Chapter 42 The Author's House
The train ride to the author’s neighborhood felt longer than it should have, though Clara knew it was not. The city grew quieter as they went, buildings less busy, streets more plain. This was not the Amsterdam of postcards. It was real, lived-in, and somehow right for the moment.
Clara watched the scenery pass by the window, her faint reflection floating over it. She could feel the day moving forward, each stop bringing them closer to something she could not yet name. Not exactly fear. More like anticipation mixed with doubt.
Her mother sat beside her, hands folded neatly in her lap. Peter stood close by, one hand on the overhead rail, the other sometimes brushing the strap of Clara’s bag as the train rocked. None of them talked much. There was nothing left to practice.
When they stepped off, the air felt cooler, heavier. The street they walked down was narrow and full of houses that seemed to lean in, as if curious about who was coming. Clara slowed her steps without meaning to, her breath tightening just enough to remind her that excitement always had a price.
“You okay?” Peter asked quietly.
She nodded. “Just… taking it in.”
They stopped in front of a tall, narrow house with dark windows and a door marked by small scratches of age. It did not look like the home of someone whose words had traveled the world. If anything, it looked like a place that had forgotten the rest of the world.
Peter raised his hand and knocked.
Nothing happened.
He knocked again, a little harder. Inside, there was movement, shuffling feet, a low voice, something falling to the floor with a dull sound. Clara looked at her mother.
The door finally opened. A young man stood there with tired eyes and fingers stained with ink. He blinked at them, clearly not expecting visitors.
“Yes?” he asked.
“We’re here to see—” Peter started.
“I know,” the man cut in, stepping aside. “You’re early. Or late. I’m not sure which he prefers today.”
They stepped inside, and Clara almost stopped.
Books were everywhere. Not just on shelves, everywhere. Stacked in uneven piles, spread across the floor, leaning against walls, falling off tables and chairs. Papers covered other papers, some typed, some handwritten, some crossed out so hard the ink soaked through. The air smelled faintly of dust and old coffee.
“It’s… something,” Peter said carefully.
The assistant gave a short laugh. “That’s one way to put it.”
As they walked deeper into the house, Clara felt strange, like she was walking through someone else’s thoughts without asking. This was not mess for show. It was what happened after years of chasing words instead of neatness.
“Watch your step,” the assistant said. “He doesn’t like things moved, even when they block the stairs.”
They reached a sitting room that looked a little more stable than the rest of the house. Only a little. A desk took up most of the space, covered in manuscripts and notebooks. A single chair sat behind it, holding a man who did not look up when they came in.
“Don’t tell me,” the man said, his voice sharp and quick. “If this is another interview request, I already said no.”
The assistant cleared his throat. “They’re here about the girl.”
That made him look up.
The man’s eyes found Clara right away, sharp and measuring, not unkind, but not soft either.
“So,” he said slowly. “You’re the one.”
Clara straightened, ignoring the way her body complained. “I’m Clara.”
He did not answer at once. His gaze moved quickly to Peter, then to Clara’s mother, then back to her. “Sit,” he said, pointing vaguely at a chair half-covered in books. “If you can find one that won’t fall apart.”
As they sat, voices came from somewhere deeper in the house, loud, excited, clearly not Dutch. The author’s face darkened at once.
“No,” he said flatly.
The assistant sighed. “They’re just fans. Young. From America. They’re very excited.”
“I don’t want to meet Americans,” the author said. “They want inspiration without the hard parts. Tell them to leave.”
“They came a long way,” the assistant said gently.
“So did everyone who ever got my work wrong,” the author answered. “Get rid of them.”
The voices grew quieter, blocked by distance and doors. An uncomfortable silence followed.
Clara moved in her seat. The exchange bothered her, not just the way he sent them away, but how easily he did it. As if connection was something he could choose to skip.
The author leaned back and looked at her fully. “You want me to help you tell your story.”
“Yes,” Clara said. “But only if it’s told truthfully.”
One corner of his mouth moved. “Truthfully,” he repeated. “That’s expensive.”
Peter leaned forward a little. “She’s not looking to be protected.”
“No one ever is,” the author said coolly. “Until they see what protection really costs.”
Clara felt a chill even though the room was warm. This was not going to be easy teamwork. It was going to be a trade.
The author stood suddenly and walked to the window. “I’ll listen,” he said over his shoulder. “But understand this, stories don’t save people. They show them.”
He turned back, his eyes sharp. “And showing has consequences.”
Clara met his gaze, her heartbeat steady despite the warning.
Outside, the street stayed quiet. Inside, something had started.
And there was no stopping it now.