Work Text:
“Hey, Maarten, are you closing up?”
Jolting, Maarten blinked at the voice behind him. He turned on his saddle chair to find Søren leaning against the doorway of his workspace.
“What?” he asked him.
“I’m going home. Can you lock up?”
“Sure,” Maarten replied absently.
Søren shook his head while he looked at the painting behind him. It took up almost the whole wall of the small space and was taller than Maarten.
“Your girlfriend’s almost finished, huh?”
Maarten glared at him. Søren grinned before lifting a hand and ducking out, calling a goodbye.
He was right, the painting was nearing completion. A life-sized portrait of a woman, Maarten had been chipping away at the piece for months between commissioned works. It was an unusual passion project; he gravitated towards landscapes and still-lives, and when he did portraiture for fun, the subjects were mostly men, as Maarten had no real interest in women despite the joking nickname.
But this painting, of this tall woman with her turquoise dress and dimpled cheeks, had demanded to be painted.
Today, Maarten could finish it. He’d spent all afternoon trying to mix the perfect shade of green, creating swatch after swatch with oil paints and never getting what he wanted. Though the differences were minute, he knew the exact shade this woman’s eyes should be.
Now, with the right hue of deep, mossy green on his brush, Maarten bent forward and filled it in.
Still wet, the woman’s eyes glinted in the bright lights. As if she were alive.
“Finally,” Maarten breathed. Taking a step back, he looked at the whole piece.
He’d painted a vague background; rolling hills and a field of red flowers, the same color as her lips. Many shades of brown had gone into her hair, from copper to dark chocolate, and Maarten had studied photographs of stars from the fifties to get her curls just right where they emerged from a green headband.
“What am I going to do with you?” he wondered aloud.
For now, he just tidied his workspace, and left the painting in the shared studio when he locked up to bike home through the summer evening. It’d still be there tomorrow.
Although Maarten had strange dreams filled with green eyes and red flowers, he was in a good mood when he arrived at the studio in the morning. On the outskirts of the old city center, it was a small but open space above a bakery, where he picked up a croissant. He held it in his mouth as he unlocked the door.
There were some half-finished projects out; one of Simão’s mosaics, a model Søren had built out of Lego. Trying not to get crumbs anywhere, Maarten checked his phone while he crossed the floor to his workspace.
He looked up, and froze.
“What…”
Behind him, the main door opened. Maarten whirled around to find Søren and Simão entering, chatting amicably.
“Good morning!” Søren greeted.
“Is it?” he asked through clenched teeth. Søren shrugged while Simão narrowed his eyes.
“What’s up?”
“What’s up—look!” Maarten gesticulated at his painting of the mysterious woman—or, rather, the lack of it.
Not the whole painting. The canvas was still there, the hills and flowers, but the woman was gone, as if he hadn’t spent months laboring over details. As if she’d wandered off.
“You painted over your girlfriend?” Simão asked, perplexed. He knew the time Maarten had spent on this. They all did.
“She was here yesterday,” Søren said. And, when Maarten glared, “You don’t think we did anything? I might be an ass, but I’d never touch anyone else’s work!”
Simão nodded vigorously.
“I know.” Maarten’s shoulders sagged. Although a prank would be the easiest explanation—and Søren was prone to those—it didn’t make sense. He knew this was the exact background he’d painted, recognized every brushstroke and shade. The empty spot where the woman had been looked like he’d painted it himself. But it couldn’t be, because the subject couldn’t just have walked off the canvas.
“There’s something here.”
Jumping, all three men looked at the other side of the room, where Matthew stood by the emergency exit. None of them had heard him enter.
Maarten hurried over, and Matthew pointed at several fresh-looking drops of paint on the floor. They led to the door, and were turquoise, the same shade as the woman’s dress. Which hadn’t been wet for weeks.
Frowning, Maarten opened the door.
He emerged onto the roof of a neighboring building, looking out over the city. Immediately, he spotted her. Her hair really was all those shades of brown, glinting gold in the sunlight and moving in the breeze. The turquoise dress rippled around her knees. She turned to Maarten, who had frozen in shock.
“You said you didn’t have a model!” Søren said accusingly behind him, only to be shushed by Matthew.
“Who… Are you?” Maarten asked, slowly stepping forward. His heart beat in his throat.
The woman, the woman he had painted and who was now real, smiled with those red lips. One cheek dimpled just as in the painting. She had freckles. Maarten feared he knew the position of every single one. They were very annoying to render in oil paint.
“It’s good to see you,” she breathed.
“Wh-why are you Belgian?” Maarten blurted. The accent was unmistakable.
The woman pursed her lips and put her hands on her hips, which made Maarten feel like a boy getting scolded.
“I mean—” He hadn’t been thinking she was Belgian when he painted her. It seemed oddly specific.
Of course, that wasn’t the most pertinent question, but it was easier to address than how his painting had come alive.
“I’m Maarten,” he offered, unsure what else to say.
“Maarten? That’s possible.” She shook her head but continued, “I’m Manon, then.”
“You are.” He’d never told anyone, but she’d been Manon from the first brushstroke. “I might’ve… Created you.”
“Perhaps.” Manon stepped forward. Touched his shoulder.
She felt sun-warmed and real, and smelled sweet rather than like paint. Like pastries, or chocolate. Her eyes were just as green as he’d painted them last night. Eyes that green were rare. In fact, the only time he’d come across that exact shade was… On himself.
“Or, maybe,” she continued, red lips curling, “I should already have been here, Netherlands.”
That might be scarier—and was she really calling him Netherlands because he wasn’t Belgian?
Maarten quickly touched the hand clasping his shoulder, meeting her eye.
“I guess we’ll find out,” he said, because whoever, whatever she was, she was his responsibility. Good thing that painting hadn’t been commissioned. It’d be hard to explain how a Belgian woman had escaped from the canvas.
Why was she Belgian, though?
There was no guide for what to do when your artwork came alive.
Simão was telling Søren and Matthew about some myth when Maarten took the woman inside. Manon blinked at the three men as if trying to remember who they were. Rather than lingering there, they went over to her painting. She ghosted her fingertips over the brushstrokes.
“Do you remember being… There?” Maarten asked. The field of flowers looked endless without her.
“Not exactly. But there’s something.” She wrapped her arms around herself, staring into the middle distance. “I remember you. I remember… It’s hard to say. But somehow, you’ve always been there.”
Did that mean she’d already existed somewhere and Maarten had summoned her here? Was there a hole in reality where she had been? He hadn’t anticipated this, going into art.
“I would’ve liked to see the painting. You’re a professional artist?”
“I am. Spent a long time working in sales, but I make enough from art now.”
“Tiens, who’d have guessed that, after you immediately started selling Spain weapons during the Twelve Years’ Truce!”
“I needed money!” Maarten replied, feeling a well-worn irritation wash over him. Manon’s eyes widened while he blinked in confusion. For a moment, he envisioned her in a Golden Age noblewoman’s getup, hair hidden under an elaborate headpiece, as if he’d painted her that way—he swore he could smell the ingredients he would’ve used to make his oil paints back then. He probably would have used something toxic in search of the right pigment for her eyes.
“You’re still here,” she said now. “And I’m here too. And I think we need to figure out why.”
Maarten ended up taking her home, through Delft on the back of his bike. She was silent, one arm wrapped around his middle.
“Are you alright?” he asked her when they stopped in front of his houseboat.
“It’s different,” she shrugged, “but I feel like it’s been more different before.” Then, not elaborating on that cryptic statement, she seemed to notice where they were. “Maarten, how fitting! You’ve always been fond of sailing.”
“Have I?” He had been, but she couldn’t know.
She smiled. “Yes.”
“Well, this boat isn’t going anywhere.” He gestured her down the gangway and inside. “You can stay here for now.”
“For free?” she joked.
“You’re my responsibility.”
Maarten watched her walk around his living room, water gently lapping at the walls. She looked at his souvenirs, books and flowers, and he wondered if she recognized any of it.
“Do you want to go to Belgium?” he asked her, as she was inspecting his guidebooks. He didn’t have one about Belgium; it always seemed unnecessary.
Looking up, Manon slowly nodded.
“Okay. We can take the train to Antwerp, I guess?” Part of Maarten balked at the thought of spending money on an unnecessary train ride, but it might help them figure out who Manon was—who she seemed to think he was. He took out his phone to check for tickets.
Manon sat down on the couch next to him and watched curiously.
“56 euros…” he muttered. “Times two.” He should’ve painted her some cash. Sure, he could afford it. That didn’t mean he enjoyed it. Manon elbowed him teasingly.
“Money must roll,” she said, in an exaggerated Dutch accent. Maarten was startled into laughter.
He had to put in their names, and used his own surname for her; after all, they looked like they could be related. Hopefully, no one would ask for Manon’s passport.
“Maarten Koopman,” she read. “Merchant? Oh, I’ve told you, that’s too on the nose a surname!”
“I can’t help my dad’s surname.”
“You have parents!” Manon exclaimed.
“Everyone has those—”
“Any siblings?”
“I—” He looked at her. “No.”
“Well, I think that might have changed.”
“That’s not how that works.”
“Maarten, I came out of a painting. If I say I’m your sister, I’m your sister.”
“Can I be the elder sibling?” he asked her, and she bopped him on the head.
Later, after they ate dinner together, Manon had to borrow Maarten’s clothes to sleep in. He promised to take her into the city for clothes, and he drifted off trying to figure out his budget for that. His dreams were full of green eyes.
The next day consisted mostly of Manon charming people with her accent and her easy smiles as they shopped. She insisted on buying more red lipstick, although she seemed overwhelmed by the many choices. Maarten tried to leave her to get undergarments alone, but she seemed to delight in teasing him about his awkwardness so he stubbornly stuck by her. It did feel like being pestered by a sibling, at least if Matthew’s tales about his brother were to be believed.
All three men texted to ask for updates, but Maarten didn’t have much to say, other than they were going to Antwerp tomorrow. In fact, he picked up a little guidebook to the city at the tourist shop and looked through it while Manon tried on clothes.
Maarten thought they were done when she found some nice pieces, but then she started recounting what she would need for her hair, which he knew because he’d done all that research. If only he’d given her a pixie cut. She could have used his hair gel instead.
“You’re going to sink my house with all this,” he complained, carrying some of her bags.
“If your big head hasn’t sunk it, nothing will!” she said cheerily. Maarten sent a mental apology to Matthew for every time he dismissed his complaining about his brother’s teasing.
The train ride to Antwerp went smoothly; no one asked for Manon’s ID and the trains all ran on time. The only odd thing was her suddenly sitting up straight and declaring, “We’re in Belgium now,” which was, as far as Google Maps was concerned, correct, but there was no way she could have known. Maarten decided to just accept it.
This continued in Antwerp, where she seemed more at home than in Delft. He followed her through back alleys until they suddenly emerged onto a busy square bordered by tall, narrow houses; the whole thing looked extremely, indefinably, Belgian.
“It’s different,” Manon said once more, “but it’s also the same.” She looked up at the huge building on the other side of the square, where many flags were flying. The wind carried the smell of the harbor.
Maarten rifled through his guidebook to find out what they were looking at, but he needn’t have bothered.
“City hall,” Manon told him. “It was quite new when you were first here.”
There was a flash before Maarten’s eyes, reminding him of a memory that couldn’t be his. The flags and the statue on the square weren’t there, and he felt exhausted. Manon was wearing that Golden Age dress and standing next to a man who looked a lot like Simão, who was calling Maarten the wrong thing.
“It’s not Holland anymore,” Maarten muttered, squinting against the sun.
“He never did learn,” Manon said brightly. She linked their arms.
Viciously, Maarten thought that he had absolutely learned, he just couldn’t be bothered, but the memory had faded and it stopped making sense again.
“Do you think we can go inside?” Manon was asking.
They couldn’t, and maybe that was for the best. Maarten felt overwhelmed. He kept getting flashes of memories, contextless and not all of them lining up with the seventeenth-century timeline. He read in his guidebook that the Twelve Years’ Truce was signed in this building. Some version of him had been there, but had also been here centuries before and after. Quite often with Manon. He remembered sailing the Scheldt on many ships, meeting Manon and being envious of her, then pitying her. They wandered slowly, Manon evidently lost in thought as well.
Eventually, they made it to the river, next to part of an old fortress that was crawling with tourists.
On some instinct, Maarten wrapped an arm around Manon’s shoulders. She leaned into him, and he imagined that was part of being her brother too.
“I don’t understand,” he said.
A large ship passed by. Maarten had the distinct impression that it shouldn’t have fit, but the Scheldt was wider than he thought. He’d actually been to Antwerp before, but that was quite some time ago, so he had no idea why he thought that. Well, except…
“Are these… Past lives, or something?”
“No,” Manon said softly. “No, just one, although I’ve had many names.” She glanced up with a mischievous smile. “You’ve only had two, yet everyone still got it wrong, Holland.”
“Flanders,” he shot back. She stuck her tongue out. He watched her for a moment, trying to overlay all of those versions of her in his head onto this tall woman with her sparkling eyes and red lipstick. If he had painted her in a Renaissance dress, would she have stepped out speaking archaic Dutch and calling him Holland? Or would she have been the same person in a cumbersome dress? He didn’t create her, he thought. She’d been somewhere.
In a way, that was reassuring. Maarten had no idea what he’d do given the power to create whole human beings, although he could imagine the guys’ crude suggestions.
The man in those memories really looked a lot like Simão. What did that mean?
“Netherlands!” Manon snapped her fingers at him. “Maarten. Sorry.”
“Netherlands is… Also fine.” It didn’t make sense, but it felt right. “As long as it’s not Holland.”
Suddenly, Manon wrapped both arms around him. He slowly embraced her, and for a long moment, they just stood there in the sun.
“You’ve said that thing before,” Maarten mumbled. “That if you say you’re my sister, you are.”
“It’s still true.”
“Yes.” It was true. “That’ll be hard to explain to my mother.”
She hiccupped a laugh, then suddenly disentangled herself and said, “Well, we should go and eat some fries!”
“What?”
“I’m Belgian, aren’t I?”
“Belgium,” he said.
“Belgium,” she agreed with a smile.
They had fries for lunch, and Manon had many opinions.
When they crossed the border again, Maarten felt something too. A frisson at the back of his mind, chattering and buzzing like a living thing. Like the Netherlands, maybe, its way-too-many people all living their lives.
It felt right.
“How was your excursion?” Søren asked when Maarten entered the studio. “And where’s your girlfriend?”
“Sister.”
“That’s not how that works, dude.”
“Turns out it does. Very informative excursion. Manon will be by later.”
Delft wasn’t a hugely important city when it came to history with Belgium, but she might have been here in that other life, and something might stir in her memory. Maybe something that could tell her if they should somehow be those people again. If there were others. Maarten looked at Søren, who grinned.
“If she’s your sister, can I ask her on a date?” he joked—and a flash of memory jumped into Maarten’s head.
“I’ve said before, you’re free to ask, but if she laughs in your face, that’s on you.”
“Have you said that before?” Søren asked faintly as Maarten turned to his studio space, where the empty canvas was still up. “Matt, has he said that before?”
“Could be, sounds familiar,” Matthew replied.
Maarten started doing some sketches for a commission he’d received. With his other hand, he idly doodled on a notepad, which was a habit. Some vague scribbles usually emerged. Although he could use both hands equally well, it took a lot of concentration to actually draw with both.
When Manon came in, it startled him. Belgium? It felt weird to call a person that.
“Why did Søren ask if I like chocolate? Just because I’m—oh, that’s eerie!”
Maarten looked down at his notepad, which was now filled with… Eyes. He picked it up. Manon tilted her head. Some of the eyes were partially obscured by the thin lines of sketched hair. It was a little eerie, but…
Swiveling, Maarten grabbed the final swatch he’d done for Manon’s eye color, and held it next to the sketches.
“Oh,” Manon breathed.
Hands shaking slightly, Maarten flipped the page over.
The eyes belonged to a young man, he quickly decided—or already knew—with the same upturned nose as Manon and the same arched eyebrows as Maarten, one hidden behind wavy hair.
“I’m never going to make any money if this continues,” he sighed, because he could feel in his soul that he would have to paint this man and his waistcoat and his green eyes.
“That’s never happened, Maarten.”
They both stared at the sketch as if willing the man to just step out.
“Well,” Manon said, “I do feel more like a middle child.”