The Thousand Autumns of Jacob De Zoet: A Novel (82 page)

'Major Cutlip? Not the luckiest of names in our language, as you know.'

'It sticks in this runaway convict's memory for another reason.' Twomey looks at the
Phoebus
and waits.

Jacob lowers his pipe. 'The marine? Your tormentor? Cutlip?'

'You'd think these coincidences'd not happen, not off the stage, not in life . . .'

Repercussions fill the air. Jacob hears them, almost.

'. . . yet time and again, the world plays this - this same -
feckin'
game. It's him! George Cutlip of the marines, late of New South Wales, washes up at Bengal, a hunting chum of the Governor's. Fischer let slip the Christian name at lunch, so there's no doubt. Not a shadow.' Twomey utters a dry bark in lieu of a laugh. 'Your decision about the Captain's proposal an' all, it'll be hard enough as it is, but if you do a deal, Jacob . . . if you do a deal, Major Cutlip'd see me an' know me an', by God, he'd settle my outstanding balance, an' unless I killed him first, I'd be feedin' the fish or feedin' the worms.'

The autumn sun is an incandescent marigold.

'I would demand guarantees, the protection of the British Crown.'

'We Irish know about the protection of the British Crown.'

Alone, Jacob watches the troublesome
Phoebus
. He employs a method of moral bookkeeping: the costs of co-operation with the English would be exposing his friend to Cutlip's revenge, and possible charges of collaboration, if a Dutch court ever assembles again. The costs of rejecting the English are years of destitution and abandonment until the war ends, and someone thinks to come and relieve them. Might they be forgotten, quite literally, grow sick, grow old and die here, one by one?

'Knock-knock, eh?' It is Arie Grote, in his stained chef's apron.

'Mr Grote, please come in. I was just . . . I was just . . .'

'Cogitatin', eh? Lot o' cogitatin' afoot on Dejima today, Chief de Z. -'

This born trader
, Jacob suspects,
is here to urge me to collaborate
.

'- but here's a word to the wise.' Grote glances around. 'Fischer's lyin'.'

Eyes of sunlight from waves blink and blink on the papered ceiling.

'You have my very closest attention, Mr Grote.'

'Specifickly, he lied 'bout van Cleef bein' keen on the deal. Now, I'd not jeopardise our card-games by revealin' all, so to speak, but there's a method called the Art of Lips. Folks reck'n yer know a liar by his eyes but 'tain't so: 'tis lips what gives a man away. Different liars've diff'rent tellers, but for Fischer when, say, he's bluffin' at cards, he does
this
-' Grote sucks in his lower lip a fraction '- and the beauty is,
he don't know he does it
. When he spoke o' van Cleef earlier, he did it: he's lyin', plain as it's writ on his face. Which it is. An' if Fischer's lyin' 'bout specificks, he's bendin' the generalities too, eh?'

A stray breeze brushes the bedraggled chandelier.

'If Chief van Cleef is not working with the English . . .'

'He's locked up in a hold: which s'plains why Fischer, an' not the Chief, comes ashore.'

Jacob looks at the
Phoebus
. 'Suppose I'm the British Captain, hoping to earn the glory of capturing the only European factory in Japan . . . but the locals are known to be prickly in their dealings with foreigners . . .'

'All what's known of 'em is they '
ave
no dealin's with foreigners.'

'The English Captain needs us to effect a transition, that's plain, but . . .'

'. . . but give it a year, Chief de Z.: two trading seasons in the bag . . .'

'Nice fat profits; an embassy to Edo; Union Jack fluttering on the pole . . .'

'Interpreters learnin' English: sudd'nwise your Dutch workers . . . well . . . "Hang on, these Dutch Butterboys're Prisoners of War!" Why'd they pay us a
shillin'
of our back-wages, eh?
I
'd not, if
I
was this Penhaligon, but
oh
, I'd give the Butterboys their free passage right 'nough . . .'

'The officers to a gaol in Penang, and you hands, you'd be pressed.'

' "Pressed" bein' English for "enslaved by His Majesty's Navy".'

Jacob tests each joint of the reasoning for weaknesses, but there are none.
Van Cleef's lack of written orders
, Jacob understands,
was his order
. 'Have you spoken about this matter with the other hands, Mr Grote?'

The cook bends his bald, clever head. 'All mornin' long, Chief de Z. If
you
smell this same stinky rat as we do, our vote's to fold up this Anglo-Dutch Entente, eh, into pretty little squares for use as privy paper.'

Jacon sees two dolphins out in the bay. 'What's
my
"teller" in the Art of Lips, Mr Grote?'

'My ma'd never forgive me f'corruptin' a young gent with card-sharkery . . .'

'We could play Backgammon, during future Quiet Seasons.'

'A proper gentl'man's game is Gammon. I'll supply the dice . . .'

Tea is cool lush green in a smooth pale bowl. 'I'll never know,' says Peter Fischer, 'how you stomach that spinach-water.' He flexes and rubs his legs, stiff after twenty minutes of sitting on the floor. 'I wish these people would get around to inventing proper chairs.' Jacob has little to say to Fischer, who is here to urge the Magistrate to allow trade with the British behind a Dutch veneer. Fischer refuses to countenance any opposition from the hands and officers on Dejima, so Jacob has not yet declared it. Ouwehand gave Jacob permission to act in his name, and Marinus quoted Greek. Interpreters Yonekizu and Kobayashi are consulting one another across the anteroom in anxious mutters, conscious now that Jacob might understand. Officials and inspectors enter and leave the Hall of Sixty Mats. The place smells of beeswax, paper, sandalwood,
and
, Jacob inhales,
fear
?

'Democracy,' Fischer speaks up, 'is a quaint diversion for the hands, de Zoet.'

'If you're implying,' Jacob puts down the tea-bowl, 'that
I
somehow--'

'No, no, I admire your cunning: the easiest way to control others is to give them the illusion of free-will. You shan't, of course,' Fischer tests the lining of his hat, 'upset our Yellow friends with talk of presidents, et cetera? Shiroyama shall be expecting to parley with the Deputy-Chief.'

'You have made up your mind to recommend Penhaligon's proposal?'

'One must be a scoundrel
and
a fool to do otherwise. We disagree on trivial matters, de Zoet, as friends may. But you, I know, are neither scoundrel nor fool.'

'The entire matter,' equivocates Jacob, 'is in your hands, it appears.'

'Yes.' Fischer takes Jacob's compliance at face value. 'Of course.'

The two men look out over walls and roofs, down to the bay.

'When the English are here,' says Fischer, 'my influence will rise . . .'

This is counting chickens
, thinks Jacob,
before the eggs are even laid
.

'. . . and I will remember old friends and old enemies.'

Chamberlain Tomine passes, his eyes acknowledging Jacob.

He turns left, through a modest door decorated with a chrysanthemum.

'A face like his,' observes Fischer, 'belongs on cathedral gutters.'

A gruff official appears and talks to Kobayashi and Yonekizu.

'You can understand,' Fischer asks, 'what they are saying, de Zoet?'

The register is formal, but Jacob gathers that the Magistrate is unwell. Deputy Fischer is to consult with his highest advisers in the Hall of Sixty Mats. Moments later, Interpreter Kobayashi confirms the message. Fischer pronounces, 'This is acceptable,' and tells Jacob, 'Oriental satraps are figureheads with no idea of political realities. It is better to speak directly with the marionette masters.'

The gruff official adds that, owing to the confusion created by the British warship, one Dutch voice is deemed to be better than two: the head clerk may wait in a quieter area of the Magistracy.

Fischer is doubly pleased. 'A logical measure. Head Clerk de Zoet,' he claps the Dutchman's shoulder, 'may drink spinach-water to his heart's content.'

XXXVI

The Room of the Last Chrysanthemum at the Magistracy

Hour of the Ox on the Third Day of the Ninth Month

'Good afternoon, Magistrate.' De Zoet kneels, bows and with a nod acknowledges Interpreter Iwase, Chamberlain Tomine and the two scribes in the corner.

'Good afternoon, Acting-Chief,' replies the Magistrate. 'Iwase shall join us.'

'I will need his talents. Your injury is better, Iwase-
san
?'

'It was a crack, not a fracture.' Iwase pats his torso. 'Thank you.'

De Zoet notices the
Go
table, where the game with Enomoto waits.

The Magistrate asks the Dutchman, 'Is this game known in Holland?'

'No. Interpreter Ogawa taught me the -' he consults with Iwase '- the "rudiments" during my first weeks on Dejima. We intended to continue playing after the trading season . . . but unfortunate events occurred . . .'

Doves trill, a peaceful sound on this frightened afternoon.

A gardener rakes the white stones by the bronze pond.

'It is irregular,' Shiroyama turns to business, 'to hold Council in this room, but when every adviser, sage and geomancer in Nagasaki is crowded into the Hall of Sixty Mats, it becomes the Hall of Six Mats and Six Hundred Voices. One cannot think.'

'Deputy Fischer will be delighted with his audience.'

Shiroyama notes de Zoet's courteous distancing. 'First, then,' he nods at his scribes to begin, 'the warship's name,
Fibasu
. No interpreter knows the word.'

'
Phoebus
is not a Dutch word but a Greek name, Your Honour. Phoebus was the sun-god. His son was Phaeton.' De Zoet helps the scribes with the strange word. 'Phaeton boasted about his famous father, but his friends said, "Your mother just
claims
your father is the sun-god, because she has no real husband." This made Phaeton unhappy, so his father promised to help his son prove that he was indeed a son of Heaven. Phaeton asked, "Let me drive the Chariot of the Sun across the sky." '