Wings over Delft (8 page)

She had completed her pledge only just in time.

Louise got through the day, fortified by her new resolution and an unaccustomed feeling of virtue. Annie was a shadow of her usual self; her remark about Mother clearly weighed on her. For a while Louise rather enjoyed her discomfort and even tried a sniff or two, but scoring off Annie this way was no fun. Other people might apologise, but Annie could no more apologise than water could run uphill. In the end Louise had pity on her, waylaid her in the pantry, and gave her wrinkled cheek a quick kiss.

Evening came and virtue began to pall. She hadn’t thought about Father, as that might mean thinking about that awful breakfast again. She was back in her attic and just beginning to feel that she should do something useful – like tidying her table – when the stairs creaked heavily. That was Father’s step; there was a light tap on the door, and there he stood. He seemed hesitant, questioning almost, most unlike him. She was struck by how handsome he was. His beard was trimmed to a point, and his curving moustache swept up in a smile that asked to be reflected by a twinkle in his eyes. She tried to remember if Reynier’s eyes twinkled, but his face had faded. All at once she knew why Father was uncertain; he was
wondering if things had changed between them since the rumours over her engagement.

‘Father,’ she said, holding out her arms, and watched with pleasure as his face relaxed, the twinkle returned, and a mischievous look crossed his face. He stood there like a schoolboy with a stolen apple behind his back.

‘Close your eyes and put out your hands,’ he ordered. So she did. First a kiss – a brief brush on the cheek – then he placed a small but heavy cloth parcel in her hands. Her eyes shot open.

‘Our lenses!’ she exclaimed.

‘Look at them, Louise. They’re beautiful.’ She unwound the cloth carefully. There were two packages inside, both wrapped in silk, one smaller than the other. She undid the bigger package. The silk slipped away and there it lay, in the lap of her dress, like a fish’s eye, a beautiful glass lens.

‘That’s the objective – the big one,’ Father said, as she held the glass up in wonder.

‘But it’s flawless, not one bubble. How do they make something so pure? It’s like ice, there is not a speck in it.’ She began to open the second package.

‘Just be careful not to bang them together.’

‘Will they fit our telescope?’ she asked.

‘The cooper has finished the barrel, and if my
measurements
are correct, yes. Baruch says that we should mount them in resin. If we have to adjust them then we can melt the resin and reset them.

‘What’s he like, this Baruch?’ Louise asked. Father did not answer immediately, but looked out over the trees.

‘Remember I said that I had met someone really amazing?’

‘And it was he?’

‘He’s just a boy … a Jew, but Louise, what a mind, what ideas! How I would like you to meet him.’ Then he smacked a fist into his palm. ‘I know, next time I go to Amsterdam, you will come too and you will meet him and …’ Here he stopped; Louise wondered why. He made a vague,
dismissive
gesture with his hands. ‘Sorry Louise, I forgot. You will have your own plans, of course.’ Louise seized him by his hand; it was rough from using clay. She wanted to bite it as a punishment. How dare he break their spell, but instead she kissed it.

‘No, Father. Nothing will change. Whatever the future, we must go on doing things together. Of course I will come to Amsterdam and meet your little Jew.’ Reynier had gone into solution in her mind; she couldn’t even picture him. But she had made her decision and she would stick to it. Meanwhile she had her portrait to look forward to, the summer lay ahead, and the two lenses lay in her lap like crystal balls. She would introduce Father to Pieter and he would tell Father about drawing the empty glass, then she would travel to Amsterdam and meet Father’s Jew. ‘Now,’ she said with determination, ‘When will the
telescope
be ready? We will mount it here, in the window.’

‘I’ll bring these down to the pottery tomorrow.’

‘Then you must tell me about our lens grinder, what was his name?’

‘Baruch … Baruch Spinoza, but later, Louise. I must go down to Mother now.’ He kissed her and was gone.

Next morning, Louise stood at the studio door, amazed at the scene within. The curtains were drawn back and the whole place was flooded with light, but this was not the only change to the room. One whole corner of the studio had been transformed and she found herself looking into a room within the room. Even though it only had two real sides, it spoke to her. On the left was a table on which were books bound in leather; there was a globe and something that might even be a telescope, also some music manuscript. There was a bust, perhaps of Aristotle, and a stone urn with a panel awaiting an inscription. She got the impression of a tiled floor, but it was the rich Turkey carpet in deep blues and greens and reds that held her eye. On the carpet was a chair … her chair? It was turned from the table as if she had just got up from it.

She could hear Annie’s laboured steps mounting the stairs behind her, but she could not take her eyes off the magical scene. To the right, defining the open side of the pretend room, was a little spinet, its painted lid lifted like a sparrow’s wing. The back wall held a single picture, a
seascape
of barges with brown tanned sails all aslant on a choppy sea; a small guitar rested casually on the floor as if she had just put it down. She wanted to walk straight over and sit down, to take possession of the room and make its magic hers. Just then she felt a sharp jab in the small of her back.

‘Don’t stand in the doorway blocking the way for honest folk.’ Louise stepped forward hastily as Annie, with
solicitous support from Mistress Kathenka, arrived in the room. ‘Oh for a chair! Why people don’t bring their attics down to the ground floor like Christians, I just don’t know,’ said Annie, gasping. Then she saw the beautiful set-up in the corner of the studio, cried ‘A chair!’ and set off. Louise was rewarded with the strange sensation of seeing herself, aged seventy, plonking herself down in the middle of her own portrait. Since their altercation in the hall at home, and Louise’s conciliatory kiss, Annie had changed. Louise wasn’t sure why – perhaps she sensed that she had achieved her objective? Now seated, she glared around her. ‘Mummery!’ she said with acid disapproval.

Louise wondered what would happen next. Annie had insisted that she come to inspect the studio, and – though she did not say so – to inspect the Master as well. But where was he? Louise had been so taken up with the changes to the studio that she’d forgotten about him. On the way up the stairs she’d thought, with apprehension, that he might make some dramatic appearance: as the fencing master, a troubadour, or the hat-swinging clown. At that moment he did appear, moving from behind the open door of the
massive
paint cupboard. Louise saw Annie stiffen, her mouth pursing in anticipated disapproval.

The Master was dressed in sombre black. He had a simple linen cravat, such as pastors wear, around his neck, and he carried a small black book in his hand. He ignored both
Louise
and Kathenka and advanced on Annie to greet her with a short stiff bow. Annie was clearly taken aback. Louise guessed that she wasn’t sure if she was being greeted by a
suave devil or by a preacher. She stirred uncertainly, but the Master quickly signalled to her not to rise. Annie subsided, watching him warily.

‘Welcome, sister,’ he said. ‘You must excuse this
masquerade
,’ here he dismissed the transformation of the studio with a deprecatory flick of the wrist. ‘It is just, shall we say … what the occasion demands.’

Louise winced, then watched in fascination as Annie, her rock-hard, stone-cold Annie, begin to melt. The Master carefully placed a ribbon marker in his little black book and then turned to give her his full attention. ‘Let me explain,’ he began.

The thaw in Annie was not immediate; it commenced with defiant little movements of her hands and shoulders, but eventually Louise recognised Annie’s complacent little smile. The Master must have spotted it too.

‘Mistress Kathenka,’ he said as if the idea had just struck him. ‘I think we might bend the rule … you know? A
thimbleful
of your special wine for our visitor, after the long climb?’

Kathenka curtsied and disappeared downstairs. She was back so quickly that Louise realised that she must have had the glass ready in the room below. She had to suppress a smile; all this was planned. The wine looked tempting, the colour of golden honey. ‘So good for the heart,’ assured the Master, in a voice worthy of a physician, and the last of Annie’s inhibitions melted away.

During the course of the next half-hour the Master and Kathenka successfully negotiated for Louise to be available
daily if needed, and to change, when necessary, in the
privacy
of the Mistress’s room. In the event that Annie was unable to accompany her, the apprentice Pieter Kunst would ensure that she was escorted home in safety. Pieter was produced from the recesses of the studio. He was dressed in the garb of the humblest apprentice, and all but pulled his forelock for the old nurse. Annie appraised his status with care and clearly decided that he could be classed as a servant and therefore posed no threat to Louise’s reputation. Louise also guessed that, as Annie assessed his looks, she decided that he would be no rival to the
beautiful
Reynier. When the wine was finished, with just a drop left for manners, Annie allowed herself to be guided out of the studio and down the many stairs, vowing – Louise hoped – never to have to climb these stairs again.

A silence fell in the studio. Louise suppressed a smile; she half expected the Master to ridicule poor Annie, who had so clearly fallen under his spell. But all he said was: ‘A fine woman that,’ and Louise was grateful. Only later, when he had shed his black coat and put on his smock did he
allow
himself a smile. ‘Sometime, Mistress Louise,’ he said, ‘you should get Kathenka to give you a drop of that wine. It would melt the heart of Dr Calvin himself.’

The cooper had finished mounting the lenses and had departed, his face glowing from Father’s praise for his work. The slender telescope rested on its tripod in the window of Louise’s bedroom. She had insisted that this was the best vantage-point for viewing the stars. Evening light suffused the room. They turned the telescope onto the town walls, where a member of the guard was idly scratching his fleas. Then they looked at Louise’s faithful old thrush, filling its throat for a song that seemed ridiculously faint and far away when it appeared that they could almost touch the bird itself. Then they probed out over the walls to the spires and the flickering windmills of the villages to the east.

‘I wish it were dark, I can’t wait to look at my first star,’ Louise said. She patted the window-seat beside her,
anything
to prolong her father’s visit. ‘You promised to tell me about your visit to Amsterdam and the Jew who made our lenses.
Take me there.’

Father laughed. ‘You’re too old for that now.’ When Louise was little they had played a game where Father would recount his travels as if she was with him.

‘No, seriously, tell it to me like you used to, as if we were off on an adventure together. I’m tired of being cooped up here in the town and …’ her voice trailed off into
dangerous
territory. So she took his hand in hers and pulled him down. ‘Remember, you used to say that I could almost read your mind. But perhaps there are dark secrets you don’t want me to know about?’

‘Secrets, perhaps, but not dark ones. It would have been better if you had been with me, but I’ll try. Ready? Then take my arm, it’s muddy along here.’

Louise closed her eyes and in a minute was imagining herself walking beside him. ‘Where are we?’ she asked.

‘Amsterdam,’ he said. ‘When we cross this little bridge here we will be in the Jodenbreestraat. We are going to see a man called Rembrandt; he’s a famous painter.’

‘Is that the man Master Haitink calls van Rijn?’

‘Yes, he prefers to use his Christian name; there are a lot of van Rijns, but only one Rembrandt. I wish I could have got him to paint you.’

‘No, I like Master Haitink. He talks about van Rijn though; they were students together. Why are we going there?’

‘We are going to see his collection of curiosities; you will enjoy these. His house is just at the edge of the Jewish
quarter
, so we can go there later to pick up our lenses.’

‘Curiosities? You mean things like shells, and stuffed otters, and suits of armour?’

‘Why yes, how did you know?’ Father sounded surprised.

‘Master Haitink has all of these things, and lots more, at the back of his studio, all higgledy-piggledy.’

‘We will see birds of paradise with flowing tails in colours you can’t imagine, Japanese armour made out of bamboo, and a Roman emperor or two.’

‘Stuffed?’

‘No,’ he laughed, ‘marble busts.’ Louise smiled and
wriggled
close to him. The old magic was working; soon she would be free, living one of Father’s adventures with him, away from the terrible claustrophobia of a winter behind town walls, and away from her own dark thoughts. She could picture herself now, a hand over his arm, walking
beside
him as he told her about the great painter’s collection. ‘There were samples of minerals, and a unicorn’s horn, Venetian glass, and a wretched Chinese porcelain vase that he kept trying to sell me. People say he is in financial difficulties, but that vase was from a very poor pottery. I suppose he uses these objects for ideas, inspiration, as models to put in his paintings, but I missed …’

‘Missed?’ Louise queried.

‘I missed any real spirit of enquiry. All these wonderful things – a unicorn’s horn, for that surely is wonderful! But to him they seem to be just things to have and to collect. I
suggested
that the horn was a whale’s tooth, but he said that he had it from a man who had actually seen the fabulous beast. Then he began urging me to buy this “priceless vase” again, so I made my escape.’

‘Into the Jewish quarter? What’s it like?’

‘It is just like the rest of Amsterdam – a mixture. But, oh Louise, the smell of baking! There was a bakery up near Rembrandt’s house and I kept getting these delicious wafts
of fresh bread. Our Amsterdam Jews,’ Father went on, ‘come from Portugal, so they have all their Portuguese
trading
contacts. They get sugar from the Americas; nuts and spices, dates and raisins from Africa and the Mediterranean. They speak Portuguese too, a soft lilting tongue, not hard and glittery like Spanish. But the smell of their cooking: cinnamon, cloves, spices, it nearly killed me. I found the bakery and bought us a big bag of biscuits.’

Louise felt her mouth water. ‘Can I have one?’

‘No, not now.’ He chuckled. ‘They are about to be eaten by Baruch, our lens grinder. He lives down near the old shipyards.’

‘Alleyways?’

‘Yes, but it has a different feel to the Dutch part of town where you think of people just … well … living, behind their doors. In the Jewish quarter you feel that behind every door there is business going on: transactions are being made, trade, workshops. Tailors sit in windows to get the light. Doors open and close, people come and go, and you get the impression that there is a different heart thumping away in there; it looks Dutch, but it’s not Dutch.’

‘And Baruch?’

‘I found his door and knocked. I expected a bearded old man, but a lad who looked like an apprentice came to the door. I asked to speak with his master. He laughed then, and said he
was
the Master. He took me through to his
workshop
, to where he grinds his lenses. How anything so perfect as our lenses came out of that workshop I don’t know. Dust from the grinding lies everywhere. I wanted to know –’

‘…everything?’ Louise interjected, adding, ‘Poor Baruch.’

Father smiled sheepishly. ‘Well, why not. He showed me the whole process: how he calculates the curvature of the lens and how he grinds and polishes the rough-chipped glass, wearing it away with finer and finer powders of
emery
.’

‘Emery?’

‘He says it is a mineral that is harder even than glass.’

‘What does he look like? And how did he like being quizzed of his secrets by you, a mere Gentile, albeit a
handsome
one?’

‘Jew, Gentile, what’s the difference? He’s twenty-one or two, dark, long hair – his own – no beard, straight nose, slight cleft in his chin, and very hungry.’

‘For knowledge?’

‘Yes, but chiefly for our biscuits.’

‘I was afraid so,’ said Louise wistfully. ‘What did you talk about?’

‘The lenses, astronomy, stars. We sat outside in his little courtyard, eating biscuits and sipping a heavy wine that he says comes from the island of Madeira.’

‘May I have some?’

‘I’m sure he would be delighted. Then we talked
telescopes
…’ Father’s voice trailed off.

‘Yes?’ Louise imagined herself in the sheltered courtyard, sipping a sweet, exotic wine. Eventually Father came back from some private journey of the mind.

‘You remember, Louise, that time when you were small and we floated little reed boats in the rain barrel, and you
noticed that if the water was really still, the little boats seemed to be pulled towards each other? It was like that
between
Baruch and me. It was as if our minds were speaking to each other but we had not yet found a common language. It got darker and darker in the little courtyard; a first star
appeared
in the wedge of sky above. Then he said: “Let’s go up on the roof and I’ll show you my newest telescope.”’

‘On the roof … like storks?’ Louise laughed at the notion of the two of them balanced on one of the platforms that people built to encourage storks to nest on their roofs and so bring luck to the house. Father smiled.

‘No, his house has two ridges with a valley in between. He has built a platform up there in the valley so that, apart from a chimney or two, he can see the whole of the night sky. Oh Louise, wait until you see. It was my first time
using
a real telescope, not a mere mariner’s glass. How can I explain it?’

‘Go on.’

‘It is … it’s like leaping upwards into clear water, rising through shoals of stars. I had always thought of the Milky Way as like a stroke of paint on the surface of the sky, but it’s not, it is deep, it is made of myriad upon myriad of stars, all winking like phosphorescence disturbed in the wake of some celestial oar. I was almost speechless. “One more lens, Baruch,” I gasped, “and I will be gazing on the face of the Creator himself!” He has a soft voice, Louise, like his Portuguese tongue, but it was what he said that shook me to the core.’

‘Yes?’

‘“Sir,” he said, “There is no creator, that
is
the face of God that you are looking at.”’

This time Father really had carried Louise with him. She felt as if she were on the roof beside them, listening to their conversation as they crouched at the telescope. Dare she interrupt?

‘But Father, there
must
be a creator, we have a creation, therefore there has to be a creator.’

‘No, my love, remember your logic, remember your
Aristotle
? That is a circular argument. It is only because we use the word “creation” that we say there must be a creator. Think, if we use a different word, Nature, say, to describe the universe, then it no longer demands a creator; we would just say that it was natural.’

‘Well, someone made it!’

‘No, you have watched frost growing on a window, you have seen the trees break into leaf; they have their inner purpose, but no one comands: “Leaf, grow here.”’

‘But if there is no creator, where is God? Have we lost Him?’

‘No, my love, it is just that we have been looking for Him in the wrong place.’

‘Explain.’

‘Like this.’ Father got up and tipped the telescope down; she thought he was going to train it on the road below, but instead he turned the tube around. ‘Here, Louise, come and look at this.’ She got up, ‘Stand back a bit, don’t put your eye too close.’

‘I can’t see anything. It’s the wrong way round,’ she murmured.

‘Look in the middle. See, a small disc of light?’ Then she saw it. There, miles down the tube, was a miniature picture. Something the size of an ant was moving in it. She looked up past the tube to identify what it was, and saw old Claes, from the powder store, searching back and forth for
something
on the road. She looked back down the tube. There were two things that looked like cabbages above the tiny figure. To her amazement she realised that these were the huge trees that overshadowed the Doelen.

‘But Father, I don’t understand! I can see what the
telescope
is doing, but who would ever use it this way?’

‘Exactly. But I think that this is what Baruch says we have done with God. God gave us a telescope – our brain – to see him with, but we did not like what we saw: nature, human love, human frailty, freedom to think. This wasn’t comfortable for us. We didn’t want to get close to life; we wanted to get away from it. So we turned the telescope around and pushed God out to the safety of heaven, where we don’t have to bother about Him.’

‘So that means that God is really just out there, in the town of Delft.’ Louise paused, tasting the new idea. ‘He is everywhere!’ An unexpected feeling of warmth spread through her. She smiled to herself. ‘I like that,’ she said, ‘it seems right, doesn’t it?’ No wonder Father had been drawn to that strange young man. She was drawn to him herself. She reached out and gently pulled Father’s beard. ‘I had to do that,’ she explained.

‘Why?’ Father asked.

‘Just so I could say that I had tweaked the beard of God.’
Then with a laugh, she twirled away, avoiding his smacking hand, and spun around till her skirts flew out.

‘You really liked him, didn’t you. Your Baruch?’ She said, as she spun back. Father took his time to answer.

‘I don’t know how long we spent, looking at the stars. Then we both just lay back against the warm tiles in the trough between the roofs and stared at the Milky Way
turning
silently overhead. It seemed to me as if he was working out his ideas even as we lay there. “I can
see
the answers,” he said once, “I can
feel
them, but they are useless unless I can prove them.” He has some crazy notion that he can prove his ideas, as if they were theorems in geometry.’

‘And write QED at the end?’ Louise suggested.

Father chuckled. ‘I must suggest that to him,
as we set out
to prove
. You see, Louise, you and I may seek the face of God, but Baruch Spinoza wants to cut steps in rock for us to follow.’