David Mitchell - The Thousand Autumns of Jacob de Zoet

The drummer strikes his drum a second time…

‘A philosopher of Paris,’ the doctor tells his students, ‘was sentenced to the guillotine during the recent Terror…’

The drummer strikes his drum the third time…

‘… he conducted an intriguing experiment: he arranged with an assistant that he would begin blinking as the blade fell…’

The drummer strikes his drum a fourth time.

‘… and continue blinking thereafter for as long as he might. By counting the blinks, the assistant could measure the brief life of a severed head.’

Cupido intones some words in Malay, perhaps to ward off the evil eye.

Gerritszoon turns around and says, ‘Stop that darkie jabberin’, boy.’

Deputy-Elect Jacob de Zoet cannot bring himself to watch again.

He inspects his shoes and finds a splash of blood on one toe.

The wind passes through Flag Square, soft as a robe’s hem.

‘Which brings us,’ says Vorstenbosch, ‘almost to the end of things…’

It is eleven o’clock by the Almelo Clock in the departing Chief’s Bureau.

Vorstenbosch slides the last sheaf of paperwork aside; produces the Papers of Commission; dips his pen in its well and signs the first document. ‘May fortune smile on your tenure, Chief Resident Melchior van Cleef of the Dejima Factory…’

Van Cleef’s beard shrugs as its owner smiles. ‘Thank you, sir.’

‘… and last but not least,’ Vorstenbosch signs the second document, ‘Deputy Chief Resident Jacob de Zoet.’ He replaces the pen. ‘To think, de Zoet, back in April, you were a lesser clerk bound for a swampy pit in Halmahera.’

‘An open grave.’ Van Cleef puffs out air. ‘Escape the crocs, swamp-fever shall do for you. Escape the swamp-fever, a poison blow-dart ends your days. You owe Mr Vorstenbosch not only a bright future but your very life.’

You, you embezzler, Jacob thinks, owe him your freedom from Snitker’s fate. ‘My gratitude to Mr Vorstenbosch is as profound as it is sincere.’

‘We have time for a brief toast. Philander!’

Philander comes in, balancing three glasses of wine on a silver tray.

Each man takes one of the long-stemmed glasses: they clink rims.

His glass drained, Vorstenbosch presents Melchior van Cleef with the keys to Warehouses Eik and Doorn, and to the safe-box that houses the Trading Pass issued fifteen decades ago by the Great Shogun. ‘May Dejima flourish under your custodianship, Chief van Cleef. I bequeathed you an able and promising deputy. Next year I desire you both surpass my achievement and wring twenty thousand piculs of copper out of our miserly slit-eyed hosts.’

‘If it is humanly possible,’ promises van Cleef, ‘we shall.’

‘I shall pray for your safe voyage, sir,’ says Jacob.

‘Thank you: and now the matter of succession is settled…’ Vorstenbosch takes an envelope from his coat and unfolds a document ‘… Dejima’s three senior officers may sign the Summation of Exported Goods, as Governor van Overstraten now insists we must.’ He writes his own name in the first space beneath the three-page index of Company commodities stowed in the Shenandoah’s hold, divided into ‘Copper’, ‘Camphor’ and ‘Other’, and subdivided into lot numbers, quantities and qualities.

Van Cleef signs the record he compiled without a second glance.

Jacob takes the proffered pen and, by dint of professional habit, studies the figures: this is the morning’s single document not prepared by his own hand.

‘Deputy,’ chides van Cleef, ‘surely you shan’t oblige Mr Vorstenbosch to wait?’

‘The Company desires me, sir, to be thorough in all things.’

This remark, Jacob notices, is greeted by a frosty silence.

‘The sun,’ says van Cleef, ‘is winning the battle for the day, Mr Vorstenbosch.’

‘So it is.’ Vorstenbosch finishes his wine. ‘Were it Kobayashi’s intention to conjure a Jonah with the executions this morning, his plan is another failure.’

Jacob finds a surprising error. Total Copper Export: 2,600 piculs.

Van Cleef clears his throat. ‘Is aught amiss, Deputy?’

‘Sir… here, in the total column. The “nine” looks like a “two”.’

Vorstenbosch states: ‘The Summation is quite in order, de Zoet.’

‘But, sir, we are exporting nine thousand six hundred piculs.’

Van Cleef’s levity is infused with threat. ‘Just sign the paper, de Zoet.’

Jacob looks at van Cleef, who stares at Jacob, who turns to Vorstenbosch. ‘Sir: one unfamiliar with your reputation for integrity might see this Summation and…’ he struggles for a diplomatic phrase ‘… might be forgiven for supposing that seven thousand piculs of copper have been omitted from the tally deliberately.’

Vorstenbosch’s face is that of a man resolved to let his son beat him at chess no longer.

‘Do you,’ Jacob’s voice has a slight shake, ‘intend to steal this copper?’

‘ “Steal” is for Snitker, boy: I claim my rightful perquisites.’

‘But “rightful perquisites”,’ Jacob blurts, ‘is the very phrase Snitker minted!’

‘For your career’s sake, don’t compare me to that wharf-rat.’

‘I don’t, sir.’ Jacob taps the Summation of exports. ‘This does.’

‘The lurid beheadings we witnessed this morning,’ says van Cleef, ‘muddied your wits, Mr de Zoet. Luckily, Mr Vorstenbosch does not bear grudges, so apologise for your hotheadedness, ink your name on this scrap of paper and let us forget this disharmony.’

Vorstenbosch is displeased but does not contradict van Cleef.

Feeble sunshine lights the paper panes of the Bureau window.

What de Zoet of Domburg, thinks Jacob, ever prostituted his conscience?

Melchior van Cleef smells of eau-de-Cologne and pork fat.

‘Whatever happened,’ says van Cleef, ‘to “My gratitude to Mr Vorstenbosch is as profound as it is sincere”, hey?’

A bluebottle is drowning in his wine. Jacob has torn the Summation in two…

… and again, into four. His heart is pounding, like a murderer’s after the kill.

I shall be hearing that tearing sound, Jacob knows, until I die.

The Almelo Clock taps at time with its tiny hammers.

‘I had de Zoet down,’ Vorstenbosch addresses van Cleef, ‘as a young man of sound judgement.’

‘I had you down,’ Jacob tells Vorstenbosch, ‘as a man worthy of emulation.’

Vorstenbosch takes up Jacob’s Paper of Commission and tears it in two…

… and again, into four. ‘I hope you like life on Dejima, de Zoet: you shall know no other for five years. Mr van Cleef: do you choose Fischer or Ouwehand for your deputy?’

‘A poor choice. I desire neither. But let it be Fischer.’

In the State Room Philander says, ‘Pardon but masters all busy still.’

‘Leave my sight,’ Vorstenbosch tells Jacob, without looking at him.

‘Suppose Governor van Overstraten,’ Jacob wonders aloud, ‘were to learn-’

‘Threaten me, you pious Zeelander shit-weasel,’ responds Vorstenbosch, calmly, ‘and where Snitker is plucked, you shall be butchered. Tell me, Chief van Cleef: what are the penalties for forging a letter from His Excellency the Governor-General of the Dutch East Indies?’

Jacob feels a sudden weakness in his thighs and calves.

‘That would depend on the motives and circumstances, sir.’

‘What about an unconscionable clerk who sends a counterfeit letter to none other than the Shogun of Japan, threatening to abandon the Company’s venerable outpost unless twenty thousand piculs of copper are sent to Nagasaki, copper which he manifestly intended to sell on himself – or why else conceal his misdeed from his colleagues?’

‘Twenty years in gaol, sir,’ says van Cleef, ‘would be the most lenient sentence.’