David Mitchell - The Thousand Autumns of Jacob de Zoet

A twisted ribbon of muscle ripples under Ogawa’s eye.

‘Yes, perhaps one could call it a love gift, but if Miss Aibagawa cares nothing for me, it doesn’t matter. She may keep it. To think of her using the book would…’ bring me happiness, Jacob cannot quite add. ‘Were I to give the dictionary to her,’ he explains, ‘spies, inspectors and her classmates would notice. Nor may I stroll over to her house of an evening. A ranked interpreter, however, carrying a dictionary, would raise no alarums… Nor, I trust, would it be smuggling, for this is a straightforward gift. And so… I would like to ask you to deliver the volume on my behalf.’

Twomey and the slave d’Orsaiy dismantle the great tripod in the Weighing Yard.

Ogawa’s lack of surprise suggests that he anticipated this request.

‘There is no one else on Dejima,’ says Jacob, ‘whom I can trust.’

No, indeed, agrees Ogawa’s clipped hmm noise, there is not.

‘Inside the dictionary, I would – I have inserted a… well, a short letter.’

Ogawa lifts his head and views the phrase with suspicion.

‘A letter… to say that the dictionary is hers for always, but if ’ – now I sound, Jacob thinks, like a costermonger honey-talking housewives at the market – ‘were she… ever… to consider me a patron, or let us say a protector, or… or…’

‘Letter is,’ Ogawa’s tone is brusque, ‘to propose marriage?’

‘Yes. No. Not unless…’ Wishing he had never begun, Jacob produces the dictionary, wrapped in sailcloth and tied with twine, from under his table. ‘Yes, damn it. It is a proposal. I beg you, Mr Ogawa, cut short my misery and just give her the damned thing.’

The wind is dark and thunderous; Jacob locks the warehouse and crosses Flag Square, shielding his eyes against dust and grit. Ogawa and Hanzaburo have returned to their homes while it is still safe to be out. At the foot of the flagpole, van Cleef is bellowing up at d’Orsaiy who is, Jacob sees, having difficulty shimmying up. ‘You’d do it for a coconut sharp enough so you’ll damn well do it for our flag!’

A senior interpreter’s palanquin is carried by: its window is shut.

Van Cleef notices Jacob. ‘Blasted flag’s knotted and can’t be lowered – but I’ll not have it ripped to shreds just because this sloth’s too afeared to untangle it!’

The slave reaches the top, grips the pole between his thighs, untangles the old United Provinces tricolour and slides down with the prize, his hair waving in the wind, and hands it to van Cleef.

‘Now run and see what use Mr Twomey can put your damn hide to!’

D’Orsaiy runs off between the Deputy’s and Captain’s houses.

‘Mustering is cancelled.’ Van Cleef folds the flag in his jacket and shelters under a gable. ‘Snatch a bowl of whatever Grote has cooked, and go home. My latest wife predicts the wind’ll turn twice as fierce as this before the typhoon’s eye passes over.’

‘I thought I’d just,’ Jacob points up the Watchtower, ‘take in the view.’

‘Keep your sightseeing short! You’ll be blown to Kamchatka!’

Van Cleef shambles up the alley to the front of his house.

Jacob climbs up the stairs, two at a time. Once above roof-level, the wind attacks him: he grips the rails tight and lies flat against the platform’s planks. From Domburg’s church tower, Jacob has watched many a gale gallop down from Scandinavia, but an Oriental typhoon possesses a sentience and menace. Daylight is bruised; woods thrash on the prematurely twilit mountains; the black bay is crazed by choppy surf; gobbets of sea-spray spatter Dejima’s roofs; timber grunts and sighs. The men of the Shenandoah are lowering her third anchor; the First Mate is on the quarterdeck, bellowing inaudibly. To the east, the Chinese merchants and sailors are likewise busy securing their property. The interpreter’s palanquin crosses an otherwise empty Edo Square; the row of plane trees bends and whiplashes; no birds fly; the fishermen’s boats are dragged high up the shorefront and lashed together. Nagasaki is digging itself in for a bad, bad night.

Which of those hundreds of huddled roofs, he wonders, is yours?

At the Crossroads, Constable Kosugi is tying up the bell-rope.

Ogawa shan’t deliver the dictionary tonight, Jacob realises.

Twomey and Baert hammer shut the door and casements of Garden House.

My gift and letter are clumsy and rash, Jacob admits, but a subtle courtship is impossible.

Something cracks and shatters, over in the Garden…

At least now, I can stop cursing myself for cowardice.

Marinus and Eelattu are struggling with trees in clay pots and a handcart…

… and twenty minutes later, two dozen apple saplings are safe in the Hospital’s hallway.

‘I – we…’ panting, the doctor indicates the young trees ‘… are in your debt.’

Eelattu ascends through the darkness and vanishes through the trapdoor.

‘I watered those saplings.’ Jacob catches his breath. ‘I feel protective towards them.’

‘I didn’t consider damage from sea-salt until Eelattu raised the matter. Those saplings I brought all the way from Hakine: unbaptised in Latin binomials, they might have all perished. There’s no fool like an old fool.’

‘Not a soul shall know,’ Jacob promises, ‘not even Klaas.’

Marinus frowns, thinks, and asks: ‘Klaas?’

‘The gardener,’ Jacob brushes his coat, ‘at your aunts’ house.’

‘Ah, Klaas! Dear Klaas reverted to compost many years ago.’

The typhoon howls like a thousand wolves: the attic lamp is lit.

‘Well,’ says Jacob, ‘I’d best run home to Tall House while I still can.’

‘God grant it may still be tall in the morning.’

Jacob pushes open the Hospital door: it is struck with a great blow that knocks the clerk back. Jacob and the doctor peer outside and see a barrel bounding down Long Street towards Garden House where it smashes into kindling.

‘Better you take refuge upstairs,’ Marinus proposes, ‘for the duration.’

‘I’d not want to intrude,’ Jacob replies. ‘You value your privacy.’

‘What use would your corpse be for my seminarians were your body to share the fate of that barrel? Lead the way upstairs, lest I fall and crush us both…’

The wheezing lantern reveals the unburied treasure on Marinus’s bookshelves. Jacob twists his head and squints at the titles: Novum Organum by Francis Bacon; Von Goethe’s Versuch die Metamorphose de Pflanzen zu erklären; Antoine Galland’s translation of One Thousand and One Nights. ‘The printed word is food,’ says Marinus, ‘and you look hungry, Domburger.’ The System of Nature by Jean-Baptiste de Mirabaud: the pseudonym, as any Dutch pastor’s nephew knows, of the atheist Baron d’Holbach; and Voltaire’s Candide, ou l’Optimisme. ‘Enough heresy,’ remarks Marinus, ‘to crush an Inquisitor’s rib-cage.’ Jacob makes no reply, encountering next Newton ’s Philosophiae Naturalis Principia Mathematica; Juvenal’s Satires; Dante’s Inferno in its original Italian; and a sober Kosmotheeros by their countryman Christiaan Huygens. This is one shelf of twenty or thirty, stretching the attic’s breadth. On Marinus’s desk is a folio volume: Osteographia by William Cheselden.

‘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.