Irregularity

by Nick Harkaway

  “True, but Dr Tulp and his brethren surgeons evidently …”

  “Look at him, Ferdinand. I urge you to look carefully and know that it is to your own advantage to conclude and maintain that this man is and was dead. Giving us all the more cause to get back to work. We have wasted enough time on this bandit’s damned heart.”

  17th Day of January 1632

  A startling miracle manifest itself today, Father! The dead man’s heart beat within his chest! I can now well imagine how bystanders will have witnessed the resurrection of Lazarus — with equal proportions of elation and terror! At first I did not believe my own eyes, and dared not inform Master R for fear that he might brand me a fool unworthy of his attention and tuition. The pulsation displayed itself at unpredictable intervals, as if the organ itself sensed my watchful eye, waiting for me to turn my attention back to my duties, before beating to life once more, presenting as the merest tremor in the corner of my eye. But of course, whenever I turned to look, the heart was still. Infuriated, I vowed to hold my watch without distraction, but the intensity and immobility of my posture drew the attention of Master R, who enquired as to which part of Mr Kindt’s anatomy was worthy of such undivided admiration.

  Bereft of wit, I stammered my suspicions and endeavoured to attribute that which I had perceived to the shifting clouds and changing light, but at that very moment, as we both looked on, the heart of Aris Kindt pulsated once again, as unambiguously as the twitching fist of a stevedore. Master R’s eyes widened in surprise and he bade me hurry downstairs to the quarters of the Surgeons’ Guild to summon Dr Tulp or enquire as to his whereabouts, but not before extracting from me the solemn oath that I would not divulge to anyone that which we had both just witnessed.

  And so I thundered down the tower’s staircase to the Guild’s quarters, where I wandered along the murky passage, rapping on several doors before I heard the fall of footsteps approaching. You can well imagine my surprise when the preparator himself opened the door, releasing a pungent draft of camphor and spirits from the room beyond and affording me a glimpse of the macabre specimens that lined the shelves like the pale and misshapen demons of some awful nightmare trapped in glass. Keen to my roving eye, the preparator stepped into the passage and pulled the door closed behind him. He then proceeded to enquire as to the nature of my business, doing so with such a lofty demeanour that I was instantly reduced to a jabbering schoolboy before an irate master. When I haltingly informed him that my master wished to confer with Dr Tulp, the preparator replied that the good doctor was making his rounds and would return only at nightfall. I explained that the matter could not wait that long and almost broke my promise to Master R when the preparator enquired as to the cause of such great urgency. I then bade the preparator accompany me upstairs to the Theatrum Anatomicum so that we might consult with Master R.

  Upon entering the master’s realm, the preparator was immediately reduced to an obsequious loon who was only too glad to acquiesce to the master’s every wish, whereupon the master bade him ascertain Dr Tulp’s itinerary so that the preparator might lead me to him. Once the onerous fellow had departed, Master R immediately sat down to pen a letter to the doctor, urgently entreating me to present it to Dr Tulp and no one else, and insisting that I await the surgeon’s reply before returning.

  And so it was that the haughty preparator and I set off on foot on our quest through the city’s snow-frosted streets, in pursuit of the doctor’s horse-drawn carriage. It was an invigorating and not unpleasant ramble, with a low sun peeking out at times, casting long shadows that danced alongside the children playing on the frozen canals. The air was brisk, with the bitter tang of woodstoves burning, the foul stench of the city’s waters thankfully contained by a welcome layer of ice.

  Having tried two addresses to no avail, we espied Dr Tulp’s carriage standing outside the infirmary of the Convent of Our Blessed Lady, whereupon the preparator bade me wait at a nearby tavern, explaining that I was not permitted to accompany him into the infirmary and that he was unsure how long it would take to extract a reply from Dr Tulp. When I informed him that I had been instructed to personally deliver the letter to Dr Tulp, the preparator treated me to a withering glance and boldly snatched the letter from my hand, ignoring my implorations as he strode into the infirmary.

  Despondent and deflated, I found myself eating stale bread and rancid stew, washed down with a jug of reasonable wine. Fortunately, I had that very morning purchased the Courante from Amroussi, my preferred bookseller on the Kalverstraat, but I had little opportunity to read, owing to the presence of a company of privateers who were engaged in a relentless battle of one-upmanship, armed with tall tales of hardship at sea, which they thrust upon one another — and all those within earshot — with impressive vigour. Their self-appointed captain, a ruddy giant endowed with a dense shrub of beard, had upon his shoulder a remarkable aepjen that had the look of a wizened great-uncle, but the agility of a child and the wits of a cat. When the men burst into song, the creature bobbed up and down upon the man’s shoulder in a delightful manner, causing me to laugh. Seeing my mirth, the captain invited me over to take a closer look, demanding in return that I stand them a round of jevener, a fee so raucously chorused by his companions that I had little choice but to accept.

  “Windmills!” roared the captain, whereupon the proprietor began pouring gin into pewter cups resembling little bells, which had, instead of a foot, a tiny windmill with turning sails. As I raised my cup to admire the comically crafted ornament, the captain roared, “Ad fundum!” In an instant, my new companions had drained their cups and placed them upturned on their heads, roaring in chorus: “Wind ho!” They guffawed loudly when they saw my untouched cup and bemused expression. Before I could give cheers and take my first sip, the captain surprised me with a bearlike embrace that lifted me onto my toes, not only causing me to spill my jenever down the fellow’s broad back, but also prompting the aepjen to leap upon my head, giving me the full scent of its loathsome groin, as its tail curled about my face seeking purchase.

  And of course, at that very disconcerting moment, glancing desperately over the giant’s shoulder, wearing a foul helmet of fur, I espied the onerous preparator surveying the premises, letter in hand.

  Having extricated myself with some effort, I bade the privateers farewell, gathered my cloak and hurried over to the preparator, pursued by a barrage of well-aimed quips and jeers. My arrogant guide, the pious loon, then had the temerity to lecture me, your virtuous son, on sins of the flesh before handing over the letter, which upon entering my pocket seemed to instantly ignite, speeding my return to De Waag. I had to fight my way through the cacophony of commerce that throngs around the weigh house in the afternoons, clutching the letter in one pocket and my treasured dagger in the other, lest they be picked by one of the sleight-fingered vagabonds who secrete themselves amongst the crowd to rob unsuspecting merchants of their purses. (Guard your pockets, Father, for I am sure this loathsome skill will already have found its way to Dordrecht!)

  Having made my way on weary legs up to the Theatrum Anatomicum, I found Master R absent, but noticed that he had worked diligently during my foray. Upon the vellum template lay the exquisitely rendered torso of Aris Kindt, its viscera sketched with immense precision in the cavity beyond the jagged scar, his heart fair leaping from his chest like a cresting whale.

  A macabre curiosity drew me to the dead man’s side, where I stood hoping that his heart had now finally stopped beating. And again I vowed to wait and watch, but I was foiled by fatigue, and perhaps the wine, which sought refuge in my head, causing my eyelids to grow heavy. So I placed the letter upon the master’s easel and lay down on one of the wooden benches that surround the theatrum, wrapping my cloak about me to stave off the cold and welcome sleep, staring up at the vaulted ceiling where the gilded crests of Dr Tulp’s predecessors gazed down upon me, sternly announcing their names in turn.

  I awoke, startled, to Master R’s oaths echoing into the raft
ers: “Madness! The buffoons!” Stirring from the warm burrow of my cloak, I sought to rise, only to discover that the aching cold had paralysed my legs, causing me to stumble onto hands and knees. As I struggled to my feet, Master R treated me to a summary of Dr Tulp’s letter: “The blackguards insist that we depict his severed hand!”

  When I enquired as to whether Dr Tulp had made any mention of the palpitating heart, Master R simply crumpled up the letter and cast it aside. He then paced and fumed about the room, muttering barely comprehensible curses, wishing the plague upon our clients. Finally, having circled the recumbent remains of Aris Kindt several times, he began to regain his composure. He stopped, inhaled profoundly, held his breath, eyes closed, and then exhaled at length.

  “Remove your cloak,” he said, “and roll up your right sleeve, Ferdinand, if you please.”

  As I did his bidding, he cast a sheet over the dead man’s upper body. He then instructed me to stand at the head of the table and lean over the shrouded ghoul, artfully positioning my exposed arm alongside the dead man’s waist. And so, in that absurd theatre, I found myself abruptly cast as the right hand of Aris Kindt.

  The stench was nigh unbearable and when I informed Master R of my discomfort, he took it upon himself to tie a kerchief laced with several drops of perfume about my face, instantly rendering me a highwayman myself, a role I played with mounting tautness of the back for the better part of an hour, before Master R discharged me from the task, affording me the opportunity to admire my own forearm now attached to the sketched remains of Aris Kindt.

  We worked until darkness began to fall, whereupon we hurried to the crackling hearth of the master’s house, where dinner and a cosy cot awaited us, restoring our vitality so that we could surmount whatever absurdities and challenges the new dawn might bring.

  The young apprentice looks on in bemused exasperation as his master hollows out a loaf and rolls a dough ball, which he uses to gently erase the superbly rendered wound in the dead man’s torso.

  “A remarkable anatomy lesson this will be with so little of the viscera in plain sight,” ventures the young apprentice, approaching Aris Kindt’s body, clutching the perfumed kerchief to his nose. The putrid odour of decay hangs like an Ottoman drape about the table, secreting itself in the garments of anyone who dares draw near. Before the next day is out the gravediggers will retrieve the bandit’s corpse to bring it to its final resting place. “Perhaps we could incorporate our friend’s exposed left arm into the composition, sir?”

  “Yes, Ferdinand, I was just contemplating whether I might elevate you from bandit to surgeon in a single day. But first find me that letter I balled and cast aside yesterday, for I fear both shall come in handy before this commission is completed.”

  Ferdinand scans the floor for the letter and sees it half-hidden under a heavy armoire. He prises open the crumpled ball with care and smoothes out the creases with the side of his palm. Before pressing the two letters under the hefty volume of Vesalius’ De humani corporis fabrica, which serves to guide the master’s hand when rendering anatomy, the young apprentice scans the letter.

  Amsterdam, 17th Day of January 1632

  Dear Sir,

  I write this missive in great haste, beset with duties and patients that screech for my attention. Your letter reminded me that there is a matter of some urgency that I neglected to raise earlier regarding your proposed depiction of this Adriaanse fellow. From your sketches, which I glimpsed only briefly, I surmise that you intend to portray the man true to life, with his severed right hand depicted as a stump. We — my esteemed colleagues and I — feel that this grotesque detail is likely to draw undue attention from the Church and Council, which would be to the detriment of the painting’s true subject: the gentlemen of the Guild. We therefore kindly request that you consider restoring the bandit’s severed limb, so that the painting is more in keeping with its true purpose.

  Sincerely,

  Nicolaes Tulp, Praelector Chirurgic et Anatomie

  “I am dumbfounded, sir.”

  “Consider it another hard lesson in the politics of commerce, Ferdinand. Vent your fury behind closed doors, then bite your tongue and give them what they want. You know my adagium.”

  “The client is king?”

  “Indeed, Ferdinand, and this king wields great power and influence. Tulp has political aspirations and, at the risk of being a loathsome pedant, I beg you to remember that whatever matters you are privy to in the course of our negotiations should be viewed as confidential and treated as such.”

  “But my father…”

  “Your father’s concern is heart-warming and understandable, as is your devotion to your filial duties, but we cannot risk biting the hand that feeds us — for it is the hand of a giant, which would not only withhold sustenance, but would crush and destroy us in an instant. Is that understood, Ferdinand?”

  “It is, sir. I shall censor my reports to Father.”

  “Thank you, Ferdinand. Now, let us get back to work. Perhaps you will better understand the responsibilities of our honourable client if you are briefly cast in his role. I bid you take those forceps and play the doctor’s hand with verve.”

  Binding the now heavily perfumed kerchief about his face, the young apprentice takes the forceps and, in keeping with the directions of his master, attempts to raise the dissected left arm of Aris Kindt, so that the intricacies of its anatomy may be fully rendered. But the cold has stiffened the dead man’s arm, making it easy to imagine he pulling back.

  “I see our friend does not wish to cooperate,” says the master, rising to fetch a log from the unlit fire and joining his apprentice. Together they wrestle the left arm into an artful pose, propping it up with the log. “Doctor Bol, your forceps. Try not to cast a shadow.”

  “Thank you, sir. I have already decided that I would rather be a painter than a surgeon. Or a bandit, for that matter.”

  “A wise choice, Ferdinand. This exercise will do wonders for the dexterity of your brush hand.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “Can you name the tendons in that arm?”

  As the master sketches, the two men discuss the nature and function of extensors, flexors and abductors, revelling in their fascination, forgetting time and the macabre circumstances in which they find themselves, until daylight fades and the master announces that the time has come for them to rest their arms and minds.

  As they go about their business, preparing for their final day in the presence of Aris Kindt, they hear footsteps ascending the stairs.

  “Dr Tulp perhaps? With some new request,” whispers the young apprentice.

  “He wishes us to paint the dead man as a lady,” says the master, laying a finger on his lips to stifle the guffaws of his apprentice.

  Ferdinand coughs his last laughs into his fist as he walks to the door, which groans its welcome as it is opened. Outside, the haughty preparator stands waiting in the shadows.

  “Good evening,” says the preparator, without any further token of recognition. “Might I speak with your master? It is a matter of the utmost urgency.”

  “Enter, sir. Please accompany me. We were…”

  “I would prefer to confer with your master under four eyes. This matter does not concern you. Please wait downstairs.”

  Swallowing his indignation, the young apprentice descends the stairs, keenly eyed by the preparator, who only closes the door when he is satisfied that Ferdinand is beyond earshot.

  Perched on the staircase, the young apprentice strains to hear. Outside, the hubbub of commerce is dying down, while upstairs a riot is brewing. Thumping footsteps pace the floor, stop and turn, the hushed tones rising in amplification, culminating in a clearly audible roar from the master: “I bid you goodnight, sir!”

  Hurried footsteps approach the door and the preparator comes scuttling down the stairs, clearly distraught, ignoring Ferdinand and instinctively ducking his head as the theatre’s door slams like a thunderclap.

  Unsure wha
t to do next, the young apprentice hovers on the stairway, attempting to divine the magnitude of his master’s rage from his footsteps, but his question is swiftly answered from on high with a resounding “Ferdinand!” that sends him racing up the stairs.

  “More bad news, sir?”

  “This will not stand, Ferdinand! He will not be portrayed, the supercilious buffoon!”

  “Did he give a reason, sir? The heart?”

  “No, of course not, Ferdinand! The undead heart of Aris Kindt shall be interred with his bones and forgotten. But all that pales into insignificance beside the abhorrent fact that this pious blackguard, this preparator, will not be portrayed. He claims that debts prevent him from contributing his share of the commission, the errant fool! First the hand and then the heart and now this! We have been robbed, Ferdinand, but I shall give them more than they bargained for!”

  19th Day of January 1632

  O Father, I am exhausted! It is just past noon and we have returned home after working through most of the night and on into the morning. Never before have I seen Master R so impassioned, so incensed! Having obeyed the curious and exasperating dictates of the Guild of Surgeons to the letter, almost without question, for several days, there came a last drop that caused the master’s rage to overflow: the withdrawal of one of the clients from the commission.

  I am drained, too tired now to divulge all the intricacies, but you can imagine my horror when Master R bade me roll a dough ball of my own, so that I might assist him in obliterating almost the entire sketch, save the recumbent corpse of Aris Kindt.

  Having briefly paused to rest our arms, we then worked side by side by candlelight on the vellum template, like scheming villains in the shadows, to contrive a work so full of hidden meaning that only the blindest fool would overlook it.

  As we laboured, the master shared his reckless plan with me. I repeatedly implored him not to execute it, convinced as I was that the surgeons of the Guild would take umbrage when they saw through the obvious detractions and would contrive to stymie our careers. But the master was adamant, declaring that he would prove that no surgeon could match the artist’s aptitude for transfiguring the truth. “I assure you they will only have eyes for themselves,” he said.