The Thousand Autumns of Jacob De Zoet: A Novel (36 page)

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.

Until then, 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 backwards . . .

. . . 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 is swimming 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 the walls, the 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. Din'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 per cent: last year Snitker wanted fifty-fifty for a mouldy corner o' the
Octavia
, that graspin' grasper - an' given
her
fate 'twas a blessin' we din'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 produces a bundle from his jerkin, 'it's what
I
. . .'

Jacob recognises 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 what-so-
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 draws 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 triumphant Caesar's smile. 'Dirt! Yes. Dirt. It is on the shelfs of the Clerks' Office. So, I direct you to clean it.'

'Ordinarily,' Jacob swallows, '
Sir
, one of the servants--'

'Ah, yes, but
I
direct
you
' - Fischer prods Jacob's sternum with his dirty thumb - 'to clean the shelfs
now
, because you dislike slaves, servants and unequalities.'

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.

'I order you to clean the shelfs
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!'

'It's a long way,' Ivo Oost smokes in a doorway, 'down to the bottom . . .'

'It is
my
signature,' Fischer shouts after him, 'that authorises 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 one prayer, at least
, he gains the unoccupied platform,
is answered
.

The
Shenandoah
is half a mile up Nagasaki Bay. Tug-boats 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 gun-ports . . .

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

The far-sighted 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.'

Landwards, citizens of Nagasaki are sitting on their roofs to watch the Dutch ship embark, and dream of its destinations. Jacob thinks of the peers and fellow-voyagers 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 year - 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 . . .

Then 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.

The Land-Gate is open to let the water-vendor's ox off Dejima.

Standing outside the gate, Aibagawa Orito is arguing with the guards.

The Watchtower lurches: Jacob finds he has lain flat on the platform, out of her line of vision.

She is brandishing her wooden pass and pointing up Short Street.

The guard examines her pass with suspicion; she looks over her shoulder.

The ox, an empty urn hanging from each shoulder, is led over Holland Bridge.