Tulip Fever Read Online Free PDF Page B

clatter of carts. My spirits rise.
    A one-legged man swings past us on his crutches. He grins at us and licks his lips. Maria laughs. “Hello, peg leg, missed your dinner?”
    “Maria!” I pull her along.
    She laughs; she doesn’t care. Today she looks shameless. Her bodice is unlaced, revealing the freckled curve of her breasts. I ought to admonish her. I ought to quote her the proverb about wantonness. If you peel an onion you produce tears . Yet I envy her—how I envy her! She is free, she is young—far younger than I feel. Next to me she seems like a clean blackboard, whereas I am full of crossed-out scribbles that I can no longer decipher.
    To tell the truth, I am not sure how to manage a servant. Sometimes we are confidantes; sometimes I draw myself up and impose my authority. Maria takes advantage of my inconsistency, for I am not yet accustomed to being the mistress of a house.
    I am not sure of anything. My moods, recently, have been seesawing. I have decided that next week Maria and I will spring-clean the house. I will engage another servant to help us. We will get down on our knees and scrub away my wicked thoughts; we will polish away the grime. Devoting myself to duty, I will punish my body until I am exhausted.
    We arrive at the square. My spirits soar again. I am flooded with love for everything—the gulls, blown about in the sky like pieces of paper; the women, fondling fruit under the flapping cloths of the stalls. A dog drags itself along on its bottom; its eyes say look at me , as if it is performing a comic turn for my benefit. I smile at the hawkers and the quacks. “Fresh cabbages, fresh carrots! Fresh cinnamon water! Fresh aniseed liquor, settle your stomach or your money back! Fresh plump capons, two for the price of one, hurry while stocks last!” A boy plays golf between the women’s skirts, swerving and ducking, whacking his stick against the ball.
    The sun slides behind a cloud. I am suddenly overcome by repulsion. The wretched dog is not playing a joke; it has worms. Up in the belfry the bell tolls the hour for me, summoning me to atone for my sins; I am surprised nobody turns to stare. The great Weights and Measures building looms up as threatening as a tidal wave.
    “Madam!” Maria nudges me. We are standing at the vegetable stall. “I said—how many parsnips?”
    The stall holder is a big, purple-faced man. He has one dead eye; it is closed in a permanent wink. I know him well, but today he seems to be leering at me as if he knows my secret. I suddenly feel naked, as peeled as the onion that will surely cause tears. These people milling around— surely they can see into my wicked heart?
    Maria holds out her pail and the man tips in the parsnips. I fumble in my purse.
    And then I see him. My heart jolts against my rib cage. It is Jan van Loos, the painter. He is making his way through the crowd toward me. Today he wears a green cloak and black beret. He stops, to let a man roll a barrel past. He holds my gaze. The sounds recede like a wave retreating, hissingly, back into the ocean. For a moment I think: he just happens to be here. We will greet each other politely.
    I know this isn’t true. He has come here to find me; he has hunted me down. He pauses behind a poultry stall. The bald bodies dangle in front of his face, their claws clenched in a spasm of recognition. Raising his eyebrows, he indicates my maid.
    I tap Maria on the shoulder. “I’m going to the apothecary to buy some snuff.” I shove my purse into her hand. “Finish the shopping.”
    “How can you buy snuff, madam, if you have no money?”
    “Ah.” I pull out some coins. My fingers feel rubbery; they won’t obey me. Shoving the coins into her hand, I leave swiftly, my purse pressed to my breast as if that will protect me.
    I hurry down a side street. My path is blocked by a man pushing an ox carcass on a trolley. I press against the wall to let it pass—billowing yellow fat, the stench of it. Behind me I