The Thousand Autumns of Jacob De Zoet: A Novel (21 page)

* * *

At four minutes to four o'clock, Jacob presses blotting paper over the page on his desk in Warehouse Eik. He drinks another cup of water of which he shall sweat every last drop. The clerk then lifts the blotter and reads the title:
Sixteenth Addendum: True Quantities of Japanned Lacquer-ware exported from Dejima to Batavia Not Declared on the Bills of Lading submitted between the Years 1793 and 1799
. He closes the black book, fastens its ties, and puts it into his portfolio. 'We stop now, Hanzaburo. Chief Vorstenbosch summoned me to the State Room for a meeting at four o'clock. Please take these papers to Mr Ouwehand in the Clerks' Office.' Hanzaburo sighs, takes the files, and drifts disconsolately away.

Jacob follows, locking the warehouse. Floating seeds fill the sticky air.

The sunburnt Dutchman thinks of a Zeeland winter's first snowflakes.

Go via Short Street
, he tells himself.
You may catch sight of her
.

The Dutch flag on Flag Square twitches, very nearly lifeless.

If you mean to betray Anna
, Jacob thinks,
why chase the unobtainable?

At the Land-Gate, a frisker sifts a handcart of fodder for contraband.

Marinus is right. Hire a courtesan. You have the money, now . . .

Jacob walks up Short Street to the Crossroads, where Ignatius is sweeping.

The slave tells the clerk that the doctor's students left some time ago.

One glance
, Jacob knows,
would tell me if the fan charmed or offended her
.

He stands where she passed, maybe. A couple of spies are watching him.

When he reaches the Chief's Residence he is accosted by Peter Fischer who appears from the under way. 'Well, well, aren't
you
just the dog who mounted the bitch today?' The Prussian's breath smells of rum.

Jacob can only suppose Fischer is referring to this morning's fans.

'
Three years
in this God-forlorn gaol . . . Snitker swore I would be van Cleef's deputy when he left. He swore it! Then you,
you
and your damn mercury, you come ashore, in
his
silk-lined pocket . . .' Fischer looks up the stairs to the Chief's Residence, swaying uncertainly. 'You forget, de Zoet,
I
am not a weak and common clerk. You forget--'

'That you were a rifleman in Surinam? You remind us all daily.'

'Rob me of my rightful promotion and I shall break all your bones.'

'I bid you a soberer evening than your afternoon, Mr Fischer.'

'Jacob de Zoet! I break my enemy's bones, one by one . . .'

Vorstenbosch ushers Jacob into his bureau with a conviviality not shown for days. 'Mr van Cleef reports you ran the gauntlet of Mr Fischer's displeasure.'

'Unfortunately, Mr Fischer is convinced that I devote my every waking minute to the frustration of his interests.'

Van Cleef pours a rich and ruby port into three fluted glasses.

'. . . but it might have been Mr Grote's rum making the accusation.'

'There's no denying,' says Vorstenbosch, 'that Kobayashi's interests were frustrated today.'

'I never saw his tail,' agrees van Cleef, 'so far back between his stumpy legs.'

Birds scrat, thud and issue dire warnings on the roof above.

'His own greed trapped him, sir,' says Jacob. 'I just . . . nudged him.'

'
He
'll not,' van Cleef laughs into his beard, 'see it that way!'

'When I met you, de Zoet,' begins Vorstenbosch, 'I
knew
. Here is an honest soul in a human swamp of back-stabbers, a sharp quill amongst blunt nibs, and a man who, with a little guidance, shall be a chief resident by his thirtieth year! Your resourcefulness this morning saved the Company's money and honour. Governor-General van Overstraten shall hear about it, I give my word.'

Jacob bows.
Am I summoned here
, he wonders,
to be made head clerk?

'To your future,' says the Chief. He, his deputy and the clerk touch glasses.

Perhaps his recent coolness
, Jacob thinks,
was to avert charges of favouritism
.

'Kobayashi's punishment was to be made to tell Edo,' gloats van Cleef, 'that ordering goods from a trading factory that may expire in fifty days for want of copper is premature and injudicious. We'll scare more concessions out of him, besides.'

Light skitters off the Almelo Clock's bearings like splinters of stars.

'We have,' Vorstenbosch's voice shifts, 'a further assignment for you, de Zoet. Mr van Cleef shall explain.'

Van Cleef drains his glass of port. 'Before breakfast, come rain or shine, Mr Grote receives a visitor: a provedore, who enters with a full bag, in plain view.'

'Bigger than a pouch,' says Vorstenbosch, 'smaller than a pillowcase.'

'One minute later he leaves with the same bag, still full, in plain view.'

'What,' Jacob banishes his disappointment that he is not to be promoted on the spot, 'is Mr Grote's story?'

'A "story",' says Vorstenbosch, 'is precisely what he
would
regale van Cleef or me with. High office, as you shall one day discover, distances one from one's men. But this morning proves beyond doubt that
yours
is the nose to smoke out a rascal. You hesitate. You think,
Nobody loves an informer
, and, alas, you are right. But he who is destined for high office, de Zoet, as van Cleef and I divine you are, must not fear a little clambering and elbowing. Pay Mr Grote a call tonight . . .'

This is a test
, Jacob divines,
of my willingness to get dirty hands
.

'I shall redeem a long-standing invitation to the cook's card table.'

'You see, van Cleef? De Zoet never says, "Must I?", only "How may I?"

Jacob indulges in thoughts of Anna reading news of his promotion.

* * *

In the after-dinner half-dark, swifts stream along Sea Wall Lane and Jacob finds Ogawa Uzaemon at his side. The interpreter says something to Hanzaburo to make him disappear and accompanies Jacob to the pines in the far corner. Under the humid trees Ogawa stops, neuters the inevitable spy in the shadows by means of an amiable greeting, and says, in a low voice, 'All Nagasaki talks about this morning. About Interpreter Kobayashi and fans.'

'Perhaps he won't try to scull us again so shamelessly.'

'Recently,' says Ogawa, 'I warn you not to make Enomoto enemy.'

'I take your advice very seriously.'

'Here is more advice. Kobayashi is a little Shogun. Dejima is his empire.'

'Then I am fortunate not to rely on his good offices.'

Ogawa doesn't understand 'good offices'. 'He harms you, de Zoet-
san
.'

'Thank you for your concern, Mr Ogawa, but I'm not afraid of him.'

'He may search apartment,' Ogawa looks around, 'for stolen items . . .'

Seagulls riot in the dusk above a boat hidden by the Sea Wall.

'. . . or forbidden items. So if such item in your room, please to hide.'

'But I own nothing,' Jacob protests, 'that might incriminate me.'

A tiny muscle ripples under Ogawa's cheek. 'If there is forbidden
book
. . . hide. Hide under floor. Hide very well. Kobayashi wants revenge. For you, penalty is exile. Interpreter who searched your library when you arrive not so lucky . . .'

I am failing to understand something
, Jacob knows,
but what?

The clerk opens his mouth to ask a question, but the question expires.

Ogawa knew about my Psalter
, Jacob realises,
all along
.

'I shall do as you say, Mr Ogawa, before I do anything else . . .'

A pair of inspectors appear from Bony Alley and walk up Sea Wall Lane.

Without another word, Ogawa walks towards them. Jacob leaves via Garden House.

* * *

Con Twomey and Piet Baert rise and their candlelit shadows slide. The impromptu card table is made of one door and four legs. Ivo Oost stays seated, chewing tobacco, Wybo Gerritszoon spits at, rather than into, the spittoon, and Arie Grote is as charming as a ferret welcoming a rabbit. 'We was beginnin' to despair you'd
ever
accept my hospitality, eh?' He uncorks the first of twelve jars of rum lined up on a plank shelf.

'I intended to come days ago,' says Jacob, 'but work prevented me.'

'Buryin' Mr Snitker's reputation,' remarks Oost, 'must be a taxing job.'

'It is.' Jacob brushes aside the attack. 'To make good falsified ledgers
is
taxing work. How homely your quarters are, Mr Grote.'

' 'F I liked livin' in a tub o' piss,' Grote winks, 'I'd o' stayed in Enkhuizen, eh?'

Jacob takes a seat. 'What is the game, gentlemen?'

'Knave and Devil - our Germanic cousins, eh, play it.'

'Ah, Karnoffel. I played it a little in Copenhagen.'

'S'prised,' says Baert, '
you
'd be familiar with cards.'

'The sons - or nephews - of vicarages are less naive than supposed.'

'Each o' these,' Grote picks up a nail from his cache, 'is one
stuiver
off of our wages. We
ante
up one nail in the pot afore each round. Seven tricks per round, an' who bags most tricks scoops the pot. When the nails is gone, the night's done.'

'But how are winnings redeemed, with wages payable only in Batavia?'

'A touch of, eh, legerdemainery: this -' he waves a sheet of paper '- is a record o' who won what off of who; an' Deputy van Cleef records our 'djusted balances in the actual Pay Book. Mr Snitker approved this practice, knowin' how his men's
edge
is kept sharp by these convivial, eh, pleasures.'

'Mr Snitker was a welcome guest,' says Ivo Oost, 'afore losin' his liberty.'

'Fischer an' Ouwehand an' Marinus stay aloof, but
you
, Mr de Z., look cut off of gayer cloth . . .'

Nine jars are left on the plank shelf. 'So I run away from Pa,' says Grote, stroking his cards, 'afore he
did
rip out my liver, an' off I tromped to Amsterdam, seekin' fortune an' true love, eh?' He pours himself another glass of urine-coloured rum. 'But the only love
I
saw was what's paid in cash afore an' clap in arrears, an' not a
sniff
of a fortune. Nah, hunger was all
I
found, snow an' ice an' cutpurses what fed off the weak like dogs . . .
Speculate to 'ccumulate
, thinks I, so I spends my "inheritance", eh, on a barrow o' coal, but a pack o' coalmen tipped my cart in the canal - an' me in after it, yellin', "
This is
our
patch yer West Frieslander mongrel! Come back when it's bath-time again!
" Aside from this schoolin' in monopolies, eh, that icy dunkin' give me such a fever I couldn't stir from my lodgin's for a week; an' then my cuddly landlord planted his iron toe in my arse. Holes in my shoes, naught to eat but the stinkin' fog, I sat me down on the steps of Nieuwe Kerk wonderin' if I should thief a bite while I'd still strength enough to scarper, or jus' freeze to death an' get it over with . . .'