Now—overwhelmed at the prospect of Lydia’s return, realizing that while he’d hoped for it and missed her dearly, he had no idea how they might go forward in life, that he’d not allowed what until moments ago had seemed a dangerous fantasy but now felt like a dereliction on his part—he took matters firmly in hand. From the closet he dug out the broom, mop, mop bucket and box of soap flakes. When he took the apartment it had come with the services of a weekly cleaning lady but he’d determined to take care of himself—that and he wanted no interruptions, scheduled or not. The landlady had taken great pains to make clear there would be no reduction in the rent, too much effort Henry thought, until the woman presented him with the necessary tools and then he understood she doubted a man was capable of the work involved. It had all seemed rather easy before Lydia departed—a quick sweep and wipe of the counters. In fact, the mop was yet new, the soap flakes unopened.
So he went to work. Work necessary but also the best antidote for mindless worry. And the work proved more labor than he’d expected, the mopping especially pressed upon his back as he bent scrubbing up old layers of dirt invisible after he’d swept. For only the two rooms, large as they were, he had to change the mop water four times. His arms ached and by the time he emptied the final bucket of reasonably clean water into the bath it was sharply painful to straighten fully upright. He was flushed and in the perverse nature of such things the radiator had been clanking and hissing all afternoon, warm enough so he cracked a window. At least the floors dried quickly.
Then he had to work on his knees on the hard tile to clean the squat bathtub and sink, now all with cold water and since he had no rags but dishtowels he tore two in half and made hard use of them. Finally it was done. His shirtfront and trousers were sopping and smudged where he’d wiped dirty hands. And along with those, the linens on the bed had not been among what he’d carried home from the laundry. He looked at his watch and guessed if he changed quickly he could make it back across the square to the laundry and they’d be clean and pressed, the linens beautifully starched and folded by mid-afternoon. So off he went, feeling both tired and accomplished. The outside air was refreshing after the noxious smarting perfume of the soap flakes.
He was a smiling man, full of cheer and mission. The first overwhelming rush of questions and concerns had been answered, not conclusively but as much as could be expected until she arrived, by the long-learned lesson of hard labor. Even as he grimaced, thinking it had been obviously a bit too long since he’d employed this maxim. But the first surge of panic was gone. If, as her letter certainly implied, she desired to make a life with him, he was no closer to knowing the practicalities of such a life. And if she happened to have a plan, it would immediately appeal or, and he knew this was true, they would discuss the range of options until they found a mutually agreeable ground. So this was what he knew: She was coming directly to his apartment and perhaps they’d spend a short time together there as they determined the way forward. Perhaps, if they were to remain in Amsterdam, something he saw as a distinct possibility, they’d search together for more spacious and comfortable but private accommodations. He was not the sort to live out of an hotel suite and she knew that. Neither would he be kept. And while he had no idea of her true wealth he knew it far outstripped his own modest but not inconsiderable savings, which included the inheritance from Uncle George all those years ago—money that no doubt further fueled Fred’s animosity but that also had never been touched, the interest accruing essentially what he sent his mother each month. Anyway, it wasn’t a question of money so much as how they chose to live and he trusted Lydia knew him well enough not to expect him to live in the fashion she did. On the other hand, while he was still hoping to press for the trip throughout England come spring, he couldn’t envision Lydia being the peripatetic visiting scholar’s wife. Or perhaps she’d surprise him.
Perhaps they’d surprise each other.
Most certainly, huffing now with the laundry, the steamed windows in sight, they’d surprise each other. And after all, wasn’t that their story writ both small and large?
He was smiling like a fool when he passed over his second laundry of the day, filled out the slips and pocketed the stubs. The air inside the laundry so dense and wet he wondered how people stood it, and then was back out into the evening, the sudden winter dusk.
What was clearly out of the question, at least for the immediate future, was any return to Elmira. Or for that matter, he was confident, her home in Vermont. Although there would come a time, and in the not too great distance when she’d meet his daughters and granddaughters. And Mary and Doyle. This paused him a moment before the rising bulk of the Waag, the ancient bricks immutable as the black shadow climbed to obliterate their dusky rose. A short stay at the cottage at the Lake next summer would introduce her to all, and she to them. He’d never seen her with children but she charmed everyone he’d ever witnessed and was more than capable of the Lake. Alice and Polly would be the most difficult and he understood that. But they, the three women, would find their way. He knew and loved and trusted all enough to be sure of that. And stopped again. Perhaps it was more that they, those women, knew and loved him enough to carry through what by then was inevitable. Women understood life itself far more straightforwardly than men. The nuts and bolts, he thought. No, he corrected. The underpinning. What keeps us going.
He ate supper at the old bar where he was a usual, if not regular. To be regular invokes being known and while he was expected he was not, and never would be known. His routine soup, this evening of white beans and sliced sausages in a thick broth with onions and leeks. Several cold Genevers, a couple more than most nights but he already doubted he’d sleep this night but was stoking hope with the food and alcohol. And then was suddenly drooping, alarmingly tired.
He actually bounced against the stairwell twice going up. Then in his apartment stood, gazing at the windows, their arcs and prisms of light, pulling himself to focus on his writing desk, knowing he needed to make a list, the things to be done in the morning. The stocking of foods and wine and everything else that was spilling over in his mind, all the small delicious things he wanted to present Lydia with. And there! A present! He must have something for her. Something simple and beautiful and thoughtful. Not a ring. But, he was momentarily brilliant, a gift that was gorgeous and vast with love and that, above all, said, I’m not a ring but could be and want to be and should be if you’ll allow me to be.
Sometime during the night he woke, his head magnificently clear. He was wide awake but free of concerns or worries. It seemed he was floating on the bed, cushioned buoyant between the sheets, warm as all life and within a willful cocoon of inner peace. Dark still, but daylight was coming.
He woke much later than usual and climbed from bed, alarmed until he caught himself laughing. What was late, anyway? He had a handful of errands, some shopping to do but other than that he had, this day, no timetable. He had most literally no idea when she’d appear. So he decided that he’d get out as soon as he could and take care of all those important things and return here.
And play his cello. Thinking of her hiking up the stairs, his door ajar, walking up the stairs to the strains of the cello. If nothing else he could play scales, slowly, and they would resonate out and down the stairs. Both announcing himself and greeting her. If it turned out to be a late train he’d play until his fingers were numb.
So he tidied up a last time and then out he went. Making his way to Kalverstraat. Pausing at the Dam, looking up at her windows in the hotel. Bundled against the cold the summer seemed not so much a dream or place to return to but a wondrous beginning. Then he pressed into the shopping crowds, down the narrow twists and turns of Kalverstraat, intent upon finding the gift first, then working his way back home, toward the familiar, picking up the rest of his notions and dreams as he went.
The gift was not easier than expected but exactly as expected— there, displayed, catching him, inevitable. A modern device of hammered gold, both diminutive and substantial, a necklace with subdued undeniable high craftsmanship evident in each linkage of its parts. Buying it, watching it wrapped in tissue and then in a slender box, he realized it was something he never would’ve looked at, much less seen for what it was, if not for her.
Then he began the slow maneuver back the way he’d come, done with the holiday push of Kalverstraat—everything else he needed could be found around Nieuwmarkt and so closer to home. Just during the time in the jeweler’s the air had softened, warmed somewhat even as the furled clouds hung low and he thought it might snow, both a cheering thought and one worrisome—snow so festive and inviting, intimate and yet too much of it could slow the trains. There wasn’t a flake in sight yet and nothing to be done about it anyway except to continue on.
It was a comfortable pleasure that he knew the shops ringing Nieuwmarkt and the nearby streets so well that he could without effort trace out his best possible route, which with the exception of the laundry and one other, final stop, was based not only on convenience but the weight and bulk accrued as he went. So first the butcher for shaved ham and a smoked duck that they could eat cold, or warm in his tiny oven that he could only assume worked—he’d never tested it. But they would eat in this evening, partly because of the uncertainty of her arrival but most purely because he wanted his attention upon only her. On to the fruit and vegetable market where he bought pears from Africa and the delicious blood oranges from Spain, as well as a carton of strawberries from the hothouses. Here also he bought more dates, seeing her in his mind slipping the pits out by pressing with her fingers, then lifting the dense sweet fruits to her mouth.
After this the wine and spirit merchant and going in he paused to hold the door for an older man, bent with his own bags, a man in a heavy black peacoat and black sea captain’s cap, who paused as he struggled out, lifting his head to look at Henry and for the strangest of moments it was as if he faced Uncle George—the same weather-lined face and thick white mustache, the same unclouded blue eyes, his hair pushed behind his ears under the cap in white waves nearly down to his shoulders. The man looked at Henry and blinked, then nodded his thanks and went on his way. Henry watched him go and for a moment his heart ached—no ghost this man but an old Dutch sailor which, more or less and several generations removed was what his uncle had been. Inside he wandered the bins, being cautious and wanting to get it just right. He could only manage so many bottles and yet wanted to have everything possibly desired on hand. Which thought, after a few moments stopped him. Whatever he chose would be what was desired. He selected a bottle of Perrier Brut which reminded him he might want to go to the fishmongers for oysters and told himself if that was the case he’d need at least a lemon from the shop just left, as well as an oyster knife at the fishmongers. Then dithered, wondering if they might want more champagne for later, after the meal, after, just possibly after lovemaking. Well, he could only do so much. He searched his brain and then the bins again and came up with two bottles of Gigondas that rang a bell of memory, a Montrachet for the same reason and then, considering it all, went back for that second bottle of Brut after all. Here he was helped by the clerk who packed the bottles sturdily in tied-tight tubes of cardboard before wrapping them in heavy paper, secured with strong sisal twine, so he might carry it one-handed without fear of the package slipping from his clutch.
On then to the bakery for hard bread as well as croissants for breakfast, a slab of unsalted butter and a larger piece of the delicious dense Belgian chocolate he knew she loved. This was a lighter bag but delicate. He arranged himself and stepped back outside.
It was warmer. And a few flakes, small and random twisted down. He paused to take it all in, feeling a little flushed, his heart beating an exuberant tattoo in his chest. He was gaining. He contemplated marching home now and then returning for the rest but he was close to being done and, truth was, once he was inside he wanted only to get everything in order and wait for her. The trains could easily be on time and she might well have caught an early one. There might be no Parisian rail strike at all.
On he went. At the fishmongers he was lucky again. Not only did they carefully wrap and tie the two dozen oysters to carry but had the thick blunt knives for sale, as well as, remarkably, not only lemons but small crocks of freshly made creamed horseradish which he remembered her loving a dab with the shimmering mollusk, already reacting to the acid squirt of lemon just before the shell was lifted and tipped into her waiting mouth.
He was beginning to plod, but it was a pleasant infused plod. And he was almost done. Next on was the tobacconist for the Herald Tribune and the faint possibility that it might hold news of any rail strikes. So he also bought yesterday’s Le Monde. He was getting there, this love-struck camel.
A quick pass by the laundry for his blessedly light sack, which he managed to tuck up under his aching left arm. Something of the mopwork the day before lingering, unworked muscles in cramped complaint. And then out for the rather hearty demanding stroll to the flower shop, at least the closest he’d seen and remembered. The stalls of course were closed. As he trudged toward the farthest corner of the square it occurred to him that if he’d followed Lydia’s directive about keeping flowers always in his rooms this might possibly be less of a trek. Live and learn. He smiled. The thin flakes continued, drifting above and within, among the square, the people, making a flimsy coat on the ground.
The flower shop was hot and densely humid. He moved toward the counter and set his packages down, then opened his coat to cool off, his forehead beading with sudden heat and moisture, his shirt beneath his vest soaked. He made a pretense of looking around. There were potted forced tulips and hyacinths and narcissus blooming or about to, which didn’t interest him. Similarly there were pots of lilies of all sizes and colors but again not what he wanted. He knew what he wanted even the best hothouse couldn’t provide—a bulk of sunflowers. And then thought No—don’t reach for the past. So he waited patiently and when his turn came he indicated the glass-fronted coolers behind the counter, laid a ten guilder note down and in his better but still fractured Dutch told her what he wanted. A grand assemblage for my returning love. But with thought. The flowers must balance each other gently. The clerk was young and blond and listened carefully, her bobbed hair swooping toward the corners of her mouth. When he was done she responded, “You desire elegance. A profusion of elegance.”
“Yes,” he said, delighted and taking it as a sign that his Dutch was not only finally working but truly comprehended. He stood waited as she went behind the misted glass doors, watching as she dipped and swooped and more than once lifted to inspect before rejecting a flower, a stem of them. When she finally came out she held a bundle of blessed magnificence in her arms, which she held across for his inspection and he said, “Yes, yes. Oh, perfect.” She trimmed them and wrapped them in paper and held the brilliant cone out to him. He bent and gathered up his mighty arsenal of packages and bundles and then finally took the flowers from the girl. When she placed his considerable change upon the counter he shook his head. “For you,” he said. “Merry Christmas.”
It was a long trip back up Nieuwmarkt, the Waag a floating marker near where he would turn off the square and make his way the final blocks to home. The snow stung his face although he was warm enough, as if the flakes were tiny reminders of the true definition of the day. In fact the cold speckles were welcome—he was over-burdened and perhaps overdressed, sweating hard and his legs were heavy—so the bright bitter spits against his face seemed almost a force of hope. He was almost done, all he was to accomplish nearly complete.
The Waag, the ancient weighing station when this was the port of entry came upon him looming and welcome and he then was past it, back along the canal that dead-ended at the square and here he turned and followed his own canal, a narrow domestic waterway, the overhanging trees beginning to gather white coats on the topsides of their branches. It was as beautiful a day as he could ask, and unless the snow was much worse to the south and east, nothing to worry about.
He made it into the entryway on his groundfloor. Where in his mailbox waited a clutch of telegrams. Slowly he let his packages down onto the small landing and the first few steep stairs. With a great fear he plucked out the three telegrams only to see they were merely the confirmations of the Christmas orders he’d placed. He tucked them into the same pocket that held the box with her necklace. Again, as the day before, the heat was high in the building. He took a moment and wiped sweat from his forehead, then looked at the handkerchief in his trembling fingers. Get upstairs, he thought. Get upstairs and settle down. He looked about him at the load of goods, the load of love. He could make two trips but all he wanted was to have everything upstairs and then he could stop, put it all away, rest and read the papers and restore himself. So he dug in his pocket for his key, clamped it between his teeth and slowly, thoughtfully, in much the same order he’d purchased it all, gathered up his bundles and proceeded to climb the stairs. He was getting the job done. As he always had.
Outside his door he had to free a hand and so set down the bundle of wines, the oysters, the laundry. He was sweating now into his eyes so his vision was brined and undulating. The door was aquiver. The sack of breads fell from under his arm. He stabbed several times with the key before it sank tight into place. His mostly free left arm was pressed to his chest, holding the precious cone of flowers, as he worked the key back and forth, befuddled by the lock. Then the door, almost as if it chose to, swung open wide. He stepped in, his legs suddenly jellied. The apartment was glittering calm in the light of day. Small hedgerows of snow were forming against the edges of the windows.
Then the swift archer’s bolt in his chest and he grasped with both hands and clawed apart the paper cone holding the flowers, his fingers mistaking them for the ripping within his chest, pain and light flooding his body, white and blinding.
Then strangely peacefully prone, watching as the torn flowers floated up, the pinwheel bursts of colors, the perfect gathering of nascent temporal life high above him, thrust up, finding new patterns, new groupings that even as he watched them all made exquisite perfect sense.
There came a small chime as the key stuck the floor. The kaleido-scope flowers reached their apex. He watched their dreaming fall begin. Never to feel their delicate attempt to shroud him.
Whan that Aprill with his shoures soote
The droghte of March hath perced to the roote,
And bathed every veyne in swich licour
Of which vertu engendred is the flour ...