The Thousand Autumns of Jacob De Zoet: A Novel (23 page)

Gerritszoon discards an impotent five of clubs.

'I b'lieve,' Baert puts nails in his purse, 'the necessessessary house is callin'.'

'What yer takin' yer winnin's for?' asks Gerritszoon. 'Don't yer trust us?'

'I'd fry my own liver first,' says Baert, 'with cream an' onions.'

Two jars of rum sit on the plank-shelf, unlikely to survive the night. 'With the weddin' ring in my pocket,' sniffs Piet Baert, 'I . . . I . . .'

Gerritszoon spits. 'Oh, quit yer blubbin', yer pox-livered pussy!'

'
You
say that,' Baert's face hardens, ' 'cause
you
're a cess-pool hog what no'un's ever loved, but my one true love was yearnin' to marry me an' I'm thinkin',
My evil luck is gone away at long last
. All we needed was Neeltje's father's blessin' an' we'd be sailin' down the aisle. A beer-porter, her father was, in St-Pol-sur-Mer an' it was there I was headed that night, but Dunkirk was a strange town an' rain was pissin' down an' night was fallin' an' the streets led back where they'd come an' when I stopped at a tavern to ask my way the barmaid's knockers was two juggly piglets an' she lights up all witchy an' says, "My oh my, ain't
you
just strayed to the wrong side o' town, my poor
lickle
lambkin?"
I
says, "Please, miss, I just want to get to St-Pol-sur-Mer," so
she
says, "Why so hasty? Ain't our 'stablishment to your likin'?" an' thrusted them piglets at me, an'
I
says, "Your 'stablishment is fine, miss, but my one true love Neeltje is waitin' with her father so's I can ask for her hand in marriage an' turn my back on the sea," an' the barmaid says, "So you
are
a sailor?" an' I says, "I
was
, aye, but no more," an'
she
cries out to the whole house, "Who'll not drink to Neeltje the luckiest lass in Flanders?" an' she puts a tumbler o' gin in my hand an' says, "A little somethin' to warm your bone," an' promises her brother'll walk me to St-Pol-sur-Mer bein' as all sorts o' villains stalk Dunkirk after dark. So I thinks,
Yes, for sure, my evil luck is gone away at long, long last
, an' I raised that glass to my lips.'

'Game girl,' notes Arie Grote. 'What's that tavern named, by the by?'

'It'll be named Smokin' Cinders afore
I
leave Dunkirk again: that gin goes down an' my head swims an' the lamps are snuffed out. Bad dreams follow, then I'm wakin', swayin' this way an' that way, like I'm out at sea, but I'm squashed under bodies like a grape in a wine-press, and I think,
I'm dreamin' still
, but that cold puke bungin' up my ear-hole weren't no dream, an' I cries, "Dear Jesus am I dead?" an' some cackly demon laughs, "No Fishy wriggles free o'
this
hook
that
simple!" an' a grimmer voice says, "You been crimped, friend. We're on the
Venguer du Peuple
an' we're in the Channel sailin' west," an' I says, "The
Venguer du
What?" an' then I remember Neeltje an' shout, "But tonight I'm to be engaged to my one true love!" an' the demon says, "There's just one engagement
you
'll see here, matey, an' that's a naval one," an' I thinks,
Sweet Jesus in Heaven, Neeltje's ring
, an' I wriggles my arm to see if it's in my jacket but it ain't. I despair. I weep. I gnash my teeth. But nothin' helps. Mornin' comes an' we're brought up on deck an' lined along the gunwale. 'Bout a score of us southern Netherlanders there was, an' the Captain appears. Captain's an evil Paris weasel; his first officer's a shaggy hulkin' bruiser, a Basque. "
I
am Captain Renaudin an'
you
are my privileged volunteers. Our orders are to rendezvous," says he, "with a convoy bringin' grain from North America an' escort her to Republican soil. The British shall try to stop us. We shall blast them to matchwood. Any questions?" One chancer - a Swissman - pipes up, "Captain Renaudin: I belong to the Mennonite Church an' my religion forbids me to kill." Renaudin tells his first officer, "We must inconvenience this Man o' Brotherly Love no longer," an' up the bruiser steps an' shoves the Swissman overboard. We hear him shoutin' for help. We hear him beggin' for help. We hear the beggin' stop. The Captain asks, "Any
more
questions?" Well, my sea-legs come back fast 'nough so when the English fleet is sighted on the first o' June two weeks later I was loadin' powder into a twenty-four-pounder. The Third Battle of Ushant, the French call what happened next, an' The Glorious First o' June, the English call it. Well, blastin' lagrange shot through each other's gun-ports at ten feet off may be "glorious" to Sir Johnny Roast Beef but it ain't glorious to me. Sliced-open men writhin' in the smoke; aye, men bigger an' tougher'n
you
, Gerritszoon, beggin' for their mammies through raggy holes in their throats . . . an' a tub carried up from the surgeon's full o' . . .' Baert fills his glass. 'Nah, when the
Brunswick
holed us at the waterline an' we knew we was goin' down, the
Venguer
weren't no ship-o'-the-line no more: we was an abattoir . . . an abattoir . . .' Baert looks into his rum, then at Jacob. 'What saved me that terrible day? An empty cheese barrel what floated my way is what. All night I clung to it, too cold, too dead to fear the sharks. Dawn come, an' brought a sloop flyin' the Union Jack. Its launch hauls me aboard an' squawks at me in that jackdaw jabber they speak - no offence, Twomey . . .'

The carpenter shrugs. 'Irish would be
my
mother tongue now, Mr Baert.'

'This ancient Salt translates for me. "The mate's askin' where you're from?" an' says I, "Antwerp, sir: I got pressed by the French an' I damn their eyes." The Salt translates that, an' the mate jabbers some more what the Salt translates. Gist was, 'cause I weren't a Frenchie, I weren't a prisoner. Nearly kissed his boots in gratefulness! But then he told me if I volunteered for His Majesty's Navy as an ordinary seaman I'd get proper pay an' a new set o' slops, well almost new. But if I din't volunteer, I'd be pressed anyhow and paid salty sod-all as a landsman. To keep from despairin' I ask where we're bound, thinkin' I'd find a way to slip ashore in Gravesend or Portsmouth an' get back to Dunkirk an' darlin' Neeltje in a week or two . . . and the Salt says, "Our next port o' call'll be Ascension Island, for victuallin' - not that
you
'll be settin' foot ashore - and from there it's on to the Bay o' Bengal . . ." an', grown man that I am, I couldn't keep from weepin' . . .'

Not one drop of rum is left. 'Lady Luck was passin' indifferent to yer tonight, Mr de Z.,' Grote snuffs out all but two candles, 'but there's always another day, eh?'

'Indifferent?' Jacob hears the others close the door. 'I was shorn.'

'Oh, yer mercury profits'll keep Famine an' Pestilence at bay for a fair while yet, eh? 'Twas a risky stance yer took with the sale, Mr de Z., but so long as the Abbot's willin' to indulge yer, yer last two crates may yet earn a better price. Think what riches
eighty
crates'd fetch, 'stead o' just eight . . .'

'Such a quantity,' Jacob's head steams with drink, 'would violate--'

' 'Twould
bend
Company rules on Private Trade, aye, but the trees what survive cruel winds are those what
do
bend, eh, are they not?'

'A tidy metaphor does not make a wrong thing right.'

Grote puts the precious glass bottles back on the shelf. 'Five hundred per cent profit, you made: word travels, an' yer've two seasons at most 'fore the Chinese flood this market. Deputy v. C. an' Captain Lacy both have the capital back in Batavia an' they ain't men to say, "Oh dearie, but I
mayn't
for my quota is jus' eight boxes." Or the Chief himself'll do it.'

'Chief Vorstenbosch is here to eradicate corruption, not aid it.'

'Chief Vorstenbosch's interests are as starved by the war as anyone's.'

'Chief Vorstenbosch is too honest a man to profit at the Company's expense.'

'What man
ain't
the honestest cove,' Grote's round face is a bronze moon in the dark, 'in his own eyes? 'Tain't good intentions what paves the road to hell: it's self-justifyin's. Now, speakin' of honest coves, what's yer true reason for the pleasure of yer comp'ny tonight?'

Along Sea Wall Lane the guards clap the hour with their wooden clappers.

I am too drunk
, thinks Jacob,
to practise cunning
. 'I am here about two delicate matters.'

'My lips'll be waxed
and
sealed, on my beloved pa's distant grave.'

'The truth is, then, the Chief suspects a . . . misappropriation is taking place . . .'

'Saints! Not a misappropriation, Mr de Zoet? Not on Dejima?'

'. . . involving a provedore who visits your kitchen every morning -'

'Several provedores visit my kitchen every morning, Mr de Z.'

'- whose small bag is as full when he leaves as when he arrives.'

'Glad I am to dispel the misunderstandin', eh? Yer can tell Mr Vorstenbosch as how the answer's "onions". Aye, onions. Rotten, stinkin' onions. That provedore's the rascalliest dog of all. Each mornin' he tries it on but some blackguards won't listen to "Begone you shameless Knave!" an' that one is one I fear.'

Fishermen's voices travel through the warm and salty night.

I'm not too drunk
, thinks Jacob,
to miss a calculated insolence
.

'Well,' the clerk stands, 'there's no need to trouble you any further.'

'There isn't?' Arie Grote is suspicious. 'There isn't.'

'No. Another long day in the yard tomorrow, so I'll bid you good-night.'

Grote frowns. 'You did say
two
delicate matters, Mr de Z.?'

'Your tale about onions -' Jacob ducks below the beam '- requires the second item to be raised with Mr Gerritszoon. I'll speak with him tomorrow, in the sober light of day - the news will be an unwelcome revelation, I fear.'

Grote half blocks the door. 'To what might this second matter pertain?'

'Your playing cards, Mr Grote. Thirty-six rounds of Karnoffel, and of those thirty-six, you dealt twelve, and of those twelve, you won ten. An improbable outcome! Baert and Oost may not detect a deck of cards conceived in sin, but Twomey and Gerritszoon would. That ancient trick, then, I discounted. No mirrors behind us; no servants to tip you the wink . . . I was at a loss.'

'A suspicious mind,' Grote's tone turns wintry, 'for a God-fearin' cove.'

'Bookkeepers acquire suspicious minds, Mr Grote. I was at a loss to explain your success until I noticed you stroking the top edge of the cards you dealt. So I did the same, and felt the notches - those
tiny
nicks: the Knaves, sevens, Kings and Queens are all notched closer or further from the corners, according to their value. A sailor's hands, or a warehouseman's, or a carpenter's, are too calloused. But a cook's forefinger or a clerk's is another matter.'

'It's custom'ry,' Grote swallows, 'that the house is paid for its trouble.'

'In the morning we'll find out if Gerritszoon agrees. Now, I really must--'