’s not about what Johannes did with Jack, is it?’ Nella whispers. ‘It’s what happened twelve years ago. You think my husband ruined your life. But it wasn’t him.’
Meermans’ chest swells. ‘Madame—’
She is desperate. ‘I know what happened, Seigneur. You and Marin. I understand Agnes’ jealousy, but—’
‘Be quiet,’ he hisses. ‘Keep your vicious imagination to yourself.’
‘Twelve years ago, Johannes made a decision for you,’ she says. ‘But he didn’t—’
‘I will not talk of this, Madame.’ Meermans looks hastily up and down the street, wincing at the rain that continues to soak the brim of his hat and the squared toes of his boots. ‘Agnes is my wife.’
‘But it isn’t over, Seigneur Meermans. And there’s something else you need to know.’ Nella pulls out the thousand guilders, the little doll of herself tucked beneath. ‘It’s some of your money,’ she says. ‘Johannes sold a substantial amount of your sugar, Seigneur. To Arnoud Maakvrede.’
‘One thousand guilders. Still taking me for a fool?’ Meermans’ countenance changes; he tenses with fear. ‘And what’s that?’
He is looking aghast at the doll. She remembers him in the Kalverstraat march of the St George Militia, staring up at the sign of the sun. ‘Where did you get it?’ he hisses.
‘I – it’s me.’
‘Put it away. Now.’
Nella takes a deep breath. Telling him about Marin she thinks. It might be the only thing that stops this madness. ‘Seigneur,’ she says, ‘Marin is—’
‘Never show anyone that, do you hear?’ Meermans sweeps his brim of rainwater, splashing Nella’s dress.
Nella pushes the doll back in her pocket. ‘Why not?’ she asks, but he won’t reply. ‘Seigneur, did Agnes commission a cabinet of your house?’
‘A cannonball would do less damage to my marriage than those cursed miniatures,’ he snaps, snatching the money from her. ‘I will count these guilders then bid you goodbye.’
‘There are more to come. And perhaps then you might reconsider your plan against my husband.’
‘I have no plan, Madame. It is the will of God.’
‘What did the miniaturist send you?’
Meermans holds the rain-spattered guilders aloft. ‘Shouldn’t you be more worried about how you’re going to find more of these?’
Raindrops start falling more steadily. The spectators rush past them, back into the shelter of the gallery. Nella grabs Meermans’ arm to stop him from leaving.
‘Did the miniaturist send you things yet to happen, Seigneur? Or things that had already passed?’
‘Evil hints and vile mockery – no Dutchman should have to put up with it.’ He hesitates, and then the chance to speak of it takes him over, the relief that there is one person who might believe him. ‘I hid the parcels and messages, but Agnes still found them, or they found their way to Agnes. It’s not jealousy that’s unsettled her, Madame. It’s that cabinet. If she hadn’t found out about yours, none of it would have happened.’
‘None of what? Is Agnes quite well?’
‘ “It’s the truth,” Agnes keeps saying – “he’s telling me the truth.” So I went to the Kalverstraat to have this miniaturist arrested.’
‘You—’
‘Your cabinet will remain unfinished, Madame, just as Agnes’s has been razed to the ground. The burgomasters were very interested to know there was someone working within the city with no guild jurisdiction. Miniaturist,’ he scoffs. ‘It’s not even a proper job.’
Fear splits Nella apart. She can’t feel her body, all she can see is Meermans’ large face, his pig-like eyes, the vast expanse of his jaw. ‘Seigneur, what have you done to the miniaturist?’
‘He’d gone, the vile little spy. But I saw to it that he won’t come back. They’ve given Marcus Smit a hefty fine for allowing a non-Amsterdammer to offer his services on his List. And that house on the Kalverstraat will be a lodging for someone who actually belongs to this city.’ Meermans holds the thousand guilders under her nose. ‘You don’t even realize what an insult this is, Madame, the hundreds and thousands that could have been made. My livelihood is ruined because of Brandt’s neglect.’
How obsessed he is with his guilders, how careless of everything else. Nella’s blood heats the ropes of her temper; they smoke and snap apart. ‘I’ve seen Agnes’ sugar loaves,’ she says. ‘Your borrowed glory. They’re not all rotten – but you are, and so’s your wife. Marin made a lucky escape when she decided to turn you down.’
At this, he staggers back.
‘And I believe, Seigneur,’ she says, ‘I know, that even if Johannes had sold every one of those loaves by now – you would still be happy to see him drown.’
‘How dare you. You’re nothing but a little—’
‘Keep those guilders,’ she says and turns away, calling to the skies. ‘And may the miniaturist hound both of you to Hell.’