Chapter Text
In the weeks following John’s overnight stay at his house, Van Helsing found his thoughts straying to the Holy Bible more and more often. Especially Leviticus 18:22. Any man who had ever looked upon another man with desire knew the verse by heart. Thou shalt not lie with mankind, as with womankind: it is abomination. That word, abomination; Gesenius wrote that the Hebrew word for it was closely tied with idolatry. An abomination, then, was something that separated a person from God, that created distance.
That a physical act would separate man from God might sound strange, but Van Helsing did not need to thumb through his Bible – he knew why well enough. The problem appeared only a chapter later in Leviticus: Thou shalt love thy neighbour as thyself. Each and every prophet of the Old Testament, did they not urge the chosen people to take care of each other? And the letters of Saint Paul, did they not remind Christian brothers to love each other? Van Helsing had read both Xenophon and Plato; he knew that no man of status and respect would allow himself to be acted upon. What Christian, then, could remain in God’s presence if he humiliated his brother thus, when God had commanded the opposite? The abomination was valuing one’s own pleasure over the dignity of one’s brother. That would bring a man far from God, indeed.
And to think, Van Helsing wanted to dishonour John in such a manner. John, who had saved his life, had shared meals at his table, had given him joy in abundance.
He reminded himself that such an act was not necessarily what he wanted to do. The thoughts that swirled in his head had not strayed in that direction; generally, he would think of John kneeling, and his every nerve would alight, but that was how far his mind wandered before shame overtook him. As long as he did not want that, he supposed he was safe, and John was safe. He did not presume it to be an option. It was not even worth thinking about.
But he did think about it. Not fantasies as such, that felt like crossing a line, even in his own mind; rather, he turned their conversations over in his mind, noted John’s tone and his body language, searching for something, hoping for something.
He had been dead for years. His body and mind were alive, and he found joy, still, in his life, but his heart was buried next to Ruben. He had believed, naively, that love had slipped beyond his reach, the way a ship left harbour, fading at the horizon until it was gone. But perhaps it was not so; perhaps love died like a garden, to lie dormant through the winter and return in spring. John had touched his heart and found a pulse; he had invited spring seemingly without knowing! With love awakened, everything appeared possible. And John was so good to him, could it not be possible that John truly saw him, and felt something for him? Love, which covered over a multitude of sins. Love – without agenda or greed – was the greatest of all, greater yet than faith or hope. If Van Helsing could love John in that way, there was no need to dust off Gesenius’ Hebrew lexicon in his library.
~
It was a warm day in April when the telegram arrived. There was dirt underneath his fingernails from working in the garden, contrasting against the white, ominous telegram, making it appear even more like an omen than it already was; something foreign and pristine intruding on his life.
As he had feared, the telegram came from Dr Schipper, informing him that Willem had grown ill again; lighter symptoms that had quickly deteriorated. Dr Schipper asked him to come to Utrecht, if convenient.
If convenient. The words pricked his eyes like needles.
Willem was worse when he arrived in Utrecht, there was no denying that; his hair was knotted with sweat, his face clammy and red. He looked up when Van Helsing walked into the room, but his eyes kept focus with difficulty. Dr Schipper was there, plying him with cold white willow tea to counter the fever, while a nursemaid was wiping his face with a wet cloth, letting it roam over his throat and neck.
“Dr Van Helsing, good to see you,” Dr Schipper said, putting the mug of tea aside.
He walked up to Van Helsing, and they stood side by side, watching Willem as he struggled to even breathe evenly.
“The fever came back with a vengeance,” Dr Schipper said in a low voice. “Whatever is afflicting him, I do not believe it ever left his body.”
“Still no inkling of what it might be?” Van Helsing asked, and saw Dr Schipper shake his head in his periphery.
“Nothing concrete. Some of his symptoms would suggest lupus.”
“Quinine then,” Van Helsing said, rubbing a hand along his jaw. “It is volatile, though. It might kill him…” he sighed, “… but doing nothing might also kill him.”
“That is why I requested your opinion,” Dr Schipper said. “It is a precarious decision, and not one I make with ease.”
Van Helsing walked over to Willem, to examine him once more. The fever was much higher than it had been the last wave, and his ankles and wrists had swelled with oedema.
Van Helsing took his wrist, inspecting it; Ruben had had similar swellings in his wrists, but not this pronounced.
He had not administered quinine to Ruben, too apprehensive of its side effects. By the time he was willing to take the risk, Ruben was too weak, the beat of his heart already faint.
Willem did not resemble Ruben much, but Van Helsing’s heart was still filled with longing and grief when he looked at him, brought back by his memories to Ruben’s sickroom, those last critical days before he lost him. Without thinking, he reached out and tenderly brushed some of Willem’s dirty hair out of his face.
He left Willem’s side and returned to Dr Schipper across the room.
“What do you think?” Dr Schipper asked.
“If you deem him strong enough, you can give him the quinine with good conscience. He is weak, but he is young; there will be a core of strength in him.”
Dr Schipper nodded.
“I must thank you for coming all this way for a simple consultation,” he said politely.
“There was no bother,” Van Helsing assured him. “I wish both of you the best of luck.”
After casting one final glance at Willem, he left.
He ate an early lunch in Utrecht, which he had little appetite for, then he returned to Amsterdam. On the way, he decided it was high time to visit Ruben’s grave; he had not been there since snow covered the ground. He was much better at visiting Ruben than visiting Sanne, but still, at times, the steps to the cemetery felt too steep and heavy, his heart struggling with the burden of his loss. He carried his boy with him at all times, in his mind and his heart, sometimes in the form of memories and sometimes in wishful visions of him alive and well, older than he’d ever grown. Even so, other times, the grave called to him, the need to be close hooking itself into his heart, and reeling him in.
Van Helsing did not disembark in Amsterdam, rather he continued his journey to Haarlem, where his friend Vanderpool had a greenhouse, supplying flowers all year round. It was a roundabout way, but he was always happy to see a friend. Vanderpool inquired about his garden, and expressed his condolences when Van Helsing told him that his crocuses had not survived winter – and it was nice, to mourn something so trivial for once.
Vanderpool picked out Sanvitalia procumbens for him, which he promised would take root and bloom until at least the end of June. Satisfied, Van Helsing travelled back to Amsterdam with the flowers in a paper bag, cradled carefully in his arms.
It would not take long to arrive at Buitenveldert, where the cemetery of St Augustine’s parish was located. It was the parish to which he belonged, though when had he last set foot in church? At Christmas? A good third of the new year had passed since then. His fingers grasped the crucifix at his throat. After visiting Ruben, he decided, he would go into the church, kneel in the pew, and pray. Hopefully, the priest would not try to urge him into the confessional booth – what he most needed to confess was fragile still in his heart, newly admitted and barely clothed in words. He felt strangely protective of it, despite knowing that it was improper; it was precious to him, like a shoot pushing through the snow – welcome even if it was a weed. Besides, it was just thoughts, feelings, desires; no idolatrous action had stained him.
Despite all of his travelling back and forth, it was only early afternoon when he disembarked in Amsterdam again. The wind played in his hair, and the sun warmed his face pleasantly. It was a beautiful day to visit Ruben.
Happy with his decision, Van Helsing walked down the street. Then, he saw two most familiar figures standing at a corner, talking amongst themselves. Cornelius Vincent and John Seward. In the same moment, they spotted him as well. They walked towards him, Van Helsing meeting them halfway.
“My friends, it is good to see you. What brings you here?” Van Helsing asked. He glanced between them. He had thought Vincent not particularly interested in John, yet here they were, together.
“We had lunch,” John said, “and then Dr Vincent suggested we should promenade.”
“Rather aimlessly, I’ll admit, which is how we ended up in this part of the city,” Vincent added. “What are you doing here?”
Both men eyed the paper bag Van Helsing was holding.
“I am visiting the cemetery here nearby, to plant some flowers,” he explained. “Well, let me not keep you two.”
“Not at all, Professor,” Vincent said. “I was just about to take my leave. And you too, Mr Seward?”
“Yes,” John said, then his eyes flickered to Van Helsing. “Unless you would like company?”
The question was unexpected, but Van Helsing immediately accepted the offer, his heart squeezing slightly. He had not seen much of John outside of class lately, much by his own design, afraid that they had crossed a line last time they were alone together – at least he had, in his mind and his heart. But now, John asking to come with him, revealed that he had not desired their separation.
Vincent looked between them silently. Van Helsing wondered briefly what he perceived, then decided not to worry about it. Nothing improper had happened.
“Well then, I will see both of you some other time. Van Helsing, do not forget to come to my house for dinner soon.”
“Of course not! And give Mrs Vincent my regards.”
Vincent left them, crossing the street and disappearing after lifting his hat in their direction.
Van Helsing continued his trek towards the cemetery, now with John by his side.
“I assume you will tell me if I am intruding,” John told him softly.
“You are not,” Van Helsing assured him. “I am glad for the company.”
John’s company, in particular.
“That is good to hear, Professor. Still, I should not have asked you in front of Dr Vincent, in case you wanted to reject my offer.”
“I was surprised to see the two of you together,” Van Helsing commented. “I was not aware you had befriended each other beyond my study.”
“I sought him out,” John said. “I figured it would be good to make his acquaintance properly, so that I know at least one British doctor once I return to London.”
Van Helsing looked over at him. There was something to him that he had never noted before, or chalked up to idle curiosity, but now he saw it for what it was. Ambition. Naturally. Few men entered such a strenuous field as medicine without a wish for recognition.
He thought back to those early lectures about a year ago, when John had stayed behind for some question or other chat. He wondered now if that too had been a calculated move from John, to not just gain answers and knowledge, but to make him another knot in his net of colleagues and connections. It was a very charming idea, the prospect of being hunted and trapped by John. At his age, Van Helsing had been married already, and exhausted by his studies, and every friendship in the medical world seemed to be accidental or inherited. It was not until he returned from England and established himself in Amsterdam that he had started seeking people out more purposefully. He couldn’t help but feel proud of John for being so driven.
As they were coming up on the cemetery, Van Helsing felt a sense of solemnity, having John by his side, bringing him to his son.
Spring had touched the cemetery, with sprouting vegetation and some rooks calling down from the treetops, their cawing companionable rather than disturbing.
After retrieving a trowel from the small shed by the entrance, they walked through the pebbled rows until they reached the Van Helsing family grave.
“My parents,” Van Helsing pointed out to the left, “and one of my brothers. He died young.”
Then, he gestured to the other headstone, to the right. It was white, with space enough for his and Sanne’s names when the time came.
“And here is Ruben, my boy.”
The dates under Ruben’s name indicated a pitifully short life. It was strange to introduce them like this; John and Ruben, close enough in age, but years between them, John alive and Ruben dead, John a man and Ruben but a boy. Ruben, a son, and John, a friend.
Van Helsing looked over at John, and saw that he had a befuddled look on his face, eyes trained on the headstone before them. He suspected he knew why.
When John noticed that Van Helsing was watching him, he cleared his throat.
“Ruben van Helsing,” he read. “It’s a beautiful name.”
Van Helsing took pity on him by giving him a smile.
“We were happy to receive a son,” he said.
“How did he die?” John asked carefully.
“An unidentified fever.”
He watched as the three words settled in John’s mind, realisation showing on his face. Before John could say anything, Van Helsing knelt down and started planting the golden yellow flowers.
He did not regret bringing John along, no, he was grateful that John had wanted to accompany him, that he was not afraid of this sad part of his life. Still, he could not shake the feeling of bizarreness. This charade of a meeting brought questions that he had not yet touched upon in the quiet of his mind. He could not help but wonder, would he have fallen so helplessly for John had Ruben still been alive, had Sanne still been herself, both of them present in his life and in his house?
Van Helsing patted down the soil he had disturbed. It was different from the soil in his garden, the one still under his fingernails; it was darker, looser… mulchy, nourished from the dead.
When he stood up and dusted off his hands, he saw that the befuddled expression John had been quick to hide was once again splayed over his face.
“You look confused,” he commented.
John’s eyes flickered to him, then to the headstone, then back to him again.
“I thought…” He licked his lips. “I believed your wife would be buried here as well.”
Van Helsing sighed quietly. He had told John that he’d lost them both, hadn’t he?
“Come home with me,” he said, “and I will explain to you.”
There was a quiet between them on the way home. Not uncomfortable, but loaded. Van Helsing glanced over at John every now and then; there was something worried at his brow. What went on in his head? Van Helsing had no idea that the issue of his family would bother him so much. He tried not to read into it.
When they stepped into the house, Van Helsing called out for Marit, but she failed to appear. After removing his outer layer, he crossed through the kitchen and peeked into the next room, the servants’ entry; Marit’s coat and bonnet were absent from their usual clothes peg.
He returned to John, who was waiting in the foyer.
“Marit is out, but no matter. I will make tea. Or coffee?”
“Tea is fine.”
“I know you enjoy coffee, and I know how to make it. Van Puurstad is very particular about it and made sure to teach me.”
Van Puurstad had taught Marit rather than Van Helsing, during one of his visits, but he had stood beside them and memorised his instructions all the same.
“Coffee then,” John relented. He gave Van Helsing a look. “Do you often feed yourself?”
Van Helsing shook his head.
“No, but every now and then. Marit is my only help, and she is not always here, like now, and with no wife in the house… well, I had to learn. Now, friend John, go and wait in the parlour, and I will return shortly.”
Van Helsing busied himself in the kitchen, stoking the embers in the stove, boiling water in a kettle. Tea was easy to make, coffee slightly more complicated. He hoped he remembered the correct measurements.
Having prepared their drinks, Van Helsing carried them on a tray into the sitting room where John was relaxing in an armchair. It was nerve-racking, having him there again – especially now that they were truly alone, not even Marit in the other room.
He sat down in the armchair on the opposite side of the small table, and John reached for his cup of coffee. Van Helsing watched his reaction closely.
“Is it to your liking?” he asked.
John nodded in appreciation, smiling.
“It is perfectly good.”
Despite the pleasantries, there was tension in the room, and soon enough John had fixed him with his eyes, watching him expectantly. Hunted and trapped indeed.
Van Helsing took a sip of his tea to stall. He had brought him here to explain his situation, yes, but now he dreaded John’s judgement, remembering his harsh words regarding the man in the newspapers. Would he similarly find Van Helsing cowardly, for not having hope, for not caring for Sanne at home? All the same, he wanted to share this part of his life with John. He longed for deep companionship, and it was terrifying to know that his heart had settled on a young man like John, who was wholly unprepared to receive it. How could he ever ask that of him? But there he was, in his home again, after accompanying him to the cemetery, seeping into every layer of his life.
“My wife,” Van Helsing started, “is not dead. She is ill. And she lives in an asylum not far from here.”
John took the information in stride.
“What is her affliction?”
“She has grown demented. She is not herself anymore, trapped in catatonia, not talking, staring without seeing…” he explained. “It is a hereditary condition; her aunt had it, and her grandmother as well. We worried she would succumb to the same fate. No one wanted me to marry her because of it – not my parents, even her own father was sceptical.”
He did not know why he was telling John all of this. Most people in his life knew that Sanne was ill, but few knew that he had been aware of the possibility from the start.
“Even so, you married her,” John filled in.
“Because I loved her.”
It was the truth – and he needed John to know that he had not discarded her, that he had not made the decision lightly.
John looked at him tenderly, like Van Helsing’s love for his wife was inspiring, worth imitating; but there was something else brewing in his eyes as well, something of pain and… disappointment? Van Helsing’s stomach lurched.
“It is with no disrespect to my wife, but she is as dead to me as my dear son is,” he said, the words cutting urgent in his mouth. “While I am a married man in the eyes of the law and the Church, I consider myself a widower.”
To his own ears, his words sounded arranged, uttered with a purpose beyond relaying information.
John was silent for a moment, and Van Helsing wished he could read his thoughts, prepare himself for what judgement might come.
“Nevertheless, you are unable to remarry,” John commented.
Van Helsing blinked. Whatever he had expected John to say, that was not it.
“Indeed,” he said. “There have been talks, debates about allowing husbands to separate from feebleminded wives… but even then, the Church… it is out of the question.”
He gave a joyless chuckle and sipped his tea. He’d been self-conscious that John would see him as a sad old man, but no, instead John had bizarrely jumped to the conclusion that he wished to find a new wife.
Van Helsing watched as John drank his coffee, his eyes closing for a moment as the flavour touched his tongue. Had things been different, had Sanne passed on, had John been a maiden, perhaps he’d have half a mind to remarry. The thought of bringing him flowers, of promenading with his hand on his arm, of John dressed in silken skirts… He blushed.
He was in danger, he knew, with John sitting there – predator and prey in one – in the same armchair that they had carried into Van Helsing’s study last time he was there, the same one he’d been sitting in as Van Helsing put his hands on him and tried to hypnotise him. The memory horrified and excited him in equal measures, as it had done over the last few weeks, gnawing at him in the late hours of the night.
They were not sitting very far apart, he noted. If he leaned forward, he could reach out and place his hand on John’s knee, or John could reach over the table, where one of Van Helsing’s hands was resting, and cover it with his own. His skin tingled with the anticipation, the inadvisable but irresistible impulse pumping through him like blood.
Then – the sound of a door closing, muffled through the wall. Marit had returned.
The spell broke, and shame crept up his neck. He was a husband with a sick wife, a father with a dead son, a doctor with a fading patient, and yet all he could think of was how much he wanted John’s hands on him. And he had not gone to church as he’d intended after visiting Ruben’s grave, instead he had taken John home. Perhaps the feared distance from God was coming to pass after all; perhaps he’d been arrogant to think he could stave it off with nothing but willpower.
Van Helsing pulled his feelings back as well as he could, and put his teacup back down on its saucer. John was here not as a suitor or a receptacle for his longings; he was here as a trusted friend, and Van Helsing had every intention of treating him as such.
“Do you remember my patient that I mentioned, with the fever sickness?” he asked.
“I believe so – the one you told me was convalescing?”
“The very one,” he confirmed. “I am loath to report that he has worsened again.”
“That is regretful to hear,” John said, then cocked his head slightly to the side. “Is that why you went to visit your son this afternoon?”
“Yes.”
“And why you accepted to help the patient in the first place?”
Van Helsing smiled. John knew him so well.
“Yes. I am always happy to help, of course, but more eager when the case concerns unidentified fever sicknesses.”
“Because you hope to figure out what happened to Ruben,” John concluded, and Van Helsing gave him a nod. “Were you his physician?”
“I was, and I could not save him. It is that truth which eat at a father’s heart, John, until there is nothing left, until he has forgotten how to be a father.” He rubbed a hand over his face. What he said next was not something he’d admit to Eikenboom or Van Puurstad, could not imagine confessing to anyone but John. “This other patient… Dr Schipper, my colleague, is to prescribe him quinine, as a last resort. I did not give it to Ruben, I did not dare to, and now I worry that Willem – that is, the patient I have consulted on – I worry that it will save him, and that it could have saved Ruben, if I had the courage to take the risk.”
He met John’s grey eyes, resting steady on him.
“That is where the path would always end,” John said. “You must have known that.”
He sounded brusquer than Van Helsing had anticipated, and it took him aback slightly, though he quickly recovered.
“Yes, that is true,” he agreed. “That the knowledge might be a burden to me has never deterred me from chasing it.”
“Still, you find the pursuit to be worthwhile?”
“Always, friend John. Don’t you?”
John mulled the question over.
“I do,” he decided, “though I might feel otherwise if it concerned someone I love.”
“You are no stranger to sorrow, friend John,” Van Helsing reminded him, letting his own memory linger on the photograph of the sad woman that John kept beside his bed. Going out on a limb, he asked, “If you had not known your mother’s cause of death, would you not attempt to find answers?”
John suddenly looked uncomfortable, and Van Helsing wondered if he’d spoken out of turn, if he’d stirred up painful memories, if John in fact didn’t know his mother’s cause of death – they had never broached the topic before.
“I can only speculate, Professor,” he said. “I could not give you a true witness to my character.”
Oh. John was under the impression that this was some sort of test.
“John, I am not measuring your character,” Van Helsing assured him. “Do not worry. Truth is, I worried that you would judge me!”
“Whatever for?”
“For, well, casting my wife away. You were so disgusted with the husband involved in the morphine poisoning case, and I believed perhaps you would extend the same to me.”
“That is different,” John said hastily.
“Then there is the possibility of being relieved if my patient dies,” Van Helsing pressed on, almost like he sought John’s judgement. Perhaps it was a test after all.
John shook his head.
“Any man in your position would struggle the same, I am sure of it.”
John confidence in him was comforting, made his heart feel safe in his chest and in John’s hands. His feelings were not misplaced, his choice of friend not misjudged, and John’s young age proved to not be an obstacle – it might even be a boon; he was forgiving where a more jaded man would have been critical.
~
That weekend, Van Helsing finally made good on his promise to Dr Vincent to visit. They decided that Mrs Vincent would accompany him to mass, and that he’d come over for Sunday dinner afterwards.
The pair met in front of St Augustine’s. Mrs Vincent was short, dark-haired, and beautiful, but none the less kept a very modest dress.
It had been years since Van Helsing sat side-by-side with a woman in the pew; he felt the other congregants’ eyes on them, and it amused him to know that something so innocent would elicit gossip. If only they knew where his heart truly belonged.
During the service, his eyes were drawn again and again to the altar painting of the crucifixion, to the Virgin Mother standing by the foot of the cross. As a young man, he’d carried a medal of St Luke, fitting for his chosen profession, but after he lost Ruben, he’d felt more and more connected to the Virgin. If anyone would be with him in those grief-stricken prayers, it would be her. His thoughts often lingered with her when he contemplated the life of Christ. Now, his eyes flickered to the red-dressed figure next to her in the painting – St John. The Beloved. The one who had cared for the Virgin after the Lord’s ascension.
He was pulling at a thread, not yet knowing what he’d find at the end of it. But he was pulling at it, holding on to something tangible, something that he might defend.