They carried the vase into a well-lit room, planted with dozens of kinds of flowers. The place made Samuel nervous. Even under the languid sun of winter, he wanted as little light as possible to fall on the vase. John placed it on an empty table at the center, and Samuel wondered whether he could position himself to block enough of the light without looking too obvious in his intent. He was starting to walk between the table and the windows when Bridget asked in a hushed tone, “Is it believable?”
“You tell me,” he replied. “I haven’t seen a bulb in years.”
“Wasn’t the Sultan surrounded by them?” asked John.
“I was used as an entertainer, not as a gardener.” He noticed the quick lowering of John’s eyes, and added, “You’ve been imagining it.”
“What?”
“My life as a slave. You’ve been wondering what it was like.”
John’s face froze in a way that revealed, without the need for more light, that he was blushing. He looked away, catching an unwanted glimpse of himself in the dew that had formed on a branch of anemones. “Your life—”
“Is infinitely more complicated than everything you knew. You don’t have to tell me. It happens with everyone.” Samuel intended to resume walking, but stopped abruptly. John’s face had sunk beyond embarrassment.
“You have… shifted my perspective.”
“Oh? And what did you believe until now?”
John looked at Bridget, seeking reassurance, but she didn’t know what was on his mind. He glanced at the interior of the house. There was no indication that their host was about to greet them. With a tone that came out weaker than intended, he said, “I grew up wishing I had gone with them on that ship.”
“But now that you’ve met me,” said Samuel, “you’re relieved. You look at me and feel glad that this wasn’t you.” He looked around the room, realizing it had been built as a greenhouse, and stretched his face one more time, to avoid laughing. “You’ve mourned them for years, but now you can’t decide whom to feel sorrier for.”
Bridget raised her hands. “You two, stop. We’ve been traveling for weeks; you could’ve had this discussion anytime. We can’t afford distractions.” She turned to John. “Whom are we scheduled to see?”
His face strained as he recalled the name. “Gabriël Marselis.” They had chosen him because he traded with the king of Denmark, who had paid an enormous sum to ransom the Icelanders Sulayman had kidnapped with the Mayflower. Doing business with Marselis would be a roundabout way of obtaining money from the Danish crown.
She turned to Samuel. “And what’s our story?”
He immediately shifted into a dramatic pose. “Finding myself in mortal peril, I saw a chance to pause and pick a bulb from the Sultan’s gardens as I bravely ran from his palace. Bridget, you don’t need to worry about my part in this play; I wrote it.”
She waved at the decorations in the house. “Do you think one becomes this rich by being gullible?”
Samuel opened his mouth but was interrupted by a servant who entered the room and announced that the master of the house was ready to welcome them. They barely had any time to thank him when Gabriël Marselis made his appearance. John and Bridget were used to the plain look of a Calvinist businessman, but it took Samuel another moment to accept that this was the man they had exchanged letters with. Unlike Italians, who relied on their clothes to make their importance visible, Marselis commanded the room effortlessly.
He noticed the vase with the bulb and stared at it for a while. Samuel tried to come up with excuses for not letting more light in, but Marselis didn’t seem to notice or care.
“That is beautiful glass.”
“Venetian crystal,” boasted Samuel. “The best there is.”
Marselis raised a finger at them. “Which of you is the seller?”
“I am, sir. Jan Willemszoon.” He extended his hand, which Marselis shook without taking his eyes off the vase. “The man who communicated with you is my partner, Samuele Fulla.”
Samuel took a step forward and nodded. “At your service.”
“I really appreciate your taking time from your singing tour for this meeting.”
“Oh, it’s nothing. I’ve been taking care of this flower long enough. My good friends the Willemszoons assured me that the Dutch Republic was a favorable place to find buyers.”
They had lost days discussing how strongly they should allude to unnamed others who might be interested in the bulb. It was, in any case, a bait that Marselis refused to bite. “Your letters claim that your tulip comes from the Sultan himself.”
“That’s right. As I described in writing, I was taken by pirates and sold as a slave in Istanbul. I was able to break free, not four years ago, with the help of a Ragusan captain. It was a rather rushed escapade, but even in those lands one hears of how fondly Christians appreciate this plant. It has since bloomed every spring, without fault.”
“It’s a shame you only took one.”
“I, too, regret my lack of foresight, but when I was leaving the palace, my main concern was to remain unseen.”
“Wholly understandable,” said the businessman, his eyes stabbing right into Samuel’s. “It’s a terrible thing to be caught stealing from a powerful man.”
Bridget stood very still to not betray her panic, but Marselis leaped to her.
“You. Are you with these gentlemen?”
“Brigitte Willemszoon,” she curtsied.
Marselis ignored her and spoke to John. “It’s most unusual to bring one’s wife to a negotiation.”
“Our asking price is six thousand guilders,” she pointed out. “A promissory note will do.”
He looked at her again. “Is this your first sale?”
“Such a price ought to cause no wonder these days,” she said with the assurance of a role well learned. “Your secretary has received all legal records about this flower, and can verify the honorableness of our offer, as well as its increase in value over the past couple of years.”
Marselis chuckled and pointed at the vase in disbelief. “You don’t know how vulnerable it is. For how long have you kept it unplanted?” He gave John a look of pity. “Someone should have warned you it’s dangerous to move the bulb around in winter.”
Samuel rushed to cover John’s stunned silence. “I managed to break it.”
Everyone was paralyzed: Marselis with delight; John with shock; Bridget with dread. That assertion was to be kept as their last card if the buyer questioned their veracity. Tulips with broken colors were the most sought after; no amount was deemed too absurd for one. How to produce multicolored petals was the most prized mystery in Europe. Marselis walked slowly toward Samuel, not fully convinced. “The auction papers describe this flower as purplish black.”
“So it was until last year,” said Samuel, his mind exerting to put flesh on the bones of his lie. “By changing the soil and reducing the sunlight, I was able to make the tips of the petals pale yellow.”
“That’s… that’s a completely new variety.” Marselis breathed deeply. “It will be worth entire estates.” He cast another glance at the vase, his expression unreadable. “Do you realize what you’ve brought with you?” He gave a signal to his servant, who left the room. “There are certain traditions we like to keep in the tulip trade, and anyone can tell that you don’t know them.” He walked closer to the table, inspecting the bulb with unmoving eyes. “In bidding season, transactions of this type can proceed so fast that what changes hands is the letter of property, not the tulip itself. Did no one tell you?” The three conspirators resisted the urge to look at each other and soothe their growing sense of unease. The servant returned, carrying a tiny box in his hands. Marselis opened it and looked inside. “But against all good sense, you decided to bring me the single most expensive thing that exists.” From the box he took a pistol which, with the movements of a man accustomed to it, he aimed at Samuel’s chest. “You want six thousand guilders? I’ll make you a better offer. You’re going to tell me how to grow a broken tulip. Then I can decide how many of you live.”