Johannes Vermeer's Baker

1932, contemporary period, the north of Belgium. Josepha van Rijsewijk is born in a Flemish village, dreary yet agreeable. Her parents come from a long line of confectioners originating in the Netherlands. They prepare dragées. These small, cylindrical sweets, traditionally offered at christenings, are made of chocolate or almond and coated with a hard candy shell.

At the age of eighteen, Josepha drops out of school and leaves the family home.

She has found a job in a confectionery located on Chaussée de Wavre, in Brussels. Soon, she introduces the family dragées into the store's inventory. Thirty years later, she takes over the business and moves into the apartment adjacent to the shop. Placid, fond of her profession, Josepha retains a clientele appreciative of quality.

Time goes by.

Her parents come from a long line of confectioners.

Here is Josepha at the age of seventy-two. She reads romance novels all day long in her kitchen. Tiny bells tied to the confectionery door announce the arrival of customers. Upstairs lives Vincent Rompuy. Around forty, unemployed, he does Josepha's housework once a week, for a small fee. Actually, he switches on the vacuum cleaner and browses through a magazine while the machine is running, barely tidying up the place. Josepha pretends not to notice the precarious arrangement.

One autumn, due to a nasty cold, she remains in bed for two weeks. The timing is bad: it is October and christenings occur one after another in that part of the world. Confronted with a closed door where they had got their supply for decades, the clientele make do with the supermarket's offerings. Back to work without having fully recovered, Josepha ends up passing away, bent over the counter next to a bag of chocolate dragées. Having no children, she leaves everything to Vincent Rompuy, who organizes a basic funeral. The last thing to do is to empty the apartment. After checking the place out and taking the money spotted in a cookie jar, he calls a professional.

This is where we meet Olivier Lescault, native of Brussels, married, and young father of five. His wife, Celeste, refurbishes and sells used furniture. The family is close, even if they have frequent difficulties making ends meet. For this reason, even though it's late, Olivier agrees to clear out the apartment the night that Rompuy calls—the latter wishes to terminate the lease without delay.

Olivier glances through the kitchen, then inspects the bedroom. The home furnishings and contents are worthless. He has no time to lose, but, feeling tired, he sits on the bed for a brief moment. That is when the two paintings hanging on the wall catch his eye. The connoisseur stares at the compositions carefully, their faded yet warm tones, the harmony, the serenity emerging from the sober scenes: a woman slicing bread, a back alley. They look like good Vermeer copies—not the most famous pictures, but definitely old. Olivier contemplates getting a nice amount of money for them.

Meanwhile, Rompuy is running out of patience. Unquestionably, the old hag could not have owned anything interesting. Olivier empties the place. It is late when he finally gets home, but the art lover in him, who is never fatigued, opens his encyclopedia at the letter V. He sighs. He was wrong. The pictures look like Vermeers, but neither corresponds to any painting made by the artist. Still, they are not any less gorgeous. A sudden urge causes Olivier to remove a bit of dust packed in a corner. Underneath it, he recognizes the great Master's signature. Considerably bewildered, Olivier realizes that these are unknown Vermeers, despite a significant anomaly: the compositions look to be a hundred years old at most, and not three centuries.

During the following days, Olivier Lescault's discovery stirs up passions. Art critics, curators, and journalists debate with each other. The verdict is unanimous: the pieces are authentic. They are placed on the market. Olivier and Celeste, now having a gigantic fortune, leave for a well-deserved vacation with their children.

***

1632, late Renaissance, Holland. Johannes Vermeer is born in a quiet and luminous town called Delft. He dies forty-three years later after a tumultuous life, leaving behind his widow, their eleven children, and forty-two masterworks. Alone and left without resources to raise the family, Catharina Vermeer sells some of the canvases. Unfortunately for her, they will not garner the fabulous earnings that we know for another two hundred years. The widow also gives paintings to the storekeepers the couple incurred debts to. This is how two pieces are presented to the baker Cornelis van Rijsewijk, who hangs them on his wall. The compositions pass into van Rijsewijk culture and become an emotional heritage, conscientiously handed down from one generation to another of bakers, pastry chefs, then confectioners.

The van Rijsewijks have no idea of the monetary treasure they possess. Nevertheless, they care about the paintings enough to one day cover them with a coat of homemade, transparent sugar, protecting them in a unique and efficient way from the ravages of time.

Based on events not yet known

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The Loquacious Cookie

Ceylan and I had moved right by Chinatown, a true blessing for stay-at-home people like us. We developed the habit of eating at the Moose Garden on Saturday evenings. This fundamentally Asian restaurant had made an attempt to sound local, but I thought that the two words did not combine that well.

It was the closest option. Across the boulevard, we would have officially been inside Chinatown, but we were by all means satisfied, and did not feel the need to vary. The staff knew us, and, since we always had a soup as starters, they arranged bowls and spoons on our table before we even ordered. At the end of the meal, we received a fortune cookie. It disclosed a thought, After winter comes spring, or a prediction, A surprise is waiting for you at home, in red letters.

In the street parallel to our eatery's, I had once noticed a sign for another Chinese restaurant, located on the second floor of a building. The back alley, deserted, hosted mainly warehouses. I suggested to Ceylan we give it a try when the Moose Garden team took their annual vacation.

I had once noticed a sign for another Chinese restaurant.

A menu brightened up the hall, at the bottom of a flight of stairs. We glanced at it, then walked up the stairs. Ceylan opened the door. It looked more like a family's dining room than a restaurant. Six or seven tables covered with oilcloth furnished a quirky, sparsely decorated space. The windows, on the street side, were too high to look through. Two Asian couples occupied the center table. Tiny children played next to them, their cheeks red with agitation.

A young woman with a luminous smile placed us underneath the windows. At the end of a delicious meal, our hostess brought the bill as well as the amusing treats. I was enjoying mine when my partner blurted out:

“The food is as tasty as at the other place, but I wouldn't say the sayings are more relevant!”

He handed me his note, which said: You love your job enormously. However, for a few months now, Ceylan's work conditions had degenerated to the point that he was searching for something else. As for me, I had: You receive a new piece of clothing. At the same moment, the couple next to us jumped for joy. They ordered a nightcap and raised a toast. Back at home, I slid the notes inside the buffet drawer. There, we kept all sorts of souvenirs, movie tickets, pictures, sweet notes to glue in our love book.

The week was a busy one. Ceylan got an interview on Tuesday and received a positive answer the following Friday. Delighted, he took me to the Moose Garden, which had reopened. We made full use of the menu, ordering more dishes than usual.

Two weeks later, I was treating myself to a pajama evening at home. Diana Krall's voice kept me company. Ceylan was at his accordion lesson. Between two reading sessions, I began updating our love book. I was holding a handful of fortune cookie slips when it hit me. A colleague had just given me a dress found in her closet, never worn. You receive a new piece of clothing. As to Ceylan, now, yes, he pretty much adored his job. A feeling of confusion passed through me. I discussed it with my beloved upon his arrival. Devoured by curiosity, we returned to the modest eatery the following day.

We found out that from Someone in your family congratulates you to You will suffer from a slight flu, including You run into your favorite actress, all the predictions came true within fifteen days. What should we do? Tell the story to our friends? Call the media? We could already imagine the little dining room on the news, famous worldwide, emptied of its magic. Finally, we decided to keep the secret.

One night, euphoria turned into nightmare. My fortune said You and your partner die together, tragically but painlessly. Ceylan's message was identical. Should we call the police? Consult a paranormal specialist? Was this how we would live the last two weeks of our lives, in fear and uncertainty?

We borrowed money from the bank and organized a spectacular gathering. Ceylan paid for the party venue and the hotel rooms to accommodate our families and friends. I bought the plane tickets for my relatives residing in Italy. We had purchased rings and told everyone that we had gotten married on a whim. Afterwards, we announced that we were going on a honeymoon for a few weeks, instead of which, we stayed at home with no telephone and no Internet, loving each other by day and watching movies by night. On the living room table, we left a document explaining the whole thing. This stage, extremely intense, flew by extremely fast.

From now on, we expected death any moment. Every minute, every second was more precious than the previous one. We lived huddled together, mixing kisses with tears, whispering loving words.

Death was not coming.

Soon our friends would try to contact us, expecting us to be back from our trip. Our employers would run out of patience—we had said that a person close to us was about to die, which was not false. Days went by.

After four weeks, we left our nest, holding hands, admiring the sun flooding the blue sky as an undreamed promise of life. We walked to the place where it had all begun. It was closed in the early morning. We knocked and the young woman opened the door.

“Me so happy see you! Am sorry, sorry,” she said.

“Ah, so you know about it?”

“Yes! We make fortune cookies here, in house basement. Cookies have power, because here, before, dead people. Text inscribes itself.”

“You don't pick the text?”

“That's it. Machine downstairs, write on its own. Funny, hehe!”

Yes, well, mildly funny as far as we were concerned.

“One month ago, client gives address on Internet to make famous miracle cookies. Spirit wants to scare and tell everyone die. You came before we understand. Sorry!”

But we were not sorry. Overjoyed, we kissed the little lady and savored that wonderful day, the one of our coming back to life. We kept going to Asian restaurants, but without opening the cookies.

Apologies for giving the lady a broken English!

photo © ://unsplash.com/photos/68pAObb_lSg

The Datebook

I was wandering around the narrow streets of the Corso when I noticed an elegant shop, slightly set back between two brick houses.
I had a little time before meeting Carella and looked at the window display. An arrangement of notebooks and pens lay on red velvet. I would soon need a new daily planner. How about getting it here, as a souvenir of my vacation? The bell jangled as I came in. A thin man, who was wearing an elegant suit, arrived from a room at the back of the store.

“Si, signore? Sir?”
“Voglio guardare un po, per favore.”
“Si, si, signore! Vorrei qualcosa precisa?”
“Voglio un agenda.”

I had practiced the Italian language with tenacity before leaving. Despite that, my interlocutor assumed I was French. Therefore, I was eligible for considerations regarding the country, its gastronomy, and Parisian fashion. I did not comment and gazed at the shopkeeper, who might have been sixty years old. He was hunchbacked; his black, straight hair formed a shining helmet over his ears.

I noticed an elegant shop, slightly set back between two brick houses.

He carried on after this introduction and said that he possessed a vast collection of datebooks. I expected to find a full shelf of faded planners, a few years outdated, in keeping with the stationery shop's outmoded atmosphere. Why did I end up thinking that way? As a matter of fact, I was used to king-sized stores, lit like hospital rooms. I started looking at the datebooks.

After a few moments, the man came toward me and asked this question:

“Would you like one day per day?”

Blaming his poor French, I translated to myself: “one page per day.” I write down a lot of things, and I'm always carrying a pad from which pages fall, along with bills half covered by my writing. One page per day—why not? Why not two pages per day?

“Two days per day, signore, it is even better.”
The merchant leaned his head and smiled connivingly.
“Two days per day ... The gentleman is a connoisseur. It costs more.”
“It's okay, I don't mind.”

I arrived a little late for my appointment, supplied with a magnificent leather planner, grained with minuscule bumps. 

Later, as we were visiting another city, and as I was getting used to the country and its currency, I realized that I had paid a prodigious amount for the piece. Europe had not switched to the single currency yet, and I had not calculated how much it was. A single drink was already worth around four thousand liras, so I was not paying attention to zeroes more or less.



When I returned from my trip, I put away the planner in one of my office drawers and forgot about it. I almost even bought another one at the beginning of December. The new year was coming closer; I dug out my acquisition and wrote down my schedule and meetings on the appropriate pages. I decided that, since I had two pages per day, I would use the one on the right for the day's events and the one on the left for my personal thoughts.

January 1 fell on a Sunday. I had refrained from partying, settling for my favorite movie and a delicious meal. On Monday I walked to work, in order to savor the new year's mysterious atmosphere. The streets were unusually quiet. Perhaps I should have opened at noon. I unlocked the store's door, turned on the lights, and put on a Leo Reisman record.

My employees were not showing up. Upset, I called one of them. A sleepy voice answered.
“Hello?”
“Clement? It's Bruno, your boss. You're supposed to be working today!”
“What? Come on, Bruno, it is January first! It's a vacation!”
“January first was yesterday. Today is Monday, January second.”
“Listen, Bruno, I don't know what’s got in to you, but I am not coming to work today. I went to bed three hours ago, after celebrating New Year’s at the same time as half the planet. Now I'm wishing you a beautiful year, and I'm telling you: see you tomorrow.”
And he hung up.

I wasn't too sure anymore. Rather than waking up another one of my colleagues, I called the shopping mall's security services. After many rings, someone confirmed that we were on January 1. So much for living the life of a recluse! I had lost count of the days during my vacation. I closed the store and decided to buy myself a cappuccino in order to cheer me up. But, of course, I couldn't find anything open along the way and ended up going straight home.

Perhaps I should have opened at noon.

The following day, I repeated what I had done the day before, and this time my employees were present. I laughed about it with Clement; after all, I owed him for waking them up, him and his spouse. We mostly had elderly customers, because we offered them a discount on Mondays.

I was not the only one who had blurred the passage to the new year, because on Tuesday, several clients asked for their markdown. One of them got angry, and I gave him the rebate, suspecting him to be confused. However, when my sales assistant offered the discount in turn, I stepped in.
“Hey there, François! Today is Tuesday.”

He looked at me, puzzled. He concluded the transaction and told me that I was one day in advance. I checked the cash receipts. Indeed, they indicated Monday, January 2. What was going on? Was I overburdened? Anxiety was crawling inside me, but I did not reveal it. In the evening, I sipped a few drinks and fell asleep on the sofa, wondering if I was becoming psychotic, since I hallucinated events up to their tiniest details.


The day after, we all agreed that we were on Tuesday, January 3. Relieved, I treated the team to chocolate.

   
The fourth, I was expecting Alison, since Clement was off on Wednesdays. Nevertheless, when he turned up I did not panic. Alison had probably extended her vacation, and my autonomous and methodical assistants had dealt with it on their own. It still deserved an observation.
“You know that I trust you, Clement, but I would like to be informed of schedule switches.”

He made a condescending face, which I found particularly unpleasant, and assured me that we were not on Wednesday, but Tuesday. Conscious that my sanity was drifting away, I said:
“Right. I have a splitting headache; I'd rather go. Will you be okay?”
“Of course”, said Clement.
“Call me if you need anything.”
“Don't worry, Bruno.”
Without further ado, I unhooked my coat and walked out. The fresh air invigorated me, and I considered seeing a psychiatrist or a neurologist. At home, I prepared a cup of coffee and started searching for a therapist. Perhaps they would recommend a brain scan.

The voice on the line was pleasant and peaceful. I had opted for a woman, expecting, perhaps with sexism, that she'd be more open to alternative diagnoses to dementia. She had an opening the same day at three thirty. I wrote down the address in my datebook on the left page of the current date.
That's when it hit me. The raven-haired man at the Italian stationery shop. Two days per day. I remembered the astronomical amount paid for the planner. I would not go to the therapist.
I quickly understood that only the second day mattered, while the first one was some sort of a draft. I could do anything every other day, without any consequences, as long as I counted properly.

Of course, I bought a lottery ticket. After winning, I submitted a request for an unpaid leave to the shop owners. I flew to Italy and returned to the little town of Cosenza, in Calabria. I passed by the cathedral and walked around the Corso, recalling that day's itinerary when I had met with Carella. I inquired with the locals and searched for several days; I never located the stationery shop.

On the other hand, it turned out to be a fabulous year.

Photos © https://unsplash.com/photos/SWiyd1T1sTk & https://unsplash.com/photos/c9FQyqIECds

Bad Radio

Every Sunday during the blues program, Rey writes. He likes blues so much that he always switches on two radios: one in the office and one in the living room. Therefore, he doesn't miss a note, even if he changes rooms.

When the show is over, he switches off the set within his reach and automatically starts upon hearing the other one.

As on every Sunday, tonight, the writer forgets the second radio. Surprise! Fats Waller sings in the parlor. Rey turns the office radio back on. It broadcasts ads. Puzzled, he heads to the other room. Has interference modified the frequency? No, the little white line covers the right number. Rey delicately twists the button to the left, then to the right. Despite the fact that the marker passes every number, it's always Fats Waller's jovial voice and his bittersweet musical style.

That's it; he got duped. Last week, Rey fell in love with this transistor radio of the sixties, which from now on replaces the one in the living room. Stubby, appealing, the set has three big dials on its base. Rey owns a jammed radio, but at least it shows good taste. He's about to go back to work when the song ends.

A cold and authoritarian voice declares:

“We must first kill him.”

Interested, Rey sits on the sofa.

“We do it now, and it's all set. Clear?”

A nervous voice replies to the first:

“Yes, Budward.”

“Hide behind the curtains, I'll be inside the bathroom. When he gets back, you stay put while I walk out and shoot. At that moment only, you turn up, and you finish the job.”

“Okay, okay. Are you sure I have to fire, too?” says the nervous one.

“Listen to me, Fons. It's your decision, and you'd better settle at once. If you're gonna chicken out, get out right now, but don't come begging afterwards. So, what's it gonna be?”

“You can count on me, Bud.”

“Fine. Now quiet!”

Rey holds his breath, promising himself to occasionally replace the television series he watches with this kind of program.

At this point, the radio does not produce any sound; neither dialogue nor music. Only the silence, increasingly oppressive. Perhaps the device had stopped working? As Rey stands up, he does not know that he's the one about to stop working. A man emerges from the bathroom, quick as lightning, wielding a gun. One would swear a criminal from a film noir, with his dark suit, his white shirt, and hat. Rey freezes, stupefied, and then perceives a rustle. Fons emerges, ready to close with his target.

A brutal explosion deafens the writer. They fired both at the same time. Rey slumps and his head hits the ground. A mix of blood and cerebrospinal liquid pour on the floor. Slowly, he sinks into the unconsciousness that will lead him to death. The two gangsters vanish into thin air; things are back to normal. The radio broadcasts Rey's funeral hymn in the shape of an ad for a pizza delivery company.

photo © https://unsplash.com/photos/dleZCEQaWkY

A Candy-Red Brooch

It’s true that Régine has a tendency to worry.

Checking in on her seventeen-year-old son because he’s cooking on his own? I question my friend: 

“Does he sometimes forget to turn off the stovetop?” 

“No, he is very attentive,” she responds.

However, knowing myself, I would probably react the same way if I had children.

That day, our stroll combines with a mission – to find Mila, Régine’s daughter, a Halloween costume. The fifteen-year-old gave us only two options:  pirate, or magician. I like that despite her young age, she thinks beyond female clichés. While I appreciate this particular personality trait, I notice that other facets of this youngster torment her mother. As we wander around the store, Régine photographs the costumes and then endures her daughter’s blasé responses via text messages. I mess around hiding the price tags as I suspect Mila’s disdain may stem from their bargain value. As time goes by, I try to convince them both to make a choice in order to fulfill our mandate.

Taking advantage of the situation, we chat happily between findings. We piece together a lovely ensemble composed of a long dress, a star-spangled hat and a cute little cauldron to hold the candies in.

Mila will be surrounded by several classmates while trick or treating. Despite that fact, Régine confides her intent to follow the group from a reasonable distance. She specifies that her daughter has agreed, which surprises me.  Perhaps the teenager feels the same fears as her mother, unless without admitting it, she likes knowing she’s close by.

“Why don’t you disguise yourself as well?” I say to my friend. “This way, you will be reassured and Mila’s schoolmates will not recognize you.”

But Régine is not certain she will carry on with her plan.

The next day, a soft wind agitates the candles inside the pumpkins, and the spider webs fixed to the walls. Groups of colorful children crisscross the neighborhood, mostly accompanied by an adult. Phosphorescent elves escort mischievous princesses. Tiny werewolves ring at doors, suddenly intimidated as they recite their text. Mila’s group includes seven teens aged between fourteen and sixteen. Behind them trots a sickly witch, half leaning on her poor broom. Her black dress drags on the ground, while a wide-brimmed hat hides her face. She could have made an effort, thinks Mila. Not only is she the only one burdened with a parent, but on top of that, her mother has no style. At least, she won’t be recognized. Also, she will carry the treats. Luckily, my own costume fits me perfectly, thinks the teenager, as she admires her little cleavage sculpted in pink. 

As the evening ends, the group begins to disperse, one home at a time. Mathias firmly holds Mila’s hand with his bear paw. His full honey pot rivals his girlfriend’s harvest. He will escort her back to her place. What better than a delicious kiss on chocolate covered lips?

“Never mind, I am going home with my mother,” Mila lets out. “Do you see that creature there, further away?”

Mathias notices a funny looking person immobilized a few feet from them.

“Don’t you want me to say hello?” he asks.

“No way, it’s too embarrassing. Good night.”

“I’ll call you later!” says Mathias, full of hope.

Mila gets closer to the witch. She gives her the cauldron and starts walking again. Entranced in the memories of the evening, she doesn’t feel like talking. Lucien . . . Mathias . . .  And on top of it, her costume overshadowed that of Chloe! It is only once she reaches the lighted pathway of her home that the young girl turns around. The witch is gone. The cauldron lays on the sidewalk. A bright object among the sweets draws the young girl’s attention. She squats and picks up a red brooch, which she looks over with much curiosity. There’s no doubt, this is Grandma’s brooch. Deeply touched, Mila feels an uncommon bond with her mother: gratitude. She wanted this brooch. Régine claimed not to have found it.

She misses her grandmother so much. Four weeks already. Mila pins the jewel on her cleavage. Super-beautiful, she thinks when the front door suddenly opens.

“Sweetheart!” exclaims her mother. “Here you are, safe and sound!”

“Yes Mommy,” responds Mila in a sob. “Grandma watched over me.”

Photo © https://unsplash.com/photos/2Ni0lCRF9bw

Translated by Anna Di Vito 💗

Moment of Time

The red-haired woman stepped inside the store and headed straight toward the cash register. After greeting us, she laid a box on the counter and unwrapped a hideous bauble. I recognized one of our golden clocks.

Everything in it symbolized bad taste, from the poorly painted ornamentations to the plastic imitating metal. We had received three of these, one of which had been on display in the window, so they had sold quickly despite their deplorable price-to-quality ratio.

The customer's timepiece did not work well. Apparently, the hands accelerated or decelerated for no reason. Hitting the pane with a nail sufficed to adjust the mechanism, but it did not last. Inserting new batteries had not solved the problem. The customer was hoping to exchange her clock; however, we had run out of them; she was forced to choose something else. The defective item belonged to a low-price batch, and we could not return it to the supplier.

My boss gave it to me, even though the novelty was not our style at all.

“Thanks!” I said. “Marshall is in for a surprise!”

I arrived at the house in the middle of the afternoon and placed my acquisition on the table. I set the hands to 3:15 p.m. I then started to sort pictures that had been stored in a binder for months. My niece's wedding, our vacation in Prague ... Remembrances from our hotel and what we had done there flew toward me like the Vltava river under Charles bridge.

The hands showed only 3:30 p.m. when Marshall came home. I jumped at him and took him to the bedroom for a timely nap. A little later, I asked him why he had been let go so early. I glanced from his puzzled look to the golden clock's pane. It had stopped. Ultimately, instead of surprising my husband, I was hoisted on my own petard. I told him the story, which gave us a good laugh.

The timepiece would have ended in the recycling if we had not invited friends over the following day. Like me, Cosima worked in a store selling decorative accessories. My husband cooked a delicious meal, we shared enthralling conversation—and the item went completely unnoticed. When Geoffroi and Cosima left, my watch showed 11 p.m.; the clock attested merely 8:30 p.m.

During the night, I had an idea that I enacted the next morning. First, I sat in a comfortable armchair with a book by Angela Huth. How delightful! After about forty pages, I glanced at the bauble. The second hand appeared almost motionless. Indeed, I had not noticed the time passing.

Then I took an apron, vinegar, and wipes and got down to cleaning. Scrubbing the bathroom seemed to last for hours. As soon as I was done, I rushed to the living room: the hands turned at full speed.

The timepiece worked perfectly, but it represented the psychological time. What would we do with it? Would my love discover how much science fiction bored me? Would we exchange conniving glances when certain family members declared that our clock was fast? Too bad it was so ugly, I thought, as I put it away in the closet.






Published in the Dark Lane Quarterly Collaborative anthology

Photo © https://fr.best-wallpaper.net/Many-watches-alarm-clocks-time-counter_wallpapers.html