The Dutch Maiden - Marente De Moor

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all, everyone in Maastricht remembered those dodgy characters with plenty of money, those so-called refugees who drove up the rents in 1914 and undercut local workers by accepting low wages to top up their government handouts. For all we knew, that blind misery guts had been one of those ungrateful sods, always complaining about the food served up by their host family, one of those drunks who out of sheer boredom ended up back at the front playing the hero. And who’s to say he was a hero at all? He could just as easily have been a common smuggler who had crawled under the Wire of Death and survived the two-thousand-volt shock while his legs went up like charcoal. It wouldn’t have been the first time. My mother hissed between her teeth, there were children present, but Uncle Sjefke just snorted and crossed his arms. He had said his piece. He wasn’t planning to sympathize with anyone, no matter what. You had to watch out for sympathy, before you knew it people thought you owed them something.

      I crouched down in the basin until my bottom touched the soft soap suds. Von Bötticher didn’t frighten me. Of course, he didn’t please me either, what did he take me for? I could try to pity him but pity is a worthless emotion for a fencer. Feel pity when you are ten points ahead and you can end up losing 15–10 as a result, only to have your opponent triumphantly pull the mask from his face without a trace of remorse and thank you cordially. But if pity was out, what else was there? I had to find a way out of this impasse. And now there was a riding lesson to cap it all. If half an hour of next to no personal hygiene wasn’t enough to strip me of my dignity, a spell on the back of a horse tethered to the longe held firmly in his hand was sure to do the trick. To start with, that docile horse of his was anything but. It was a brownish-grey Barb, one of those arrogant desert mares. Von Bötticher had fallen for the breed’s warlike reputation. ‘Many a battle has been won astride a Barb horse,’ he said as we walked out to the meadow. My heart sank into my hand-me-down riding boots, two sizes too big.

      ‘The Prophet Muhammad, King Richard II and Napoleon swore by them. Napoleon was forced to give up Marengo at Waterloo. That horse was already pushing thirty, but went on to gallop for the enemy for years to come. Even in death he was pressed into service: his hoof was a tobacco box on General Angerstein’s smoking stand.’

      Von Bötticher only had to point and she trotted over to him. She wasn’t big, that was some consolation, but she took one sniff and turned her backside toward me.

      ‘Loubna, be good now,’ said von Bötticher in a sugary voice.

      She pricked up her ears and leered at her owner with one eye. If a human being treated you that way you wouldn’t stand for it, but von Bötticher had all the patience in the world. ‘Come now.’

      With a grand sweep of her tail, she relented at last. He laid his cheek against her head as he offered her the bit. Then he slid his fingers under the noseband to make sure it was loose enough and lowered the saddle onto her back with such circumspect precision that I began to wonder whether this young madam would deign to carry me at all. As he tightened the girth, I saw myself reflected in her eye. Embarrassed by my round, pasty face, I looked the other way.

      ‘Isn’t she a beauty?’

      ‘I don’t think she’s going to let me mount her.’

      ‘Never talk like that in the presence of a horse. You’ll ruin your relationship before you’ve even started.’

      I burst out laughing, but von Bötticher was in earnest. ‘What did I tell you this morning? They understand everything. Even before your doubts become words, she has drawn her own conclusions.’

      In that case it doesn’t matter what I say, I thought despondently. Perhaps I should just call the whole thing off? After all, there were plenty more unspoken doubts where that one had come from.

      ‘Around horses it’s a matter of acting,’ he continued. ‘Play a part, pretend you’re the finest horsewoman in all of Aachen, make something up.’

      He could say what he liked, my imaginative powers had up and fled. The horse walked at the end of her rope and the rider stood in the sand with his legs apart. And there was I, the rag doll in the saddle, an afterthought. After four circuits I was ordered to tighten the reins and press my calves against Loubna’s flanks. Needless to say, she didn’t bat an eyelid. She wasn’t born yesterday.

      ‘Keep your legs still,’ said von Bötticher. ‘No need to spur her on. Just take her as she is.’

      ‘It doesn’t seem to be working.’

      ‘Don’t give up so easily. Focus on your posture, keep your breathing calm and steady. You are the finest horsewoman in Aachen and you’re about to trot. It’s your decision, and that’s final.’

      Nothing happened. The horse remained singularly unimpressed. Von Bötticher tried to distract us with talk of the weather. True enough, it was a sweltering day. The trees stood motionless, the birds had been left speechless and sweat trickled from beneath my helmet—much too big for me, of course, just like the rest of my riding clobber. I felt like a simple-minded child treated to a ride around the circus ring while the audience look on with forced grins on their faces.

      And then came a new sound. Loubna was first to hear it. The hum of an engine beyond the gates, growing steadily louder. Von Bötticher hastily rolled up the longe, unbuckled us and off he went.

      ‘No need to be afraid. You’re doing fine.’

      He was talking to the horse. He couldn’t spare a word for me, not even the faintest of smiles. The hum continued. I shortened the reins, looked over my shoulder and saw von Bötticher duck under the fence with surprising suppleness. He broke into a run—well, more of a hop-skip-jump—as he headed down the drive. He pulled open the gate and in rolled a butter-yellow cabriolet. The gleam of the windscreen denied me a view of the driver. Once we had disappeared around the side of the house, I tried to spur Loubna on and she quickened her pace to an uneasy clip-clop. The sound of the engine died away and was replaced by a woman’s voice, birdlike. She stood next to the car. A platinum blonde in a veil and a cherry-red coat dress. Despite her high heels, she stood on tiptoe to kiss von Bötticher. Loubna tugged sharply at the reins.

      ‘Easy, girl,’ I whispered. ‘He’ll be back soon. He’ll always come back to you.’

      We had already broken into a trot. I sat deeper in the saddle and tensed my calves. Von Bötticher said something that made the blonde laugh effusively as she circled the car. All this time two boys had been sitting inside. That’ll be them, I thought: the young sabreurs, the hot-headed swashbucklers. They sat motionless in the back seat while their mother chirped and twittered, wiggled her hips, lost her veil. Von Bötticher went down on his knees. That’s what veils were for, to bring men to their knees. He seemed very young all of a sudden. Why wasn’t he looking at us? Loubna lengthened her back, we were almost trotting on the spot. I hardly needed to do anything and when I relaxed the rocking motion continued of its own accord. Then Heinz came out of the house to park the car and Loubna was off like a shot. An immense power unfurled beneath me and I fought for some kind of grip as I was tossed like a frail boat on a tidal wave. I looked down in horror at the horse’s thrusting neck, the force that was whipping up the storm. The car’s engine sprang to life. Loubna thundered across the sandy enclosure, jumped sideways and thudded to a halt with four hooves at once. I lurched backward, clinging to whatever I could lay my hands on. Straightening up my riding helmet, I hoped no one would see us as I tried to recover from our breathtaking trot, but the horse began to whinny in loud fits and starts. Strolling arm in arm down the path, von Bötticher and the blonde stopped in their tracks. He looked at me with his twisted face. ‘Get off her, Janna. Take her to the pasture and wait for Heinz.’

      I slid from Loubna’s back and led her away through the loose sand. Heinz turned the car around. The young sabreurs were still sitting in the back seat. I took a closer look and saw they were completely identical.

      -

      6

      The mother must have been stunningly beautiful once. Now she was less sure of her charms, though she fluttered her eyelashes as she sipped her wine and held her head like a porcelain trinket on her thin, bejewelled neck. Empty cigarette holder

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