Midnight Blue

by Simone van der Vlugt

  A final kiss, a long embrace and I climb aboard. The boat is big, with a deck house that offers protection from the elements. I sit myself down on the bench and wave to Evert as Wout unmoors the boat and pushes off from the quay.

  He blows me a kiss and stands watching as we pass under the Chapel Bridge.

  It’s cold this early in the morning. Luckily I foresaw this and put on extra layers. As we make our way up the River Schie, I’m overcome by a crushing weariness. The past few months have been busy at work, I’m now five months pregnant, susceptible to back pain and not sleeping so well any more. In any case, I’ve spent more time lying fretting than sleeping over the past few weeks. I stretch out on the bench, pull a blanket over me and drift off.

  I sleep for a good deal of the morning, so we’re a fair distance further on by the time I open my eyes again. I sit up stiffly. The sun is beaming into the deck house, I’m sweating. I take off a layer of clothing and go outside. Straightaway a fresh breeze caresses my face. I look out at the peaceful polder landscape that surrounds us. The meadows are filled with summer flowers, bulrushes rustle along the river bank, sunlight shimmers on the water.

  I take a deep breath and join Wout, who’s standing at the wheel. Two strong young men who’ve come to assist along the way and guard the cargo nod to me.

  ‘Whereabouts are we?’ I ask.

  Wout glances at me. ‘More than halfway already. You’ve been asleep for a good while.’

  We chat about the weather and our expected arrival time in Leiden. Neither of us says a word about what we’ve left behind.

  We travel on without making any stops and arrive in Leiden in the early evening. It takes no little effort to get inside the city, Wout’s manifest is scrutinised closely. No one here knows the plague has hit Delft and eventually we’re allowed in. After a brief night’s sleep in an inn – when we get up it’s not even fully light – we leave again. Once again, I get some sleep on board the boat. It’s set to be a long day; the distance we’ve got to cover is a bit more than yesterday. By the time we’re finally in Haarlem that evening, I’m exhausted. Luckily, Alkmaar isn’t all that far now. This means we set off a little later the next morning.

  When the city walls come into view at the end of the afternoon, my heart starts beating faster. I leave the deck house and go to stand by the rail, my shawl wrapped around me against the stiff breeze. There is Alkmaar. It is over a year ago I set out from there, uncertain about the future that lay ahead. And now look, I have a job I like, I’m married and I’m expecting a baby. Who’d have thought it?

  Smiling, I take in the familiar skyline of the city, the windmills along the River Zeglis, the lofty towers of the city gates and the cathedral, and a wave of emotion floods over me. I’m home.

  36

  In Alkmaar, life is going on as usual. Barges are coming and going, cargo is being loaded and unloaded and people are trading at the cheese market. Here and there, I hear people talking about the plague but it isn’t the talk of the town here. I soon realise people believe the sickness has remained confined to the South. I don’t intend to draw attention to myself by telling anyone the truth.

  I said goodbye to Wout and the lads at Tree Gate before going from tavern to tavern along Brewer’s Quay. The cheese market has just finished. Usually my father and brothers sit drinking or finishing off bits of business in the pub for a while. Not for too long, they’ve always got the journey home ahead of them. It seems they’ve left in good time today, too, because I can’t find them.

  I keep looking for a while in the inns near the cheese market and when that brings me no joy either, I walk further into the city to the Thirteen Beams. It’s been more than a year since I last saw Emil and Bertha. I quicken my step, almost breaking into a run for the last stretch. A little out of breath, I push open the door.

  Our reunion is even more enthusiastic than I expect. Bertha screams and drops a tankard, Emil comes towards me with open arms and pulls me into a tight hug.

  ‘Catrin! How is it possible! I never thought I’d see you again,’ says Bertha tearfully.

  To my surprise, she starts crying, and I put my arm around her. ‘Of course you would, why did you think that?’

  She pulls me into the back, to their living room. ‘Where have you been? You’ve got to tell me everything.’

  I don’t intend to do that, and begin a vague story that Bertha quickly interrupts.

  ‘You were in Amsterdam but you didn’t stay there,’ she says. ‘You left without letting us know where you were going. Why, Catrin?’

  ‘I sent word, but it obviously didn’t get through.’ It’s hard to lie to her face and Bertha isn’t fooled.

  ‘That’s not true. You did a moonlit flit and sent no word. I think I know why.’

  Our eyes meet. I’m the first to look away.

  ‘You ran,’ Bertha says gently. ‘The bailiff has been here looking for you. He wanted to talk to you.’

  I look at her again and see my fear reflected in Bertha’s eyes. ‘Did he say what about?’

  ‘About Govert.’

  A silence falls, which I break with a deep sigh. ‘Tell me everything, Bertha.’

  ‘No, you tell me everything. Is it true what they’re saying?’

  ‘What are they saying?’

  ‘That you killed your husband.’

  If you want to keep something secret, you can’t trust anyone, even your best friends. I can’t lie to Bertha but I can’t confess my crime either, so I keep quiet.

  ‘Oh God,’ says Bertha. ‘Don’t say anything, I understand. I think I knew as soon as it happened. But after everything that bastard did to you, I can hardly blame you.’

  ‘Govert was stone drunk. He fell into bed and stopped breathing.’

  ‘I believe you, lovely, and I’d stick to that story. Don’t tell anyone any different, not even me, then they have nothing to use against you.’ She takes my hand and continues. ‘Emil knows Van Venn, the bailiff. Govert’s brother went to him because he didn’t believe what happened.’

  ‘Mart. He can’t stand the fact that the whole inheritance went to me after one year of marriage.’

  ‘Yes, Emil said the brother had his own reasons for blackening your name. So put it down to that.’

  ‘What did the bailiff say, exactly?’

  ‘That he wanted to ask you some questions. He hung around, Emil gave him a few beers and then he told us the doctor who examined Govert said that he had lots of red dots on his eyeballs. That points to him having suffocated.’

  ‘So he wants to talk to me.’ It’s impossible to hide my alarm from Bertha. My heart is hammering painfully in my chest and I can feel the colour draining from my face.

  ‘I wouldn’t stick around, if I were you. You’d have been better off not coming back at all.’

  ‘Bertha’s right.’ We turn to Emil, who’s standing in the doorway. ‘One minute they just want to talk to you and the next they’re putting you to the question,’ he says.

  I struggle to swallow. I’ve heard enough stories about their methods to have a vivid picture of what that would involve. Visions of thumbscrews and pulleys for wrenching joints apart appear before my eyes. It’s not hard to get a confession that way. If your guilt is in doubt, they resort to those methods assuming God will help you to endure the torture if you’re innocent.

  ‘You need to get out of here, Catrin,’ says Bertha. ‘I don’t know where you’ve been all this time, but you’d be better off going back there.’

  ‘I can’t,’ I whisper. ‘Not right now anyway.’

  ‘Why not?’

  For a second, I question whether I should tell her, then I decide to be honest. ‘There’s plague where I’ve come from.’

  This news comes as more of a shock than my silent admission of guilt. Bertha slaps her hand over her mouth, Emil stiffens.

  ‘What did you say?’ he chokes.

  ‘There were two or three cases when I left the city, and that was in an area where I never
go. So I can’t be carrying it,’ I say hastily. ‘But you see now that I can’t go back.’

  Bertha and Emil exchange glances. ‘Which city are you talking about?’ Bertha asks in a high-pitched voice, full of fear. ‘Is it near Alkmaar?’

  ‘No, I travelled for three days to get here. You don’t need to be afraid.’

  But they are, of course.

  ‘Breda is much further than three days away. They said the plague had hit Breda, but it must be much closer.’ Bertha looks at me, her eyes huge.

  ‘They say all kinds of things. And who says the plague will spread north? It could just as easily spread east, or die down.’

  It makes no difference what I say, they’re suddenly looking at me differently. Bertha shuffles back, wiping her hands on her apron.

  ‘You can’t stay here,’ she says apologetically. ‘There’s no room.’

  ‘Oh,’ I say.

  ‘It’s the truth. I’m sorry.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter, there are plenty of inns in Alkmaar. I’ll go and find one right away.’

  We stand looking at each other a little awkwardly, then Emil gestures to the door. ‘You should be able to find something at the Morien’s Head.’

  I nod, look back one last time at Bertha, who stands rooted to the spot with her arms folded. When she continues to say nothing, I leave.

  37

  I’d like to leave Alkmaar but I’m better off staying. As long as I don’t know what the mood in my village is like, I’d rather not be seen there. Travelling to De Rijp in secret is impossible. Everyone who travels that route knows each other and if I go on foot I’ll be spotted sooner or later. If I want to see my family, I’m better off waiting until they come back to the cheese market.

  I find dingy lodgings on Houttil Square with Stien, an old woman who rents out all the rooms in her house and lives in a little shed in the yard. It’s right by where the market is held. That works out well because I want to stay out of sight as far as I can. I get my fresh air in the yard and only venture out into the street to fetch something to eat.

  It’s a shame, I would have liked to speak to old acquaintances and walk around the city a little. Instead, I help Stien with her vegetable patch. Naturally, she’s curious and wonders why I’m hiding myself away. To keep her from becoming suspicious, I’ve prepared my story. I’m unmarried, pregnant and running away from my angry family. I’m waiting for the baby’s father, who’s at sea and doesn’t know yet.

  Stien accepts my story at face value, she’s probably heard stranger things. She takes on the role of protector, does my shopping and cooks for me, so I don’t have to go out at all any more. Her warmth and generosity make me feel terribly guilty for lying like that, but I push the feelings aside. I’m not doing her any harm, after all.

  After a couple of days, she comes home with news about the approaching plague, which has been raging for a while in The Hague, Rotterdam and Delft and has reportedly spread to Leiden and Amsterdam.

  ‘It’s on its way,’ she says sombrely. ‘Not long now and it’ll be our turn.’

  ‘How bad is it in Delft?’ I ask, but she doesn’t know. Rumours are going around that there are a hundred victims a day in Leiden and Amsterdam.

  ‘There’s nothing in Haarlem yet, so maybe we’ll be spared as well,’ says Stien.

  The situation in Haarlem is monitored with great concern. Every day, crowds rush to Tree Gate to hear what the men from the boats have to say.

  In Leiden bodies are being left on the street to be collected, in Amsterdam, ringing the bells for the dead has been banned because it causes so much fear. My thoughts regularly turn to Adriaan and Brigitta.

  Despite all these sombre reports, life in Alkmaar goes on as usual. There are a few restrictions, since strangers are no longer allowed within the walls. Only farmers from the surrounding areas are admitted to the city to supply the market. The weekly cheese market is going ahead on Friday as well. This week’s may be the last, so they’re expecting crowds. On Thursday evening, the first farmers begin coming into the city with carts and wagons via the dyke, and on barges up the River Zeglis.

  They don’t just bring cheese but also vegetables and fruit, bread and rusks, chickens and other poultry, fish and meat. Alkmaar doesn’t have a big central square for holding a market so little stalls spring up along every bridge and canal path. Only the stretch of quayside by the weighing house is reserved for the cheese market. Houses were demolished last year to make more space and create something resembling a small square.

  I venture out into the streets in the hope of seeing my family. My father will want to make the most of this opportunity to get rid of as many of his cheeses as possible before the plague comes to put a stop to his business, my mother will already have pulled up the beetroots, leeks and cabbages from the vegetable patch. But no matter how hard I look, I don’t find them. Disappointed, I am about to turn and head back to my room when Bertha comes round the corner. There’s no point pretending we haven’t seen each other, we practically bumped into one another. She stops, visibly uncomfortable with the situation.

  I hold open my arms. ‘I don’t have the plague, Bertha.’

  ‘I never said you did. We just didn’t have any room.’

  ‘If I was infected, I’d be sick by now. Half the town would have caught it.’

  ‘I know. Oh, Catrin, I’m sorry. We were scared to death when you started talking about the plague. But we were telling the truth, we didn’t have any space. Although you would have been able to stay in our private quarters, of course.’

  ‘It’s fine. I understand.’

  ‘You’re my friend. At least, I hope you still are. I should have helped you instead of sending you away.’

  We embrace and Bertha asks where I’m staying. I say that it’s better she doesn’t know in case the bailiff comes back to make more enquiries.

  ‘I’d never tell him. And he has other things on his plate, now that the plague is on its way. It seems people can’t talk about anything else.’

  ‘When it comes to it, you both need to go away, to your family in Schagen.’

  ‘And what about the inn? We can’t leave it unattended. You know what would happen.’

  I do know. Even though it’s understandable that people flee, it doesn’t make them popular with those who stay behind. Not everyone has the means to up and leave, and all too often the houses of those who run from the plague end up looted or vandalised.

  ‘You have to go anyway,’ I insist. ‘Better to lose your inn than your life.’

  Bertha shakes her head despondently. ‘I know for a fact that Emil won’t hear of it. He says God ordains who will get the plague, so there’s no point running away. And I agree with him.’

  ‘I don’t,’ I say. ‘God has no sympathy for the foolhardy. He gave us minds to think and feet to run, and if the plague comes, I intend to use them.’

  The next day our hopes that Alkmaar will be spared are dashed. The news blows through the city like a gale: nine sick!

  The victims are admitted to the plague house on Paternoster Row straightaway. Not only to treat them but also to isolate them and prevent it from spreading, since in the meantime, the city has filled up with traders and farmers from the surrounding area.

  I’m up early. The first cheeses are being piled up by the weighing house, every layer neatly covered with grass to protect the cheese from the sun. From seven o’clock onwards, goods can be laid out, the market begins at ten. Long before then I’m standing in front of the weighing house. From there I have a good view of the goods being delivered via the canals and the activity inside the building itself. This is where all the sold cheeses are weighed to establish how much tax is to be handed over to the city. Inside are two giant scales flanked by weighing masters who supervise the process.

  Outside on the quayside, the cheeses are piled up in neat rows. It’s a good deal less busy than I’d been expecting. The word ‘plague’ is dropped constantly and from snatches of conv
ersation I learn that many farmers turned back at the gate. My parents must have done the same, otherwise I would have seen them. Despite the growing conviction that they aren’t coming, I carry on looking out for them.

  To my right is the White Rose apothecary’s shop, which is doing a roaring trade. There’s a queue all the way to the bridge.

  ‘Garlic and cloves,’ says one person. ‘If you chew on them all day, you’re protected from the plague fumes.’

  An old man informs everyone that you have to spread a paste made of sourdough, pigeon droppings, onions, figs, lily bulbs and scorpion oil onto the swellings. The last ingredient is the only one that is hard to come by; he hopes the apothecary has it.

  Everyone knows of a medicine. The more exotic the ingredients, the more faith people have in it. I remember that Dr Geelvinck, who treated Brigitta, recommended something too. What was it again? We were talking about the medicinal properties of laudanum. He told me there was an oriental medicine in it, opium, a wonder drug that was even said to ward off the plague.

  In a rush of hope, I join the queue. Laudanum is expensive; when I picked it up for Brigitta I’d been shocked, but I have enough money with me. If it works, no price is too high.

  It takes a while until I can get inside the shop. It’s dingy after the glaring sunlight. My eyes slowly become accustomed to the change and an amazing display of exotic items emerges from the gloom. In cupboards that reach to the ceiling are pots and jars with mysterious labels, the shelves are covered with stones of every imaginable colour, dried salamanders, whale bone and little skeletons and tubs of peppercorns, cloves and mustard seed.

  Apothecary Moeriaans peers at me enquiringly from behind the counter. I’ve been here many times, but not so often that he knows me. I ask for laudanum and he raises his eyebrows.

  ‘Laudanum? For the plague?’

  ‘Yes. It works preventively.’

  ‘Who told you that?’

  ‘A doctor in Amsterdam.’

  Boudewijn Moeriaans sniffs. ‘Where they’re dying in the streets?’