Free Tulip Fever by Deborah Moggach Page A

slippery it is! “See how wet you’ve made me?” she groans. “Something tells me you’re a big boy. . . . Got a surprise for me in there?”
    With fast, expert fingers she unlaces Willem’s breeches and slides her hand inside. His member is standing up stiff and strong. “Fuck me!” she gasps. Her surprise sounds genuine. His member is indeed enormous. When he was younger it had embarrassed him, this great heavy thing rearing up, but now he feels a certain innocent pride in it. “Funny puppy’s face,” she says. “You’d never guess it . . . what a truncheon!”
    She strokes it; her breath quickens. He, too, can hardly bear it. He is trembling; in a moment he will spurt through her fingers.
    “Aren’t I the lucky girl tonight,” she murmurs.
    “How much?” This is what a man should ask.
    “A joystick like yours, I’ll do you for free.”
    She lays him on his back, hoists up her skirts and starts to mount him. Then she pauses. “Oh-oh, nature calls,” she says. “Must have a piss; be back in a moment.” She climbs off him, bends down and gives it a kiss. “Now, you stay there, you big bad boy.”
    The door closes. Her footsteps patter away down the passage.
    Willem lies there, throbbing. His confused brain can hardly remember what has happened tonight. Maria? She is lost to him now. The bed gently rocks on the swell of his inebriation. He feels seasick, but not unpleasantly so. He has joined the men now; soon he will be inside her hot little kut and he can do what he likes with her, nothing will surprise her. He gazes down his body. Sturdily, in eager anticipation, the crimson head rears up.
    I’ll do you for free . His heart swells. If Maria could see him now! A tough little whore and she’s going to do him for nothing. That’s the sort of man Maria has spurned. He lies there, grinning. Aren’t I the lucky girl tonight!
    Maybe he should give her a tip, to show his appreciation. He rummages in his jerkin.
    Later he remembers this moment. The rhythmic thumps against the wall, the muffled giggles. The ceiling beam that smites his head when he jumps up.

    WILLEM IS DOWNSTAIRS, back in the tavern. Laughter roars; the violin scrapes gratingly. Reddened faces leer at him as he pushes through the crowd.
    He grabs the tavern keeper. “Where’s she gone?” he yells.
    “Who’re you talking about?”
    “That zakkeroller ! She’s stolen my purse!”
    “Never seen her.” The man pulls away. “Excuse me.”
    “Where’s her brother?”
    “Who?”
    He isn’t her brother, of course. “They’ve stolen my money!” he screams.
    “Who’re you accusing?”
    A fist punches Willem’s chin, pushing his head into his chest. The room reels. Somebody seems to be laughing— how could they laugh? Willem falls awkwardly to the floor, pulling a chair with him. Feet kick him and now he feels himself being dragged out of the door, his back bumping over the steps, dragged out into the cold street. He’s yanked to his feet.
    “Get out of here, you scum!”
    Somebody hits him again, hard across the face. He buckles with the pain; his nose is bursting. He tries to shield his face but his arms are wrenched back.
    And then he’s being pushed away. He stumbles against the low wall of the canal. Somebody lifts his leg up. Willem tries to kick him off but there are several men now, pushing him.
    He topples over. The water hits him. He splutters and coughs; his lungs fill. The water is freezing; it knocks the air out of his body and now it is closing over his head. He feels himself sinking . . . sinking . . . his clothes dragging him down.

21

    Sophia
Put a curb upon thy desires if thou wouldst not fall into some disorder.
    —JACOB CATS, QUOTING ARISTOTLE
    I get home only just in time. In the kitchen I hang up Maria’s shawl and cap—she is asleep—and bundle her clothes back into the chest. Thank God there are no other servants in the house. Just then, far off, I hear the front door slam.
    I race upstairs in my