“But what have we here? A much earlier work by Esaias van de Velde, unless I am very much mistaken.”
London looked and saw a painting of a bleak winter scene with bare trees, a run-down cottage, a muddy-looking road, and warmly bundled peasants.
“Indeed, it is by van de Velde,” a nearby voice said in Dutch. “A new acquisition of ours. Esaias was, of course, a cousin of Jan van de Velde, who was quite famous for his etchings and engravings.”
London turned and saw a hefty gentleman with wavy, steel-gray hair, wearing a pale blue silk shirt and a crooked bow tie and a vest with a silver watch chain.
Emil replied in Dutch with a nod of approval.
“You have an interesting collection, Meneer … ?”
“Meyer, Axel Meyer,” he said, answering Emil’s unspoken query. “This gallery has been in my family for five generations. You seem to have discerning tastes, Meneer …”
“Waldmüller. Emil Waldmüller. And these are my, eh, colleagues, London Rose and Bryce Yeaton.”
London and Bryce exchanged frowns at the tone with which he said the word “colleagues.”
He doesn’t sound exactly proud to be seen in our company, she thought.
With a wry twinkle in his eye, Meneer Meyer replied in Emil’s own language.
“Ah, then you are German, judging from your name … and your accent.”
It was Emil’s turn to frown a little. Although London wasn’t sufficiently fluent in either language to recognize accents, it was clear that Meyer was making a somewhat snooty point to Emil.
Emil cleared his throat and spoke somewhat defensively again in Dutch.
“I would like to know more about the ceramic piece on display in your window.”
With a sly expression, Meyer went back to speaking in his native Dutch.
“Ah, yes—our Delfts Blauw piece.”
Meyer walked toward the plaque and turned the easel so they all could look at it.
“A 19th-century original, of course,” Meyer said.
“I don’t doubt it,” Emil said. “An excellent work of faience.”
With a somewhat condescending nod, Emil added to London and Bryce, “Faience, as perhaps you know, refers to a fine type of tin-glazed pottery. The exquisite hand painting was done in Delfts Blauw—a shade of blue specially made in the Dutch city of Delft, where this type of earthenware was produced.”
Fingering the edge of the plaque, Emil added, “If I am not mistaken, this particular piece was made in the 1890s.”
“Indeed, it was,” Meyer said. “You seem to be quite knowledgeable in such matters. Would you be interested in making this purchase?”
“Perhaps,” Emil said, “It is signed by its maker, I assume.”
“Absolutely,” Meyer said. “I will show you.”
Meyer gently picked up the plaque and carried it over to a table, where he placed it face down. There was a signature on the back written in exquisite blue script.
“How much will you sell it for?” Emil asked.
Meyer’s smile turned a bit more supercilious. London remembered what Emil had said about the lack of signs and labels in this gallery.
“It caters to people who know what they’re looking at, who do not need to be told.”
And now London thought Meyer almost seemed to be silently saying, “If you have to ask …”
With a tilt of his head, he asked Emil, “I am curious, sir—what is your profession?”
“I am a historian,” Emil said.
“Indeed?” Meyer said. “With what institution are you affiliated? One of the major German universities? Heidelberg, perhaps? The University of Bonn? Goethe University in Frankfurt?”
Emil looked briefly crestfallen at what struck even London as an impertinent query. Of course, Meyer was only trying to get some idea of Emil’s income. But Emil drew himself up and replied with as much pride and self-assurance as he could muster.
“My colleagues and I serve aboard a fine European river tour boat. Perhaps you’ve heard of it—the Nachtmusik.”
“Alas, it is not familiar to me,” Meyer said, sounding distinctly unimpressed.
Meyer picked up the plaque and placed it back on the easel.
Then he said, “Well, it was nice to talk with you. I wish you and your colleagues a good visit to our lovely city.”
As the gallery owner turned to walk away, Emil spoke up.
“Just a moment, sir. I would be willing to pay 2500 florins for the Delfts Blauw piece.”
London’s eyes widened as she estimated the amount in U.S. currency to be around 1400 dollars.
Can Emil really afford that? she wondered.
She certainly considered it well out of her own price range.
For the first time, Meyer actually chuckled.
“Oh, I hardly think so, sir,” he said.
Emil blurted, “Might you accept 2750 florins?”
Meyer frowned slightly.
“I’m not in the business of haggling, Herr Waldmüller,” he said. “This is not an auction house. And now if you will excuse me …”
Without another word, Axel Meyer disappeared back into his office.
The sentry took up his post again, pointedly ignoring the visitors.
Emil turned pale.
“I cannot believe this,” he murmured, staring after the departed gallery owner.
London took Emil firmly by the arm and started hustling him out of the gallery.
“I’m sorry it didn’t work out for you, Emil,” she said. “But we’ve got to get to the Rijksmuseum right now.”
As they left the gallery and walked along toward the museum, a pair of voices called out in unison—“hi.” London looked around to see a familiar gray-haired couple peddling by on a tandem bike.
Walter Shick, who was in front, waved and called, “We’re on our way to the museum.”
As they sailed on past, Agnes called out from the second seat, “We’ll meet you there.”
“See,” London told Emil, “I told you that our passengers will be waiting for us to arrive.”
Fortunately the museum was already in sight, just a block away. London was beginning to believe that they might just make it in time to meet the passengers who would surely be waiting for them at that massive palace-like edifice with its ornamental facade.
“I cannot believe this,” Emil said again.
Relieved that they were finally on their way to their destination, London replied, “I can’t believe it either, Emil. Were you really ready to pay well over a thousand dollars for that plaque? I mean, I understand that it’s very beautiful.”
“I would have managed it,” Emil said. “Oh, it would have been tight, but I could have pulled that much or more out of my savings.”
“But why?” London asked.
“You don’t understand,” Emil said. “I have wanted an authentic Delfts Blauw ever since I was a little boy.”
London couldn’t help but smile as she tried to imagine what kind of little boy would be obsessed with fine Delft pottery.
Emil was always one of a kind, she thought.
She really did feel sorry that he hadn’t been able to make the purchase.
Bryce patted him on the back and said, “Tough luck, old fellow. Better luck next time, eh?”
Emil nodded disconsolately.
As they approached the Rijksmuseum, London saw some familiar figures grouped near the entrance—the passengers who had signed up for Emil’s tour.
Just as a few of those people caught sight of London, Bryce, and Emil, the historian gasped aloud.
“What a fool I was!” he cried.
To London’s alarm, Emil whirled and started back the way they’d come.
CHAPTER TEN
“Wait a minute,” London cried. “Emil, where are you going?”
She hurried to catch up with the briskly striding historian.
“Where do you think I am going?” Emil replied, without slowing down. “I have to offer him a bette
r price. I must have been out of my mind offering 2500 florins, or even 2750. I am quite sure he will sell it for 3500 florins.”
“Emil, that’s about 2000 dollars!”
“Do you think I do not know the exchange rate? I am sure I can afford it somehow.”
“Not if you lose your job, you can’t.”
“Now, London, there is no call for that kind of talk. We are part of a team, are we not? And we look out for each other—‘watch each other’s backs’ I think is how you Americans put it. Could you not fill in for me this once?”
“I filled in for you yesterday,” London said.
“And you did a superb job of it,” Emil said. “I am sure you will do just as well today. You can give a tour of the Rijksmuseum with no trouble at all. I promise to make it up to you.”
With that, Emil speeded up and trotted away.
For a moment London just stood there staring after him. Then with an exasperated sigh, she turned around and walked back toward Bryce.
“It’s no use,” she said. “I don’t know what’s gotten into him, but there’s no reasoning with him. I’ll have to conduct the tour myself.”
“Do you think you can do it?” Bryce said.
“I hope so,” London said. “I don’t know if we can get a museum guide on such short notice.”
Although the truth was, she didn’t feel the least bit confident, but she knew she had to get the tour started right now. They were nearing the huge building that spread across the far side of a flower-adorned plaza. Its two towers flanked a grand arched entranceway and wings wrapped the plaza on both sides. Like much of Amsterdam, the building combined several historical styles into an impressive structure.
A group with familiar faces was standing in the plaza, waiting for them.
Were any of them watching that little scene with Emil? she wondered.
Her question was soon answered.
A long-limbed, middle-aged woman with a shock of curly hair came striding out of the group. Pointing down the street, she demanded, “Where is Herr Waldmüller off to?”
“Hi Audrey,” London replied. “Um … he had an errand to run.”
At least that’s partly true, she thought.
Even though they had become friends during some recent adventures, London knew that Audrey Bolton had a tendency to become quite irritable if she believed that anything was amiss.
And her new friend looked rather cross right now.
“But he’s supposed to conduct our tour of this museum,” Audrey complained, looking at her watch. “We’ve all been waiting here for several minutes. I thought Germans were supposed to be punctual—and dependable.”
I always thought so too, London thought.
“I’ll be filling in for him,” she said instead.
“Well, that’s hardly fair, is it?” Audrey complained sharply. “I heard about how you had to cover for him yesterday when we were sailing by the Mouse Tower. It sounds like he’s getting to be downright irresponsible. I’ve got a notion to complain to the captain about it.”
“I’d rather you didn’t,” London said.
“Why not?” Audrey said.
That’s a good question, London thought.
She wasn’t sure why not, except that she didn’t want Emil to get into serious trouble before she could figure out what was going on with him—and with Amy as well. It worried her that word of Emil’s odd behavior was already getting around. The Nachtmusik’s rumor mill was grinding away as usual. And that couldn’t be good.
“Let’s just get this tour going,” London said. “Please,” she added.
To her relief, Audrey shrugged and stepped back among the others. London saw that Agnes and Walter Shick were parking their tandem bike in a nearby bike rack and coming to join them. Honey and Gus Jarrett were there, and so was the large and formidable Letitia Hartzer.
Bryce took a few steps forward and stood with the others, facing London with an attentive look on his face.
London put on her best professional smile. Fortunately, she had a fair amount of knowledge about the building itself, even if she didn’t know as much as Emil did about the works exhibited there.
“Welcome to the world-famous Rijksmuseum,” she said. “I hope you enjoy today’s visit.”
As they came near the arched entryway, Walter Shick gasped in amazement.
“Why, I can see daylight through there,” he said. “‘Light at the end of the tunnel,’ so to speak.”
“It is like a tunnel, isn’t it?” Agnes said. “It goes all the way through the building.”
“That’s right,” London said. “This building was completed in 1885 as a place to house the Netherland’s greatest cultural treasures. But it was also designed to be a literal gate into the city. Today you see cyclists and pedestrians walking through here. A hundred years ago you would have also seen people in carriages and on horseback.”
“How appropriate,” Letitia Hartzer remarked. “Almost symbolic.”
“Yes,” London said. “It was as if the city’s very entryway was meant to transport you through the culture and history of the Netherlands.”
London led her little band of tourists into the tunnel, then through an entryway into a startling burst of interior sunlight shining down from on high onto a vast expanse of gray stone floor.
“This is an atrium,” London explained as she paid their admission. “It’s one of a pair of what used to be open courtyards. The spectacular, high steel and glass ceiling was added in recent years.”
The passengers murmured with interest in the blend of styles.
Meanwhile, London was uneasily trying to decide where she should take the group next. She was glad to see that they had arrived right at an oval-shaped information desk that featured an array of brochures.
I guess I’ll have to learn myself as I go along, she thought.
Bryce picked up a folded map and handed it to her. As she nervously perused it, London realized that she was getting expectant stares from her other companions.
Maybe I should just admit I’m not as prepared as I should be.
But she was rescued by a Dutch-accented voice.
“Can I help you?”
London turned and saw a tall, short-haired woman approaching the group.
Holding out her hand to London, she said, “I am Helga van den Heuvel, a docent here at the Rijksmuseum.”
London managed not to breathe an audible sigh of relief as she shook the woman’s hand.
“My name is London Rose, and I’m the social director aboard an American tour boat visiting Amsterdam.”
Blushing a little, she added quietly, “And I’m afraid I’m a little out of my depth trying to conduct a tour through this great museum.”
The woman laughed sympathetically.
“You need not trouble yourself. I am here to help out.”
“Oh, thank you, Mevrouw van den Heuvel,” London said, using the Dutch word for “miss.”
“Call me Helga, please.”
Turning to the group, Helga said, “As I suppose you know, the Rijksmuseum is home to Dutch art from every era, dating all the way back to the 12th century. Would anybody like to make a request as to where to begin?”
Honey Jarrett raised her hand shyly.
“Have you got any Van Goghs?” she said.
London couldn’t help but smile. She figured Honey was simply mentioning the first and perhaps only Dutch artist she could think of. Even so, it was a perfectly good suggestion.
With a tilt of her head, Helga replied, “Not as many as we’d like—certainly not as many as the Van Gogh Museum here in Amsterdam, which has the largest collection in the world. But we’ve got a few excellent pieces if you would care to see them.”
The group spoke with eager approval.
“Very well then,” Helga said. “Follow me.”
London nudged up against Bryce as they all headed out of the atrium.
“Now that was a stroke of luck,” she whispered to hi
m.
“I suppose,” Bryce said with a wink. “But I was kind of looking forward to seeing you try to wing it.”
“Very funny,” London replied with a chuckle.
As they continued on their way, she admired Helga’s confident, ultra-professional posture and poise. The docent was sleek, athletic-looking, and so tall that London thought at first glance she must be wearing very high-heeled shoes.
But no, the woman was wearing flat, soft-soled shoes with her pantsuit—a sensible outfit for someone who had to spend all day walking.
Helga said, “It is just possible that we are following in Vincent’s footsteps right now. He came to this museum quite often and found a lot of inspiration here—as I hope to show you shortly.”
She led them straight to the section where the Van Gogh works were exhibited.
“We have a small selection of his works, as you can see,” Helga explained. “And mostly drawings, with only a few paintings. But this is enough to give you an idea of how Vincent developed as an artist during his short career.”
She pointed to a painting of cottages under an overcast sky.
“For example, he painted Farming Village at Twilight in 1884, when he was still learning his craft. The painting is done in a very muted, realistic style, nothing at all like his works from just a few years later.”
Then Helga pointed out a much more familiar image—a portrait of the artist himself with an intense gaze, wearing a felt hat.
Helga said, “You have probably seen photos of this painting. It is said that he painted lots of self-portraits because he couldn’t afford models! In fact, he was extremely poor during much of his sad life. He depended on his brother Theo for money.”
She pointed to details in the painting.
“Here you can see his mature style in its expressive glory, with pure, vibrant colors and bold brush strokes. In fact, he sometimes didn’t bother to use a brush, just squeezed paint directly out of its tube onto the canvas. You can see how his face seems to vibrate with the kind of life that he brought to all of his later works.”
London felt a lump of emotion form in her throat as she realized something.
I saw this painting with Mom.
Misfortune (and Gouda) Page 7