“See who’s waiting inside for you,” says the doctor.
Jacob contemplates the details, and the devil plants a seed.
What if this engine of bones—the seed germinates—is a man’s entirety …
Wind wallops the walls like a dozen tree trunks tumbling.
… and divine love is a mere means of extracting baby engines of bones?
Jacob thinks about Abbot Enomoto’s questions at their one meeting. “Doctor, do you believe in the soul’s existence?”
Marinus prepares, the clerk expects, an erudite and arcane reply. “Yes.”
“Then where”—Jacob indicates the pious, profane skeleton—“is it?”
“The soul is a verb.” He impales a lit candle on a spike. “Not a noun.”
Eelattu brings two beakers of bitter beer and sweet dried figs.
EACH TIME JACOB is certain the wind cannot rampage more maniacally without the roof tearing free, the wind does, but the roof doesn’t, not yet. Joists and beams strain and clunk and shudder like a windmill rattling at full kilter. A terrifying night, Jacob thinks, yet even terror can pale into monotony. Eelattu darns a sock while the doctor reminisces about his journey to Edo with the late Chief Hemmij and Head Clerk van Cleef. “They bemoaned the lack of buildings to compare to St. Peter’s or Notre Dame, but the genius of the Japanese race is manifest in its roads. The Tôkaido Highway runs from Osaka to Edo—from the empire’s belly to the head, if you will—and knows of no equal, I assert, anywhere on earth, in either modernity or antiquity. The road is a city, fifteen feet in width, but three hundred well-drained, well-maintained, and well-ordered German miles in length, served by fifty-three way stations where travelers can hire porters, change horses, and rest or carouse for the night. And the simplest, most commonsensical joy of all? All traffic proceeds on the left-hand side, so the numerous collisions, seizures, and standoffs that so clog Europe’s arteries are here unknown. On less populated stretches of the road, I unnerved our inspectors by slipping out of my palanquin and botanizing along the verges. I found more than thirty new species for my Flora Japonica, missed by Thunberg and Kaempfer. And then, at the end, is Edo.”
“Which no more than, what, a dozen Europeans alive have seen?”
“Fewer. Seize the head clerk’s chair within three years, you’ll see it yourself.”
I shan’t be here, hopes Jacob, and then, uneasily, thinks of Orito.
Eelattu snips a thread. The sea writhes, just one street and a wall away.
“Edo is a million people in a grid of streets that stretches as far as the eye can travel. Edo is a tumultuous clatter of clogs, looms, shouts, barks, cries, whispers. Edo is a codex of every human demand and Edo is the means of supplying them. Every daimyo must keep a residence there for his designated heir and principal wife, and the largest such compounds are de facto walled towns. The Great Edo Bridge—to which every milestone in Japan refers—is two hundred paces across. Would that I could have slipped into a native’s skin and roamed that labyrinth, but, naturally, Hemmij, Van Cleef, and I were confined to our inn ‘for our own protection,’ until the appointed day of our interview with the shogun. The stream of scholars and sightseers was an antidote to monotony, especially those with plants, bulbs, and seeds.”
“Upon what matters were you consulted?”
“The medical, the erudite, the puerile: ‘Is electricity a fluid?’; ‘Do foreigners wear boots because they have no ankles?’; ‘For any real number φ does Euler’s formula universally guarantee that the complex exponential function satisfies eiφ = cos φ + i sin φ?’; ‘How may we construct a Montgolfier balloon?’; ‘Can a cancerous breast be removed without killing the patient?’; and once, ‘Given that the Flood of Noah never submerged Japan, do we conclude Japan is a more elevated country than others?’ Interpreters, officials, and innkeepers all charged admittance to the Delphic Oracle, but, as I intimated—”
The building shudders, as in the earthquake: its timbers shriek.
“I find a certain comfort,” confesses Marinus, “in humanity’s helplessness.”
Jacob cannot agree. “What of your meeting with the shogun?”
“Our costume was the deposited pomp of a century and a half: Hemmij was bedecked in a pearl-buttoned jacket, a Moorish waistcoat, an ostrich-feathered hat, and white tapijns over his shoes, and with Van Cleef and I in like mishmash, we were a true trio of decayed French pastries. We rode in palanquins to the castle gates, thereafter proceeding on foot for three hours down corridors, across courtyards, through gates to vestibules where we swapped stilted pleasantries with officials, councillors, and princes until, at last, we gained the throne room. Here the pretense that the court embassy is a court embassy, and not a ten weeks’ tributary arse-licking pilgrimage, becomes impossible to maintain. The shogun—half hidden by a screen—sits on the raised rear of the room. When his interlocutor announces, ‘Oranda Kapitan,’ Hemmij scuttled, crabwise, shogun-ward, knelt at a designated spot, forbidden even to look at the lofty personage, and waited in silence until the barbarian-quelling generalissimo lifted a single finger. A chamberlain recited a text unrevised since the 1660s, forbidding us to proselytize the wicked Christian faith or to accost the junks of the Chinese or the Ryûkyû Islanders, and commanding us to report any designs against Japan that came to our ears. Hemmij scuttled backward, and the ritual was complete. That evening, I recorded in my journal, Hemmij complained of stomach gripes, which turned into dysenteric fever—an uncertain diagnosis, I confess—on the way home.”
Eelattu has finished his darning; he unrolls the bedding.
“A foul death. The rain was incessant. The place was called Kakegawa. ‘Not here, Marinus, not like this,’ he groaned, and died …”
Jacob imagines a grave in pagan soil, and his own body lowered there.
“… as if I, of all people, had powers of divine intercession.”
They are aware of a change in the timbre of the typhoon’s roar.
“Its eye,” Marinus glances upward, “is above us ….”
CHAPTER TWELVE
THE STATEROOM IN THE CHIEF’S HOUSE ON DEJIMA
Minutes after ten o’clock on October 23, 1799
“WE ARE ALL BUSY MEN.” UNICO VORSTENBOSCH STARES AT Interpreter Kobayashi over the state table. “Pray discard the garnish for once and tell me the number.”
Drizzle hisses on the roofs. Jacob dips his quill in ink.
Interpreter Iwase translates for Chamberlain Tomine, who arrived with the hollyhock-crested scroll tube delivered this morning from Edo.
Kobayashi’s Dutch translation of Edo’s message is half unrolled. “Number?”
“What”—Vorstenbosch’s patience is exaggerated—“is the shogun’s offer?”
“Nine thousand six hundred piculs,” announces Kobayashi. “Best copper.”
The nib of Jacob’s quill scratches: 9,600 piculs copper.
“This offer,” affirms Iwase Banri, “is a good and big increase.”
A ewe bleats. Jacob fails to guess what his patron is thinking.
“We request twenty thousand piculs,” assesses Vorstenbosch, “and we are offered less than ten? Does the shogun mean to insult Governor van Overstraten?”
“To triple quota in single year is not insult.” Iwase is no fool.
“Such generosity”—Kobayashi uses the weapon of offense—“is no precedent! I strive earnestly for many weeks to achieve result.”
Vorstenbosch’s glance at Jacob means, Do not record this.
“Copper can arrive,” says Kobayashi, “in two or three days, if you send.”
“Warehouse is in Saga,” says Iwase, “castle town of Hizen, is near. I amaze Edo, release so much copper. As high councillor say in message”—he indicates the scroll—“most warehouses are empty.”
Unimpressed, Vorstenbosch takes up the Dutch translation and reads.
The clock’s pendulum scrapes at time like a sexton’s shovel.
William the Silent looks into a future that
became past long ago.
“Why does this letter,” Vorstenbosch addresses Kobayashi over his half-moon glasses, “omit any mention of Dejima’s impending closure?”
“I was not present,” Kobayashi says innocently, “at Edo when reply made.”
“One wonders whether your translation of Governor van Overstraten’s original letter was enhanced à la mode of your notorious peacock feathers?”
Kobayashi looks at Iwase as if to say, Can you make sense of this remark?
“Translation,” declares Iwase, “had seals of all four senior interpreters.”
“Ali Baba,” mutters Lacy, “had forty thieves: did they make him honest?”
“Our question, gentlemen, is this.” Vorstenbosch stands. “Shall nine thousand six hundred piculs buy Dejima a twelve-month stay of execution?”
Iwase translates this for the benefit of Chamberlain Tomine.
Eaves drip; dogs bark; an angry rash itches against Jacob’s stockings.
“The Shenandoah has space for Dejima’s stock.” Lacy fishes in his jacket for a jeweled box of snuff. “We can begin loading this afternoon.”
Vorstenbosch taps the barometer. “Shall we incur the wrath of our masters in Batavia by accepting this paltry increase and keep Dejima open? Or”—Vorstenbosch strolls to the grandfather clock and scrutinizes its venerable dial—“abandon this unprofitable factory and deprive a backward Asian island of its single European ally?”
Lacy snorts a huge pinch of snuff. “Jesus have mercy: a fine kick!”
Kobayashi keeps his gaze on the chair Vorstenbosch vacated.
“Nine thousand six hundred piculs,” states Vorstenbosch, “purchases a year’s reprieve for Dejima. Send a message to Edo. Send to Saga for the copper.”
Iwase’s relief is apparent as he informs Tomine of the news.
The magistrate’s chamberlain nods, as if no other decision was viable.
Kobayashi gives his sinister and sardonic bow.
Chief Resident Unico Vorstenbosch, writes Jacob, accepted this offer …
“But Governor van Overstraten,” warns the chief, “shall not be rebuffed twice.”
… but warned interpreters, adds the clerk’s quill, settlement is not final.
“We must redouble our efforts to earn the company just recompense for the dreadful risks and inflated expenses of this factory. But for today let us adjourn.”
“A moment, Chief Resident, please,” says Kobayashi. “More good news.”
Jacob feels something malign entering the stateroom.
Vorstenbosch leans on the back of his chair. “Oh?”
“I exhort at magistracy very much about stealed teapot. I say, ‘If we do not find teapot, great dishonor falls on our nation.’ So, chamberlain sends many …” He asks for Iwase’s help. “… yes, ‘constables,’ many constables, to find teapot. Today, at guild, when I finish”—Kobayashi gestures at his translation of the shogun’s reply—“messenger arrive from magistracy. Jade teapot of Chongzhen emperor is found.”
“Oh? Good. What …” Vorstenbosch looks for a trap. “What is its condition?”
“Perfect condition. Two thiefses confessed to crime.”
“One thief,” Iwase continues, “make box in Constable Kosugi’s palanquin. Other thief put teapot into box in palanquin, and so smuggled through land gate. Without Constable’s knowledge, of course.”
“How,” asks Van Cleef, “were the thieves captured?”
“I advise,” says Kobayashi, while Iwase explains to the chamberlain the matter now in hand, “Magistrate Ômatsu offer reward, so thiefses were betrayed. My plan worked. Teapot shall deliver later today. There is better news: Magistrate Ômatsu grant permission to execute thieves in Flag Square.”
“Here?” Vorstenbosch’s satisfaction clouds over. “On Dejima? When?”
“Before Shenandoah departs,” Iwase answers, “after morning muster.”
Kobayashi’s smile is saintly. “Dutchmen can see Japanese justice.”
The shadow of a bold rat trots along the oiled paper pane.
You demanded blood, is Kobayashi’s challenge, for your precious teapot …
The watch bell on the Shenandoah rings.
… are you now man enough, the interpreter waits, to accept delivery?
The hammering on the roof of Warehouse Lelie stops.
“Excellent,” says Vorstenbosch. “Convey my thanks to Magistrate Ômatsu.”
IN WAREHOUSE DOORN, Jacob dips his quill into the ink and writes across the hitherto-blank title page: True and Complete Investigation into the Misgovernance of Dejima Factory during the Residences of Gijsbert Hemmij and Daniel Snitker, including Rectifications to those False Ledgers Submitted by the Above-named. For a moment he considers adding his name, but the rash idea passes. As his patron, Vorstenbosch has every right to pass off his underling’s work as his own. And maybe, Jacob thinks, it is safer this way. Any councillor in Batavia whose illicit profits Jacob’s Investigation curtails could erase a lowly clerk’s prospects with a single stroke of a pen. Jacob places a sheet of blotting paper on the page and evenly presses it down.
It is finished, thinks the tired-eyed clerk.
Red-nosed Hanzaburo sneezes and wipes his nose on a fistful of straw.
A pigeon trills on the high window ledge.
Ouwehand’s penetrating voice hurries past, along Bony Alley.
However widely Dejima was or wasn’t believed to be on the brink of closure, the morning’s news has roused the factory from lethargy. The copper—many hundreds of crates—shall arrive within four days. Captain Lacy wants it loaded in the Shenandoah’s hold within six and to be leaving Nagasaki in a week, before winter turns the China Sea wild and mountainous. Questions that Vorstenbosch has equivocated upon all summer long shall be resolved in the next few days. Shall the men be given the paltry official quota for private goods in the Shenandoah or what they grew used to under Vorstenbosch’s predecessors? Deals with merchants are being negotiated with keen urgency. Is Peter Fischer or Jacob de Zoet to be the next head clerk, with the greater salary and control over the shipping office? And shall Vorstenbosch use my Investigation, Jacob wonders, putting his report into his portmanteau, to condemn Daniel Snitker alone, or shall other scalps be claimed? The cabal of smugglers that operates from Batavia’s warehouses has friends as high up as the Council of the Indies, but Jacob’s report gives enough evidence for a reform-minded governor-general to shut them down.
Obeying a whim, Jacob clambers up the tower of crates.
Hanzaburo makes a heh? noise and sneezes again.
From William Pitt’s roost, Jacob sees fiery maples in the tired mountains.
Orito was absent from yesterday’s seminar in the hospital …
Nor has Ogawa come to Dejima since the day of the typhoon.
But one modest gift, he assures himself, cannot have had her banished ….
Jacob secures the shutters, climbs down, takes up his portmanteau, ushers Hanzaburo into Bony Alley, and locks the warehouse door.
JACOB EMERGES AT the crossroads in time to meet Eelattu walking up Short Street. Eelattu is supporting a gaunt young man dressed in an artisan’s loose trousers, tied at the ankles, a padded jacket, and a European hat last in style fifty years ago. Jacob notes the youth’s sunken eyes, lunar complexion, and lethargic gait and thinks, Consumption. Eelattu bids Jacob a good morning but does not introduce his charge, who, the clerk now sees, is not a pure-blood Japanese but a Eurasian, with hair browner than black and eyes as round as his own. The visitor doesn’t notice him in the alley’s mouth and continues down Long Street toward the hospital.
Filaments of rain drift across the walled-in scene.
“In the midst of life we are in death, eh?”
Hanzaburo jumps and Jacob drops his portmanteau.
“Sorry ’f we startled yer, Mr. de Z.” Arie Grote does not look sorry.
Piet Baert appears beside Grote, with a bulky sack on his shoulders.
“No harm
done, Mr. Grote.” Jacob picks up his bag. “I shall recover.”
“More’n that,” Baert nods at the Eurasian, “poor half-an’-half will.”
As if on cue, the shuffling youth coughs the unmistakable cough.
Hanzaburo is summoned across the street by an idle inspector.
Jacob watches the Eurasian crouch and cough. “Who is he?”
Grote spits. “Shunsuke Thunberg, beggin’ the query, ‘Whose is he, eh?’ His daddy, so I hear tell, was one Carl Thunberg from Sweden, what was quack here twenty years back for a couple o’ seasons. Like Dr. M., he was an educated gent an’ one for the botanizin’ by all accounts, but as yer see, he di’n’t just harvest seeds hereabouts, eh?”
A three-legged dog licks up the bald cook’s phlegm.
“Did Mr. Thunberg make no provision for his son’s future?”
“’F he did or no,” Grote sucks through his teeth, “‘provision’ needs upkeep, an’ Sweden’s far as Saturn, eh? The company treats its men’s bastards, out o’ pity, but they ain’t allowed out of Nagasaki without a pass; an’ the magistrate has the final say-so on their lives ’n’ marriages an’ all. Girls earn a fair clip, while their looks last; the ‘Corals o’ Maruyama,’ the pimps call ’em. But for boys, it’s harder: Thunberg Junior’s a goldfish breeder, I hear, but he’ll be a worm breeder by an’ by, an’ no mistake.”
Marinus and an older Japanese scholar approach from the hospital.
Jacob recognizes Dr. Maeno from the Interpreters’ Guild.
Shunsuke Thunberg’s coughing fit is, at last, easing.
I should have helped, Jacob thinks. “Does the poor fellow speak Dutch?”
“Nah. He was still a babe-in-arms when his daddy sailed away.”
“What about his mother? A courtesan, one presumes.”
“Long dead. Well, ’scuse us, Mr. de Z., but three dozen chickens’re waitin’ at the customs house f’ loadin’ on the Shenandoah what need inspectin’, ’cause last year half of ’em was half dead, half of ’em was dead, an’ three was pigeons what the provisioner called ‘rare Japanese hens.’”