I was shaking from my thoughts a picture of the knife spinning on my mothers kitchen floor.
One Sunday Pieter the son came to services at our church. He must have slipped in after my parents and me, and sat in the back, for I did not see him until afterward when we were outside speaking to our neighbors. He was standing off to one side, watching me. When I caught sight of him I drew in my breath sharply. At least, I thought, he is Protestant. I had not been certain before. Since working in the house at Papists Corner I was no longer certain of many things.
My mother followed my gaze. Who is that?
The butchers son.
She gave me a curious look, part surprise, part fear. Go to him, she whispered, and bring him to us.
I obeyed her and went up to Pieter. Why are you here? I asked, knowing I should be more polite.
He smiled. Hello, Griet. No pleasant words for me?
Why are you here?
Im going to services in every church in Delft, to see which I like best. It may take some time. When he saw my face he dropped his tonejoking was not the way with me. I came to see you, and to meet your parents.
I blushed so hot I felt feverish. I would rather you did not, I said softly.
Why not?
Im only seventeen. I dontIm not thinking of such things yet.
Theres no rush, Pieter said.
I looked down at his handsthey were clean, but there were still traces of blood around his nails. I thought of my masters hand over mine as he showed me how to grind bone, and shivered.
People were staring at us, for he was a stranger to the church. And he was a handsome maneven I could see that, with his long blond curls, bright eyes and ready smile. Several young women were trying to catch his eye.
Will you introduce me to your parents?
Reluctantly I led him to them. Pieter nodded to my mother and grasped my fathers hand, who stepped back nervously. Since he had lost his eyes he was shy of meeting strangers. And he had never before met a man who showed interest in me.
Dont worry, Father, I whispered to him while my mother was introducing Pieter to a neighbor, you arent losing me.
Weve already lost you, Griet. We lost you the moment you became a maid.
I was glad he could not see the tears that pricked my eyes.
Pieter the son did not come every week to our church, but he came often enough that each Sunday I grew nervous, smoothing my skirt more than it needed, pressing my lips together as we sat in our pew.
Has he come? Is he here? my father would ask each Sunday, turning his head this way and that.
I let my mother answer. Yes, she would say, he is here, or No, he has not come.
Pieter always said hello to my parents before greeting me. At first they were uneasy with him. However, Pieter chatted easily to them, ignoring their awkward responses and long silences. He knew how to talk to people, meeting so many at his fathers stall. After several Sundays my parents became used to him. The first time my father laughed at something Pieter said he was so surprised at himself that he immediately frowned, until Pieter said something else to make him laugh again.
There was always a moment after they had been speaking when my parents stepped back and left us alone. Pieter wisely let them decide when. The first few times it did not happen at all. Then one Sunday my mother pointedly took my fathers arm and said, Let us go and speak to the minister.
For several Sundays I dreaded that moment until I too became used to being on my own with him in front of so many watchful eyes. Pieter sometimes teased me gently, but more often he asked me what I had been doing during the week, or told me stories he had heard in the Meat Hall, or described auctions at the Beast Market. He was patient with me when I became tongue-tied or sharp or dismissive.
He never asked me about my master. I never told him I was working with the colors. I was glad he did not ask me.
On those Sundays I felt very confused. When I should be listening to Pieter I found myself thinking about my master.
One Sunday in May, when I had been working at the house on the Oude Langendijck for almost a year, my mother said to Pieter just before she and my father left us alone, Will you come back to eat with us after next Sundays service?
Pieter smiled as I gaped at her. Ill come.
I barely heard what he said after that. When he finally left and my parents and I went home I had to bite my lips so that I would not shout. Why didnt you tell me you were going to invite Pieter? I muttered.
My mother glanced at me sideways. Its time we asked him, was all she said.
She was rightit would be rude of us not to invite him to our house. I had not played this game with a man before, but I had seen what went on with others. If Pieter was serious, then my parents would have to treat him seriously.
I also knew what a hardship it would be to them to have him come. My parents had very little now. Despite my wages and what my mother made from spinning wool for others, they could barely feed themselves, much less another mouthand a butchers mouth at that. I could do little to help themtake what I could from Tannekes kitchen, a bit of wood, perhaps, some onions, some bread. They would eat less that week and light the fire less, just so that they could feed him properly.
But they insisted that he come. They would not say so to me, but they must have seen feeding him as a way of filling our own stomachs in the future. A butchers wifeand her parentswould always eat well. A little hunger now would bring a heavy stomach eventually.
Later, when he began coming regularly, Pieter sent them gifts of meat which my mother would cook for the Sunday. At that first Sunday dinner, however, she sensibly did not serve meat to a butchers son. He would have been able to judge exactly how poor they were by the cut of the joint. Instead she made a fish stew, even adding shrimps and lobster, never telling me how she managed to pay for them.
The house, though shabby, gleamed from her attentions. She had got out some of my fathers best tiles, those she had not had to sell, and polished and lined them up along the wall so Peter could look at them as he ate. He praised my mothers stew, and his words were genuine. She was pleased, and blushed and smiled and gave him more. Afterwards he asked my father about the tiles, describing each one until my father recognized it and could complete the description.
Griet has the best one, he said after they had gone through all those in the room. Its of her and her brother.
Id like to see it, Pieter murmured.
I studied my chapped hands in my lap and swallowed. I had not told them what Cornelia had done to my tile.
As Pieter was leaving my mother whispered to me to see him to the end of the street. I walked beside him, sure that our neighbors were staring, though in truth it was a rainy day and there were few people out. I felt as if my parents had pushed me into the street, that a deal had been made and I was being passed into the hands of a man. At least he is a good man, I thought, even if his hands are not as clean as they could be.
Close to the Rietveld Canal there was an alley that Pieter guided me to, his hand at the small of my back. Agnes used to hide there during our games as children. I stood against the wall and let Pieter kiss me. He was so eager that he bit my lips. I did not cry outI licked away the salty blood and looked over his shoulder at the wet brick wall opposite as he pushed himself against me. A raindrop fell into my eye.
I would not let him do all he wanted. After a time Pieter stepped back. He reached a hand towards my head. I moved away.
You favor your caps, dont you? he said.
Im not rich enough to dress my hair and go without a cap, I snapped. Nor am I a I did not finish. I did not need to tell him what other kind of woman left her head bare.