October 2024
Anneliese
ANNELIESE’S GUT CHURNED. In the dreary mist, the mansion looked forbidding with its somber brick facade, small windows, and a paved-over front garden.
She kept telling herself that her meeting with Hendrik would be like a job interview. All she had to do was mold herself into the ideal daughter-in-law and plant a smile on her face. She wore a blouse buttoned up to her chin and a skirt with a hem hitting her knees.
She marched to the front door and smoothed her hair, which was windblown from the trip over on her bicycle. There were three bells: “H. & K. Veldkamp,” “W. Veldkamp,” and “Psychiatric Practice.” Before she had time to choose, the door opened and Willem pulled her inside, kissing her deeply.
“Are you nervous?” he asked, releasing her.
“A little.”
“Don’t be. My father will love you.”
“Is Katja here?”
“She sends her apologies. She’ll catch up with you at the engagement dinner.”
Hiding her disappointment, Anneliese gazed around at the wide entrance hall, the white stone floor gleaming in the light from a modern chandelier with light bars crossing at angles. At the end of the hall was a staircase enclosed in glass. The scent of Katja’s jasmine perfume still hung in the air.
Willem kissed Anneliese again, a peck this time. “Hendrik is waiting in the living room. He wants to talk to you alone. I’ll introduce you and leave.”
She clutched at his sleeve.
“Do you have any tips?”
“Don’t underestimate him. He’s the smartest man I know.”
“Anything else?”
“He has a habit of quoting proverbs.”
“The Bible?”
“No. Old sayings.”
She raised her eyebrows.
“Ready?” he asked.
She took a deep, calming breath and followed him down the hall. He pointed out the door to his office on the right and to his apartment on the left.
The glass door at the bottom of the staircase was locked—to keep out patients, she thought. He unlocked it and they climbed the steps to the landing, which doubled as a cloakroom. After taking her coat, Willem ushered her into an immense living room, bigger than her apartment, with pale hardwood floors, white furniture, and white walls. The room looked as if it had been bleached. An elderly man sat on the sofa, facing a white fireplace. His eyes were the first thing she noticed, black like pools of oil and enormous behind thick glasses. He wore a tan cardigan, brown trousers, and satiny slippers.
He stood up and offered Anneliese a thin hand that was dry and hot, as if a slow fire burned inside him.
“Won’t you sit down,” he said.
“Thank you, Mr. Veldkamp.”
“Call me Hendrik.
She took the armchair and tried to send Willem a telepathic message begging him to stay.
“I’ll leave you two to get acquainted,” Willem said.
So much for telepathy. She forced a smile. What kind of daughter-in-law would Hendrik want? Sweet? Feisty? Shy? Outgoing?
He consulted a scrap of paper, then looked up.
“I understand you want to marry my son.”
“Yes, I do.”
“Do you love him?”
“With all my heart.”
“Will you love him twenty years from now?”
She resisted the urge to roll her eyes. “Why wouldn’t I?”
“Familiarity breeds contempt.”
“I hope you’re wrong.”
He nodded. “Tell me about yourself.”
She started with her childhood in Noorddorp, the childhood she wished she’d had. It was the same fairy tale she had told Willem, because she couldn’t admit to anyone, especially to her prospective father-in-law, what her childhood had really been like. He might consider her damaged goods and oppose the marriage. Willem would marry her anyway, but she needed Hendrik’s approval to live in the house. She described loving parents and a dear brother who died young. When she finished, she nearly said “The end.”
“Your education?” he barked.
“I have a bachelor of arts.”
“Any health problems?”
Enough was enough. She drew herself up, her chin high. “I’m sorry, but Willem isn’t buying a horse.”
“Never look a gift horse in the mouth.”
“Pardon?”
“That’s my grandchild in your belly. Of course, I’m concerned about your health.”
“Aren’t you shutting the barn door after the horse has bolted?” If Hendrik could speak in proverbs, so could she.
He laid the paper on the sofa and regarded her with a frown.
Had she blown it?
They stared at each other, taking each other’s measure.
“May I ask you a question?” she asked.
“Yes, that’s fair.”
“How did you meet Willem’s mother?”
His hand went to his throat and tugged absently at the loose folds of skin. “A mutual friend introduced us. Louisa could captivate everyone in the room. Men wanted to sleep with her. Women wanted her for a friend, for the status. I didn’t think I had a chance.”
“Why not?”
“I was an engineer. Not one of her usual crowd. Then she invited me to a concert. When I saw her perform on stage, I fell head over heels. But she pursued me. Louisa always got what she wanted.”
Had Louisa married him for his money? She glanced at the huge abstract paintings—in neutral pastels—and the pristine furniture. It would be like living in the pages of an interior design magazine. It would take getting used to.
“Do you have any hobbies?” he asked.
“I used to play the piano.”
His dark eyes gleamed with interest. “Will you play for me?”
There wasn’t a piano in sight. “Do you mean now?”
“No time like the present.”
“But I haven’t played in years.”
Hendrik insisted.
She followed him downstairs to the ground floor, where he opened a door off the hall and led her down a chilly concrete stairwell to the basement. There he unlocked a door and switched on the overhead light.
Goose bumps ran up her spine. It was like a mortuary. The room smelled of mold and chemicals. She stared at the baby grand piano, which reminded her of an ebony coffin with the lid raised. She imagined Daan’s body, embalmed and dressed in his favorite black T-shirt, his hands crossed over his chest, his skin an unnatural white tinged with blue. She pressed the heel of her hand against her mouth.
“Do you feel all right?” Hendrik asked.
“Just a little morning sickness.”
Cobwebs stretched across the ceiling, trawling for prey in the sealed-off room. Where did the dust come from? It blanketed the piano, the picture frames. She smelled the dust, a dead smell. Faded posters and photos of Louisa papered the walls. She moved around the studio to get a closer look.
In one photo, a pigtailed little girl was playing the piano, her plump legs dangling off the bench. The intensity in Louisa’s young face was extraordinary.
She was pudgy as a teenager, pretty at twenty, striking at forty—tall and blonde with blue eyes and strong angular features. She had wide shoulders and muscular arms. The photos showed her performing on stage, taking a bow, receiving an award.
A cabinet with glass doors occupied most of the back wall. On the shelves were stacks of sheet music and music books.
“May I select a piece to play?” Anneliese asked.
Hendrik nodded.
She tried to open a glass door, and at first she thought it was locked, but she tugged harder, and the hinges reluctantly moved. She passed over the pieces composed by Louisa, judging them too difficult, and chose a sonatina by Mozart.
Hendrik sat down on the love seat facing the Steinway. The piano bench was too high, but the height wasn’t adjustable, so she slid the bench forward and opened the fallboard. To think, she was about to touch the same keys Louisa Veldkamp had touched. She practiced some scales to loosen her fingers, which felt as stiff as the hinges. The piano had a warm, rich tone.
She opened the sonatina. She could still read music, and her fingers knew which key went with which note, but her hand–eye coordination deserted her. After fits of stumbling and starting over, she stopped halfway through the first page.
“Sorry you had to listen to that,” she said.
“Practice makes perfect.”
She had murdered the piece, but excitement stirred inside her. What would it take to get back to her former skill level? Everything she needed was right there: the wonderful piano, the music books, privacy. A chill swept over her, and she hugged herself for warmth. Surely the temperature in the room was adjustable. She lifted her gaze and saw Willem standing in the doorway, glaring at something, maybe at her.
He said, “I hate to interrupt, but I’m expecting a patient. If you two are finished, I’ll show Anneliese to the door.” Her coat was folded over his arm.
“I think I’ll sit awhile,” Hendrik said.
At the front door, Willem helped Anneliese on with her coat.
“Did you mind me playing your mother’s piano? It was Hendrik’s idea.”
“No. It took me by surprise. That’s all. No one’s played the Steinway since Louisa. No one except the piano tuner.”
It was as if they were waiting for Louisa to return.
“Do you think I could play the piano after I move in?” She wasn’t a literary talent like Katja Hart, or a pianist of the same caliber as Louisa Veldkamp. But she had a knack for piano; it was a means to impress the family.
Willem pulled her into an embrace. “Anything. I want to make you happy.”
“Do you think Hendrik liked me?” she asked, resting her head against his chest.
“I do. He doesn’t take just any girl to the crypt.”
Crypt? Her skin prickled, recalling her first impression of the studio, creepy like a mortuary but coming alive when she played, even if her playing had been pathetic.
He stepped back and looked searchingly into her eyes. “Are you sure you don’t mind living here? I can’t move the practice after the fortune Hendrik spent on renovations, but we could find an apartment in the neighborhood.”
“I know. You told me. But it’s fine, Willem. I’m going to love being part of the family.”
She climbed on her bicycle and waved goodbye.
Fallen leaves, broken branches, and paper trash collected by the wind carpeted the bicycle path. As she cycled home, the damp wind numbed her fingers, making her wish she had worn gloves. Her excitement at getting a thumbs-up from Hendrik ebbed. When she thought about the mansion, she pictured herself spilling coffee on Katja’s pristine white sofa or—maybe worse—on the Steinway’s keyboard. Her thoughts turned to Louisa’s studio, to the pervasive chill, the dead smell, and the aging posters. Willem was right to call the room the crypt, and for a moment she wondered if it would have been better if Hendrik had not liked her.