He listened carefully. When I finished he declared, You see, were not so different, with the attentions weve had from those above us.
But I havent responded to van Ruijven, and have no intention to.
I didnt mean van Ruijven, Frans said, his look suddenly sly. No, not him. I meant your master.
What about my master? I cried.
Frans smiled. Now, Griet, dont work yourself into a state.
Stop that! What are you suggesting? He has never
He doesnt have to. Its clear from your face. You want him. You can hide it from our parents and your butcher man, but you cant hide it from me. I know you better than that.
He did. He did know me better.
I opened my mouth but no words came out.
Although it was December, and cold, I walked so fast and fretted so much over Frans that I got back to Papists Corner long before I should have. I grew hot and began to loosen my shawls to cool my face. As I was walking up the Oude Langendijck I saw van Ruijven and my master coming toward me. I bowed my head and crossed over so that I would pass by my masters side rather than van Ruijvens but the crossing only drew van Ruijvens attention to me. He stopped, forcing my master to halt with him.
Youthe wide-eyed maid, he called, turning towards me. They told me you were out. I think youve been avoiding me. Whats your name, my girl?
Griet, sir. I kept my eyes fixed on my masters shoes. They were shiny and blackMaertge had polished them under my guidance earlier that day.
Well, Griet, have you been avoiding me?
Oh no, sir. Ive been on errands. I held up a pail of things I had been to get for Maria Thins before I visited Frans.
I hope I will see more of you, then.
Yes, sir. Two women were standing behind the men. I peeked at their faces and guessed they were the daughter and sister who were sitting for the painting. The daughter was staring at me.
You have not forgotten your promise, I hope, van Ruijven said to my master.
My master jerked his head like a puppet. No, he replied after a moment.
Good, I expect youll want to make a start on that before you ask us to come again. Van Ruijvens smile made me shiver.
There was a long silence. I glanced at my master. He was struggling to maintain a calm expression, but I knew he was angry.
Yes, he said at last, his eyes on the house opposite. He did not look at me.
I did not understand that conversation in the street, but I knew it was to do with me. The next day I discovered how.
In the morning he asked me to come up in the afternoon. I assumed he wanted me to work with the colors, that he was starting the concert painting. When I got to the studio he was not there. I went straight to the attic. The grinding table was clearnothing had been laid out for me. I climbed back down the ladder, feeling foolish.
He had come in and was standing in the studio, looking out a window.
Take a seat, please, Griet, he said, his back to me.
I sat in the chair by the harpsichord. I did not touch itI had never touched an instrument except to clean it. As I waited I studied the paintings he had hung on the back wall that would form part of the concert painting. There was a landscape on the left, and on the right a picture of three peoplea woman playing a lute, wearing a dress that revealed much of her bosom, a gentleman with his arm around her, and an old woman. The man was buying the young womans favors, the old woman reaching to take the coin he held out. Maria Thins owned the painting and had told me it was called The Procuress.
Not that chair. He had turned from the window. That is where van Ruijvens daughter sits.
Where I would have sat, I thought, if I were to be in the painting.
He got another of the lion-head chairs and set it close to his easel but sideways so it faced the window. Sit here.
What do you want, sir? I asked, sitting. I was puzzledwe never sat together. I shivered, although I was not cold.
Dont talk. He opened a shutter so that the light fell directly on my face. Look out the window. He sat down in his chair by the easel.
I gazed at the New Church tower and swallowed. I could feel my jaw tightening and my eyes widening.
Now look at me.
I turned my head and looked at him over my left shoulder.
His eyes locked with mine. I could think of nothing except how their grey was like the inside of an oyster shell.
He seemed to be waiting for something. My face began to strain with the fear that I was not giving him what he wanted.
Griet, he said softly. It was all he had to say. My eyes filled with tears I did not shed. I knew now.
Yes. Dont move.
He was going to paint me.
1666
You smell of linseed oil.
My father spoke in a baffled tone. He did not believe that simply cleaning a painters studio would make the smell linger on my clothes, my skin, my hair. He was right. It was as if he guessed that I now slept with the oil in my room, that I sat for hours being painted and absorbing the scent. He guessed and yet he could not say. His blindness took away his confidence so that he did not trust the thoughts in his mind.
A year before I might have tried to help him, suggest what he was thinking, humor him into speaking his mind. Now, however, I simply watched him struggle silently, like a beetle that has fallen onto its back and cannot turn itself over.
My mother had also guessed, though she did not know what she had guessed. Sometimes I could not meet her eye. When I did her look was a puzzle of anger held back, of curiosity, of hurt. She was trying to understand what had happened to her daughter.
I had grown used to the smell of linseed oil. I even kept a small bottle of it by my bed. In the mornings when I was getting dressed I held it up to the window to admire the color, which was like lemon juice with a drop of lead-tin yellow in it.
I wear that color now, I wanted to say. He is painting me in that color.
Instead, to take my fathers mind off the smell, I described the other painting my master was working on. A young woman sits at a harpsichord, playing. She is wearing a yellow and black bodicethe same the bakers daughter wore for her paintinga white satin skirt and white ribbons in her hair. Standing in the curve of the harpsichord is another woman, who is holding music and singing. She wears a green, fur-trimmed housecoat and a blue dress. In between the women is a man sitting with his back to us
Van Ruijven, my father interrupted.
Yes, van Ruijven. All that can be seen of him is his back, his hair, and one hand on the neck of a lute.
He plays the lute badly, my father added eagerly.
Very badly. Thats why his back is to usso we wont see that he cant even hold his lute properly.
My father chuckled, his good mood restored. He was always pleased to hear that a rich man could be a poor musician.
It was not always so easy to bring him back into good humor. Sundays had become so uncomfortable with my parents that I began to welcome those times when Pieter the son ate with us. He must have noted the troubled looks my mother gave me, my fathers querulous comments, the awkward silences so unexpected between parent and child. He never said anything about them, never winced or stared or became tongue-tied himself. Instead he gently teased my father, flattered my mother, smiled at me.
Pieter did not ask why I smelled of linseed oil. He did not seem to worry about what I might be hiding. He had decided to trust me.
He was a good man.
I could not help it, thoughI always looked to see if there was blood under his fingernails.
He should soak them in salted water, I thought. One day I will tell him so.
He was a good man, but he was becoming impatient. He did not say so, but sometimes on Sundays in the alley off the Rietveld Canal, I could feel the impatience in his hands. He would grip my thighs harder than he needed, press his palm into my back so that I was glued in his groin and would know its bulge, even under many layers of cloth. It was so cold that we did not touch each others skinonly the bumps and textures of wool, the rough outlines of our limbs.