Midnight Blue

by Simone van der Vlugt

  It was over faster than I thought it would be. Before long I could feel the fight going out of him, and then the lack of air made him sag under my hands. I kept on pressing the pillow to his face for a while, just to be certain. I only took it away once I was sure he was dead. And then I looked at him, not daring to breathe.

  It would be to my credit if I’d been struck with remorse, if I’d at least been shocked, but the only thing I felt at the time was relief.

  He was dead. Finally.

  ‘Can I be of any service?’

  I jump at the deep, warm voice and see the minister standing in the aisle. He looks concerned.

  ‘I’ve been watching you for a while and was touched by the intensity of your prayers. If I can be of any help to you …’ He recognises me then: ‘You’re Evert van Nulandt’s wife.’

  ‘Yes, I’m Catrin. You married us a couple of months ago.’

  He nods and sits down next to me.

  ‘I’ve been wondering something,’ I say hesitantly.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Are our mistakes always forgiven, Reverend?’

  He gives me a sidelong glance. ‘That depends. In principle, yes. No one makes it through life without making mistakes, we’re all sinners. But everyone can seek God’s forgiveness.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘By asking for it and showing proper remorse, by living a better life. There are different ways.’

  ‘And if you don’t feel remorse?’

  His expression clouds over with concern. ‘That makes it harder.’

  I look at my hands, lying clasped in my lap. ‘Do you think there’s such a thing as sins you have no choice but to commit?’

  ‘We always have a choice, Catrin. The only thing God asks of us is to turn away from bad choices. Of course, I can imagine it’s difficult to do that sometimes.’

  ‘Have you ever been in a situation where you made the wrong choice?’

  ‘Yes, of course, when I was young. Back then I turned away from God and didn’t serve him. Thankfully that time is far behind me now.’

  ‘Because you felt remorse and decided to live a better life.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  I fall quiet.

  His eyes search my face. ‘Is your problem really so big, Catrin? Why are you afraid of God’s judgement?’

  ‘Like I said … because I feel no remorse.’

  ‘Do you regret breaking God’s laws?’

  ‘Yes, I regret that.’

  ‘Because you’re afraid of being punished, or because you recognise that you did wrong?’

  ‘The first one. But I’m not a bad person, Reverend. My whole life I’ve tried to do the right thing. I’m obedient to my parents and husband. When I pass a beggar I always give him something. Doesn’t that count for something in His judgement?’ I don’t mention that I’ve twice slept with a man outside of marriage, you can’t really compare that to the reason I’m here.

  ‘You can’t make up for your transgressions like that, Catrin. God doesn’t make bargains. Every sin is punished.’

  I shudder. ‘Am I going to hell?’

  ‘You don’t go there just like that. You know that Jesus came to earth and died for our sins. A sin damages your relationship with God and will be punished, but not with the loss of eternal life. God’s love is so great that in some cases He can forgive our inability to feel remorse.’

  ‘How do you know if you’ve been forgiven?’

  The minister smiles and puts his hand on his heart. ‘You feel it.’

  32

  I leave the church feeling slightly reassured. My talk with the minister has done me good. Somehow the sunlight seems friendlier, less glaring, and the crush in the marketplace seems less claustrophobic. I stand still and enjoy the lovely weather and the feeling of the lively press of people around me. But suddenly my thoughts turn to my family and an intense longing puts a lump in my throat.

  ‘Penny for them …’

  I turn to find Adelaide’s smiling face close to mine. She’s with her daughter, who bobs a curtsy.

  ‘I was just wondering whether to go to work or keep on playing truant a little longer and make the best of this beautiful weather,’ I say.

  ‘You work hard enough. Evert will forgive you if you stay and have a chat with me.’

  ‘I’m sure you’re right.’

  ‘I saw you come out of the church. What an unusual time to go.’ There’s a note of discomfort in Adelaide’s voice, as if she’s loath to pry.

  ‘It’s the anniversary of Govert’s death. My first husband.’

  ‘Oh yes, I knew you’d been married before. Evert told me. So today’s the day you became a widow.’

  I nod.

  ‘That must be hard for you.’ Adelaide strokes my arm sympathetically. ‘Do you feel like coming home with us? Then we can talk about it, if you want to.’

  That’s the last thing I want to do, but before I can come up with an excuse she adds: ‘I want to have a word with you anyway.’

  Something in her expression makes refusing difficult, so I agree. We walk back to her house on Choir Street talking about this and that. It’s a big house with an imposing, richly decorated gable. A house worthy of a bailiff and magistrate.

  I cross the threshold reluctantly. In the hall hangs the painting I’d seen once before when I came to rent my house from them. This time, I take a closer look. I don’t like it much, Isaac and Adelaide, sitting on a chair dressed in old-fashioned black, the children standing stiffly at either side. Janneke is standing next to her mother, Michael next to his father, little copies of their parents in their dark clothes.

  ‘I don’t think it’s all that good a painting,’ says Adelaide. ‘We’ve commissioned Johannes to do another one, a bit less formal.’

  ‘He’ll do a good job. Johannes really brings life into his work.’

  ‘Exactly. This is so stiff and old-fashioned.’ Adelaide leads the way to the sitting room at the back of the house. Janneke has gone out into the yard, where I see her rushing up and down with a ball. Adelaide and I sit on two high chairs by the window. The sun streams in through the polished glass. A maid comes in and asks whether she should make a pot of tea.

  ‘Yes please, Aggie,’ says Adelaide, and asks me: ‘Have you heard of it: tea?’

  I nod, I used to make it now and then for Brigitta. Once I tasted some secretly. I didn’t think much of it. Too bitter for my taste. But it’s an expensive drink so I accept the small stoneware beaker Aggie brings me with a grateful nod.

  ‘Really you should have it in something else,’ says Adelaide. ‘Glass doesn’t work, it gets too hot, and stoneware is so thick on the lips.’

  ‘Special little cups,’ I say.

  ‘Yes, something pretty and fine. Tea is an expensive drink, you don’t pour that into the same old cup you drink your milk out of.’

  I examine her cup; it’s robust and heavy in my hand. ‘I’ll talk to Evert about it. I’m sure we can come up with something a bit prettier. What do they drink their tea out of in the East?’

  ‘Out of little bowls, I think. You don’t see anything like them here.’

  I feel a sense of growing excitement, just as I do every time something new and creative occurs to me. I picture dozens, no, hundreds of drinking bowls set out in the kiln, delicately made and beautifully painted with an oriental scene. I’d dearly have liked to rush home then and there to work on a design, but I force my attention back to Adelaide’s prattle. I only start paying proper attention when she asks about my stay in the infirmary.

  ‘You were so dreadfully poorly,’ she says. ‘We were worried that you wouldn’t make it once you got sick.’

  ‘The fever, yes. I felt terrible.’

  ‘You were delirious, talking gibberish. At least …’ Adelaide stops and looks down at her black skirt.

  ‘What?’

  ‘I spent a long time telling myself that it had to be nonsense, that you were out of your mind. The alternative would be too awful.
’

  My blood runs cold. ‘What do you mean? What on earth did I say?’

  ‘You were talking about your husband. Govert, wasn’t it?’

  I nod mutely. Sometimes you know what’s coming before it’s said.

  ‘You were saying his name, saying that it was your fault, that God was going to punish you. And something about suffocating.’

  It’s as if my heart’s fallen off its hook. Usually the heart beats faster when one has a fright, but not this time. Every few seconds I feel a dull thud, an ominous thump. I feel faint and take a sip of bitter tea to keep my wits about me.

  ‘What did you mean by that, Catrin? Tell me.’ Adelaide’s voice no longer sounds so friendly but rather commanding.

  Saying that I have no idea isn’t enough. I need to lay her suspicions to rest. ‘When he drank, his breathing became irregular. Sometimes he’d stop breathing for what felt like minutes at a time. Then I’d get hold of him and shake him until he woke up.’ I look at the vase full of flowers on the table in an effort to escape Adelaide’s penetrating gaze. ‘On the day he died, he came back from the tavern drunk. He stumbled into bed and fell asleep. Of course I should have stayed with him to keep an eye on him, but I was too busy. It was towards evening and there’s still so much to be done on a farm at that time of day. So I went about my chores.’ I put the half-empty cup down on the table and venture a look at Adelaide, who’s watching me sceptically. ‘When I came back in it was quiet, too quiet. I ran to the bed and Govert was lying there, with his mouth wide open.’ I look down and add in a whisper: ‘He wasn’t breathing.’

  ‘What happened then?’ Adelaide’s voice sounds sympathetic, even though the suspicion isn’t entirely gone from her eyes.

  ‘I tried to wake him, shook him as hard as I could. It took a while for me to take in the fact that he was dead. I couldn’t believe it.’

  ‘When you were sick you said that he’d suffocated.’

  ‘That’s how he looked, with his mouth wide open. As if he was trying to take a breath but couldn’t get any air.’

  Adelaide gives this some thought. ‘Was he on his back?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘That’s very dangerous. Your tongue can roll back and close off your throat. Normally, that wakes you up, but not if you’re drunk. Was there vomit around his mouth?’

  I shake my head, even though that would have been the ideal explanation. I would have mentioned it already if it was true.

  Adelaide leans towards me and puts her hand on my arm. ‘You can’t blame yourself, Catrin. It wasn’t your fault.’

  ‘If only I’d stayed with him …’

  ‘For hours? While, as you said, you had work to do? He shouldn’t have been drunk.’

  ‘I suppose …’ I sit quietly on my stool. ‘Who else knows about this?’

  ‘About what you said when you were feverish? No one. If I’d told Isaac about it, he’d have had to get in touch with the sheriff in Alkmaar. I wanted to hear from you how it happened first.’

  ‘Did you think that I …’

  ‘That’s how it sounded, Catrin. I couldn’t imagine it, but then again, how well do I really know you?’

  ‘You’re right. I would have been suspicious too.’

  ‘I’m glad you understand,’ Adelaide smiles. ‘I didn’t know what to do. I haven’t said a word to anyone, rumours would be going around before you know it. People are always inclined to think the worst.’

  ‘Absolutely. Thank you.’

  We sit together in awkward silence. At least, it’s awkward for me. Adelaide seems to be lost in thought. ‘I was married before as well,’ she says suddenly. ‘Against my will. My parents chose for me and I had to go along with it. I was seventeen when I got married.’

  ‘So young.’

  ‘Much too young. My husband was a bit older and I didn’t feel entirely attracted to him. Love didn’t grow with the years either, as my parents had predicted. If there’d only been some sense of camaraderie between us, it would have been bearable, but my husband treated me like a servant. He belittled or ignored me. Every day I woke up with the bitter regret that I hadn’t resisted the marriage. And then, after five years, I was freed from him. God sent an epidemic of scarlet fever and two weeks later I was a widow.’ She laces her fingers together and looks out the window at her daughter, who’s still playing outside. ‘I nursed him during his illness – of course I did that – but I never prayed for his recovery. I sat next to him with my hands together and didn’t know what to ask God for. In the end, I simply left it to Him and my husband died. I felt guilty about that for a long time. I thought if I’d begged harder for his life, my prayers might have been heard.’ She stares at her hands, tightly folded in her lap, and then up at me. ‘But we overestimate our own power in such things. Who knows if we’re making choices or if those choices were made for us long ago? It seems it was God’s will that he died.’

  Our eyes meet.

  ‘Yes,’ I say. ‘I think it was.’

  33

  We’re probably all tormented by feelings of guilt and fear. How well do you really know the people around you? Everyone has secrets, big and small, which, for better or worse, we build our lives around.

  The fear that the truth will one day come to light had been dormant for a while. It never truly left me for a single second; at best it faded into the background, like a thief in a dark alley. Now that it has finally jumped out, it’s taking some effort to shake it off.

  Did Adelaide believe my story or was she only pretending to? I’m half-expecting the bailiff and his men to knock on my door, but a month later, when nothing has happened, I dare to believe that I’m safe.

  Meanwhile, I’m working harder than ever. I sketch designs for bowls to drink out of with high, thin sides. I add pictures of roses and Chinamen drinking tea. When I show them to Evert, and he and Quentin start discussing how they’re going to make them, I feel better for the first time in weeks. Work has a restorative effect on my spirits, it stops me from brooding, despite Jacob’s continued presence. Even though he never approaches me, I still feel ill at ease with him there. He watches me. I can see him out of the corner of my eye as I’m painting. I feel his eyes on me when he doesn’t think I’m looking. Sometimes I see him in the reflection of a window pane, sometimes I simply know.

  As spring progresses, we bring the teacups, as Evert calls them, into production. They’re a huge success from the start.

  Meanwhile, Quentin and Angelika are preparing to open their business. On the first of June, Quentin registers with the guild as a master potter and he and Wouter van Eenhoorn open their own pottery, which they call The Porcelain Flask. Despite the competition, we can still hardly meet all our orders, so our friendship with Quentin doesn’t come under any strain.

  On Sundays, we often go out together, perhaps taking a boat trip beyond the city walls then going for a walk, always ending up at a tavern where we eat outside on wooden tables, enjoying the food, wine and each other’s company. They’re lovely trips, which always cheer me up.

  ‘You’re glowing, Catrin.’ Quentin studies me for a moment. ‘Do you see that, Evert? Your wife seems to be getting more beautiful every day.’

  ‘Well, it doesn’t seem possible,’ says Evert, ‘but I have to admit that you’re right.’

  He winks at me and I laugh. For a while it’s been our delicious secret, but now, on this beautiful summer’s day, we nod to each other and tell our friends the good news.

  Their congratulations are loud and animated, and it’s in this happy atmosphere that we recharge our glasses and toast to the future. For the first time in years, I’m completely happy.

  But happiness is a slippery customer. Just as I let my guard down, lower my defences and dare to start believing that life can go smoothly, I hear something that makes the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. I’m strolling through the market with Anna when someone says the word ‘plague’.

  I whip round to face the man announcin
g the news. He’s forty or so, clad in a dark brown jerkin and breeches with a weathered face. There’s a basket with carry straps at his feet.

  ‘What was that?’ I ask. ‘Plague?’

  The pedlar nods solemnly. ‘I’m afraid so, mistress. It has come from France and it’s on its way here.’

  ‘Where is it now?’

  ‘Antwerp already. The plague travels fast.’

  I break out in a cold sweat and feel myself growing faint. More people gather around with frightened expressions.

  ‘Which towns have the plague?’ asks Anna.

  ‘It would be quicker to list the ones that haven’t. It’s everywhere. More than half the inhabitants of Antwerp have died. There weren’t enough coffins, so they’ve thrown all the victims into one big grave.’

  A wave of muttering travels through the crowd.

  ‘Don’t listen to that old fool! Half the town? How can he know that?’ shouts the fishmonger from behind his stall.

  ‘I’m from there, I’ve seen it with my own eyes,’ says the pedlar.

  ‘Is that right? Why haven’t you got the plague then? Maybe you have. What are you doing here, man? People like you will bring the sickness inside the walls!’

  Noises of assent are heard from the crowd, many faces turn angrily on the pedlar.

  ‘I haven’t fallen ill because I was smart enough to avoid the towns,’ says the man loudly. ‘And because I’ve got medicine to ward off the plague. Here!’ He rummages in his basket and pulls out a vial. ‘This elixir kept me safe. If someone’s already got the plague, it does no good. The medicine works preventively. Two sips, three times a day and the sickness passes you by.’

  ‘What’s in that stuff?’ sniffs a doughty woman, her arms folded across her chest.

  ‘It’s a secret recipe that’s been in my family for years. No, I won’t say what’s in it, I’m a businessman, mistress. I have to make a living. The elixir is for sale, but I don’t have many vials left. I saved many lives on my way here. Don’t you believe me? I’m standing here, aren’t I? How else could I have travelled unharmed through a plague area?’ He pulls out another couple of vials and holds them aloft. ‘For those who act fast! You’ll see soon enough whether I’m telling the truth, when the foul vapours of the plague reach the city.’