I finally reach a small gabled house, set off from the others around it by a large brass lion that serves as a knocker on the bright red door. I rap on it sharply and a pie-faced girl no older than twelve cracks open the door. She reminds me of myself when I lived with Madam all those years ago, and I wonder what misfortune brought her to this house.
“I am here to see Lisette.”
The girl looks me up and down with her wide brown eyes before opening the door enough to let me through. “She is in the kitchen.”
The house is much nicer than the boardinghouse Jo and I run. The furnishings are elaborate pieces of carved dark wood, and the walls are covered in beautiful deep blue wallpaper that conveys a sense of warmth and sophistication. It smells of a mixture of rose water perfume and the men’s cologne that seeps into fabrics and never quite leaves.
I find Lisette enjoying coffee and a cigarette in her kitchen, her long fingers curled elegantly around the delicate cup.
“Welcome to Amsterdam,” she says with a hug once I introduce myself. “Have you spent much time in the city?”
“Not yet,” I explain. “I came with my employer this morning and sadly I cannot stay long for a social call. We’ve had a bit of an accident.”
As I describe our predicament—Isaac Israels’s studio, the water, the ruined dress, the crucial meeting with De Jong—Lisette’s laugh rolls through the kitchen.
“Two men that we are well acquainted with in this house,” she says, eyes gleaming with insider knowledge. “I could tell you things about both of them.”
The young girl scurries upstairs to find a suitable dress while I sit across from Lisette, ravenous for the kind of information that doesn’t circulate in polite society. Jo will be fine for a few minutes more, and this intelligence could prove invaluable.
Isaac, she tells me, has built quite a reputation for himself in the brothels of Amsterdam. He is obsessed with the models who sit for him, many of whom he selects from her neighborhood. He is also known to have affairs with the older wives of the men who purchase his art. He once bragged to one of her girls, “The ideal thing about being a painter is selling art to a woman and making love to her afterward.”
“He is damaged in many ways,” Lisette says. “It is so obvious, but then isn’t it always? His father was such a famous artist that Isaac will always live in his shadow and everyone in this city knows it. I would warn your mistress not to spend too much time alone with him. Tongues will certainly wag.”
I tell her I will take her advice to heart. The young girl appears carrying a simple velvet dress in a lovely shade of dark green that will go wonderfully with Jo’s eyes. It has a high neck and a bit of lace on the wrists. It is much smaller than anything I could wear, but that means it will be well-suited to Jo’s little frame.
“Thank you,” I say, standing to accept it and pulling out the little money that I have in my purse. “I will return it, but can I give you something for the inconvenience?”
Lisette waves my hand away. “Consider it a favor. I am happy that an accident brought you over today. Bring the dress back whenever you return to the city and we can chat over a jenever.”
“I appreciate the kindness.” It feels like I have made a new friend. As I head to the door, I realize that Lisette has told me nothing of the time that De Jong spends in her home. I ask quickly.
“He is much less interesting than Israels. He hardly speaks. In fact, all he wants is to be treated like a stubborn child and smacked hard on the ass.”
I try to picture the tall and dignified De Jong with his prim and uppity wife and his air of pretension bent over a prostitute’s knee and walloped like a recalcitrant child. The image comes all too easily, and I tuck it away to tell Jo on our way to visit with him. It will perhaps make it easier for her to ask for exactly what she wants from him if she can hold that particular image in her mind.
“It is always the quiet ones,” I say.
“Always,” Lisette agrees.
I hurry back to Isaac’s studio. We have very little time left. When I arrive and knock on the door, there is no answer, and the knob does not turn. How strange. Perhaps they have gone out for a bite, but it doesn’t seem possible with Jo’s ruined dress. I walk along the side of the building, looking for an outdoor patio where they could have been taking their tea. There is a small window low enough for me to look through. I only mean to tap on it to get their attention, assuming they can’t hear the door for some reason, but when I reach the dirty glass I have to pause.
Inside the firelit room, amid all the clutter, Jo perches on a high-backed chair in front of Isaac. Her soiled dress lies drying in front of the flames. She wears nothing but her slip and petticoat and a shy smile as Isaac sits across the room from her contemplating a canvas, quietly sketching her. I have no idea what transpired before I arrived, but I know enough about men to know Isaac Israels cannot be trusted with my dearJo.
15
Emma
I see theentire circle of life. He combined all stages of a sunflower’s life in a single vase from bud to wilting petals. We are all in there, from the newborn baby to the invisible older woman.
I hear Stella’s voice clear as day as I squint at the masterpiece propped up against my bedroom wall.
Her insurance policy. Never cashed in.
I didn’t go to the hospital with Matthew the other night after he got the news. It wasn’t my place, and he didn’t invite me anyway, just hastily said he would call and update me, but death doesn’t allow for many updates.
It’s late. I know I should sleep, but it won’t come. I keep thinking about the last time I held Stella’s hand, her final twitch of the lips that I was convinced was a smile. So when Colette strides into my room without knocking it’s a welcome distraction. It’s after eleven and she’s clearly ready to hit the town in a very un-Colette sequined tube top, leather pants, and platformDoc Martens that add three inches to her willowy six-foot frame. Her long red hair cascades down her back.
“Why are you wearing Lucie’s clothes?”
