‘Then let me do so.’ She moved past him to the bell-pull beside the fireplace and tugged at it. ‘When did you arrive in Amsterdam?’
‘This afternoon. By barge from Haarlem.’
‘Then tea you will certainly need.’
‘Thank you.’ Spandrel smiled cautiously. ‘It would be most welcome.’
‘Please be seated.’
‘Thank you.’ Spandrel was aware of repeating himself. He sat down in the armchair and self-consciously lowered the satchel to the floor beside him.
Mrs de Vries sat on the sofa opposite him and seemed on the point of saying something when the door opened and a maid entered. There was a brief conversation in Dutch. The maid withdrew.
‘How long,’ Spandrel began, feeling the need to speak even though there was little he could safely say, ‘have you lived in Amsterdam, Mrs de Vries?’
‘Nearly three years, Mr Spandrel.’
‘You speak the language … very well.’
‘Not as well as I should. But Mr Zuyler has been as assiduous a tutor as his other duties will allow.’
‘What part of England do you come from?’
‘An obscure part. But your accent betrays you as a Londoner, I think.’
‘You’re correct.’
‘How is the city these days?’
‘The city is well. But the spirits of its citizens are generally low.’
‘Because of the collapse in South Sea stock?’
‘Indeed. I see you’re well informed.’
‘My husband is a man of business, Mr Spandrel. How should I not be? Besides, the South Sea Company has scarcely fewer victims here than in London. And those who have not thrown their money down that drain have consigned it to the pit of the Mississippi Company instead. Did London hold itself aloof from that?’
‘I think not.’ Spandrel had read various references to the Mississippi Company in the third-or fourth-hand newspapers that were his only informants on the world. It had been France’s imitation of the South Sea scheme. Or was it the other way round? He could not rightly remember. ‘But it seems … you know more about such matters than I do.’
‘You would be unique among my husband’s business associates if that were the case.’
‘But I’m not his associate, madam. Merely the servant of one.’
‘And would your master be Sir Theodore Janssen?’
Spandrel flinched with surprise. He had not expected to be seen through so easily.
‘Forgive me, Mr Spandrel.’ Mrs de Vries smiled at him reassuringly. ‘The deduction required no great acuity on my part. Sir Theodore is my husband’s oldest friend. My husband mentioned receiving a letter from him recently. Sir Theodore lives in London. You come from London. And Mr Zuyler hastens off to fetch Mr de Vries from the midst of his mercantile deliberations. You see? Simplicity itself.’
‘Only when you explain it.’
‘You flatter me.’ Her smile broadened and Spandrel realized that flattery had indeed been his intention. Then there came a stirring of the latch. ‘Ah. Here’s Geertruid with our tea.’
Geertruid it was, somewhat out of humour to judge by the sighs that accompanied her arrangement of the cups, plates, spoons and saucers. A rich-looking cake had arrived along with the tea and, as soon as Geertruid had left, Mrs de Vries cut him a large slice and watched approvingly as he tasted it.
‘Travel makes a man hungry, does it not, Mr Spandrel?’
‘It does, madam, I confess. And this is … excellent cake.’
‘Good. You must eat your fill. There is no need for a man to go hungry in this house. My husband’s prudence in matters of business has served us well of late.’
‘I’m glad to hear it.’
‘There is a saying in Dutch he often quotes. “Des waereld’s doen en doolen is maar een mallemoolen.” “The ways of the world are but a fool’s merry-go-round.” But, if that is the case, I often think, it begs the question: are we all fools, then? For we must all live in the world.’
‘I’m not sure there can be an answer to such a question.’
‘Not one we would wish to hear, at any rate. Quite so. Let us try another, then. How long have you been in Sir Theodore’s service, Mr Spandrel?’
‘Not long at all.’
‘And before?’
‘I am a mapmaker by profession.’
‘Indeed? I wonder you do not pursue your profession.’
‘Times are hard. And in hard times people decide they can live without maps.’
‘But without a map, there is always the danger of going astray.’
‘As many do.’
‘How did you take up your profession?’
‘From my father.’
‘An eminent mapmaker?’
‘A prosperous one – for a while.’
‘My husband has a Mercator Atlas. Is that the sort of mapmaking of which we speak?’
‘Not exactly. I map … closer to home.’
‘Ah. Then you may be interested in this.’ Mrs de Vries rose and moved to the map drawers Spandrel had eyed earlier. She pulled one open, slid out a sheet and laid it on the table. ‘A recent acquisition. Come and look at it.’
Spandrel set down his tea and joined her by the table. A map of London lay before him; one he well recognized as the work of a competitor.
‘Is it good?’ Mrs de Vries asked.
‘It’s … accurate. If a little … out of date.’
‘Out of date?’ Mrs de Vries laughed lightly. ‘I shall look forward to teasing my husband with that remark.’
‘All maps are out of date to some degree.’
‘Then should we discard them, like an old newspaper?’
‘They should be drawn so that you don’t want to discard them.’
‘Ah. Because of their beauty?’
‘Yes.’ He looked round at her to find that she was already looking at him. He was suddenly aware of her perfume enveloping him and of how close they were, the lace ruff at her elbow just touching his sleeve. ‘Exactly.’
‘So, your maps are works of art?’
‘I only wish—’
The door opened abruptly, too abruptly for the arrival of a servant. And clearly the person who entered was nothing of the kind. He was a short, barrel-chested old man in russet greatcoat and black suit, the coat worn draped over his shoulders like a cape, the sleeves empty. His face was lined but mobile, broken veins reddening his sharp cheekbones beneath grey, wary eyes framed by a mane of his own snowy white hair. The absence of a wig and the way he had shrugged on the coat, presumably the more readily to shrug it off, conveyed at once a certain bluntness, if not brusqueness. Ysbrand de Vries, as Spandrel felt sure the newcomer was, lacked his old friend Sir Theodore Janssen’s polish and perhaps also his subtlety. But he was the one of them who, according to his wife, had scorned the lure of South Sea and Mississippi alike. He, Spandrel reminded himself, was the better judge of the two.
‘Mr Spandrel,’ the man growled unsmilingly. ‘I am de Vries.’
‘Your servant, sir. I’ve come—’
‘Enough of that.’ He glanced at his wife. ‘You may leave us, madam. Ga weg.’ It sounded like what it undoubtedly was: a dismissal verging on the curt.
‘Goodbye, Mr Spandrel,’ said Estelle de Vries, so unembarrassed by her husband’s manner that Spandrel could only suppose it was what she was well used to. ‘I hope you enjoyed your tea.’
‘I did. Thank you.’ Already, as he spoke, she was on her way out of the room. As the door closed behind her, he looked at de Vries and summoned a respectful smile. ‘Mijnheer—’
‘Janssen sent you?’
‘Sir Theodore Janssen, yes.’
‘With an article for safe-keeping.’
‘Yes. But …’ Spandrel retreated to the armchair and retrieved the satchel. ‘I must take precautions, mijnheer. You understand?’
‘What precautions?’
‘I’m instructed to ask you to name the third member of the party on the occasion of your and Sir Th
eodore’s first meeting.’
‘Ha. Spelletjes, spelletjes, spelletjes. Janssen plays too much. You cannot always win.’ De Vries pulled off his coat and tossed it over the back of the armchair. ‘You liked the tea, Mr Spandrel? You enjoyed the … tart?’
‘The cake was good.’
‘The secret is in the spices.’ De Vries scowled at him.
‘No doubt.’
‘Jacob van Dillen.’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘The name you require … for Sir Theodore’s game. Van Dillen.’
‘Yes. Of course. I’m sorry.’
‘So. The article. It is in the bag?’
‘Yes.’
‘Give it to me, then.’
Spandrel took the satchel to the table, laid it next to the map of London, opened the flap and slid out the despatch-box. De Vries’s shadow fell across it as he did so, the old man’s hand stretching out to brush the map aside.
‘There were no … difficulties on your journey?’
‘None, mijnheer.’
‘That is good.’ De Vries reached for the despatch-box and Spandrel noticed how swollen his knuckles were, how claw-like his fingers. He imagined them touching Estelle’s soft, pale flesh and could not suppress a quiver of disgust at the thought. ‘You are cold?’
‘No. It’s nothing.’
‘Relief, perhaps.’ De Vries slid the despatch-box towards himself. ‘At a mission accomplished.’
‘Perhaps.’
‘You require a receipt?’
‘Yes. Please. I do.’
De Vries smiled with half his mouth, then marched to the desk by the window and seized pen and paper. He did not sit down, but stooped to write, quickly, in a practised hand. Spandrel watched him, marvelling at how lightly his distorted fingers held the pen. Then he was done, and marching back to the table, holding out the receipt for Spandrel to take.
‘Thank you, mijnheer.’ Spandrel glanced down at the document and flushed at once with a sense of his own stupidity. ‘But … it’s in Dutch.’
‘I am Dutch, Mr Spandrel.’
‘I don’t know what it says.’
‘It is what you asked for. A receipt.’ De Vries raised a wintry eyebrow. ‘You doubt me?’
‘I … must be sure.’
‘Must you?’
‘Yes. I think I must.’
‘I think you must too.’ De Vries gave another lop sided smile. ‘I can also play games, you see? You write what you require.’ He waved him towards the desk. ‘I will sign it.’
Spandrel walked over to the desk, de Vries keeping pace behind him. He sat down, the old man looming at his shoulder, and wrote.
‘Very good,’ said de Vries when he had finished. ‘But you have the date wrong. We are eleven days ahead of England here. And you are here, not there.’ He took the pen, crossed out 25th January and wrote 5th February in its place. ‘It is always better to be ahead than behind.’ Then he added his signature. ‘You are not an experienced traveller, I think.’
‘No,’ admitted Spandrel, shamed by his mistake.
‘Dates can be confusing. It will still be January when you return to England. Those of us who make our profits and losses by the day’ – he tapped his temple – ‘keep such things in mind.’
‘Yes. Of course.’ Spandrel folded the receipt and slipped it into his pocket.
‘Be sure not to lose that.’
‘I will be.’
‘When will you leave Amsterdam?’
‘As soon as possible.’
‘A pity, if this is your first visit. The city would repay a longer stay.’
‘Sir Theodore will be anxious for confirmation of the box’s safe delivery.’ Spandrel stood up. ‘I must go.’
‘How will you travel?’
‘The way I came. By barge.’
‘You know the times?’
‘I confess not.’ Spandrel was once again brought up sharp by his own stupidity. He should have enquired about the return journey to Haarlem on arrival at the city gate. But, in his haste to reach de Vries’s house, he had forgotten to do so. ‘Do you, mijnheer, by any chance …’
‘Keep them also in mind? No, I do not. But I employ someone who does.’ De Vries strode to the door, opened it and bellowed into the hallway, ‘Zuyler! Hier! Onmiddellijk!’ Then, leaving the door open, he marched across to the table on which the despatch-box lay. But it was not the box he was looking at. ‘Why did Estelle show you my map of London, Mr Spandrel?’
‘She thought I would be interested.’
‘Why?’
‘Because I am a mapmaker by profession.’
‘How did she know that?’
‘I told her.’
‘You tell too much.’ De Vries turned and regarded him thoughtfully. ‘It is a bad habit. You should—’ He broke off at Zuyler’s appearance in the doorway.
‘Mijnheer?’ There was a brief exchange in Dutch, then Zuyler nodded and looked at Spandrel. ‘You are bound for Helvoetsluys, Mr Spandrel?’
‘I am.’
‘Your quickest passage would be by the overnight trekschuit direct to Rotterdam. It leaves at eleven o’clock, from the Oudezijds Herenlogement on Grimburgwal.’ De Vries intervened in Dutch at this and Zuyler smiled faintly before continuing. ‘Mijnheer de Vries suggests I take you there. He doubts you will find the way. The Herenlogement is an inn. You may wish to take a meal before your journey.’
‘Thank you. I’m sure I can find it myself.’
‘It would be my pleasure to escort you, Mr Spandrel.’
‘In that case …’ Spandrel glanced from one to the other of them, ‘I accept.’
‘Goodbye then, Mr Spandrel,’ said de Vries. ‘Tell Sir Theodore …’
‘Yes?’
‘Nothing.’ De Vries looked at him unsmilingly. ‘That is always best.’
Chapter Five
Into the Darkness
IT TURNED OUT to be but a short walk from the de Vries house to Grimburgwal. Spandrel was nonetheless grateful to have a guide. The network of canals and bridges and alleys that comprised Amsterdam seemed designed to confuse the stranger, so similar was one part of the whole to another. He jokingly asked Zuyler if this were deliberate, but the Dutchman responded with dry seriousness that he thought not and had himself found London equally bewildering without being driven to suspect a plot against foreigners.
Zuyler, of course, had only a swift return to his secretarial duties to look forward to, whereas Spandrel, his task ac complished, was already anticipating the transformation in his circumstances that awaited him in England. The disparity in their levels of humour did not really surprise Spandrel. Indeed, having met Ysbrand de Vries, he could not help feeling sorry for anyone who had to work for him. An attempt to put this into words, however, fell as flat as his joke.
‘I imagine Mijnheer de Vries is a demanding employer.’
‘That is the nature of employment,’ Zuyler replied. ‘It makes demands of one.’
‘Indeed. But—’
‘And it seldom rewards imagination.’ Zuyler pulled up and pointed to a handsomely pedimented building on the other side of the canal. ‘That is the Oudezijds Herenlogement. The Rotterdam trekschuit will pick up from the landing-stage in front.’
‘Well, thank you for showing me the way.’
‘I hope you have a safe journey.’
‘I’m sure I will.’
Zuyler gave him a faint little nod that hovered on the brink of becoming a bow but never did, then turned and walked away. Spandrel watched him for a few paces, then had to step beneath the awning over a hatter’s shop while a coach drove by. It was mounted on sledge-runners, as if designed for harsher weather than the prevailing mild grey dismalness, but rattled across the cobbles briskly enough. When Spandrel looked in Zuyler’s direction once more, he was nowhere to be seen.
The Oudezijds Herenlogement was as comfortable and congenial an inn as Spandrel could have wished for. The tap-room was full of smoke and warmth and chatter,
even at this un promising hour of the late afternoon. He ate a hearty stew, washed down with a mug of ale, and gleaned confirmation of the trekschuit departure time from the tapster. Then he smoked a pipe over a second mug of ale and considered how best to fill the evening he had at his disposal. Darkness had fallen over the city and he knew better than to stray far from the inn, for he would be certain to lose himself. This was not London. He carried no map, on paper or in his head. Much the safer course of action was to stay where he was.
But even the Oudezijds Herenlogement held its hazards. As more and more customers arrived, Spandrel was joined at his table by three drinkers of genial demeanour, one lean, animated and talkative, the other two paunchy, dough-faced and content to puff at their pipes and quaff from their mugs while their companion chattered on. The chatterer soon tried to involve Spandrel in the conversation and, upon realizing that an Englishman was among them, gleefully revealed his knowledge of the language.
Spandrel was half-drunk by then, nestled in a smoky swathe of self-satisfaction. Jan, the chatterer, evinced nothing but a grinning eagerness to hear his description of London life, while the puffing and quaffing pair – Henrik and Roelant – set a stiff pace of consumption which he felt obliged to match. A few desultory hands of cards were played, although Spandrel found it difficult to distinguish the clubs from the spades. Toasts were drunk to good health and fellowship. A venture to the jakes demonstrated to Spandrel that he was becoming unsteady on his feet, though he persuaded himself that a few lungfuls of night air aboard the trekschuit would cure the problem, ignoring the fact that the trekschuit was not due to leave for another few hours. Then he and Jan became embroiled in a comparison of Englishwomen and Dutchwomen that led to a fateful challenge. Jan knew a nearby musico, as he called it, where particularly delectable young women could be had at reasonable rates. Let Spandrel sample one and he would be bound to admit their superiority to anything London had to offer. Tea with Estelle de Vries had undeniably whetted Spandrel’s sexual appetite, just as ale with Jan, Henrik and Roelant had fuddled his judgement. Assured by Jan that he would be back long before eleven o’clock, he accepted the challenge.
He knew it was a mistake as soon as he left the inn. Far from clearing his head, the night air administered a chill shock which set it reeling. That and the enveloping darkness disoriented him at once. Jan led the way, Spandrel several times needing Henrik’s or Roelant’s assistance to keep track of him through the cobbled gulfs of blackness between the few street-lamps, confusingly reflected as they were in the adjacent canal.
Sea Change Page 4