Midnight Blue

by Simone van der Vlugt

  In the grey light of dawn, I lie and think about my family. Meanwhile, the other guests start to emerge from their beds. People yawn and mumble good mornings. Some begin chatting quietly. I get up too but don’t make the effort to talk to anyone.

  I take my time getting dressed, putting on a linen blouse, skirt, apron, fichu, bodice, jerkin and cap. Now and then I glance out of the window. Outside, the quay is busy, despite the hour. Freight and passenger ships both set out at first light.

  I pack my things. The letter from Matthias is among my clothes and I smile. If I get this job, I’ll see him again. A little more certain now about my decision to go to Amsterdam, I square my shoulders. If I hurry, I can still make the first barge.

  Compared to yesterday’s voyage, the journey to Amsterdam is as nothing. The pleasingly short distance remaining is encouraging, and the comfort of the horse-drawn barge couldn’t be more different from the open boat that brought me from Alkmaar. There’s a deck house complete with benches where passengers can take shelter from the elements. Since we’re not dependent on the wind, we travel at an even pace. There are inns along the route where passengers can get off for a meal and the barge can take on fresh horses. The Haarlem Ship Canal stretches in a straight line through the polders past windmills and farms to Amsterdam.

  From time to time, I leave the deck house to feel the wind and sun on my face and admire the beauty of the wide, cloudy skies and green meadows. Milkmaids, pedlars and travellers on horses or in carts pass by on the dyke along the canal. Occasionally, someone waves. I smile and wave back.

  My nervousness only resurfaces when we reach Amsterdam. I’ve heard a lot about the city, about its size, how busy it is, and with a touch of trepidation I ask myself whether a country mouse like me belongs in such a place.

  My uncertainty gives way to excitement when I see the high walls looming ahead. I gaze in awe at the windmills atop the bastions, their sails spinning at top speed.

  It’s busy at the entryways and on the water, as if the whole world is on its way to Amsterdam. The mighty IJ bay, an arm of the sea reaching far inland, is clogged with cranes, flat-bottomed barges, market boats and fishing vessels. Just beyond the pales that fence off the harbour, merchant ships lie at anchor, sterns gleaming in the sunlight. The last leg of our journey follows the shore of the IJ and we moor at Herring Merchants’ Gate.

  I grab my things and allow someone to help me ashore. Much as I would like to go directly to Keizersgracht and search for Van Nulandt’s house, I’m too tired and hungry. Having decided to go and have something to eat first, I order a simple meal at City Inn on a jetty in the IJ.

  I wolf down the fish and bread, pay at the counter and carry on up the quay.

  So this is Amsterdam, the centre of the world. What a crowd, what a commotion! Boat masts loom up into the sky as far as the eye can see; the quay is covered in bales, crates and baskets that have been unloaded and people calling and shouting out over each other.

  Curious to explore the rest of the city, I turn right, walk over the quayside known as Damrak and reach a large square with a wooden town hall and a weighing-house. There are traders everywhere, I hear all kinds of languages. An outlandishly dressed man with a scarf around his head and a little monkey on his shoulder walks past me, magnificently dressed women greet each other and exchange pleasantries. I breathe it all in. Far from scaring me, the cacophony fills me with joy. This is where it is all happening, this is where different worlds meet.

  I stand in the middle of the square, drinking in the bewildering new world around me, and know I will never go back to my hometown.

  In contrast to Damrak, Keizersgracht appears brand new. The gaps between the paving stones have yet to be touched by dirt, the paint on the doors and window frames is gleaming and the cobblestones look like they’ve not long been cut. Young linden trees have been planted along the canal. One day I’m sure they will lend Keizersgracht even more grandeur, but for now the saplings droop a little sadly against their supports.

  I’ve asked around to find out where the Van Nulandt family lives and now find myself gazing up at the gable of their enormous house. Somewhat nervous, I ascend the front steps and let the knocker fall against the door. A young girl opens it and regards me with undisguised curiosity.

  ‘I’m Catrin Barentsdochter and I have a letter for Mister Van Nulandt from his brother.’

  The girl puts her hand out for the letter but I shake my head. ‘I would prefer to give it to him myself.’

  ‘I’ll tell the master.’ She lets me in and disappears into the passage.

  While I’m waiting, my eyes wander around the hall, taking in the carved wood winding staircase, the paintings on the walls and the expensive vases on the side tables.

  A door opens and a man of around forty dressed in sombre black approaches me. I curtsy and repeat my message.

  ‘A letter from my brother? Why, has something happened?’ asks Adriaan van Nulandt in alarm.

  ‘No, don’t worry,’ I say. ‘We met in Alkmaar, where he was staying overnight, and got to talking. I said I was looking for a job and your brother said he might know of something for me.’

  Adriaan van Nulandt takes the letter, breaks the seal and reads it. Halfway through he takes his eyes from the letter, sizes me up, and then carries on reading. ‘So you’re hoping for a position as a housekeeper,’ he says once he’s finished.

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  I come under his scrutiny once more, for longer this time. ‘Follow me,’ he says.

  He leads me into a beautifully decorated chamber. There’s an oak table with six chairs, but he makes no move to sit down. Instead he perches on the edge of the table and leaves me to stand. With my head held high, I endure Van Nulandt’s appraisal.

  ‘Give me one good reason why I should employ you,’ he says finally.

  ‘I’m no stranger to hard work, sir.’

  ‘My brother writes you’re a farmgirl. You don’t look like one.’

  By way of reply, I show him my raw, calloused hands. He spares them only a cursory glance before looking me directly in the eye for a long time. His penetrating gaze makes me nervous, even though I don’t let it show. I return his gaze as calmly as possible, only to cast my eyes down when it becomes unbearable.

  Finally, Mister Van Nulandt breaks the silence. ‘Tell me about yourself. What brings you to Amsterdam?’

  ‘I’m a widow, sir. I could have remarried, but I always wanted to live in the city. Friends found me a situation in Alkmaar but it didn’t go through. I had resigned myself to returning to De Rijp when I was fortunate enough to meet your brother. It was as if God steered me into his path.’

  This last addition is a nice touch; it emphasises my piety. The paintings around me are all of religious subjects so it should please Van Nulandt. I look up to meet his eyes and see a glimmer of respect. That gives me courage.

  ‘You could try me out for a few days,’ I say.

  His face betrays no emotion. ‘You’re not shy, Catrin Barentsdochter.’

  ‘I know what I’m capable of, sir.’

  Van Nulandt skims the letter again, then sets it aside. ‘I need someone who can keep house and manage the maid. I can give you a monthly salary of twenty stivers with room and board. You’ll have a day off every two weeks. When can you start?’

  ‘At once, sir.’

  ‘Good, then I’ll give you a chance, Catrin,’ Adriaan says. ‘I shall introduce you to my wife. Follow me.’

  5

  Adriaan van Nulandt leads the way into the passage and walks into a room at the front of the house. Daylight streams in, along with the sounds of the street and the water.

  Next to the window a woman is standing at an easel in an attitude of intense concentration. She glances up, annoyed.

  ‘Brigitta, I’ve come to introduce the new housekeeper. This is Catrin Barentsdochter,’ Adriaan says.

  I take a couple of steps into the room and curtsy. Mistress Van Nulandt is still young, aro
und the same age as me, and glances at me without much interest.

  ‘A pleasure to meet you, madam,’ I venture, when no one says anything.

  ‘Is she starting today?’ Brigitta asks her husband. Adriaan nods and she smiles contentedly. ‘Good, then Greta will stop coming to disturb me. If you two will excuse me, I have work to do.’ She peers intently at the painting she’s working on and dips her brush in the paint.

  Adriaan motions for me to follow him and shows me the house. It is huge. Upstairs are bedrooms and the attic where beds are made up for servants. Downstairs are the reception rooms, along with the entrance hall and parlour, and the private rooms, including the living, breakfast and dining rooms, and the kitchen. Adriaan tells me the parlour is only used to receive guests and that it’s my job to clean it. The maid is not allowed to set foot in there.

  ‘Be especially careful with these.’ He points to two blue-and-white vases on the floor either side of the hearth. ‘Don’t move them, just work around them. And whatever you do, don’t knock into them. These vases are extremely valuable.’

  I gaze at them in wonder. ‘I can understand that, sir. They are magnificent.’

  ‘They are imported from China and made of porcelain. That’s a special kind of pottery.’

  ‘Can I have a closer look?’

  ‘As long as you don’t touch them.’

  I make sure I’m careful. Reverentially, I bob down next to one of the vases and look at the exotic scenes painted in different shades of blue on the brilliant white background. I have never seen pottery so white.

  ‘China,’ I say. ‘That must be a long way away.’

  ‘On the other side of the world. Come with me.’

  I stand up and follow him. It’s strange to be given instructions by the man of the house and not his wife. Brigitta van Nulandt obviously has no interest whatsoever in household matters.

  As the master shows me around, I listen closely and stare in wonder at the house. So this is how the rich folk of Amsterdam live: in houses full of paintings, oriental porcelain and silver. The furniture is oak with fine carvings, the bedsteads are hung with velvet curtains, the floor is covered in black and white tiles and the walls are decorated with panelling or more tiles.

  Even the kitchen comes as a surprise. It’s much larger than anything I’m used to and has a scullery. There are cupboards for crockery and pans rather than shelves along the walls. The hearth takes up much of the wall and there’s a long table down the middle of the room. A door with the top half propped open leads to a small courtyard.

  Adriaan goes outside and I follow him. A girl is hanging out washing and turns to face us.

  ‘Greta, this is Catrin, the new housekeeper. She’s starting today. I trust you will show her the ropes.’

  The girl nods shyly.

  Without saying another word, Adriaan walks off, leaving me and Greta to stand in silence.

  ‘Right then, let’s get to work,’ I say. ‘When you’ve finished hanging out the washing, Greta, come and help me in the kitchen. Then we can get to know each other.’

  I smile encouragingly at the girl, turn around and go inside.

  Greta has not long turned fifteen. She had to make do without a housekeeper for a while and is thus used to a lot of freedom, but also had double the amount of work.

  ‘Hester got sick and a couple of days later she was dead. She was getting on a bit, forty or so,’ Greta tells me as she accompanies me to the produce market on Prinsengracht that afternoon. ‘I’m happy you’re here, though. It was much too much work for me on my own.’

  ‘If there’s a problem, do you go to the master or the mistress?’ I ask.

  ‘To the master, even though he’s not home much. The mistress gets angry if I disturb her while she’s painting.’

  ‘She can’t paint all day, surely?’

  ‘No, but even when she’s finished, she doesn’t want to listen. She’s not interested in housekeeping. It always seems as if she’s only half there.’

  I think about the absent way Brigitta looked at me and understand what Greta means. ‘But the master has a brother too, doesn’t he? Do you see much of him?’

  ‘Yes. When he’s not travelling, he stays with us. The bedroom at the back of the house is his. Master Matthias is ever so kind. He brought me a comb once. I don’t know where from, but it was far away.’

  ‘How nice. When is Master Matthias coming back?’

  ‘I think he should be back next week.’

  ‘Oh. And where are you from, Greta?’

  ‘From Sloterdijk. It’s a little village near here.’

  ‘Do you go home often?’

  ‘When I can. But since Hester passed away, I’ve not been home at all.’

  I sneak a sidelong glance and see the girl’s sad face. ‘You’ll be able to go again soon. I’ll arrange it with the master.’

  At once Greta cheers up. ‘That would be good! Look, there’s the market on the bridge. I always get vegetables there. And fish on the Dam, but the herring is better at Herring Merchants’ Gate. The dairy market is next to Droogbak. I get beer around the corner on Brewersgracht at Hasselar Brewery.’ There’s no trace left of her shyness; she talks and talks, telling me all about the crooked and reliable traders she knows.

  When we return home with our heavy baskets, I pour two small glasses of beer and put them on the table. ‘Sit down for a minute, Greta, let’s have a drink.’

  Surprised, the girl sits down.

  ’You see,’ I say. ‘There’s a time to work and a time to have a sit down. I reckon you’ve had a lot of work over the last few weeks.’

  ‘Hester gave me an earful if she caught me sitting down.’

  ‘I have no intention of giving you an earful,’ I say. ‘Not as long as the work gets done. And with the two of us that should be easy enough.’

  We don’t sit for long. From the studio comes the sound of things being thrown, followed by hysterical crying. I look up in alarm.

  ‘That’s the mistress,’ says Greta. ‘She often has outbursts like that.’

  ‘I’ll go to her.’ I shove my chair back.

  ‘Take this.’ Greta stands up, grabs a tiny crockery jug and pours a goblet of wine from it. ‘Her medicine.’

  ‘What kind of medicine?’

  ‘I can never remember what it’s called. You put it in the wine.’

  I nod, take the cup and walk to the hall. Noises are coming from Brigitta’s studio again. I quicken my pace and open the door without knocking.

  Brigitta is standing at the window, her gown covered in paint and her hair a mess. She has torn off her cap and thrown it among the pots of paint and paintbrushes on the floor.

  Her easel lies face down on the painting she was working on.

  A couple of paint pots have been smashed against the wall, leaving a rather interesting still life on the wainscoting.

  I take everything in at a glance. Deciding the mess isn’t important, I help Brigitta into a chair and give her the wine. ‘Here, drink this, madam. It’ll make you feel much better.’

  As if suddenly robbed of all her energy, Brigitta slumps into the chair. She accepts the cup without enthusiasm. ‘It was going so well. I haven’t needed this for two days.’

  ‘Do you normally take it every day?’

  ‘My husband thinks it’s best. I would rather I didn’t, but if I don’t take it …’ Brigitta looks around as if she has only now realised what she’s done and bursts into tears.

  Cautiously – I don’t know whether the gesture will be appreciated – I put my hand on her shoulder. ‘Don’t worry. I’ll have this cleared up in a jiffy. And your painting doesn’t seem to be damaged.’

  Brigitta snorts contemptuously. ‘What does it matter? It’s rubbish. Everything I make is rubbish.’

  ‘Well, what I’ve seen was very pretty.’

  ‘You’re a servant – you have no grasp of art. You can’t come up with shoddy trash like this in the circles I move in.’

&n
bsp; I don’t say anything more. I only caught a glimpse of the painting when I was introduced to Brigitta; I praised it because it seemed like the right thing to do. As Brigitta drinks her wine in tiny sips, I stand the easel back up. I put the painting on it and take a couple of steps back to have a proper look.

  It’s nothing special. The flowers of the still life lack depth and the colours are unnatural.

  ‘See, you don’t like it either. I can see it on your face.’ Brigitta slams her goblet down on the table. She stares into space for a moment and begins weeping softly. ‘I wouldn’t know what to do with myself if I didn’t paint. Sit inside all day, go to market now and again, play a bit of harpsichord and hope my husband won’t come home too late … What kind of life is that? I would be bored to tears.’

  ‘You don’t have to stop painting, madam. It’s not about the result, it’s about the enjoyment of doing it.’

  ‘Of course it’s about the result. You can’t think I’d want to spend days producing something worthless. It may be difficult for someone like you to understand, but I have ambition. It’s normal for me to be critical. Did you know artists are highly sensitive, emotional people?’

  ‘I have heard that, madam.’

  ‘Then you understand how hard life is if you’re a perfectionist. Making art is a process with ups and downs.’

  I think carefully, weighing my words. ‘In the village I come from, there was a girl who really liked painting too. Everyone said she had talent. Lots of talent. But unfortunately it did her no good.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because there was work to do on the farm. When she had time, she painted with beetroot juice on wooden panels she’d sanded smooth. She thought about painting all the time. She looked at the world in paint, as she once put it. The sun that shone on the meadows and ditches, the farm amid all that green, even the milk churns in the farmyard – she saw a still life in everything. But there was no time or material to paint it.’

  Brigitta dries her eyes on her sleeve. ‘What happened to her?’