The Thousand Autumns of Jacob De Zoet (5 page)

“How,” Jacob finds himself walking again, “do you know about my mercury?”

“Rats,” Arie Grote whispers. “Aye, rats. I feed the rats tidbits now an’ then, an’ the rats tell me what’s what an’ that’s that.
Voilà
, eh? Here’s the hospital; a journey shared’s a journey halved, eh? So, we’re agreed: I’ll act as yer agent forthwith, eh? No need for contracts or such stuff: a gentleman’ll not break his word. Until later …”

Arie Grote is walking back down Long Street to the crossroads.

Jacob calls after him, “But I never
gave
you my word!”

THE HOSPITAL DOOR
opens into a narrow hall. Ahead, a ladder ascends to a trapdoor, propped open; to the right, a doorway gives in to the surgery, a large room ruled over by an age-mottled skeleton crucified on a T-frame. Jacob tries not to think of Ogawa finding his Psalter. An operating table is equipped with cords and apertures and plastered with bloodstains. There are racks for the surgeon’s saws, knives, scissors, and chisels; mortars and pestles; a giant cabinet to house, Jacob assumes,
materia medica;
bleeding bowls; and several benches and tables. The smell of fresh sawdust mingles with wax, herbs, and a clayey whiff of liver. Through a doorway is the sickroom, with three vacant beds. Jacob is tempted by an earthenware jar of water: he drinks with the ladle—it is cool and sweet.

Why is nobody here
, he wonders,
to protect the place from thieves?

A young servant or slave appears, swishing a broom: he is barefoot, handsome, and attired in a fine surplice and loose Indian trousers.

Jacob feels a need to justify his presence. “Dr. Marinus’s slave?”

“The doctor employs me,” the youth’s Dutch is good, “as an assistant, sir.”

“Is that so? I’m the new clerk, De Zoet; and your name is?”

The man’s bow is courteous, not servile. “My name is Eelattu, sir.”

“What part of the world do you hail from, Eelattu?”

“I was born in Colombo on the island of Ceylon, sir.”

Jacob is unsettled by his suavity. “Where is your master now?”

“At study, upstairs; do you desire that I fetch him?”

“There’s no need—I shall go up and introduce myself.”

“Yes, sir; but the doctor prefers not to receive visitors—”

“Oh, he’ll not object when he learns what I bring him …”

THROUGH THE TRAPDOOR,
Jacob peers into a long, well-furnished attic. Halfway down is Marinus’s harpsichord, referred to weeks ago in Batavia by Jacob’s friend Mr. Zwaardecroone; it is allegedly the only harpsichord ever to travel to Japan. At the far end is a ruddy and ursine European of about fifty years, with tied-back stony hair. He is sitting on the floor at a low table in a well of light, drawing a flame-orange orchid. Jacob knocks on the trapdoor. “Good afternoon, Dr. Marinus.”

The doctor, his shirt unbuttoned, does not respond.

“Dr. Marinus? I am delighted to make your acquaintance at last …”

Still, the doctor gives no indication of having heard.

The clerk raises his voice: “Dr. Marinus? I apologize for disturb—”

“From what mouse hole,” Marinus glares, “did
you
spring?”

“I just arrived a quarter hour ago, from the
Shenandoah
. My name’s—”

“Did I ask for your name? No: I asked for your
fons et origo.”

“Domburg, sir: a coastal town on Walcheren Island, in Zeeland.”

“Walcheren, is it? I visited Middelburg once.”

“In point of fact, Doctor, I was educated in Middelburg.”

Marinus barks a laugh.
“Nobody
is ‘educated’ in that nest of slavers.”

“Perhaps I may raise your estimate of Zeelanders in the months ahead. I am to live in Tall House, so we are nearly neighbors.”

“So propinquity propagates neighborliness, does it?”

“I—” Jacob wonders at Marinus’s deliberate aggression. “I—well—”

“This
Cymbidium koran
was found in the goats’ fodder: as
you
dither,
it
wilts.”

“Mr. Vorstenbosch suggested you might drain some blood—”

“Medieval quackery! Phlebotomy—and the Humoral Theory on which it rests—was exploded by Hunter twenty years ago.”

But draining blood
, thinks Jacob,
is every surgeon’s bread
. “But …”

“But but but? But but?
But?
But
but
but but but?”

“The world is composed of people who are convinced of it.”

“Proving the world is composed of dunderheads. Your nose looks swollen.”

Jacob strokes the kink. “Former Chief Snitker threw a punch and—”

“You don’t have the build for brawling.” Marinus rises and limps toward the trapdoor with the aid of a stout stick. “Bathe your nose in cool water, twice daily, and pick a fight with Gerritszoon presenting the con
vex
side, so he may hammer it flat. Good day to you, Domburger.” With a well-aimed whack of his stick, Dr. Marinus knocks away the prop holding up the trapdoor.

BACK IN THE
sun-blinding street, the indignant clerk finds himself surrounded by Interpreter Ogawa, his servant, a pair of inspectors: all four look sweaty and grim. “Mr. de Zoet,” says Ogawa, “I wish to speak about a book you bring. It is important matter …”

Jacob loses the next clause to a rush of nausea and dread.

Vorstenbosch shan’t be able to save me
, he thinks,
and why would he?

“… and so to find such a book astonishes me greatly …. Mr. de Zoet?”

My career is destroyed
, thinks Jacob,
my liberty is gone, and Anna is lost
 …

“Where,” the prisoner manages to croak, “am I to be incarcerated?”

Long Street is tilting up and down. The clerk shuts his eyes.

“In cancer-
ated
?” Ogawa mocks him. “My poor Dutch is failing me.”

The clerk’s heart pounds like a broken pump. “Is it human to toy with me?”

“Toy?” Ogawa’s perplexity grows. “This is proverb, Mr. de Zoet? In Mr. de Zoet’s chest I found book of Mr …. Adamu Sumissu.”

Jacob opens his eyes: Long Street is no longer tilting. “Adam Smith?”

“Adam Smith—please excuse.
The Wealth of Nations
 … You know?”

I know it, yes
, thinks Jacob,
but I don’t yet dare hope
. “The original English is a little difficult, so I bought the Dutch edition in Batavia.”

Ogawa looks surprised. “Adam Smith is Englishman?”

“He’d not thank you, Mr. Ogawa! Smith’s a Scot, living in Edinburgh. But can it be
The Wealth of Nations
about which you speak?”

“What other? I am
rangakusha
—scholar of Dutch science. Four years ago, I borrow
Wealth of Nations
from Chief Hemmij. I began translation to bring,” Ogawa’s lips ready themselves, “‘Theory of Political Economy’ to Japan. But lord of Satsuma offered Chief Hemmij much money, so I returned it. Book was sold before I finish.”

The incandescent sun is caged by a glowing bay tree.

God called unto him
, thinks Jacob,
out of the midst of the bush
 …

Hooked gulls and scraggy kites crisscross the blue-glazed sky

… and said, Moses, Moses. And he said, Here am I
.

“I try to obtain another, but”—Ogawa flinches—“but difficulties is much.”

Jacob resists an impulse to laugh like a child. “I understand.”

“Then, this morning, in your book chest, Adam Smith I
find
. Very much surprise, and to speak with sincerity, Mr. de Zoet, I wish to buy or rent …”

Across the street in the garden, cicadas shriek in ratcheted rounds.

“Adam Smith is neither for sale nor rent,” says the Dutchman, “but you are welcome, Mr. Ogawa—very welcome indeed—to borrow him for as long as ever you wish.”

J
ACOB DE ZOET EMERGES FROM BUZZING DARKNESS TO SEE HANZABURO
, his house interpreter, being interrogated by two inspectors. “They’ll be ordering your boy”—Junior Clerk Ponke Ouwehand appears from thin air—“to open up your turds to see what you shat. I tormented my first snoop into an early grave three days ago, so the Interpreters’ Guild sent this hat stand.” Ouwehand jerks his head at the gangly youth behind him. “His name’s Kichibei, but I call him ‘Herpes’ after how closely he sticks to me. But I’ll defeat him in the end. Grote bet me ten guilders I can’t wear out five by November. Broken our fast yet, have we?”

The inspectors now notice Kichibei and summon him over.

“I was on my way,” says Jacob, wiping his hands.

“We should go before all the hands piss in your coffee.”

The two clerks set off up Long Street, passing two pregnant deer.

“Nice shank of venison,” comments Ouwehand, “for Christmas dinner.”

Dr. Marinus and the slave Ignatius are watering the melon patch. “Another furnace of a day ahead, Doctor,” says Ouwehand, over the fence.

Marinus must have heard but does not deign to look up.

“He’s courteous enough to his students,” Ouwehand remarks to Jacob, “and to his handsome Indian, and he was gentleness made man,
so Van Cleef says, when Hemmij was dying, and when his scholar friends bring him a weed or a dead starfish, he wags his tail off. So why is he Old Master Misery with us? In Batavia, even the French consul—the
French
consul, mark you—called him
un buffalo insufferable.”
Ouwehand squeaks in the back of his throat.

A gang of porters is gathering at the crossroads to bring ashore the pig iron. When they notice Jacob, the usual nudges, stares, and grins begin. He turns down Bony Alley rather than run the gauntlet any farther.

“Don’t deny you enjoy the attention,” says Ouwehand, “Mr. Red-Hair.”

“But I
do
deny it,” objects Jacob. “I deny it utterly.”

The two clerks turn into Seawall Lane and reach the kitchen.

Arie Grote is plucking a bird under a canopy of pans and skillets. Oil is frying, a pile of improvised pancakes is rising up, and a well-traveled round of Edam and sour apples are divided between two mess tables. Piet Baert, Ivo Oost, and Gerritszoon sit at the hands’ table; Peter Fischer, the senior clerk, and Con Twomey, the carpenter, eat at the officers’; today being Monday, Vorstenbosch, Van Cleef, and Dr. Marinus will take their breakfast upstairs in the bay room.

“We was just wond’rin’,” says Grote, “where you coves’d got to, eh?”

“Pottage of nightingales’ tongues to begin with, maestro,” says Ouwehand, poking at the gritty bread and rancid butter, “followed by a quail-and-blackberry pie with artichokes in cream, and, last, the quince-and-white-rose trifle.”

“How Mr. O.’s evergreen jests,” says Grote, “spice up the day.”

“That
is,”
Ouwehand peers over, “a
pheasant
’s arsehole your hand is up?”

“Envy,” the cook tuts, “is one o’ the Seven Deadlies, eh, Mr. de Z.?”

“They say so.” Jacob wipes a smear of blood from an apple. “Yes.”

“We readied yer coffee.” Baert carries over a bowl. “Nice an’ fresh.”

Jacob looks at Ouwehand, who makes a “told you so” face.

“Thank you, Mr. Baert, but I may abstain today.”

“But we made it special,” protests the Antwerper. “Just for you.”

Oost yawns cavernously; Jacob risks a pleasantry. “Bad night?”

“Out smuggling and robbing the company till dawn, weren’t I?”

“I wouldn’t know, Mr. Oost.” Jacob breaks his bread. “Were you?”

“Thought
you
had all the answers afore y’even set foot ashore.”

“A civil tongue,” cautions Twomey, in his Irish-flavored Dutch, “is—”

“He
’s the one sittin’ in judgment on us all, Con, an’
you
think it, too.”

Oost is the only hand rash enough to speak so bluntly to the new clerk’s face without the excuse of grog, but Jacob knows that even Van Cleef views him as Vorstenbosch’s spy. The kitchen is waiting for his answer. “To man its ships, maintain its garrisons, and pay its tens of thousands of salaries, Mr. Oost, including yours, the company must make a profit. Its trading factories must keep books. Dejima’s books for the last five years are a pig’s dinner. It is Mr. Vorstenbosch’s duty to order me to piece those books together. It is my duty to obey. Why must this make my name Iscariot?”

No one cares to reply. Peter Fischer eats with his mouth open.

Ouwehand scoops up some sauerkraut with his gritty bread.

“Strikes me,” Grote says, plucking out the fowl’s innards, “that it all rests on what the chief
does
about any … 
irregularities
, eh, spotted durin’ this
piecin’ together
. Whether it’s a naughty-boy-now-sin-no-more or a firm but fair canin’ of one’s
derrière
, eh? Or ruination an’ a six-by-five-by-four in Batavia jail.”

“If—” Jacob stops himself saying
If you did nothing wrong, you have nothing to fear:
everyone present violates the company rules on private trade. “I’m not the—” Jacob stops himself saying
chief’s private confessor
. “Have you tried asking Mr. Vorstenbosch directly?”