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He blows out the candles, all except one, which he carries upstairs. The smell of cooked fish still lingers in the house. Yesterday a whale was washed up on the beach at Beverwijk. It was a huge creature, the largest ever measured in that area. The local people were thrown into turmoil. It was an unnatural omen, a portent of disastera monster vomited up by the ocean to punish them for their sins. Cornelis is aware that this is simpleminded. He knows this from his own experience.

Tragedy does not take its cue from natures eruptions; it strikes at random. No shattering mirror caused the death of his first dear wife, Hendrijke, when she was barely forty. No conjunction of the stars caused his two babies to die in infancy. For Cornelis has already lost one family. Like all the bereaved, he knows that the world is senseless. They know this in their hearts, even though they tell others, and themselves, that it is Gods will. He performs his pious duty. Each night he reads to Sophia from the Bible; they bow their heads in prayer. On Sunday he visits his church and she attends a secret Mass, for her religion is tolerated as long as it is celebrated in private. He feels, however, that he is mouthing the words like a fish. His world offers no vocabulary for doubt. He has not admitted it in so many words to himself. All he knows is that loss has weakened rather than reinforced his faith, and the only sure thing to which he can cling lies here in his featherbed. Cornelis enters the bedchamber. Sophia is kneeling in prayer.

This surprises him; he thought she was already in bed. She must have been praying for some time. When she sees him she starts. She crosses herself and climbs up into the bed, where she lies staring at the ceiling. From the beam hangs her paper bridal coronet, dusty now, like a wasps nest. Deep in the bed she sighs and shifts. She exhales the fragrance of youth. Desire warms his old bones; it spreads through his cold, sluggish bloodstream. He undresses, empties his bladder into the chamber pot and pulls on his nightshirt. This bed is his life raft; each night her firm young arms save him from drowning. Sophia lies curled up, her head buried in the pillows. She is pretending to sleep. He blows out the candle and climbs into bed. He pulls up her shift and cups her small breast in his hand. He kneads the nipple. My dear wife, he whispers. He guides her hand down to his shrunken member. My little soldiers dozy tonight. Time to report for duty. Her fingers are clenched. He uncurls them and places them around his flesh; he moves her hand up and down. Time for battle His member stiffens; his breathing grows hoarse. Stand to attention, sir, he mutters; it is a little joke he shares with his wife.

Opening her legs, he eases himself into position. She shudders, briefly, as he pushes himself in. Burying his face in her hair, he cups her buttocks in his hands and presses her against him as the bedsprings creak rhythmically. His breathing quickens as he slides in and out. Minutes pass. As he grows older it takes longer to spill his seed. When he is flagging he remembers an incident from his past; its wickedness never fails to inflame him. He is a boy back in Antwerp and the family maidservant, Grietje, comes to say good night. Suddenly she lifts her skirts and puts his hand between her legs.