David Mitchell - The Thousand Autumns of Jacob de Zoet

Immediately, Dr Marinus is sent for, and Jacob makes a decision.

‘Would you excuse me,’ Jacob asks Fischer, ‘for a minute?’

Fischer fills his pipe with provocative slowness. ‘How long is your minute? Ouwehand’s minute is fifteen or twenty. Baert’s minute is longer than an hour.’

Jacob stands: his legs have pins and needles. ‘I shall return in ten.’

‘So your “one” means “ten”; in Prussia, a gentleman says what he means.’

‘I’ll go,’ mutters Jacob, perhaps audibly, ‘before I do just that.’

Jacob waits at the busy Crossroads, watching the labourers pass to and fro. Dr Marinus is not long in coming: he limps past, with a pair of house interpreters carrying his medical box to attend the fainted merchant. He sees Jacob but does not acknowledge him, which suits Jacob. The turd-scented smoke escaping his oesophagus at the end of the smoke-glister experiment cured him of any desire for Marinus’s friendship. The humiliation he suffered that day has caused him to avoid Miss Aibagawa: how can she – and the other seminarians – ever regard him as anything but a half-naked apparatus of fatty valves and fleshy pipes?

Six hundred and thirty-six kobans, he admits, salve one’s self-esteem, however…

The seminarians leave the Hospital: Jacob predicted that their lecture would be cut short by Marinus’s summons. Miss Aibagawa is rearmost, half hidden by a parasol. He withdraws a few steps into Bony Alley, as if he is going to Warehouse Lelie.

All I am doing, Jacob assures himself, is returning a lost item to its owner.

The four young men, two guards and one midwife turn into Short Street.

Jacob loses his nerve: Jacob regains his nerve and follows. ‘Excuse me!’

The retinue turns around: Miss Aibagawa meets his eyes for a moment.

Muramoto, the senior student, walks back to greet him. ‘Dombâga-san!’

Jacob removes his bamboo hat. ‘It is another hot day, Mr Muramoto.’

He is pleased that Jacob remembers his name; the others join his bow. ‘Hot, hot,’ they agree warmly. ‘Hot!’

Jacob bows to the midwife. ‘Good afternoon, Miss Aibagawa.’

‘How,’ her eyes betray a droll mischief, ‘is Mr Domburger’s liver?’

‘Much better today, I thank you.’ He swallows. ‘I thank you.’

‘Ah,’ says Ikematsu with mock sobriety. ‘But how is in-tus-sus-cep-tion?’

‘Dr Marinus’s magic cured me. What did you study today?’

‘Kan-somu-shan,’ says Kajiwaki. ‘When cough blood from lungs.’

‘Oh, consumption. A terrible disease, and a common one.’

An inspector approaches from the Land-Gate: one of the guard complains.

‘Your pardon, sir,’ says Muramoto, ‘but he says, “We must leave”.’

‘Yes, I shan’t detain you: I just wish to return this,’ he produces the fan from his jacket and proffers it, ‘to Miss Aibagawa, who left it at the Hospital today.’

Her eyes flash with alarm: they demand, What are you doing?

His courage evaporates. ‘The fan you forgot in Dr Marinus’s Hospital.’

The inspector arrives. Glowering, he speaks to Muramoto.

Muramoto says, ‘Inspector wish to know “What is?” Mr Dombâga.’

‘Tell him,’ this is a terrible mistake. ‘Miss Aibagawa forgot her fan.’

The inspector is unimpressed: he issues a curt demand and holds out his hand for the fan, like a schoolmaster demanding a schoolboy’s note.

‘He ask, “Please show”, Mr Dombâga,’ translates Ikematsu. ‘To check.’

If I obey, Jacob realises, all Dejima, all Nagasaki, shall learn how I drew her likeness and pasted it, in strips, on to a fan. This friendly token of esteem, Jacob sees, shall be misconstrued. It may even light the touch-paper of a minor scandal.

The inspector’s fingers are troubled by the stiff catch.

Blushing in anticipation, Jacob prays for some – for any – deliverance.

Quietly, Miss Aibagawa says something to the inspector.

The inspector looks at her: his grimness softens, just a little…

… then he snorts with gruff amusement, and hands her the fan. She gives a slight bow.

Jacob feels admonished by this narrowest of escapes.

The bright night is raucous with parties, both on Dejima and ashore, as if to frighten away the bad memory of the morning’s earthquake. Paper lanterns are strung along Nagasaki’s principal thoroughfares, and impromptu drinking parties are taking place at Constable Kosugi’s house, Deputy van Cleef’s residence, the Interpreters’ Guild and even the Land-Gate’s guard-room. Jacob and Ogawa Uzaemon have met on the Watchtower. Ogawa brought an inspector to ward off accusations of fraternising, but he was already drunk, and a flask of sake has set him snoring. Hanzaburo is perched a few steps below the platform with Ouwehand’s latest much put-upon house interpreter: ‘I cured myself of Herpes,’ Ouwehand boasted, at the evening mustering. An overladen moon has run aground on Mount Inasa and Jacob enjoys the cool breeze, despite its soot and smell of effluence. ‘What are those clustered lights,’ he points, ‘up above the city?’

‘More O-bon parties, in… in how-to-say? Place where bury corpses.’

‘Graveyards? You never hold parties in graveyards?’ Jacob thinks of gavottes in Domburg’s graveyard and almost laughs.

‘Graveyard is gate of dead,’ says Ogawa, ‘so good place to call souls to world of life. Tomorrow night, small fire-boats float on sea to guide souls home.’

On the Shenandoah, the officer of the watch strikes four bells.

‘You truly,’ Jacob asks, ‘believe souls migrate in such a manner?’

‘Mr de Zoet not believe what he is told when boy?’

But mine is the true faith, Jacob pities Ogawa, whilst yours is idolatry.

Down at the Land-Gate, an officer is barking at an inferior.

I am a Company employee, he reminds himself, not a missionary.

‘Anyway.’ Ogawa produces a porcelain flask from his sleeve.

Jacob is already a little drunk. ‘How many of those are you hiding?’

‘I am not on duty…’ Ogawa refills their cups ‘… so drink to your good profit today.’

Jacob is warmed by the thought of his money and by the sake roaring down his gullet. ‘Is there anyone in Nagasaki who doesn’t know how much profit my mercury yielded?’

Firecrackers explode in the Chinese factory across the harbour.

‘There is one monk in very very very highest cave,’ Ogawa points up the mountainside, ‘who has not heard, not yet. To speak with sobriety, however. Price goes higher, this is good, but sell last mercury to Lord Abbot Enomoto, not another. Please. He is dangerous enemy.’

‘Arie Grote has the same fearful opinion of His Grace.’

The breeze carries over the smell of the Chinamen’s gunpowder.

‘Mr Grote is wise. Abbot’s domain is small, but he is…’ Ogawa hesitates ‘… he is much power. Besides shrine in Kyôga, he has residence here in Nagasaki, house in Miyako. In Edo, he is guest of Matsudaira Sadanobu. Sadanobu-sama is much power… “Kingmaker”, you say? Any close friend such as Enomoto is also power. Is bad enemy. Please, remember.’

‘Surely,’ Jacob drinks, ‘as a Dutchman, I have safety from “bad enemies”.’

When Ogawa makes no reply, the Dutchman feels a degree less secure.

Beach fires dot the shoreline, all the way to the bay’s mouth.

Jacob wonders what Miss Aibagawa thinks of her illustrated fan.

Cats tryst on Deputy van Cleef’s roof, below the platform.

Jacob surveys the hillsides of roofs and wonders which is hers.

‘Mr Ogawa: in Japan, how does a gentleman propose to a lady?’

The interpreter decodes. ‘Mr de Zoet want to “butter your artichoke”?’