The Thousand Autumns of Jacob De Zoet (15 page)

Jacob notices the half-repressed winces on the Japanese faces.

Iwase translates the “sit down” part and indicates a chair.

Tomine looks with distaste at the foreign furniture but has no choice.

He places the lacquered tray before Interpreter Kobayashi and bows.

Kobayashi bows to him, to the scroll tube, and slides its tray to the chief.

Vorstenbosch takes up the cylinder, emblazoned on one end with the same hollyhock insignia, and tries to pull it apart. Failing, he tries to unscrew it. Failing, he tries to find a toggle or catch.

“Pardon, sir,” murmurs Jacob, “but it may need a
clockwise
twist.”

“Oh,
back to front
and
topsy-turvy
, like this whole blasted country …”

Out slides a parchment wound tight around two dowels of cherry-wood.

Vorstenbosch unrolls it on the table, vertically, like a European scroll.

Jacob has a good view. The ornate columns of brushstroked
kanji
characters offer, to the clerk’s eyes, moments of recognition: the Dutch lessons he gives Ogawa Uzaemon involve a reciprocal aspect, and his notebook now contains some five hundred of the symbols. Here the clandestine student recognizes “Give”; there, “Edo”; in the next column, “ten” …

“Naturally,” Vorstenbosch sighs, “nobody at the shogun’s court writes Dutch. Would either of you prodigies,” he looks at the interpreters, “care to oblige?”

THE GRANDFATHER CLOCK
counts off one minute; two; three …

Kobayashi’s eyes travel down, up, and across the scroll.

It is not so arduous or long
, thinks Jacob.
He is dragging the exercise out
.

The interpreter’s ponderous reading is punctuated by thoughtful nods.

Elsewhere in the chief’s residence, servants go about their business.

Vorstenbosch refuses to satisfy Kobayashi by voicing his impatience.

Kobayashi growls in his throat enigmatically and opens his mouth …

“I read once more, to ensure no mistake.”

If looks really could kill
, thinks Jacob, watching Vorstenbosch,
Kobayashi would be screaming the agonies of the damned
.

Vorstenbosch tells his slave Philander, “Bring me water.”

From his side of the table, Jacob continues to study the shogun’s scroll.

Two minutes pass. Philander returns with the pitcher.

“How,” Kobayashi turns to Iwase, “may one say ‘
rôju
’ in Dutch?”

Iwase’s considered reply contains the words “first minister.”

“Then,” Kobayashi announces, “I am ready to translate message.”

Jacob dips his sharpest quill into his inkpot.

“The message reads: ‘Shogun’s first minister sends cordialest greetings to Governor-General van Overstraten and chief of Dutchmen on Dejima, Vorstenbosch. First minister asks for’”—the interpreter peers at the scroll—“‘one thousand fans of finest peacock feathers. Dutch ship must carry this order back to Batavia, so fans of peacock feathers will arrive next year trading season.’”

Jacob’s pen scratches out a summary.

Captain Lacy belches. “’Twas my breakfast oysters … past their ripest …”

Kobayashi looks at Vorstenbosch, as if awaiting his response.

Vorstenbosch drains his glass of water. “Speak to me about copper.”

With innocent insolence, Kobayashi blinks and says, “Message says nothing about copper, Chief Resident.”

“Do not tell me”—a vein throbs in Vorstenbosch’s temple—“Mr. Kobayashi, that
this
is the sum of the message.”

“No …” Kobayashi peers at the left of the scroll. “First minister also hope autumn in Nagasaki is clement and winter is mild. But I think, ‘Not relevant.’”

“One
thousand
peacock-feather fans.” Van Cleef whistles.

“Finest
peacock-feather fans,” corrects Kobayashi, unembarrassed.

“Back in Charleston,” says Captain Lacy, “we’d call
that
a begging letter.”

“Here in Nagasaki,” says Iwase, “we call that order of shogun.”

“Are those sons of bitches in Edo,” asks Vorstenbosch,
“toying
with us?”

“Good news,” suggests Kobayashi, “that Council of Elders continues discussions on copper. To not say ‘no’ is to half say ‘yes.’”

“The
Shenandoah
sails in seven or eight weeks’ time.”

“Copper quota,” Kobayashi purses his lips, “complicated matter.”

“Contrariwise, it is a simple matter. Should twenty thousand piculs of copper not arrive on Dejima by the middle of October, this benighted country’s sole window onto the world is bricked up. Does Edo imagine the governor-general is bluffing? Do they think I wrote the ultimatum myself?”

Well
, says Kobayashi’s shrug,
it is all beyond my power
 …

Jacob lets his quill rest and studies the first minister’s scroll.

“How reply to Edo on peacock fans?” asks Iwase. “‘Yes’ may help copper …”

“Why must
my
petitions,” Vorstenbosch demands, “wait until kingdom come, yet when the court wants something, we are supposed to act”—he clicks his fingers—“thus? Does this minister suppose peacocks are pigeons? Might not a few windmills please His Elevated Eye?”

“Peacock fan,” says Kobayashi, “enough token of esteem for first minister.”

“I am sick,” Vorstenbosch complains to heaven,
“sick
of these damned”—he thumps the scroll on the table, causing the Japanese to gasp in horror at the disrespect—“‘tokens of esteem’! On Mondays it is ‘The magistrate’s falconer’s guano sweeper asks for a roll of Bangalore chintz’; on Wednesdays, ‘The city elders’ monkey-keeper requires a box of cloves’; on Fridays it is ‘His Lord So-and-so of Such-and-such admires your whalebone cutlery: he is powerful friend of foreigners,’ so, hey diddle diddle, it is chipped pewter spoons for me. Yet when
we
need assistance, where are these ‘powerful friends of foreigners’ to be found?”

Kobayashi savors his victory under an ill-fitting mask of empathy.

Jacob is provoked into a rash gamble. “Mr. Kobayashi?”

The senior interpreter looks at the clerk of uncertain status.

“Mr. Kobayashi, an incident occurred earlier during the sale of peppercorns.”

“What in hell,” asks Vorstenbosch, “have peppercorns to do with our copper?”

“Je vous prie de m’excuser, Monsieur,”
Jacob seeks to assure his superior,
“mais je crois savoir ce que je fais.”

“Je prie Dieu que vous savez,”
the chief warns him.
“Le jour a déjà bien mal commencé sans pour cela y ajouter votre aide.”

“You see,” Jacob speaks to Kobayashi, “Mr. Ouwehand and I argued with a merchant regarding the Chinese ideogram—the
konji
, I believe you call them?”

“Kanji,”
says Kobayashi.

“Forgive me, the
kanji
, for the number ten. During my stay in Batavia, I learned a small number from a Chinese merchant and, perhaps unwisely, used my limited knowledge instead of sending to the guild for an interpreter. Tempers grew heated, and now I fear a charge of dishonesty may have been made against your countryman.”

Kobayashi sniffs fresh Dutch humiliation. “What
kanji
of argument?”

“Well, sir, Mr. Ouwehand said that the
kanji
for ‘ten’ is”—with a show of clumsy concentration, Jacob inscribes a character on his blotter—“drawn
thus
 …”

“But
I
told Ouwehand, no; the true character for ‘ten’ is writ … 
thus
 …”

Jacob fouls the stroke order to exaggerate his ineptitude. “The merchant swore we were
both
wrong.
He
drew”—Jacob sighs and frowns—“a cross, I believe, thus …”

“I became convinced the merchant was a swindler and may have said as much. Could Interpreter Kobayashi kindly tell me the truth of the matter?”

“Mr. Ouwehand’s number,” Kobayashi points to the topmost character, “is ‘thousand,’ not ‘ten.’ Mr. de Zoet’s number, too, is wrong: it mean ‘hundred.’
This,”
he indicates the X, “is wrong memory. Merchant wrote
this
 …” Kobayashi turns to his scribe for a brush. “Here is ‘ten.’ Two strokes, yes, but one up, one across …”

Jacob groans with contrition and inserts the numbers 10, 100, and 1,000 beside the corresponding characters. “These, then, are the true symbols for the numbers in question?”

Cautious Kobayashi examines the numbers a final time and nods.

“I am sincerely grateful,” Jacob says and bows, “for the senior interpreter’s guidance.”

The interpreter fans himself. “There are no more questions?”

“Just one more, sir,” says Jacob. “Why did you claim that the shogun’s first minister requests one
thousand
peacock-feather fans when, according to the numerals you were just kind enough to teach me, the number in question is a much more modest one
hundred
”—every eye in the room follows Jacob’s finger on the scroll, resting on the corresponding
kanji
“hundred”—“as written here?”

Ramifications hatch from the appalling hush. Jacob thanks his God.

“Well, ding-dong bell,” says Captain Lacy. “Pussy
is
in the well.”

Kobayashi reaches for the scroll. “Shogun’s request not for eyes of
clerk.”

“In
deed
not!” Vorstenbosch pounces. “It is for
my
eyes, sir;
mine!
Mr. Iwase:
you
translate this letter so we may verify
how
many fans we are dealing with—one thousand, or one
hundred
for the Council of Elders and
nine
hundred for Mr. Kobayashi and his cronies? But before we begin, Mr. Iwase, refresh my memory: what
are
the penalties for willfully mistranslating a shogunal order?”

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 Lacquerware 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 stateroom 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.