The Thousand Autumns of Jacob De Zoet, Page 20

  “I translate,” Kobayashi assures Vorstenbosch, “very faithful.”

  Constable Kosugi asks the executioner to ready himself for duty, while Vorstenbosch addresses the Dutchmen. “There are those among our hosts, gentlemen, who hope to see us choke on this dish of rightful vengeance; I pray you deprive them of the pleasure.”

  “Beggin’ yer pardon, sir,” says Baert, “I ain’t graspin’ yer meanin’.”

  “Don’t puke an’ swoon,” says Arie Grote, “afore the yellow host.”

  “Precisely, Grote,” says Vorstenbosch. “We are ambassadors for our race.”

  The older thief is first. His head is in a cloth bag. He is knelt down.

  The drummer drums a dry rhythm: the executioner unsheathes his sword.

  Urine darkens the ground beneath the quivering victim.

  Ivo Oost, next to Jacob, draws a cross in the dirt with his shoe.

  Two or more dogs across Edo Square let loose a frenzy of barking.

  Gerritszoon mutters, “Well, here it comes, my pretty …”

  The executioner’s raised sword is bright with polishing but dark with oil.

  Jacob hears a chord, always present but rarely audible.

  The drummer strikes his drum for the fourth or fifth time.

  There is the noise of a spade cutting through soil …

  … and the thief’s head thuds onto the sand, still in its bag.

  Blood ejaculates from the shorn stump with a thin, whistling sound.

  The gaping stump slumps forward and settles on the thief’s knees, vomiting blood.

  Gerritszoon mutters, “Bravo, my pretty!”

  I am poured out like water, recites Jacob, shutting his eyes, my tongue cleaveth to my jaws and thou hast brought me into the dust of death.

  “Seminarians,” directs Marinus, “observe the aorta; the jugular and spinal cord; and how the venous blood is, in tone, a rich plum color, while the arterial blood is the scarlet of ripe hibiscus. They differ in taste, moreover: the arterial blood has a metallic tang, whilst venous blood is fruitier.”

  “For the love of God, Doctor,” complains Van Cleef. “Must you?”

  “Better that someone benefit from this futile act of barbarity.”

  Jacob watches Unico Vorstenbosch remain aloof.

  Peter Fischer sniffs. “The safeguarding of company property is a ‘futile act of barbarity’? What if the stolen item were your treasured harpsichord, Doctor?”

  “Better bid it farewell.” The headless body is slung onto the cart. “Spilled blood would clog up its levers, and its tone would never recover.”

  Ponke Ouwehand asks, “What happens to the bodies, Doctor?”

  “The bile is harvested for druggists, and then the remains are pawed apart for the gratification of a paying audience. Such are the difficulties the native scholars face in establishing surgery and anatomy.”

  The younger thief appears to be refusing his hood.

  He is brought to the dark stains where his friend was beheaded.

  The drummer strikes his drum a first time …

  “It’s a rare art,” Gerritszoon tells nobody in particular, “is choppin’: executioners’ll mind the client’s weight an’ the season, ’cause come summer there’s more fat on the neck than at winter’s end, an’ if the skin be wet in the rain or no …”

  The drummer strikes his drum a second time …

  “A philosopher of Paris,” the doctor tells his students, “was sentenced to the guillotine during the recent Terror …”

  The drummer strikes his drum the third time …

  “… and he conducted an intriguing experiment: he arranged with an assistant that he would begin blinking as the blade fell …”

  The drummer strikes his drum a fourth time.

  “… and continue blinking thereafter for as long as he might. By counting the blinks, the assistant could measure the brief life of a severed head.”

  Cupido intones words in Malay, perhaps to ward off the evil eye.

  Gerritszoon turns and says, “Stop that darkie jabberin’, boy.”

  Deputy-elect Jacob de Zoet cannot bring himself to watch again.

  He inspects his shoes and finds a splash of blood on one toe.

  The wind passes through Flag Square, soft as a robe’s hem.

  “WHICH BRINGS US,” says Vorstenbosch, “almost to the end of things …”

  It is eleven o’clock by the Almelo clock in the departing chief’s bureau.

  Vorstenbosch slides the last sheaf of paperwork aside, produces the papers of commission, dips his pen in its well, and signs the first document. “May fortune smile on your tenure, Chief Resident Melchior van Cleef of the Dejima Factory …”

  Van Cleef’s beard shrugs as its owner smiles. “Thank you, sir.”

  “… and last but not least,” Vorstenbosch signs the second document, “Deputy Chief Resident Jacob de Zoet.” He replaces the pen. “To think, De Zoet, back in April, you were a lesser clerk bound for a swampy pit in Halmahera.”

  “An open grave.” Van Cleef puffs out air. “Escape the crocs, swamp fever shall do for you. Escape the swamp fever, a poison blow dart ends your days. You owe Mr. Vorstenbosch not only a bright future but your very life.”

  You, you embezzler, Jacob thinks, owe him your freedom from Snitker’s fate. “My gratitude to Mr. Vorstenbosch is as profound as it is sincere.”

  “We have time for a brief toast. Philander!”

  Philander comes in, balancing three glasses of wine on a silver tray.

  Each man takes one of the long-stemmed glasses; they clink rims.

  His glass drained, Vorstenbosch presents Melchior van Cleef with the keys to Warehouses Eik and Doorn and to the safe box that houses the trading pass issued fifteen decades ago by the great shogun. “May Dejima flourish under your custodianship, Chief van Cleef. I bequeathed you an able and promising deputy. Next year I desire you both surpass my achievement and wring twenty thousand piculs of copper out of our miserly slit-eyed hosts.”

  “If it is humanly possible,” promises Van Cleef, “we shall.”

  “I shall pray for your safe voyage, sir,” says Jacob.

  “Thank you. And now the matter of succession is settled …”

  Vorstenbosch takes an envelope from his coat and unfolds a document. “Dejima’s three senior officers may sign the summation of exported goods, as Governor van Overstraten now insists we must.” He writes his own name in the first space beneath the three-page index of company commodities stowed in the Shenandoah’s hold, divided into “Copper,” “Camphor,” and “Other,” and subdivided into lot numbers, quantities, and qualities.

  Van Cleef signs the record he compiled, without a second glance.

  Jacob takes the proffered pen and, by dint of professional habit, studies the figures: this is the morning’s single document not prepared by his own hand.

  “Deputy,” chides Van Cleef, “surely you shan’t oblige Mr. Vorstenbosch to wait?”

  “The company desires me, sir, to be thorough in all things.”

  This remark, Jacob notices, is greeted by a frosty silence.

  “The sun,” says Van Cleef, “is winning the battle for the day, Mr. Vorstenbosch.”

  “So it is.” Vorstenbosch finishes his wine. “Were it Kobayashi’s intention to conjure a Jonah with the executions this morning, his plan is another failure.”

  Jacob finds a surprising error. Total Copper Export: 2,600 piculs.

  Van Cleef clears his throat. “Is aught amiss, Deputy?”

  “Sir … here, in the total column. The ‘nine’ looks like a ‘two.’”

  Vorstenbosch states: “The summation is quite in order, De Zoet.”

  “But, sir, we are exporting nine thousand six hundred piculs.”

  Van Cleef’s levity is infused with threat. “Just sign the paper, De Zoet.”

  Jacob looks at Van Cleef, who stares at Jacob, who turns to Vorstenbosch. “Sir: one unfamiliar with your reputation for integrity
might see this summation and”—he struggles for a diplomatic phrase—“might be forgiven for supposing that seven thousand piculs of copper have been omitted from the tally deliberately.”

  Vorstenbosch’s face is that of a man resolved to let his son beat him at chess no longer.

  “Do you,” Jacob’s voice has a slight shake, “intend to steal this copper?”

  “‘Steal’ is for Snitker, boy: I claim my rightful perquisites.”

  “But ‘rightful perquisites,’” Jacob blurts, “might be a phrase which Daniel Snitker minted!”

  “For your career’s sake, don’t compare me to that wharf rat.”

  “I don’t, sir.” Jacob taps the summation of exports. “This does.”

  “The lurid beheadings we witnessed this morning,” says Van Cleef, “muddied your wits, Mr. de Zoet. Luckily, Mr. Vorstenbosch does not bear grudges, so apologize for your hotheadedness, ink your name on this scrap of paper, and let us forget this disharmony.”

  Vorstenbosch is displeased but does not contradict Van Cleef.

  Feeble sunshine lights the paper panes of the bureau window.

  What De Zoet of Domburg, thinks Jacob, ever prostituted his conscience?

  Melchior van Cleef smells of eau de cologne and pork fat.

  “Whatever happened,” says Van Cleef, “to ‘My gratitude to Mr. Vorstenbosch is as profound as it is sincere,’ hey?”

  A bluebottle is drowning in his wine. Jacob has torn the summation in two …

  … and again, into four. His heart is pounding, like a murderer’s after the kill.

  I shall be hearing that tearing sound, Jacob knows, until I die.

  The Almelo clock taps at time with its tiny hammers.

  “I had De Zoet down,” Vorstenbosch addresses Van Cleef, “as a young man of sound judgment.”

  “I had you down,” Jacob tells Vorstenbosch, “as a man worthy of emulation.”

  Vorstenbosch takes up Jacob’s paper of commission and tears it in two …

  … and again, into four. “I hope you like life on Dejima, De Zoet: you shall know no other for five years. Mr. van Cleef: do you choose Fischer or Ouwehand for your deputy?”

  “A poor choice. I desire neither. But let it be Fischer.”

  In the stateroom, Philander says, “Pardon, but masters all busy.”

  “Leave my sight,” Vorstenbosch tells Jacob, without looking at him.

  “Suppose Governor van Overstraten,” Jacob wonders aloud, “were to learn—”

  “Threaten me, you pious Zeelander shit-weasel,” responds Vorstenbosch calmly, “and where Snitker is plucked, you shall be butchered. Tell me, Chief van Cleef: what are the penalties for forging a letter from His Excellency the Governor-General of the Dutch East Indies?”

  Jacob feels a sudden weakness in his thighs and calves.

  “That would depend on the motives and circumstances, sir.”

  “What about an unconscionable clerk who sends a counterfeit letter to none other than the shogun of Japan, threatening to abandon the company’s venerable outpost unless twenty thousand piculs of copper are sent to Nagasaki, copper that he manifestly intended to sell himself—or why else conceal his misdeed from his colleagues?”

  “Twenty years in jail, sir,” says Van Cleef, “would be the most lenient sentence.”

  “This”—Jacob stares—“… entrapment you planned as early as July?”

  “One insures oneself against disappointments. I told you to be gone.”

  I shall return to Europe, Jacob sees, no richer than when I left.

  As Jacob opens the bureau door, Vorstenbosch calls, “Philander!”

  The Malay pretends not to have been listening at the keyhole. “Master?”

  “Fetch me Mr. Fischer. We have welcome news for him.”

  “I’ll tell Fischer!” Jacob calls over his shoulder. “Why, he can finish my wine!”

  “FRET NOT THYSELF because of evildoers, neither be thou envious against the workers of iniquity.” Jacob studies the Thirty-seventh Psalm. “For they shall soon be cut down like the grass, and wither as the green herb. Trust in the Lord, and do good; so shalt thou dwell in the land, and verily thou shalt be fed …”

  Sunshine rusts the upstairs apartment in Tall House.

  The sea gate is closed now until next trading season.

  Peter Fischer shall be moving in to the deputy’s spacious residence.

  After fifteen weeks at anchor, the Shenandoah shall be unfurling her sails, her sailors yearning for the open sea and a fat purse in Batavia.

  Don’t pity yourself, thinks Jacob. Maintain your dignity, at least.

  Hanzaburo’s footsteps come up the stairs. Jacob closes the Psalter.

  Even Daniel Snitker must be looking forward to the voyage beginning …

  … at least, in Batavia jail, he can enjoy the company of his friends and wife.

  Hanzaburo busies himself in his cubbyhole in the anteroom.

  Orito preferred incarceration in a nunnery, his loneliness whispers …

  A bird in the bay tree sings an ambling, musical doodle.

  … to a Dejima marriage with you. Hanzaburo’s footsteps go down the stairs.

  Jacob worries about his letters home to Anna, to his sister and uncle.

  Vorstenbosch shall post them, he fears, through the Shenandoah’s privy.

  Hanzaburo is gone, the clerk realizes, without even a goodbye.

  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.

  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 backward …

  … 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 swims 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 walls, 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. Di’n’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 percent: last year Snitker wanted fifty-fifty for a moldy corner o’ the Octavia, that graspin’ grasper—an’ given her fate, ’twas a blessin’ we di’n’t agree! The trusty Shenandoah’s”—Grote nods at the sea gate—“leavin’ laden with the harvest o’ three hone
st 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 says, producing a bundle from his jerkin, “it’s what I …”

  Jacob recognizes 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 whatsoever …”

  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 says, drawing 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 a triumphant Caesar’s smile. “Dirt! Yes. Dirt. It is on the shelves of the clerks’ office. So I direct you to clean it.”