“I’ve just remembered,” the woman says, far too loudly, “I have an appointment this afternoon. I’m sorry, but I really need to go now.”

Willem’s father stutters his protests, but he seems unable to find the right words. Soon his protests degenerate into begging, then into shouts, but there is nothing, nothing, he can do. The door to the apartment squeaks open, then slams shut.

There is a moment of silence, heavier than the thud of a club against a wall, and Willem’s heart pounds so loudly that he wonders if it might be overheard. Then the door to Willem’s room clicks open.

Willem remains in the same position he was in before, standing with his back to his tiny window, staring at his book. The apartment is silent. Willem feels his father’s glare on him, but he doesn’t look up to meet it. His father waits. Willem still doesn’t look up. Then, without any warning, something crashes into Willem’s chest and knocks him to the ground, smashing the window on the way. Willem sprawls on the floor, his limbs spread like the fingers of a flying phalanger, hearing himself squeal as he sucks at the air. As he opens his eyes amid the rain of broken glass, his pimpled cheek pressed against the floorboards, he sees his dictionary lying on the floor beside him, drowning in shattered glass. His father has thrown the dictionary at him.

Before Willem even regains his breath, his father grabs him by the shirt, lifts him off the ground, hauls him out the door and down the hall, and literally throws him out of the house, kicking him down the steps before slamming the door and locking it.

And so we find our hero, Wilhelm alias Willem, jacketless and freezing and flung out of his house, swung to the sidewalk against a lamppost that has just missed his groin. After a few minutes, he crawls back up the steps and bangs weakly on the door. No response.

WILLEM HATES Amsterdam on principle, but there is something sort of gentle about it. The city is a maze, but at least it is a maze lined with small and interesting things. Bakeries, mostly. And chocolate stores. And candy shops. At the moment, though, the thought of food makes him feel sick and disgusting. He needs to throw things, to smash windows—not that he has the guts to actually do it, of course. Instead he gets up, slowly, and begins walking. He passes one block, then another. And another. And twelve or thirteen more. He turns a corner, then another one, then a few more, wanders even further, for what feels like days, then hurries along a canal. And suddenly, as if rising from the depths of the sea, a giant edifice appears before him. Like all good citizens of Amsterdam, Willem recognizes it immediately. The Rijksmuseum.

The Rijksmuseum, his teacher at Montessori once told their class, is the oldest museum in Europe. The Louvre and other museums may occupy older buildings, but those buildings were originally built as palaces, or train stations. The Rijksmuseum was the first building actually built for the sole purpose of housing a public museum. “In other countries, art was something reserved for the wealthy, for nobles and royalty, and it remained that way for a very long time,” his teacher had said, facing the class and thereby giving Willem a short respite from the spitballs. “Here in Holland, though, we realized earlier than anywhere else that the fine and decorative arts should not be partitioned off for the upper classes. They are our national treasures. And that means that everyone in the nation shares these treasures of our kingdom, including all of you.”