David Mitchell - The Thousand Autumns of Jacob de Zoet

‘Each o’ these,’ Grote picks up a nail from his cache, ‘is one stuiver off of our wages. We ante up one nail in the pot afore each round. Seven tricks per round, an’ who bags most tricks scoops the pot. When the nails is gone, the night’s done.’

‘But how are winnings redeemed, with wages payable only in Batavia?’

‘A touch of, eh, legerdemainery: this -’ he waves a sheet of paper ‘- is a record o’ who won what off of who; an’ Deputy van Cleef records our ’djusted balances in the actual Pay Book. Mr Snitker approved this practice, knowin’ how his men’s edge is kept sharp by these convivial, eh, pleasures.’

‘Mr Snitker was a welcome guest,’ says Ivo Oost, ‘afore losin’ his liberty.’

‘Fischer an’ Ouwehand an’ Marinus stay aloof, but you, Mr de Z., look cut off of gayer cloth…’

Nine jars are left on the plank shelf. ‘So I run away from Pa,’ says Grote, stroking his cards, ‘afore he did rip out my liver, an’ off I tromped to Amsterdam, seekin’ fortune an’ true love, eh?’ He pours himself another glass of urine-coloured rum. ‘But the only love I saw was what’s paid in cash afore an’ clap in arrears, an’ not a sniff of a fortune. Nah, hunger was all I found, snow an’ ice an’ cutpurses what fed off the weak like dogs… Speculate to ’ccumulate, thinks I, so I spends my “inheritance”, eh, on a barrow o’ coal, but a pack o’ coalmen tipped my cart in the canal – an’ me in after it, yellin’, “This is our patch yer West Frieslander mongrel! Come back when it’s bath-time again!” Aside from this schoolin’ in monopolies, eh, that icy dunkin’ give me such a fever I couldn’t stir from my lodgin’s for a week; an’ then my cuddly landlord planted his iron toe in my arse. Holes in my shoes, naught to eat but the stinkin’ fog, I sat me down on the steps of Nieuwe Kerk wonderin’ if I should thief a bite while I’d still strength enough to scarper, or jus’ freeze to death an’ get it over with…’

‘Thief an’ scarper,’ says Ivo Oost, ‘ev’ry time…’

‘Who should gander along but this gent in a top hat, ivory-knobbed cane an’ a friendly manner. “Know who I am, boy?” I says, “I don’t, sir.” He says, “I, boy, am your Future Prosperity.” Figured he meant he’d feed me f’joinin’ his Church, an’ so starvin’ was I I’d’ve turned Jew for a bowl o’ pottage, but no. “You have heard of the noble an’ munificent Dutch East Indies Company, boy, have you not?” Says I, “Who ain’t, sir?” Says he, “So you are cognisant of the diamond prospects the Company offers stout an’ willin’ lads in its possessions throughout our Creator’s blue an’ silver globe, yes?” Says I, catchin’ on at last, “That I do, sir, aye.” Says he, “Well, I am a Master Recruiter for the Amsterdam Head Quarters an’ my name is Duke van Eys. What d’ you say to half a guilder advance on your wages, an’ board an’ lodgin’ till the next Company flotilla sets forth on the finny way to the Mysterious East?” An’ I say, “Duke van Eys, you are my Saviour.” Mr de Z., does our rum disagree with you?’

‘My stomach is dissolving, Mr Grote, but it is otherwise delicious.’

Grote places the five of diamonds: Gerritszoon slaps down the queen.

‘Cry havoc!’ Baert slams down a five of trumps and scoops up the nails.

Jacob next discards a low heart. ‘Your Saviour, Mr Grote?’

Grote inspects his cards. ‘The gentleman led me to a tottery house behind Rasphuys, a slanty street an’ his office was poky but dry ’n’ warm an’ the smell o’ bacon wafted up from below stairs an’, oh, it smelt good! I even asked, might I have me a rasher or two there ’n’ then an’ van Eys laughs an’ says, “Write your name here, boy, and after five years in the Orient you can build a Palace of smoked hog!” Couldn’t read nor write my name back in them days: I just inked my thumb at the foot o’ the papers. “Splendid,” says van Eys, “and here is an advance on your bounty, to prove I am a man of my word.” He paid me my own new an’ shiny half-guilder, an’ I was never happier. “The remainder is payable aboard the Admiral de Ruyter, who sails on the thirtieth or thirty-first. One trusts you have no objection to being quartered with a few other stout an’ willing lads, future shipmates and partners in prosperity?” Any roof beat no roof, so I pocketed my booty an’ said I’d no objection at all.’

Twomey discards a worthless diamond. Ivo Oost, the four of spades.

‘So two servants,’ Grote studies his hand, ‘lead me downstairs but I din’t rumble what was afoot, eh, till the key was turned in the lock behind me. In a cellar no bigger’n this room was twenty-four lads, my age or older. Some’d been there weeks; some was half-skel’tons, coughin’ up blood… Oh, I banged on the door to be freed, but this great scabby grunt strolls over sayin’, “Better give me your half-guilder now for safe-keepin’.” Says I, “What half-guilder?” an’ he says I can give it him volunt’ry or else he’ll tenderise me an’ have it anyways. I asks when we’re allowed out for exercise an’ air. “We ain’t let out,” says he, “till the ship sails or unless we cark it. Now, the money.” Wish I could say I stood my ground, but Arie Grote ain’t no liar. He weren’t jokin’ ’bout carkin’ it neither: eight o’ them “stout an’ willing lads” left horizontally, two crammed into one coffin. Just an iron grid at street level for air ’n’ light, see, an’ slops so bad you’d not know which bucket was to eat from an’ which to shit in.’

‘Why didn’t you knock down the doors?’ asks Twomey.

‘Iron doors an’ guards with nailed truncheons is why.’ Grote sweeps headlice from his hair. ‘Oh, I found ways to live to tell the tale. It’s my chief hobby-hawk is the noble art of survivin’. But on the day we was marched to the tender what’d take us out to the Admiral de Ruyter, roped to the others like prisoners, eh, I swore three oaths to myself. First: never credit a Company gent who says, “We’ve yer interests at heart.” ’ He winks at Jacob. ‘Second: never be so poor again, come what may, that human pustules like van Eys could buy ’n’ sell me like a slave. Third? To get my half-guilder back off of Scabby Grunt before we reached Curaçao. My first oath I honour to this day; my second oath, well, I have grounds to hope it’ll be no pauper’s grave for Arie Grote when his time is done; and my third oath – oh, yes, I got my half-guilder back that very same night.’

Wybo Gerritszoon picks his nose and asks, ‘How?’

Grote shuffles the cards. ‘My deal, shipmates.’

Five jars of rum wait on the shelf. The hands are drinking more than the clerk, but Jacob feels a drunken glow in his legs. Karnöffel, he knows, shall not make me a rich man tonight. ‘Letters,’ Ivo Oost is saying, ‘they taught us at the orphanage, an’ arithmetic, an’ Scripture: a powerful dose o’ Scripture, what with Chapel twice daily. We was made to learn the gospels verse by verse an’ one slip’d earn you a stroke o’ the cane. What a pastor I might o’ made! But then, who’d take lessons from “Somebody’s Natural Son” on the Ten Commandments?’ He deals seven cards to each player. Oost turns over the top card of the remnant pack. ‘Diamonds is trumps.’

‘I heard tell,’ says Grote, playing the eight of clubs, ‘the Company shipped some Head-Shrinker, black as a sweep, to pastor’s school in Leiden. The idea bein’ he’ll go home to his jungle an’ show the cannibals the Light o’ the Lord an’ so render ’em more pacific, eh? Bibles bein’ cheaper’n rifles an’ all.’

‘Oh, but rifles make f’better sport,’ remarks Gerritszoon. ‘Bang bang bang.’