David Mitchell - The Thousand Autumns of Jacob de Zoet

Jacob’s pen scratches out a summary.

Captain Lacy belches. ‘ ’Twas my breakfast oysters… past their ripest…’

Kobayashi looks at Vorstenbosch, as if awaiting his response.

Vorstenbosch drains his glass of water. ‘Speak to me about copper.’

With innocent insolence, Kobayashi blinks and says, ‘Message says nothing about copper, Chief Resident.’

‘Do not tell me,’ a vein throbs in Vorstenbosch’s temple, ‘Mr Kobayashi, that this is the sum of the message.’

‘No…’ Kobayashi peers at the left of the scroll. ‘First Minister also hope autumn in Nagasaki is clement and winter is mild. But I think, “Not relevant”.’

‘One thousand peacock-feather fans.’ Van Cleef whistles.

‘Finest peacock-feather fans,’ corrects Kobayashi, unembarrassed.

‘Back in Charleston,’ says Captain Lacy, ‘we’d call that a Begging Letter.’

‘Here in Nagasaki,’ says Iwase, ‘we call that Order of Shogun.’

‘Are those sons of bitches in Edo,’ asks Vorstenbosch, ‘toying with us?’

‘Good news,’ suggests Kobayashi, ‘that Council of Elders continues discussions on copper. To not say “no” is to half say “yes”.’

‘The Shenandoah sails in seven or eight weeks’ time.’

‘Copper quota,’ Kobayashi purses his lips, ‘complicated matter.’

‘Contrariwise, it is a simple matter. Should twenty thousand piculs of copper not arrive on Dejima by the middle of October, this benighted country’s sole window on to the world is bricked up. Does Edo imagine the Governor-General is bluffing? Do they think I wrote the ultimatum myself?’

Well, says Kobayashi’s shrug, it is all beyond my power…

Jacob lets his quill rest and studies the First Minister’s scroll.

‘How reply to Edo on peacock fans?’ asks Iwase. ‘ “Yes” may help copper…’

‘Why must my petitions,’ Vorstenbosch demands, ‘wait until Kingdom Come, yet when the Court wants something we are supposed to act’ – he clicks his fingers – ‘thus? Does this minister suppose peacocks are pigeons? Might not a few windmills please His Elevated Eye?’

‘Peacock fan,’ says Kobayashi, ‘enough token of esteem for First Minister.’

‘I am sick,’ Vorstenbosch complains to Heaven, ‘sick of these damned -’ he thumps the scroll on the table, causing the Japanese to gasp in horror at the disrespect ‘- “tokens of esteem”! On Mondays it is, “The Magistrate’s Falconer’s guano sweeper asks for a roll of Bangalore chintz”; on Wednesdays, “The City Elders’ Monkey-Keeper requires a box of cloves”; on Fridays, it is “His Lord So-and-so of Such-and-such admires your whalebone cutlery: he is powerful friend of foreigners” so Hey Diddle Diddle, it is chipped pewter spoons for me. Yet when we need assistance, where are these “powerful friends of foreigners” to be found?’

Kobayashi savours his victory under an ill-fitting mask of empathy.

Jacob is provoked into a rash gamble. ‘Mr Kobayashi?’

The senior interpreter looks at the clerk of uncertain status.

‘Mr Kobayashi, an incident occurred earlier during the sale of peppercorns.’

‘What in Hell,’ asks Vorstenbosch, ‘have peppercorns to do with our copper?’

‘Je vous prie de m’excuser, Monsieur,’ Jacob seeks to assure his superior, ‘mais je crois savoir ce que je fais.’

‘Je prie Dieu que vous savez,’ the Chief warns him. ‘Le jour a déjà bien mal commencé sans pour cela y ajouter votre aide.’

‘You see,’ Jacob speaks to Kobayashi, ‘Mr Ouwehand and I argued with a merchant, regarding the Chinese ideogram – the konji, I believe you call them?’

‘Kanji,’ says Kobayashi.

‘Forgive me, the kanji for the number ten. During my stay in Batavia, I learnt a small number from a Chinese merchant and, perhaps unwisely, used my limited knowledge instead of sending to the Guild for an Interpreter. Tempers grew heated, and now I fear a charge of dishonesty may have been made against your countryman.’

‘What,’ Kobayashi sniffs fresh Dutch humiliation, ‘kanji of argument?’

‘Well, sir, Mr Ouwehand said that the kanji for “ten” is…’ with a show of clumsy concentration, Jacob inscribes a character on his blotter ‘… drawn thus…

‘But I told Ouwehand, no; the true character for “ten” is writ… thus…’

Jacob fouls the stroke order to exaggerate his ineptitude. ‘The merchant swore we were both wrong: he drew -’ Jacob sighs and frowns ‘- a cross, I believe, thus…

‘I became convinced the merchant was a swindler, and may have said as much: could Interpreter Kobayashi kindly tell me the truth of the matter?’

‘Mr Ouwehand’s number,’ Kobayashi points to the topmost character, ‘is “thousand”, not “ten”. Mr de Zoet’s number, too, is wrong: it mean “hundred”. This,’ he indicates the X, ‘is wrong memory. Merchant wrote this…’ Kobayashi turns to his scribe for a brush. ‘Here is “ten”. Two strokes, yes, but one up, one across…’

Jacob groans with contrition, and inserts the numbers 10, 100 and 1000 beside the corresponding characters. ‘These, then, are the true symbols for the numbers in question?’

Cautious Kobayashi examines the numbers a final time, and nods.

‘I am sincerely grateful,’ Jacob bows, ‘for the senior interpreter’s guidance.’

‘There are,’ the interpreter fans himself, ‘no more questions?’

‘Just one more, sir,’ says Jacob. ‘Why did you claim that the Shogun’s First Minister requests one thousand peacock-feather fans when, according to the numerals you were just kind enough to teach me, the number in question is a much more modest one hundred’ – every eye in the room follows Jacob’s finger on the scroll, resting on the corresponding kanji ‘hundred’ – ‘as written here?’

Ramifications hatch from the appalling hush. Jacob thanks his God.

‘Well, ding dong bell,’ says Captain Lacy. ‘Pussy is in the well.’

Kobayashi reaches for the scroll. ‘Shogun’s request not for eyes of clerk.’

‘Indeed not!’ Vorstenbosch pounces. ‘It is for my eyes, sir; mine! Mr Iwase: you translate this letter so we may verify how many fans we are dealing with – one thousand, or one hundred for the Council of Elders and nine hundred for Mr Kobayashi and his cronies? But before we begin, Mr Iwase, refresh my memory: what are the penalties for wilfully mistranslating a Shogunal order?’

At four minutes to four o’clock, Jacob presses blotting paper over the page on his desk in Warehouse Eik. He drinks another cup of water of which he shall sweat every last drop. The clerk then lifts the blotter and reads the title: Sixteenth Addendum: True Quantities of Japanned Lacquer-ware exported from Dejima to Batavia Not Declared on the Bills of Lading submitted between the Years 1793 and 1799. He closes the black book, fastens its ties, and puts it into his portfolio. ‘We stop now, Hanzaburo. Chief Vorstenbosch summoned me to the State Room for a meeting at four o’clock. Please take these papers to Mr Ouwehand in the Clerks’ Office.’ Hanzaburo sighs, takes the files, and drifts disconsolately away.

Jacob follows, locking the warehouse. Floating seeds fill the sticky air.

The sunburnt Dutchman thinks of a Zeeland winter’s first snowflakes.

Go via Short Street, he tells himself. You may catch sight of her.