The Thousand Autumns of Jacob De Zoet (27 page)

“
I
don’t, sir.” Jacob taps the summation of exports.
“This
does.”

“The lurid beheadings we witnessed this morning,” says Van Cleef, “muddied your wits, Mr. de Zoet. Luckily, Mr. Vorstenbosch does not bear grudges, so apologize for your hotheadedness, ink your name on this scrap of paper, and let us forget this disharmony.”

Vorstenbosch is displeased but does not contradict Van Cleef.

Feeble sunshine lights the paper panes of the bureau window.

What De Zoet of Domburg
, thinks Jacob,
ever prostituted his conscience?

Melchior van Cleef smells of eau de cologne and pork fat.

“Whatever happened,” says Van Cleef, “to ‘My gratitude to Mr. Vorstenbosch is as profound as it is sincere,’ hey?”

A bluebottle is drowning in his wine. Jacob has torn the summation in two …

… and again, into four. His heart is pounding, like a murderer’s after the kill.

I shall be hearing that tearing sound
, Jacob knows,
until I die
.

The Almelo clock taps at time with its tiny hammers.

“I had De Zoet down,” Vorstenbosch addresses Van Cleef, “as a young man of sound judgment.”

“I had
you
down,” Jacob tells Vorstenbosch, “as a man worthy of emulation.”

Vorstenbosch takes up Jacob’s paper of commission and tears it in two …

… and again, into four. “I hope you like life on Dejima, De Zoet:
you shall know no other for five years. Mr. van Cleef: do you choose Fischer or Ouwehand for your deputy?”

“A poor choice. I desire neither. But let it be Fischer.”

In the stateroom, Philander says, “Pardon, but masters all busy.”

“Leave my sight,” Vorstenbosch tells Jacob, without looking at him.

“Suppose Governor van Overstraten,” Jacob wonders aloud, “were to learn—”

“Threaten
me
, you pious Zeelander shit-weasel,” responds Vorstenbosch calmly, “and where Snitker is plucked, you shall be butchered. Tell me, Chief van Cleef: what are the penalties for forging a letter from His Excellency the Governor-General of the Dutch East Indies?”

Jacob feels a sudden weakness in his thighs and calves.

“That would depend on the motives and circumstances, sir.”

“What about an unconscionable clerk who sends a counterfeit letter
to none other than the shogun of Japan
, threatening to abandon the company’s venerable outpost unless twenty thousand piculs of copper are sent to Nagasaki, copper that he
manifestly intended
to sell himself—or why else conceal his misdeed from his colleagues?”

“Twenty years in jail, sir,” says Van Cleef, “would be the most lenient sentence.”

“This”—Jacob stares—“… entrapment you planned as early as July?”

“One insures oneself against disappointments. I told you to be gone.”

I shall return to Europe
, Jacob sees,
no richer than when I left
.

As Jacob opens the bureau door, Vorstenbosch calls, “Philander!”

The Malay pretends not to have been listening at the keyhole. “Master?”

“Fetch me Mr. Fischer. We have welcome news for him.”

“
I
’ll tell Fischer!” Jacob calls over his shoulder. “Why, he can finish my wine!”

“FRET NOT THYSELF
because of evildoers, neither be thou envious against the workers of iniquity.” Jacob studies the Thirty-seventh Psalm. “For they shall soon be cut down like the grass, and wither as the green herb. Trust in the Lord, and do good; so shalt thou dwell in the land, and verily thou shalt be fed …”

Sunshine rusts the upstairs apartment in Tall House.

The sea gate is closed now until next trading season.

Peter Fischer shall be moving in to the deputy’s spacious residence.

After fifteen weeks at anchor, the
Shenandoah
shall be unfurling her sails, her sailors yearning for the open sea and a fat purse in Batavia.

Don’t pity yourself
, thinks Jacob.
Maintain your dignity, at least
.

Hanzaburo’s footsteps come up the stairs. Jacob closes the Psalter.

Even Daniel Snitker must be looking forward to the voyage beginning …

… at least, in Batavia jail, he can enjoy the company of his friends and wife.

Hanzaburo busies himself in his cubbyhole in the anteroom.

Orito preferred incarceration in a nunnery
, his loneliness whispers …

A bird in the bay tree sings an ambling, musical doodle.

… to a Dejima marriage with you
. Hanzaburo’s footsteps go down the stairs.

Jacob worries about his letters home to Anna, to his sister and uncle.

Vorstenbosch shall post them
, he fears,
through the
Shenandoah’s
privy
.

Hanzaburo is gone, the clerk realizes, without even a goodbye.

One-sided news of his disgrace shall travel: first to Batavia, then Rotterdam.

The Orient
, Anna’s father shall opine,
tests a man’s
true
character
.

Jacob calculates she shan’t hear from him until January of 1801.

Every rich, horny, eligible son of Rotterdam shall pay her court …

Jacob reopens his Psalter but is too agitated even for David’s verses.

I am a righteous man
, he thinks,
but see what righteousness has done
.

Going outside is intolerable. Staying inside is intolerable.

The others will think you are afraid to show your face
. He puts on his jacket.

On the bottom stair, Jacob steps in something slippery, falls backward …

… and bangs his coccyx on the edge of a step. He sees, and smells, that the mishap was caused by a large human turd.

LONG STREET IS
deserted but for two coolies who grin at the red-haired foreigner and make goblin horns on their heads in the way the French denote a cuckold.

The air swims with insects, born of damp earth and autumn sun.

Arie Grote trots down the steps of Chief van Cleef’s residence.

“Mr. de Z. was conspicuous by his absence, eh, at Vorstenbosch’s farewell.”

“He and I had said our goodbyes”—Jacob finds his path blocked—“earlier.”

“My jaw dropped
this
far”—Grote demonstrates—“when I heard the news!”

“Your jaw, I see, has since recovered its customary altitude.”

“So yer’ll be servin’ out yer sentence in Tall House an’ not the deputy’s. ‘A Difference of Opinion over the Deputy’s Role,’ I understand, eh?”

Jacob has nowhere to look but walls, gutters, or Arie Grote’s face.

“Meanin’, the rats tell me, you’d not sign off on that crooked summation, eh? Expensive habit is
honesty
. Loyalty ain’t a simple matter. Di’n’t I warn yer? Y’know, Mr. de Z., a nastier-minded cove, smartin’ from the loss of his friendly playin’ cards, might even be tempted to gloat a little at his, eh, antagonist’s misfortunes …”

Limping, Sjako walks by, carrying the toucan in its cage.

“… but I reckon as I’ll leave the gloatin’ to Fischer.” The leathery cook places his hand on his heart. “All’s well as ends well,
I
say. Mr. V. let me ship my
whole stock
for ten percent: last year Snitker wanted fifty-fifty for a moldy corner o’ the
Octavia
, that graspin’ grasper—an’ given
her
fate, ’twas a blessin’ we di’n’t agree! The trusty
Shenandoah
’s”—Grote nods at the sea gate—“leavin’ laden with the harvest o’ three honest years’ toil, eh. Chief V. even cut me a fifth slice of four gross Arita figurines in lieu, eh, o’ my brokerage fees.”

A night-soil man’s buckets, swinging on his pole, stain the air.

“Wonder how close,” Grote thinks aloud, “the friskers search them.”

“Four gross figurines.” Jacob registers the number. “Not two gross?”

“Forty-eight dozen, aye. Tidy packet they’ll fetch at auction. Why d’yer ask?”

“No reason.”
Vorstenbosch lied
, thinks Jacob,
from the start
. “Now, if there’s nothing I can do for you—”

“’S’matter o’ fact,” Grote says, producing a bundle from his jerkin, “it’s what
I
 …”

Jacob recognizes his tobacco pouch, given by Orito to William Pitt.

“… can do f’
you
. This well-sewn item is yours, I do believe.”

“Do you intend to charge me for my own tobacco pouch?”

“Just returnin’ it to its rightful owner, Mr. de Z., at no price whatso
ever
 …”

Jacob waits for Grote to name his true price.

“… though it may be an
opportune
time, eh, to remind yer that a wise head’d sell our two last crates o’ pox powder to Enomoto sooner an’ not later. The Chinese junks’ll come back laden low with every ounce o’ mercury to be had within their, eh, sphere of commerce, an’
entre nous
, eh, Messrs. Lacy an’ V-bosch’ll be sendin’ a German ton o’ the stuff next year, an’ when the market floods, the prices turn soggy.”

“I shan’t be selling to Enomoto. Find another buyer. Any other buyer.”

“Clerk de Zoet!” Peter Fischer marches into Long Street from Back Alley. He shines with vengefulness. “Clerk de Zoet. What is this?”

“We call it a ‘thumb’ in Dutch.” Jacob cannot yet muster a
sir
.

“Yes, I know it is a thumb. But what is this
on
my thumb?”

“That would be”—Jacob senses Arie Grote has disappeared—“a dirty smudge.”

“The clerks and hands address me,” Fischer says, drawing level, “as ‘Deputy Fischer’ or ‘sir.’ Do you understand?”

Two years of this
, Jacob calculates,
turn into five if he becomes chief
.

“I understand what you say very well, Deputy Fischer.”

Fischer wears a triumphant Caesar’s smile. “Dirt! Yes. Dirt. It is on the shelves of the clerks’ office. So I direct you to clean it.”

Jacob swallows. “Ordinarily,
sir
, one of the servants—”

“Ah, yes, but
I
direct you”—Fischer prods Jacob’s sternum with his dirty thumb—“to clean the shelves
now
, because you dislike slaves, servants, and inequalities.”

A ewe, escaped from her paddock, ambles down Long Street.

He wants me to hit him
, thinks Jacob. “I shall clean them later.”

“You shall address the deputy as Deputy Fischer, at all times.”

Years of this ahead
, thinks Jacob. “I shall clean them later, Deputy Fischer.”

Protagonist and antagonist stare at each other; the ewe squats and pisses.

“Clean the shelves
now
, Clerk de Zoet. If you do not—”

Jacob is breathless with a fury he knows he shan’t control: he walks off.

“Chief van Cleef,” Fischer calls after him, “and I shall discuss your insolence!”

Ivo Oost smokes in a doorway. “It’s a long way down …”

“It is
my
signature,” Fischer shouts after him, “that authorizes your wages!”

JACOB CLIMBS THE
watchtower, praying that nobody is on the platform.

Anger and self-pity are lodged in his throat like fish bones.

This prayer, at least
—he gains the vacant platform
—is answered
.

The
Shenandoah
is half a mile up Nagasaki Bay. Tugboats trail in her wake like unwanted goslings. The narrowing bay, pouring clouds, and the brig’s billowing canvas suggest a model ship being drawn from its bottle’s mouth.

Now I understand
, thinks Jacob,
why I have the watchtower to myself
.

The
Shenandoah
fires her cannons to salute the guard posts.

What prisoner wants to behold his prison door slammed shut?

Petals of smoke are plucked by the wind from the
Shenandoah
’s gunports …

… the shot reverberates, like the lid of a harpsichord dropped shut.

The farsighted clerk removes his spectacles in order to see better.

The burgundy blotch on the quarterdeck is certainly Captain Lacy …

… so the olive one must be the incorruptible Unico Vorstenbosch
. Jacob imagines his erstwhile patron using
Investigation into Misgovernance
to blackmail company officials. “The company’s mint,” Vorstenbosch could now argue most persuasively, “requires a director with my experience and discretion.”

Landward, citizens of Nagasaki are sitting on their roofs to watch the Dutch ship embark and dream of its destinations. Jacob thinks of his peers and fellow voyagers from home in Batavia; of colleagues in various offices during his days as a shipping clerk; of classmates in Middelburg and childhood friends in Domburg.
Whilst they are out in the wide world, finding their paths and good-hearted wives, I shall be spending my twenty-sixth, twenty-seventh, twenty-eighth, twenty-ninth, and thirtieth years—my last best years—trapped in a dying factory with whatever flotsam and jetsam happen to wash up
.

Below, out of sight, a reluctant window of the deputy’s house is opened.

“Be
careful
with that upholstery,” commands Fischer, “you mule …”

Jacob looks in his tobacco pouch for a shred of leaf, but there is none.

“… or I shall use your shit-brown skin to repair it: you savvy?”

Jacob imagines returning to Domburg to find strangers in the parsonage.

In Flag Square, priests conduct purification rites on the execution ground.

“If you not pay priest,” Kobayashi warned Van Cleef yesterday, when Jacob’s future was silver if not golden, “ghosts of thiefses not find rest and become demon, so no Japanese enter Dejima again.”

Hook-beaked gulls duel above a fishing skiff hauling up its nets.

Time passes, and when Jacob looks down the bay, he is just in time to see the
Shenandoah
’s bowsprit vanish behind Tempelhoek …

Her fo’c’sle is eaten by the rocky headland, then her three masts …

… until the bottle’s mouth is blue and vacant as the third day of Creation.

A WOMAN’S STRONG
voice rouses Jacob from his half doze. She is nearby and sounds angry or frightened or both. Curious, he looks around for the source of the commotion. In Flag Square, the priests are still chanting prayers for the executed men.