Midnight Blue: A gripping historical novel about the birth of Delft pottery, set in the Dutch Golden Age. Литагент HarperCollins USD

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      The journey to Haarlem takes all day. It’s only once we pass Beverwyck and are on Wyck Lake that we start making decent headway. Once we get to Spaarndam we rely on locks and canals again, but by then Haarlem is in sight. It’s almost dark and I’m exhausted. When the boat moors at Gravestone Bridge I get up stiffly and clamber onto the quay. I’m so tired I stagger into the first inn I see. Fortunately, there’s still a bed free. I don’t care that I have to share a room.

      In the taproom, sitting beside the fire and with a hot meal in front of me, I come round a little. Out of the corner of my eye I see men staring at me. I make sure I avoid eye contact and appear as unapproachable as possible, which isn’t difficult, given how tired I am. To my relief, they leave me in peace. As the evening wears on, the mood gets rowdy, but by then I’m already in bed. Despite the long day I’ve had, it takes a while to fall asleep. I lie with my eyes closed and listen to the snores and breathing of my roommates and the racket from the taproom. My thoughts turn to my family and suddenly I find myself thinking back to when I was little.

      I nearly drowned once as a child. During a violent winter storm, the dykes protecting Waterland from the sea burst, followed by the ring of canals protecting the Beemster. Many people and animals died, and mud-built farms with thatched roofs were washed away. The somewhat higher centre of De Rijp was spared, even if the well-to-do people there didn’t manage to keep their respectable feet entirely dry.

      I was five when the flood came. I only know the details of the disaster from stories. But I still remember the feeling of powerlessness as the roof my family and I were sitting on collapsed and the water carried me away. I couldn’t swim, but it wouldn’t have made much difference anyway. As soon as the sea began to ebb, the flood carried everyone with it. Anyone who couldn’t manage to hold onto something was lost. I was fished from the waves by one of our neighbours and pulled into a boat. My parents and brothers managed to save themselves. Allie and Johanna, my two older sisters, drowned.

      In the grey light of dawn, I lie and think about my family. Meanwhile, the other guests start to emerge from their beds. People yawn and mumble good mornings. Some begin chatting quietly. I get up too but don’t make the effort to talk to anyone.

      I take my time getting dressed, putting on a linen blouse, skirt, apron, fichu, bodice, jerkin and cap. Now and then I glance out of the window. Outside, the quay is busy, despite the hour. Freight and passenger ships both set out at first light.

      I pack my things. The letter from Matthias is among my clothes and I smile. If I get this job, I’ll see him again. A little more certain now about my decision to go to Amsterdam, I square my shoulders. If I hurry, I can still make the first barge.

      Compared to yesterday’s voyage, the journey to Amsterdam is as nothing. The pleasingly short distance remaining is encouraging, and the comfort of the horse-drawn barge couldn’t be more different from the open boat that brought me from Alkmaar. There’s a deck house complete with benches where passengers can take shelter from the elements. Since we’re not dependent on the wind, we travel at an even pace. There are inns along the route where passengers can get off for a meal and the barge can take on fresh horses. The Haarlem Ship Canal stretches in a straight line through the polders past windmills and farms to Amsterdam.

      From time to time, I leave the deck house to feel the wind and sun on my face and admire the beauty of the wide, cloudy skies and green meadows. Milkmaids, pedlars and travellers on horses or in carts pass by on the dyke along the canal. Occasionally, someone waves. I smile and wave back.

      My nervousness only resurfaces when we reach Amsterdam. I’ve heard a lot about the city, about its size, how busy it is, and with a touch of trepidation I ask myself whether a country mouse like me belongs in such a place.

      My uncertainty gives way to excitement when I see the high walls looming ahead. I gaze in awe at the windmills atop the bastions, their sails spinning at top speed.

      It’s busy at the entryways and on the water, as if the whole world is on its way to Amsterdam. The mighty IJ bay, an arm of the sea reaching far inland, is clogged with cranes, flat-bottomed barges, market boats and fishing vessels. Just beyond the pales that fence off the harbour, merchant ships lie at anchor, sterns gleaming in the sunlight. The last leg of our journey follows the shore of the IJ and we moor at Herring Merchants’ Gate.

      I grab my things and allow someone to help me ashore. Much as I would like to go directly to Keizersgracht and search for Van Nulandt’s house, I’m too tired and hungry. Having decided to go and have something to eat first, I order a simple meal at City Inn on a jetty in the IJ.

      I wolf down the fish and bread, pay at the counter and carry on up the quay.

      So this is Amsterdam, the centre of the world. What a crowd, what a commotion! Boat masts loom up into the sky as far as the eye can see; the quay is covered in bales, crates and baskets that have been unloaded and people calling and shouting out over each other.

      Curious to explore the rest of the city, I turn right, walk over the quayside known as Damrak and reach a large square with a wooden town hall and a weighing-house. There are traders everywhere, I hear all kinds of languages. An outlandishly dressed man with a scarf around his head and a little monkey on his shoulder walks past me, magnificently dressed women greet each other and exchange pleasantries. I breathe it all in. Far from scaring me, the cacophony fills me with joy. This is where it is all happening, this is where different worlds meet.

      I stand in the middle of the square, drinking in the bewildering new world around me, and know I will never go back to my hometown.

      In contrast to Damrak, Keizersgracht appears brand new. The gaps between the paving stones have yet to be touched by dirt, the paint on the doors and window frames is gleaming and the cobblestones look like they’ve not long been cut. Young linden trees have been planted СКАЧАТЬ