“You like those dollhouses, do you? I’ve never seen a boy who liked the dollhouses,” the guard says, his voice curling up around the word “liked” in a way that reminds Willem of a tiny worm creeping unexpectedly out of a piece of fruit. Willem understands every word of the guard’s Dutch. He feels his face going red, and a brief tremor between his legs. He opens his mouth for a second to answer and notices that his lips have dried together, fused by not talking. In an instant, though, he closes his mouth again. A horrible thought crosses his mind: Even if he wants to speak, he can’t. Not just because his Dutch is awful but because his Dutch is awful in a particular way. If the guard hears his accent, Willem calculates, the game is up. WELCOME TO THE RIJKSMUSEUM: No dogs or Jews allowed. Was the sign outside the museum official, or was it not? Willem swallows, cornered by the guard’s smiling stare. He looks at him and nods, then turns back to face the dollhouse. Better to seem like a girl than a Jew.

“Well, a boy who likes dollhouses. You know, I actually like them myself. It’s amazing how much detailed work goes into them. The craftsmanship is equal to a lot of the better paintings in the museum, I think. Certainly better than all those still lifes of fruit bowls. If you ask me, they’re undervalued as works of art.”

Poor man, Willem thinks to himself. He glances at the man’s left hand and sees no wedding band, only a set of sweaty fingers. Does he have a wife, Willem wonders? Children? Friends? Or had he been condemned to walk the earth in solitude, speaking only to old women on bicycles and stringy boys who sneak into museums? Willem shudders without meaning to, shifting his weight back and forth from one foot to the other. A little dance almost.

“Cold? We’ve been having horrible weather lately, haven’t we? All this rain. I don’t understand why people would spend the one nice day this week in a museum.” The guard sniggers, a repulsive little noise. Willem shakes his head and leans his nose toward the glass once more, suddenly thinking again of how noses are one of only two parts of the human body that continue growing throughout one’s life. Of all the things to keep growing. He glances at the miniature chamber pots again, wishing that the guard would go away. No such luck. Meanwhile the man has inspired him. He begins thinking about rain, about pouring watery rain, water flowing in and out of the chamber pots, water seeping through the dollhouse foundation, rain drowning out his reflection in the canal. Willem begins tapping his feet on the ground, more and more loudly. Something makes him impatient, makes him want to end this encounter as soon as possible. But what?

“Do you have to go to the toilet?”

Willem shakes his head no. But even the head-shaking goes on too long, becoming part of his little bladder-dance. He tries to stop tapping his feet and comes within instants of wetting his pants. Instead he pounds the floor again. The guard laughs at him and stoops down, an embarrassing stoop, to Willem’s eye level.