The Thousand Autumns of Jacob De Zoet: A Novel (65 page)

'Eloquent lunacy, Lord Abbot Enomoto, is still lunacy.'

'I am more than six hundred years old. You shall die, in minutes . . .'

He believes his Creeds
, Uzaemon sees.
He believes every single word.

'. . . so which is stronger, in the end? Your Reason? Or My Eloquent Lunacy?'

'Free me,' Uzaemon says, 'free Miss Aibagawa, and I'll tell you where the scr--'

'No, no, there can be no bargaining. Nobody outside the Order may know the Creeds and live. You must die, just as Jiritsu did, and that busy old herbalist . . .'

Uzaemon groans with grief. 'She was
harmless
.'

'She wanted to harm my Order. We defend ourselves. But I want you to look at this - an artefact that Fate, in the guise of Vorstenbosch the Dutchman, sold me.' Enomoto exhibits a foreign-made pistol, inches from Uzaemon's face. 'A pearl-inlaid handle, and craftsmanship exquisite enough to confound the Confucianists' claim that Europeans lack souls. Since Shuzai told me of your heroic plans, it has been waiting. See -
see
, Ogawa, this concerns you - how one raises this "hammer" to "half-cock", loads the gun down the "muzzle" thus: first, the gunpowder, and then with a lead ball wrapped in paper. One pushes it down with this "ramrod" stored on the underside of the barrel . . .'

It's now
, Uzaemon's heart knocks like a bloodied fist,
it's now, it's now . . .

'. . . then one supplies the "flash-pan", here, with a little powder, shuts its lid, and now our pistol is "primed and ready". Done, in half a Hollander's minute. Yes, a master archer can string another arrow in the blink of an eye, but guns are manufactured more quickly than master archers. Any son of a shit-carrier could wield one of these and bring down a mounted samurai. The day is coming - you shan't see it, but I shall - when such firearms transform even our secretive world. When one squeezes the trigger, a flint strikes this "frizzen" as the flash-pan lid opens. The spark ignites the priming powder, sending a flame through this "touch-hole" into the combustion chamber. The main powder ignites, like a miniature cannon, and the lead ball bores through your--'

Enomoto presses the pistol's muzzle against Uzaemon's beating heart.

Uzaemon is aware of urine warming his thighs but is too scared for shame.

It's now, it's now, it's now, it's now, it's now, it's now, it's now . . .

'- or maybe . . .' The pistol's mouth plants a kiss on Uzaemon's temple.

It's now it's now it's now it's now it's now it's now it's now

'Animal terror,' a murmur enters Uzaemon's ear, 'has half dissolved your mind, so I shall provide you with a thought. Music, as it were, to die to. The acolytes of the Order of Mount Shiranui are initiated into the Twelve Creeds, but they stay ignorant of the Thirteenth until they become masters - one of whom you met this morning, the landlord at the Harubayashi Inn. The Thirteenth Creed pertains to an untidy loose end. Were our Sisters - and housekeepers, in fact - to descend to the World Below and discover that not one of their Gifts, their children, is alive or known, questions may be asked. To avoid such unpleasantness, Suzaku administers a gentle drug at their Rite of Departure. This drug ensures a dreamless death, long before their palanquin reaches the foot of Mekura Gorge. They are then buried in that very bamboo grove into which you blundered this morning. So here is your final thought: your childlike failure to rescue Aibagawa Orito sentences her not only to twenty years of servitude - your ineptitude has, literally, killed her.'

The pistol rests on Ogawa Uzaemon's forehead . . .

He expends his last moment on a prayer.
Avenge me.

A click, a spring, a strangled whimper nothing now but

Now Now Now Now now now now now nownownow--

Thunder splits the rift where the sun floods in.

PART III

The Master of
Go

The Seventh Month in the Thirteenth Year of the Era of Kansei

August, 1800

XXVII

Dejima

August, 1800

Last trading season, Moses whittled a spoon from a bone. A fine spoon, in the shape of a fish. Master Grote saw the fine spoon, and he told Moses, 'Slaves eat with fingers. Slaves cannot own spoons.' Then, Master Grote took the fine spoon. Later, I passed Master Grote and a Japanese gentleman. Master Grote was saying, 'This spoon was made by the very hands of the famous Robinson Crusoe.' Later, Sjako heard Master Baert tell Master Oost how the Japanese gentleman had paid five lacquer bowls for Robinson Crusoe's spoon. D'Orsaiy told Moses to hide his spoon better next time, and trade with the coolies or carpenters. But Moses said, 'Why? When Master Grote or Master Gerritszoon hunt through my straw next time, they find my earnings and take them. They say, "Slaves do not own. Slaves are owned." '

Sjako said that masters do not allow slaves to own goods or money because a slave with money could run away more easily. Philander said that such talk was bad talk. Cupido said to Moses that if he carves more spoons and gives them to Master Grote, Master Grote will value him more and surely treat him better. I said, those words are true if the master is a good master, but for a bad master, it is never true.

Cupido and Philander are favourites of the Dutch officers, because they play music at the dinner parties. They call themselves 'servants' and use fancy Dutch words like wigs and laces. They talk about 'my flute' and 'my stockings'. But Philander's flute and Cupido's fat violin and their elegant costumes belong to their masters. They wear no shoes. When the Vorstenbosch left last year, he sold them to the van Cleef. They say they were 'passed on' from the Old Chief to the New Chief, but they were sold for five guineas each.

No, a slave cannot even say, 'These are my fingers,' or 'This is my skin.' We do not own our bodies. We do not own our families. Once, Sjako would talk about 'my children back in Batavia'. He fathered his children, yes. But to his masters they are not 'his'. To his masters, Sjako is like a horse, who fathered a foal on a mare. Here is the proof: when Sjako complained too bitterly that he had not seen his family for many years, Master Fischer and Master Gerritszoon beat him severely. Sjako walks with a limp now. He talks less.

Once, I thought this question:
Do I own my name?
I do not mean my slave-names. My slave-names change at the whims of my masters. The Acehnese slavers who stole me named me 'Straight Teeth'. The Dutchman who bought me at Batavia slave-market named me 'Washington'. He was a bad master. Master Yang named me Yang Fen. He taught me tailoring and fed me the same food as his sons. My third owner was Master van Cleef. He named me 'Weh' because of a mistake. When he asked Master Yang - using fancy Dutch words - for my name, the Chinaman thought the question was 'From where does he hail?' and replied, 'An island called Weh,' and my next slave-name was fixed. But it is a happy mistake for me. On Weh, I was not a slave. On Weh, I was with my people.

My true name I tell nobody, so nobody can steal my name.

The answer, I think, is yes - my true name is a thing I own.

Sometimes another thought comes to me:
Do I own my memories?

The memory of my brother diving from the turtle rock, sleek and brave . . .

The memory of the typhoon bending the trees like grass, the sea roaring . . .

The memory of my tired, glad mother rocking the new baby to sleep, singing . . .

Yes - like my true name, my memories are things I own.

Once, I thought this thought:
Do I own this thought?

The answer was hidden in mist, so I asked Dr Marinus's servant, Eelattu.

Eelattu answered, yes, my thoughts are born in my mind, so they are mine. Eelattu said that I can own my mind, if I choose. I said, 'Even a slave?' Eelattu said, yes, if the mind is a strong place. So I created a mind like an island, like Weh, protected by deep blue sea. On my mind-island, there are no bad-smelling Dutchmen, or sneering Malay servants, or Japanese men.

Master Fischer owns my body, then, but he does not own my mind. This I know, because of a test. When I shave Master Fischer, I imagine slitting open his throat. If he owned my mind, he would see this evil thought. But instead of punishing me, he just sits there with his eyes shut.

But I discovered there are problems with owning your mind. When I am on my mind-island, I am as free as any Dutchman. There, I eat capons and mango and sugared plums. There, I lie with Master van Cleef's wife in the warm sand. There, I build boats and weave sails with my brother and my people. If I forget their names, they remind me. We speak in the tongue of Weh and drink
kava
and pray to our ancestors. There, I do not stitch or scrub or fetch or carry for masters.

Then, I hear, 'Are you
listening
to me, idle dog?'

Then, I hear, 'If you won't move for
me
, here's my whip!'

Each time I return from my mind-island, I am recaptured by slavers.

When I return to Dejima, the scars from my capture ache, a little.

When I return to Dejima, I feel a coal of anger glowing inside.

The word 'my' brings pleasure. The word 'my' brings pain. These are true words for masters as well as slaves. When they are drunk, we become invisible to them. Their talk turns to owning, or to profit, or loss, or buying, or selling, or stealing, or hiring, or renting, or swindling. For White men, to live is to own, or to try to own more, or to die trying to own more. Their appetites are astonishing! They own wardrobes, slaves, carriages, houses, warehouses and ships. They own ports, cities, plantations, valleys, mountains, chains of islands. They own this world, its jungles, its skies and its seas. Yet they complain that Dejima is a prison. They complain they are not free. Only Dr Marinus is free from these complaints. His skin is a White man's, but through his eyes you can see his soul is not a White man's soul. His soul is much older. On Weh, we would call him a
kwaio
. A
kwaio
is an ancestor who does not stay on the island of ancestors. A
kwaio
returns and returns and returns, each time in a new child. A good
kwaio
may become a shaman, but nothing in this world is worse than a bad
kwaio
.