David Mitchell - The Thousand Autumns of Jacob de Zoet

‘Little miracle, it is,’ Piet Baert looks at the sky, ‘the rain’s drained away…’

‘Forty days an’ forty nights,’ says Ivo Oost, ‘we was in for, I thought.’

‘Bodies was washed down the river,’ Wybo Gerritszoon remarks. ‘I saw the boats haulin’ ’em in with big hooks on poles.’

‘Mr Kobayashi?’ Melchior van Cleef calls louder. ‘Mr Kobayashi?’

Kobayashi turns around and looks in van Cleef’s approximate direction.

‘We have a lot of work before the Shenandoah is loaded: why this delay?’

‘Flood broke convenient bridges in city. There is much lateness today.’

‘Then why,’ asks Peter Fischer, ‘did the party not leave the prison earlier?’

But Interpreter Kobayashi has turned back and watches Flag Square. Converted to an execution ground, it holds the biggest assembly Jacob has seen in Japan. The Dutchmen, their backs to the flagpole, stand in a half-moon. An oblong is drawn in the dirt where the teapot thieves are to be decapitated. Opposite ascend three steps under an awning: on the topmost row sit Chamberlain Tomine and a dozen senior officials from the Magistracy; the middle row is filled with other dignitaries of Nagasaki; on the lowest step sit all sixteen ranked interpreters, barring Kobayashi, who is on duty at Vorstenbosch’s side. Ogawa Uzaemon, whom Jacob has not met since the Bath House, looks tired. Three Shintô priests in white robes and ornate headpieces conduct a purification ritual involving chants and the throwing of salt. To the left and right stand servants; eighty or ninety unranked interpreters; coolies and day labourers, happy to be enjoying the sport at the Company’s expense, and assorted guards, friskers, oarsmen and carpenters. Four men in ragged clothing wait by a hand-cart. The executioner is a hawk-eyed samurai whose assistant holds a drum. Dr Marinus stands to one side with his four male seminarians.

Orito was a fever, Jacob reminds himself. Now the fever is lifted.

‘Hangin’s’re more of a holiday’n this in Antwerp,’ notes Baert.

Captain Lacy looks at the flag, thinking of winds and tides.

Vorstenbosch asks, ‘Shall we be needing tug-boats later, Captain?’

Lacy shakes his head. ‘We’ll have puff enough if this breeze holds.’

Van Cleef warns, ‘The tugs’ skippers’ll try to attach the ropes regardless.’

‘Then the pirates’ll have a lot of sliced ropes to replace, ’specially if-’

Towards the Land-Gate, the crowd stirs, hums louder and parts.

The prisoners are conveyed in large rope nets suspended on poles carried by four men each. They are paraded past the grandstand and dumped on the oblong where the nets are opened. The youngest of the two is only sixteen or seventeen; he was probably handsome until his arrest. His older accomplice is broken and shivering. They wear only long cloths wrapped around their loins and a carapace of dried blood, welts and gashes. Several fingers and toes are scabby maroon lumps. Constable Kosugi, the stern master of today’s grisly ceremony, opens a scroll. The crowd falls silent. Kosugi proceeds to read a Japanese text.

‘It is statement of accuse,’ Kobayashi tells the Dutch, ‘and confessment.’

When Constable Kosugi finishes he proceeds to the awning where he bows as Chamberlain Tomine delivers a statement. Constable Kosugi then walks to Unico Vorstenbosch to relay the chamberlain’s message. Kobayashi translates with marked brevity: ‘Do Dutch Chief grant pardon?’

Four or five hundred eyes fix themselves on Unico Vorstenbosch.

Show mercy, Deputy-Elect de Zoet prays in the rotating moment. Mercy.

‘Ask the thieves,’ Vorstenbosch instructs Kobayashi, ‘whether they knew the likely punishment for their crime.’

Kobayashi addresses the question to the kneeling pair.

The older thief cannot speak. The defiant younger one declares, ‘Hai.’

‘Then why should I interfere in Japanese justice? The answer is no.’

Kobayashi delivers the verdict to Constable Kosugi, who marches back to Chamberlain Tomine. When it is delivered, the crowd mutters its disapproval. The young thief says something to Vorstenbosch and Kobayashi asks, ‘Do you wish to me for translate?’

‘Tell me what he says,’ says the Chief Resident.

‘The criminal say, “Remember my face when you drink tea.” ’

Vorstenbosch folds his arms. ‘Assure him that twenty minutes from now I shall forget his face for ever. In twenty days, few of his friends shall recall his features with clarity. In twenty months, even his mother shall wonder how her son looked.’

Kobayashi translates the sentence with stern relish.

Nearby spectators overhear and watch the Dutchmen ever more balefully.

‘I translate,’ Kobayashi assures Vorstenbosch, ‘very faithful.’

Constable Kosugi asks the executioner to ready himself for duty whilst Vorstenbosch addresses the Dutchmen. ‘There are those amongst our hosts, gentlemen, who hope to see us choke on this dish of rightful vengeance: I pray you deprive them of the pleasure.’

‘Beggin’ yer pardon, sir,’ says Baert, ‘I ain’t graspin’ yer meanin’.’

‘Don’t puke an’ don’t swoon,’ says Arie Grote, ‘afore the Yellow Host.’

‘Precisely, Grote,’ says Vorstenbosch. ‘We are ambassadors for our race.’

The older thief is first. His head is in a cloth bag. He is knelt down.

The drummer drums a dry rhythm: the executioner unsheathes his sword.

Urine darkens the ground beneath the quivering victim.

Ivo Oost, next to Jacob, draws a cross in the dirt with the toe of his shoe.

Two or more dogs across Edo Square let loose a frenzy of barking.

Gerritszoon mutters, ‘Well, here it comes, my pretty…’

The executioner’s raised sword is bright with polishing but dark with oil.

Jacob hears a chord, always present but rarely audible.

The drummer strikes his drum for the fourth or fifth time.

There is the noise of a spade cutting through soil…

… and the thief’s head thuds on to the sand, still in its bag.

Blood ejaculates from the shorn stump with a thin, whistling sound.

The gaping stump slumps forwards and settles on the thief’s knees, vomiting blood.

Gerritszoon mutters, ‘Bravo my pretty!’

I am poured out like water, recites Jacob, shutting his eyes, my tongue cleaveth to my jaws and thou hast brought me into the dust of death.

‘Seminarians,’ directs Marinus, ‘observe the aorta: the jugular and spinal cord; and how the venous blood is, in tone, a rich plum colour, whilst the arterial blood is the scarlet of ripe hibiscus. They differ in taste, moreover: the arterial blood has a metallic tang, whilst venous blood is fruitier.’

‘For the Love of God, Doctor,’ complains van Cleef. ‘Must you?’

‘Better that someone benefit from this futile act of barbarity.’

Jacob watches Unico Vorstenbosch remain aloof. Peter Fischer sniffs. ‘The safeguarding of Company property is a “futile act of barbarity”? What if the stolen item were your treasured harpsichord, Doctor?’

‘Better bid it farewell.’ The headless body is slung on to the cart. ‘Spilt blood would clog up its levers and its tone would never recover.’

Ponke Ouwehand asks, ‘What happens to the bodies, Doctor?’

‘The bile is harvested for druggists, and then the remains are pawed apart for the gratification of a paying audience. Such are the difficulties the native scholars face in establishing surgery and anatomy…’

The younger thief appears to be refusing his hood.

He is brought forward to the dark stains where his friend was beheaded.

The drummer strikes his drum a first time…

‘It’s a rare art,’ Gerritszoon tells nobody in particular, ‘is choppin’: executioners’ll mind the client’s weight, an’ the season, ’cause come summer there’s more fat on the neck than at winter’s end, an’ if the skin be wet in the rain or no…’