Tulip Fever (28 page)

The physician, however, shows little interest. He sits there, making a steeple with his long white fingers.

“So I will go there now and collect the bulb,” says Jan. “There are several consortia waiting to bid for it, down at the Cockerel, and by the end of the day you’ll have the money in your hand.”

There is another knock at the door. Gerrit returns, ushering in a boy. For a moment Jan fails to recognize him.

The boy says: “I’ve come to collect the money for your tickets.”

“What tickets?” asks Jan stupidly.

“Two passages to Batavia,” says the boy, “on the
Empress
of the East
.”

“But I arranged to pay on the day—”

“My master says because you’re sailing at dawn it has to be the day before.”

“You’re leaving the country?” The doctor’s voice is sharp.

“And he’s not coming back,” adds Gerrit.

“All right, all right! I’m going to get it.” Jan turns to the physician. “Come back this evening at six. It will all be sorted out then.”

There is a silence. Doctor Sorgh looks at him, at the packed-up room, at the other small creditor waiting restlessly. “I would prefer to wait here,” he says, “if you don’t mind.”

Jan stares at him. “What?”

“No disrespect, sir. But in my particular line of work . . . maybe you can understand . . . the type of people I do business with . . . Well, one has to take some elementary precautions.”

“You think I’m going to slip my leash?” Jan is dumbfounded. “Is that it? You think I’m going to run away?”

The doctor shrugs. “I would prefer not to put it quite like that—”

“You don’t trust me?”

There is a silence. The three of them look at Jan. The doctor says: “Please do not take it personally. I would just be happier if you and I stay here together and you send your servant.”

Jan gets to his feet. “Why don’t you accompany me?” He goes to the door. “If you don’t want to let me out of your sight, come with me. We’ll all walk there together.”

The boy replies: “I’ve got orders to stay here with you. Not to leave your house until I have the money in my hand. That’s my orders, sir.”

It is a stalemate. Jan looks from one face to the other. Doctor Sorgh examines his sleeve. The boy fidgets with his cap, turning it round in his hand as if he is primping pastry.

“Send your servant,” repeats Doctor Sorgh. “Then we can get this whole . . . matter . . . over and done with.”

Jan sits down heavily on the bed. Gerrit, with his stupid, trusting face, raises his eyebrows. He is unsure, exactly, what is happening, but he is upset to see his master in a state of distress.

IT IS NOT AN IDEAL SITUATION. Jan trusts Gerrit with his life, but does he trust him with this? Gerrit is waiting; they are all waiting.

Jan takes him into the kitchen. “Gerrit, you heard what the fellow said. I want you to run some errands for me. As fast as you can. No loitering, understand? Just think of it as your final errand, for old times’ sake.”

Gerrit nods. “W-w-what do you want me to do?” He has always stuttered, as if his tongue is too big for his mouth.

It is vitally important that Gerrit does not understand the value of the package he will collect from Claes van Hooghelande’s house. Jan has a nightmare vision of Gerrit’s reaction—even trustworthy, faithful Gerrit—if he knew that in his hand he held the price of a house in the Prinsengracht. It would test a saint. Even if Gerrit doesn’t run away with it he might be tempted to brag. Jan pictures him bumping into one of his drinking companions, pointing to the package and saying,
Never guess what I got in here
. Even if Gerrit doesn’t steal it, there’s a real danger that someone else will. Gerrit keeps even lower company than Jan.

Jan must think up some more errands to disguise the importance of this one. He presses some money into Gerrit’s hand. “Get me some pigments—here, I will make a list. And get me half a dozen cinnamon tarts, from the pastry shop, for these gentlemen here. And get me a package. It is waiting for me at this address.” He writes it down on a piece of paper; his hand is shaking. “It is in the Sarphatistraat, on the other side of the city. Can you manage that?”

Gerrit nods.

“And come straight back here, is that understood?”

“Yes, sir.” Gerrit turns to go. Jan pats him on the back, as if he is a father sending his son out into the big world for the first time.

Jan stands at the window. He watches Gerrit lumbering off down the street. At least he is going in the right direction.

Jan thinks: this man has my life in his hands.

48

Cornelis

The old man . . .
Although his limbs all grow stiff, his heart is quick,
He knows that no one will stay here, which is why
He fixes his limits and pays close attention
To the path and Word of God, towards the Gate of Life.

—D. P. PERS, 1648

Cornelis is writing the death announcement. It has pleased the eternal and immutable wisdom of Almighty God to call to His bosom from this sinful world to the blessed joy of His
eternal kingdom, on the thirteenth day of this month, at the
eleventh hour of the night, my beloved wife Sophia, after the
noble lady had been confined to her bed in childbirth—

He stops. He realizes, quite suddenly, that he has lost his faith. The words are just marks on a piece of paper; pious scratchings, as meaningless as an invoice for a bale of cotton. More meaningless. In fact, entirely devoid of any sense whatsoever.

God does not exist. Cornelis’s small resurgence of faith has been extinguished. For thrice-twenty years he has paid his dues—in tears, guilt and fear—and what has he got in exchange? What is his return on his investment? Two dead wives and two dead children. What sort of a bargain is that?

All his life predicants have thundered at him from their pulpits.
God will punish you! God will seek you out, oh, sinner!
Prepare yourself for the flames of eternal damnation!
Once, when he was a little boy, he had wet his breeches. They rail against the theater, against tobacco smoking, against coffee drinking, against excursions to the countryside on the Sabbath, against festivities, against pleasure, against life.

Who were they, these miserable men with their lank hair and screeching voices? Who were
they
to tell him anything? What did
they
know? Why did they presume that
they
were the saved, these narrow-minded bigots who saw sin in the smallest child and whose only joy was to kill the joy of others? What God would appoint
them
as his mouthpiece? If they wanted to rant, why not rant against a God who allowed a lovely young woman to die, in agonies, while giving birth to Cornelis’s child?

Cornelis sits at his desk. He replaces his pen in its stand. He thinks: has it really pleased the eternal and immutable wisdom of Almighty God to call Sophia to His bosom? What sort of a bosom is that? And she is not a
noble lady
. She was his darling sweetheart. How pompous he has been in the past. He remembers her polite face as she listened to his pronouncements. Such pontifications. How could he have presumed to know anything when he knows nothing at all?

It is a strange, airy feeling, not unpleasant. Cornelis feels as light as a husk. One puff of wind and he will float up from his chair. Perhaps this is shock. Maybe his grief at her death has made him temporarily insane.

He feels more sane, however, than he has ever felt in his life. In recent years his doubts have troubled him. Now Sophia’s death has set him free. Far from deepening his faith it has removed his belief altogether and he feels like thistledown—up, up he floats to join her. Except she is not there in heaven, of course, because it does not exist.

Downstairs, down in the real world, he hears Maria singing to the baby. How lucky he is to have her. Maria is untroubled by theological doubt; she has the robust good sense of those who pay lip service to God and then get on with their lives. Her earthiness is deeply reassuring. She couldn’t care less that he has lost his belief. She only cares for the child, and that is all that matters now.

He will call his daughter Sophia. Her beauty touches his heart. Already, at one day old, he sees a resemblance to her mother. And his own hair, before it turned white, was dark like this. He is glad now that she is not a boy. She is the daughter he never had and he will teach her everything he knows. He will teach her that everything he knows is open to doubt, and that this is the only way to learn. And he will learn to listen to her questions. She will grow up free in spirit for she is not a child conceived in sin. She will not tremble in fear and wet herself in church. She is just a child—beautiful, and loved. That is the gift her mother has given her.

49

Gerrit

Fools grow without watering.