The Tulip Virus Read online

  THE TULIP VIRUS

  Daniëlle Hermans

  THE

  TULIP

  VIRUS

  Translation by David MacKay

  MINOTAUR BOOKS

  NEW YORK

  This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  THE TULIP VIRUS. Copyright © 2008 by Daniëlle Hermans. English translation copyright © 2010 by David MacKay. All rights reserved. Printed in the United States of America. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.

  www.minotaurbooks.com

  This edition published by arrangement with the Sebes & Van Gelderen Literary Agency, Kerkstraat 301, 1017 GZ Amsterdam, the Netherlands.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Hermans, Daniëlle, 1963–

  [Tulpenvirus. English]

  The tulip virus / Daniëlle Hermans. — 1st ed.

  p. cm.

  ISBN 978-0-312-57786-5

  I. Title.

  PT6467.18.E76T8713 2010

  839.31'364—dc22

  2009047496

  First published in the Netherlands by A. W. Bruna Uitgevers B.V., Utrecht, under the title Het Tulpenvirus.

  First U.S. Edition: May 2010

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  For Taco

  Contents

  Alkmaar: JULY 21, 1636

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Alkmaar: JULY 21, 1636

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  Alkmaar: JULY 21, 1636

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Alkmaar: JULY 21, 1636

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Alkmaar: JULY 21, 1636

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Alkmaar: JULY 21, 1636

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Alkmaar: JULY 23, 1636

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Alkmaar: JULY 23, 1636

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Alkmaar: FEBRUARY 4, 1637

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Alkmaar: FEBRUARY 5, 1637

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  Alkmaar: FEBRUARY 5, 1637

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  Alkmaar: FEBRUARY 5, 1637

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  London: JUNE 13, 1663

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  Alkmaar: 1665

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  CHAPTER FORTY

  Alkmaar: 1665

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

  CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

  CHAPTER FIFTY

  CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

  CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

  CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE

  London: 2001

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX

  CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE

  CHAPTER SIXTY

  CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE

  CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO

  CHAPTER SIXTY-THREE

  CHAPTER SIXTY-FOUR

  Wakehurst Place

  THE TULIP VIRUS

  Alkmaar

  JULY 21, 1636

  She brushed away the fly and scowled at the empty shelf. The bread she had baked the day before was gone, and she knew exactly where it had ended up: in the bellies of the drunkards who came there to squander their meager wages on liquor.

  She wiped her damp hands on her apron, undid the bow under her chin, and gave the fly, which had now settled on the shutter, a swat with her cap. The blue-green bug plummeted to the counter, its legs flailing helplessly in the air. She picked up the pestle, clenched her teeth, and brought it crashing down. Then, setting aside the heavy tool, she wiped the sweat from her forehead and left the kitchen, hoping there might still be bread in the taproom.

  As she opened the door, she was overcome by a wave of stench. She staggered back into the doorway. Gaping at the form that lay sprawled in front of the cupboard, she reached for the door frame behind her to steady herself.

  “Mr. Winckel?”

  She let go and stepped into the room, approaching him warily. Then she clasped one hand to her mouth and the other to her belly, as her nostrils were assailed by the foul odor of urine and the metallic tang of dried blood. She took a deep breath to keep from retching, but her stomach heaved so violently that the vomit ran down her fingers and out of her nose. She turned away, resting her hands on her knees, and gasped for air. The spasms gradually subsided.

  With the corners of her apron, she wiped the strings of slime from her mouth. Slowly, she turned toward him. Pursing her lips and exhaling, she peered out of the corner of her eye.

  Dangling halfway out of its socket, Mr. Winckel’s right eye stared back at her. The left side of his head had taken such a heavy blow that there was almost nothing left of it. A gaping hole. Blood, splinters of bone, and pulped brain had mingled into a pink jelly on the floor. The fluid had seeped into the porous joints between the tiles.

  As she bent over, the swarm of flies rose and began to circle her head. She dropped to her knees and reached out her trembling hands, but swiftly pulled back. A sheaf of papers had been rolled into a tube and stuffed down his throat with so much force that the corners of his mouth had ripped open. The hideous grin on his face brought back her nausea. Her gaze drifted downward. His torn shirt rippled over his colossal abdomen, which protruded unselfconsciously, with something like pride. Not knowing where to look, she followed the chestnut-brown line of hair on his belly to the waistline of his trousers. Around his crotch the shade of the black fabric darkened, and she cast her eyes down, embarrassed.

  When she looked up again, the sun had found him. Its beams shone through the half-open shutters and glinted on the silver buckle of his shoe.

  “Oh, my God, Mr. Winckel,” she whispered, “what have they done to you?”

  Half stumbling, she ran out of the room.

  In the early morning calm, the flies made an infernal racket.

  ONE

  He sat up with a groan, turned on his reading lamp, and checked his watch. Who would be crazy enough to come by at four in the morning? Flopping back onto the bed, he stared up at the ceiling. By this time, he could have drawn its every ornament, crack, and bump from memory. He’d hardly had a moment’s sleep for weeks, and now this.

  Well, worrying wouldn’t help, he knew that much. And he knew his lack of sleep made everything seem worse— even more final, somehow. Still, he couldn’t stop his mind from churning. Around and around it went, a cement mixer loaded with problems that would not blend into a manageable whole. It was driving him out of his mind.

  The relentless chime of the doorbell
was punctuated by loud thumping.

  “I’m coming, I’m coming.”

  He swung his legs over the side of the bed, probed for his slippers with his feet, and slid them on. After pushing himself up slowly from the mattress, he struggled with his bathrobe. Once it was on, he went to the window and pulled aside the curtain. What he saw outside made him gasp.

  It was as if the glass had been sandblasted. The outside world had almost disappeared. He squinted into the night, but all that was visible of Cadogan Gardens, the private park for his row of houses, were the vague contours of the gate and hedgerow. The Cadogan Hotel across the way, usually a beacon of light, had disappeared. Even Sloane Street, which he could normally make out from where he stood, had been enveloped by the London fog.

  He craned his neck forward as far as he could. As his cheek pressed against the cold glass, a shiver ran through him. He looked down. The two columns flanking the entrance to his eighteenth-century home gleamed in the dim light of the streetlamps.

  From the window he could generally catch at least a glimpse of whoever was waiting in the portico. But not tonight. He couldn’t see a thing. For the thousandth time, he cursed the city government for not installing new street lights since the Industrial Revolution. “Stupid limeys think the world hasn’t changed since Dickens.”

  His breath had clouded the glass; he wiped it away. The pounding, and the doorbell, went on uninterrupted and seemed to grow ever more insistent. The heavy curtain chafed against his back and neck. He pushed aside the thick fabric and then pulled the curtain shut again with an irritated tug. Silence fell for a moment, as if the person below had heard the jangling of the curtain rings against the copper rod. After a few seconds the noise started up again.

  Sighing, he headed out of the bedroom. In the doorway, he tightened the belt of his bathrobe. Running his hand along the wall, he found the light switch and flicked it on. For an instant he was dazzled by the glare of the chandelier on the white-tiled hall below. As he made his way to the staircase, the noise stopped. Dead silence. He cocked his head, like a dog hearing an unfamiliar sound. Nothing. He swore under his breath. But just as he was about to turn around, again he heard the pounding.

  “Mr. Schoeller, are you there? Mr. Schoeller?” a muffled voice said.

  Hesitantly, he descended the first few steps.

  “Who’s there?”

  “Police. Open up, please, it’s about your nephew.”

  “Alec?”

  With a trembling hand he took hold of the banister, and as fast as his stiff legs could carry him, he made his way downstairs. On the bottom step, his foot slipped, and he flailed his arms, cursing. Once he’d recovered his balance, he raced to the hall table and snatched up his keys. The pounding had started again.

  “Hold on, I’ll be right there,” he shouted, out of breath, as he opened the panel next to the front door. He punched the security code, then rose to the tips of his toes, peeping through the small pane of glass. The light from the hallway shone onto the reassuring metal badge of a police helmet. He turned the key in the lock and opened the door.

  TWO

  Alec woke with a start to the sound of his ring tone. He reached down to the floor, groping for the source of the blue glow. There on the tiny screen was Frank, staring him straight in the eyes from the Piazza San Marco, with a smile on his face and so many pigeons perched on his outstretched arms that he looked as though he might keel over. It was five thirty.

  “Frank? Hello?”

  The phone at the other end of the line fell to the ground with a bang, followed by a scraping sound. Alec pressed his cell phone tight to his ear; in the background he heard labored breathing. Then a cry of pain, so close, so loud, and so inhuman that he nearly dropped the phone. Alec shot to his feet, wedged the phone between his shoulder and his ear, and reached for his clothes.

  “Hello, Frank? Is that you? Can you hear me?”

  “You have to . . . come here.”

  Frank’s voice was so soft that Alec barely recognized it. His moaning swelled into a tortured scream.

  “What’s wrong? Are you sick? Should I call an ambulance?”

  “No!” came the sharp reply, followed by inaudible whispers. “What? What’s that?”

  “Come here.” Frank spoke with a rising inflection, like a small child who knows only a few words.

  “I’m on my way. Don’t hang up, all right? Stay on the line!”

  Alec threw on some clothes and raced out of the room, grabbing his leather jacket from the banister as he passed. He rushed down the stairs and threw open the front door.

  The fog shrouded him like a veil and eddied around his feet. He could barely see the other side of the road. The Victorian lampposts along the bank of the Thames shed an eerie light, and the smog muffled every sound but heightened the odors of the city, sharpening Alec’s sense of impending doom. His heart was in his mouth as he pressed the phone to his ear.

  “Are you still there?”

  He heard nothing but faint panting.

  “Hang in there, Frank. I’m getting in the car now. I’ll be there in five minutes.”

  The empty streets gave his fears free rein. What on earth had happened? Why didn’t Frank want him to call an ambulance? He floored the pedal, and the car shot forward.

  In all the years his uncle had taken care of him, Alec had never experienced anything like this. His panic stemmed not just from the fear that something terrible had happened to his uncle, but also from his sudden awareness that he was responsible for Frank. It was a fact he had never faced up to before; after all, Frank had always been in perfect health. Alec was the one who got roaring drunk, tried to paint, and woke up Frank with late-night phone calls, in search of inspiration for the ultimate work of art. From the moment at the airport when that total stranger had lifted the seven-year-old Alec in his arms, the terms of their relationship had been fixed. For years, Alec had been taking advantage of his uncle’s unconditional love. Nothing seemed to faze Frank. When Alec’s reckless lifestyle had almost destroyed him, it was Frank who had been there for him, never scolding, always sympathetic.

  The blinking amber traffic signals were like beacons in the foggy night. He tore down Kings Road, swerved around a group of drunken tourists, crossed Sloane Square, and entered Sloane Street at the same breakneck speed. Seconds later, he lurched to the left and hit the squealing brakes, bringing the car to a standstill on the sidewalk in front of 83 Cadogan Place. Flinging himself out of the car, he darted up the four steps to the entrance and was putting his key in the lock when the front door creaked open.

  He stepped into the dim front hall. In the half darkness, the men and women in the eighteenth-century portraits that lined the walls seemed to be gazing down at him with proud, reproachful stares.

  “Frank?”

  His voice, more pinched than usual, echoed in the silence of the house. No answer. The door to the study was the only one open. Light shone through the crack, forming a triangle on the tiled floor. With quick strides, Alec went to the door and swung it wide. Then he stopped, rooted to the spot.

  Frank was lying in front of the fireplace. His small, bright blue eyes caught Alec in an unswerving gaze. As his nephew rushed to his side, Frank moved his lips. He had managed to pull the duct tape off his mouth, and it was now dangling from his cheek. His fingers clasped the telephone. When he relaxed his grip, the phone slid across the wood floor, leaving a trail of blood.

  Alec dropped to his knees and carefully removed the tape, taking in his uncle’s condition. Frank’s pajama top was torn open, and his torso was grooved with deep cuts. His stomach and his chest were smeared with blood, and with his left arm he clutched a book to his lower body, his knuckles white with effort. Alec took Frank’s hand, provoking a howl of pain. Then he saw the blood oozing out of his uncle’s nailless fingertips.

  “My God, who did this to you?”

  Frank rocked his head back and forth, a shudder running through his body. The look in his eye
s was desperate.

  “Everything’s ruined, everything. They . . .”

  “Take it easy. Wait.”

  Alec grabbed a cushion, which he slid underneath Frank’s head. When he pulled his hand away, it was covered in blood. Gingerly, he turned Frank’s face toward him, revealing a gaping wound on his temple, a perfect circle, as if someone had thrust a rod into his head with such force that the skull had caved in. Alec collected himself, choking back his emotions.

  “I’m going to call an ambulance.”

  Frank slowly shook his head. “No . . . look. Here.”

  With a tremendous effort of will, Frank slipped his hand beneath the cover of the book. Alec cautiously opened it. Frank’s hand lay fluttering on the yellowed paper.

  “It’ll be okay,” said Alec. “Here, give it to me.”

  “No, look.”

  Frank dragged his hand off the page, revealing a drawing. Alec looked at the flower, its white petals flamed with red, as red as the bloody fingerprints that Frank had left on the page. The stem curved under the weight of the tulip in full bloom, as if its own beauty were too much for it.