Since, for a nonbeliever in a believing society, the worth of any church depends on the minister, I attended the Vanderbraak Dutch Reformed Church. Father Esterhoos at least understood the need to make theology both practical and entertaining. Besides, I’d gone there when the house had been my parents’ summer retreat from the heat of New Amsterdam. Now my mother lived with her younger sister Anna in Schenectady, when they weren’t visiting some relative or another.
When we’d spent the night together, Llysette and I usually went to church together, perhaps because Klaus Esterhoos, unlike Philippe Hague, the college chaplain, treated us more as old members or potential converts than scarlet sinners. Who knows? He could have told the deacons that saving us was worthwhile, not that I really believed that either of us could be saved.
On Sundays, we took my steamer. Although I still kept the Stanley’s thermal-electric paint polished, after more than a year the flaxen-haired children walking up the mum-lined gray stone steps to the church no longer pointed at the car as my normally bright red Stanley glided around the square toward the church. It didn’t have to be red, but that was the color when I left the thermal switch off. Without the red paint, the steamer would have appeared almost boring, a staid dowager of vehicles. That didn’t include the actual engine or the suspension or the extras, of course, just the smooth-lined and sedanlike appearance. Columbia City had taught me the value of misdirection, although what I’d learned had barely been enough to engineer my escape from my past and the intrigues of the Federal District with a whole skin.
That Sunday was different. I guided the Stanley across the one-lane stone bridge over the River Wijk and around the square toward the church. On the west side of the square, adjacent to the campus, was parked a single dull-gray, six-wheeled steamer, all
too familiar—the kind you normally saw in Columbia or the big cities like Asten or New Amsterdam, the kind the Spazis used.
“Mother of God!”
“God had no mother, not for you, Johan, you virtuous unbeliever.” Llysette’s voice was dry as she straightened the dark blue cloak around her shoulders and against the chill breeze that crossed the sunlit square, ruffling leaves on the grass by the bandstand.
“That is a Spazi steamer.”
“Spazis?” She shivered. “Are they—do you think they are at the church?”
“With the Spazis, who knows?” My own thoughts were scattered. The steamer had to have come from Schenectady or Asten. The Spazis had a regional headquarters on the naval base outside of Asten. The last time I’d been there was when I’d been the Subminister for Environment, to see if the ruins of a house from the failed English colony at Plymouth should have been saved under the new Historic Preservation Act. That poor colony had been doomed from the start, with the Dutch bribing the Mayflower’s captain to land in New Bruges, rather than Virginia, and with the plague among the Indians that had left the shore scattered with bones and the forests littered with ghosts. One of the women had jumped into the ocean and drowned, and her ghost supposedly still haunted the ruins.
I’d never understood why the Congress gave Natural Resources the historic preservation program or why the minister had decided it came under environmental protection, but you don’t argue with either Congress or your minister if you want to hold your position in Columbia. I hadn’t argued, not that it had helped me keep my job once newly elected Speaker Hartpence set the Congress after Minister Wattson. My background certainly hadn’t helped, not with the Speaker’s distrust of the intelligence community and not my not-hidden-enough background in it.
“You must know, Johan. You were in government. Aren’t the Spazi government?”
“Former subministers are the last to know the plans of the Sedition Prevention and Security Service.”
“Government ministers, they do not know what their own security service plans?”
“Good government ministers have to use all their contacts to discover that when they’re in office. You may recall that I haven’t exactly been in office anytime recently, and the Spazi aren’t about to go out of their way to tell an ex-minister.” And they hadn’t. Since they hadn’t, and since the only strange thing that had happened was Miranda’s death, more than a little was rotten in the Dutch woodpile, so to speak. Simple homicides didn’t trigger Spazi investigations, and that meant Miranda’s death wasn’t simple.
The bells ringing from the church tower forced my thoughts back to the mundane business of parking the Stanley.
Even before we reached the steps to the side entrance of the gray stone church, another couple joined us. Alois Er Recchus was more than rotund; he wore a long gray topcoat, a cravat of darker gray, and a square goatee, nearly pure white, and dwarfed the still ample figure of his wife. His suit was a rich dark brown, typically somber Dutch.
“Ah, Llysette. I heard that you sang so beautifully last night.” The dean of the university, Katrinka Er Recchus, smiled broadly at us above an ornate lace collar. “I did so wish to be there, but … you understand. One can only be in so many places.”
“The demands of higher office,” I murmured politely, tipping my hat to her. Out of deference to tradition I did wear a hat to church, weddings, ceremonial occasions, and when my head was cold.
“But you would so understand, Doktor Eschbach, from your past experiences in government.”
I almost missed the slight stress on the word “past.” Almost, but not quite. “I find those in Vanderbraak Centre are generally far less caught up in artificiality than people in Columbia City.” I accented the word “generally,” and received a polite smile as she turned back to Llysette.
“I do so hope you will be able to favor us with another recital before long.”
“I also, honored dean, although one must take care in ensuring the composition of a vocal program, that it is, how would you say, appropriate to the audience. I would be most pleased to know if you will be attending such a recital.”
“One would hope so, with such a distinguished visiting performer.” Dean Er Recchus glanced toward the growing clouds overhead. “I do hope the rain will hold off until this afternoon.”
The slight emphasis on “visiting” was almost lost—almost.
We nodded and continued our progress into the church. The pews were filled with the local burghers and their spouses, all in rich browns, blacks, or an occasional deep gold that verged on brown. There were more than a few wide white collars among the women.
“That woman,” murmured Llysette. “She believes herself so clever.”
“All politicians do, until we learn better.”
“A politician I am not.”
Except she was better at it than I was. While I could recognize the interplay between the two women, one quick comment was all I had managed. Sometimes I couldn’t manage that much. Perhaps that was why I had not been totally averse to the forced early retirement from the government. Still, the pension was welcome, and with the investment income from the family holdings, the scattered consulting, and the income from teaching, I was comfortable financially.
We sat down near the rear, the third pew from the back, waiting for the old organ to begin the prelude, still the recipients of covert glances from a few of the older Dutch families near the middle of the church.
I grinned at a little blonde girl who grinned back above a white-collared dress. She waved, and I returned the gesture.
“You are corrupting the young, Johan,” whispered Llysette as the organ prelude began.
“I certainly hope so. You can’t corrupt the old, not in New Bruges.”
The prelude was a variation on Beethoven’s Ode to Joy; at least that was what it sounded like.
I waved back to the little girl. She reminded me of Walter, although they didn’t look the slightest bit alike, except for the mischief in their eyes.
“Johan.” Llysette whispered again. “Are you enjoying yourself?”
“Immensely.”
All good things must come to an end, unfortunately. The young matron smiled pleasantly at us and turned her daughter in the pew.
“Beloved of God, we are gathered together …”
I straightened and prepared to listen to Father Esterhoos.