The Thousand Autumns of Jacob De Zoet (50 page)

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
.

The doctor persuaded Master Fischer that I should be taught to write Dutch.

Master Fischer did not like the idea. He said that a slave who can read might ruin himself with “revolutionary notions.” He said he saw this in Surinam. But Dr. Marinus urged Master Fischer to consider how useful I will be in the clerks’ office and how much higher a price I will fetch when he wants to sell me. These words changed Master Fischer’s mind. He looked down the dining table to Master de Zoet. He said, “Clerk de Zoet, I have the perfect job for a man like you.”

WHEN MASTER FISCHER
finishes his meal in the kitchen, I walk behind him to the deputy’s house. When we cross Long Street, I must carry his parasol so his head stays in the shade. This is not an easy task. If a tassel touches his head, or if the sun dazzles his eyes, he will hit me for carelessness. Today my master is in a bad mood because he lost so much money at Master Grote’s card game. He stops here, in the middle of Long Street. “In Surinam,” he yells, “they
know
how to train stinking Negroid dogs like you!” Then he slaps my face, as hard as he can, and I drop the parasol. He shouts at me, “Pick that up!” When I bend down, he kicks my face. This is a favorite trick of Master Fischer’s, so my face is turned away from his foot, but I pretend to be in great pain. Otherwise he will feel cheated and kick me again. He says, “That’ll teach you to throw my possessions in the dust!” I say, “Yes, Master Fischer,” and open the door of his house for him.

We climb the stairs to his bedroom. He lies on his bed and says, “It’s too bloody damned hot in this bloody damned prison.”

There is much talk about “prison” this summer, because the ship from Batavia has not arrived. The white masters are afraid that it will not come, so there will be no trading season and no news or luxuries from Java. The white masters who are due to return will not be able to. Nor will their servants or slaves.

Master Fischer throws his handkerchief on the floor and says, “Shit!”

This Dutch word can be a curse, or a bad name, but this time Master Fischer is ordering me to put his chamber pot in his favorite corner. There is a privy at the foot of the stairs, but he is too lazy to go down the steps. Master Fischer stands, unfastens his breeches, squats over the pot, and grunts. I hear a slithery thud. The smell snakes its way around the room. Then Master Fischer is buttoning up his breeches. “Don’t just stand there, then, you idle Gomorrah …” His voice is drowsy because
of his lunchtime whiskey. I put the wooden lid on the chamber pot—and go outside to the soil barrel. Master Fischer says he cannot tolerate dirt in his house, so I cannot empty his chamber pot into the privy like other slaves do.

I walk down Long Street to the crossroads, turn into Bony Alley, turn left at Seawall Lane, pass the headman’s house, and empty the chamber pot into the soil urn, near the back of the hospital. The cloud of flies is thick and droning. I narrow my eyes like a yellow man’s and wrinkle shut my nose to stop any flies laying their eggs there. Then I wash the chamber pot from the barrel of seawater. On the bottom of Master Fischer’s chamber pot is a strange building called a windmill, from the white man’s world. Philander says that they make bread, but when I asked how, he called me a very ignorant fellow. This means he does not know.

I take the long way back to the deputy’s house. The white masters complain about the heat all summer long, but I love to let the sun warm my bones so I can survive the winters. The sun reminds me of Weh, my home. When I pass the pigpens, d’Orsaiy sees me and asks why Master Fischer hit me on Long Street. With my face, I say,
Does a master need a reason?
and d’Orsaiy nods. I like d’Orsaiy. D’Orsaiy comes from a place called the Cape, halfway to the white man’s world. His skin is the blackest I ever saw. Dr. Marinus says he is a Hottentot, but the master hands call him “Knave o’ Spades.” He asks me if I am going to study reading and writing at Master de Zoet’s this afternoon. I say, “Yes, unless Master Fischer gives me more work.” D’Orsaiy says that writing is a magic that I should learn. D’Orsaiy tells me that Master Ouwehand and Master Twomey are playing billiards in Summer House. This is a warning to walk briskly so that Master Ouwehand does not report me to Master Fischer for idling.

Back at the deputy’s house, I hear snoring. I creep up the stairways, knowing which steps creak and which do not. Master Fischer is asleep. This is a problem, because if I go to Master de Zoet’s house for my writing lesson without Master Fischer’s permission, he will punish me for being willful. If I do not go to Master de Zoet’s house, Master Fischer will punish me for laziness. But if I wake up Master Fischer to ask his permission, he will punish me for spoiling his siesta. In the end, I slide the chamber pot under Master Fischer’s bed and go. Perhaps I will be back before he wakes.

The door of Tall House, where Master de Zoet lives, is ajar. Behind the side door is a large, locked room full of empty crates and barrels. I knock on the lowest step, as usual, and expect to hear Master de Zoet’s voice calling, “Is that you, Weh?” But today, there is no reply. Surprised, I climb the stairs, making enough noise to warn him that I am coming. Still there is no greeting. Master de Zoet rarely takes a siesta, but perhaps the heat has overcome him this afternoon. On the landing, I cross the side room where the house interpreter lives during the trading season. Master de Zoet’s door is half open, so I peer in. He is sitting at his low table. He does not notice me. His face is not his own today. The light in his eyes is dark. He is afraid. His lips are half mouthing silent words. On my home island, we would say that he has been cursed by a bad
kwaio
.

Master de Zoet is staring at a scroll in front of him.

It is not a white man’s book but a yellow man’s scroll.

I am too far away to see well, but the letters on it are not Dutch ones.

It is yellow man’s writing—Master Yang used such letters.

Next to the scroll on Master de Zoet’s table is a notebook. Some Chinese words are written next to Dutch words. I make this guess: Master de Zoet has been translating the scroll into his own language. This has freed a bad curse, and this bad curse has possessed him.

Master de Zoet senses I am here, and he looks up.

I
NDEED IT SEEMS
,
JOHN PENHALIGON READS,
THAT NATURE
purposely designed these islands to be a sort of little world, separate and independent of the rest, by making them of so difficult an access, and by endowing them plentifully, with whatever is requisite to make the lives of their Inhabitants both delightful and pleasant, and to enable them to subsist without a commerce with foreign Nations
 …

The captain yawns and cricks his jaw. Lieutenant Hovell declares there to be no better text on Japan than Engelbert Kaempfer’s and never mind its age; but by the time Penhaligon staggers to the end of one sentence, its beginning has receded into fog. Through the stern window he studies the ominous, busy horizon. His whale’s-tooth paperweight rolls off his desk, and he hears Wetz, the sailing master, ordering the topgallants trimmed.
None too soon
, thinks the captain. The Yellow Sea has changed color from this morning’s robin’s-egg blue to ordure gray, with a sky of scabby pewter.

Where is Chigwin
, he wonders,
and where is my damned coffee?

Penhaligon retrieves his paperweight and pain bites his right ankle.

He squints at his barometer, whose needle is stuck to the “g” of “Changeable.”

The captain returns to Engelbert Kaempfer to pick at a knot of illogic: the corollary of the phrase “whatever is requisite” is that man’s needs are universal, whereas, in truth, a king’s requisites differ radically
from a reed cutter’s; a libertine’s from an archbishop’s; and his own from his grandfather’s. He opens his notebook and, bracing himself against the swell, writes:

What prophet of commerce in, let us say, the Year 1700 could have foreseen a time when commoners consume tea by the bucket and sugar by the sack? What subject of William and Mary could have predicted the “need” of today’s middling multitudes for cotton sheets, coffee, and chocolate? Human requisites are prone to fashion; and, as clamoring new needs replace old ones, the face of the world itself changes
 …

It is too rough to write, but John Penhaligon is pleased and his gout has calmed down again, for now.
A rich vein
. He takes out his shaving mirror from his escritoire. Sweetmeat pies have fattened the fellow in the glass, brandy reddened his complexion, grief sunk his eyes, and bad weather blasted away his thatch, but what restores a man’s vigor—and name—better than success?

He sketches his first speech at Westminster.
One recalls that the
Phoebus, he shall inform their enrapt lordships, then decides to amend.
One recalls that
my Phoebus
was no five-decked ship of the line with an auditorium of thunder-spouting guns, but a modest frigate of twenty-four eighteen-pounders. Her mizzen had sprung in the Straits of Formosa, her cordage was tired, her canvas threadbare, half our supplies from Fort Cornwallis were rotted, and her geriatric pump wheezed like my lord Falmouth atop his disappointed whore, and to as little profit
—the chamber shall erupt with laughter as his old enemy flees to die of shame in his stoat hole—
but her
heart,
my lords, was English oak; and when we hammered on the bolted gates of Japan, we did so with that resolve for which our race is justly notorious
. Their lordships’ hush shall grow reverential.
The copper we seized from the perfidious Dutch on that October day was but a token. Our truest prize, and the legacy of the
Phoebus,
was a market, sirs, for the fruits of
your
mills, mines, plantations, and manufactories, and the gratitude of the Japanese Empire for rousing her from feudal somnambulance into our modern century. To claim that my
Phoebus
drew the political map of Eastern Asia anew is no hyperbole
. Their lordships will nod their cluttered heads and declare, “Hear, hear!” Lord Admiral Penhaligon continues:
This august chamber is cognizant of history’s diverse instruments of change: the diplomat’s tongue; treachery’s poison; a monarch’s mercy; a pope’s tyranny
 …

By God
, Penhaligon thinks,
this is good: I must write it down later
.

… and it is nothing less than the greatest honor of my life that, in the first year of the nineteenth century, History chose one plucky ship, His Majesty’s frigate
Phoebus,
to open the doors of the most reclusive empire in the modern world—for the glory of His Majesty and the British Empire!
By now every last bewigged bastard in the place—Whig, Tory, cross-bencher, bishop, general, and admiral alike—shall be jumping to his feet and roaring with applause.

“Cap”—outside his door, Chigwin sneezes—“tain?”

“I trust you disturb me with coffee, Chigwin.”

His young steward, the son of a master shipwright at Chatham who overlooked an awkward debt, peers in. “Jones is grinding the beans now, sir: the cook’s had Old Harry of a time keeping the stove alight.”

“It was
coffee
I ordered, Chigwin, not a mug of excuses!”

“Aye, sir; sorry, sir; it should be just a few minutes more.” A slug trail of mucus glistens on Chigwin’s sleeve. “But those rocks Mr. Snitker made mention of are sighted to starboard, and Mr. Hovell thought as you may wish to survey them.”

Don’t chew the boy’s head off
. “Yes, I should.”

“Would there be any instructions for dinner, sir?”

“The lieutenants and Mr. Snitker shall dine with me tonight, so …”

They steady themselves as the
Phoebus
plunges down a trough.

“… bid Jones serve us up those chickens that are laying no more. I have no space for idlers on my ship, not even feathered ones.”

PENHALIGON HAULS HIMSELF
up the companionway to the spar deck, where the wind slams his face and inflates his lungs like a pair of new bellows. Wetz has the wheel, while lecturing a wobbly cluster of midshipmen on recalcitrant tillers in laboring seas. They salute the captain, who shouts into the wind, “What think you of the weather ahead, Mr. Wetz?”

“Good news is, sir, the clouds’re scattering to the west; bad news is, the wind’s swung a point northerly and blows a couple of knots harder. Regarding the pump, sir, Mr. O’Loughlan’s fashioning a new chain, but he thinks there’s a new leak—rats chewed the devil aft of the powder magazine.”