David Mitchell - The Thousand Autumns of Jacob de Zoet

No, a slave cannot even say, ‘These are my fingers,’ or ‘This is my skin.’ We do not own our bodies. We do not own our families. Once, Sjako would talk about ‘my children back in Batavia’. He fathered his children, yes. But to his masters they are not ‘his’. To his masters, Sjako is like a horse, who fathered a foal on a mare. Here is the proof: when Sjako complained too bitterly that he had not seen his family for many years, Master Fischer and Master Gerritszoon beat him severely. Sjako walks with a limp now. He talks less.

Once, I thought this question: Do I own my name? I do not mean my slave-names. My slave-names change at the whims of my masters. The Acehnese slavers who stole me named me ‘Straight Teeth’. The Dutchman who bought me at Batavia slave-market named me ‘Washington’. He was a bad master. Master Yang named me Yang Fen. He taught me tailoring and fed me the same food as his sons. My third owner was Master van Cleef. He named me ‘Weh’ because of a mistake. When he asked Master Yang – using fancy Dutch words – for my name, the Chinaman thought the question was ‘From where does he hail?’ and replied, ‘An island called Weh,’ and my next slave-name was fixed. But it is a happy mistake for me. On Weh, I was not a slave. On Weh, I was with my people.

My true name I tell nobody, so nobody can steal my name.

The answer, I think, is yes – my true name is a thing I own.

Sometimes another thought comes to me: Do I own my memories?

The memory of my brother diving from the turtle rock, sleek and brave…

The memory of the typhoon bending the trees like grass, the sea roaring…

The memory of my tired, glad mother rocking the new baby to sleep, singing…

Yes – like my true name, my memories are things I own.

Once, I thought this thought: Do I own this thought?

The answer was hidden in mist, so I asked Dr Marinus’s servant, Eelattu.

Eelattu answered, yes, my thoughts are born in my mind, so they are mine. Eelattu said that I can own my mind, if I choose. I said, ‘Even a slave?’ Eelattu said, yes, if the mind is a strong place. So I created a mind like an island, like Weh, protected by deep blue sea. On my mind-island, there are no bad-smelling Dutchmen, or sneering Malay servants, or Japanese men.

Master Fischer owns my body, then, but he does not own my mind. This I know, because of a test. When I shave Master Fischer, I imagine slitting open his throat. If he owned my mind, he would see this evil thought. But instead of punishing me, he just sits there with his eyes shut.

But I discovered there are problems with owning your mind. When I am on my mind-island, I am as free as any Dutchman. There, I eat capons and mango and sugared plums. There, I lie with Master van Cleef’s wife in the warm sand. There, I build boats and weave sails with my brother and my people. If I forget their names, they remind me. We speak in the tongue of Weh and drink kava and pray to our ancestors. There, I do not stitch or scrub or fetch or carry for masters.

Then, I hear, ‘Are you listening to me, idle dog?’

Then, I hear, ‘If you won’t move for me, here’s my whip!’

Each time I return from my mind-island, I am recaptured by slavers.

When I return to Dejima, the scars from my capture ache, a little.

When I return to Dejima, I feel a coal of anger glowing inside.

The word ‘my’ brings pleasure. The word ‘my’ brings pain. These are true words for masters as well as slaves. When they are drunk, we become invisible to them. Their talk turns to owning, or to profit, or loss, or buying, or selling, or stealing, or hiring, or renting, or swindling. For White men, to live is to own, or to try to own more, or to die trying to own more. Their appetites are astonishing! They own wardrobes, slaves, carriages, houses, warehouses and ships. They own ports, cities, plantations, valleys, mountains, chains of islands. They own this world, its jungles, its skies and its seas. Yet they complain that Dejima is a prison. They complain they are not free. Only Dr Marinus is free from these complaints. His skin is a White man’s, but through his eyes you can see his soul is not a White man’s soul. His soul is much older. On Weh, we would call him a kwaio. A kwaio is an ancestor who does not stay on the island of ancestors. A kwaio returns and returns and returns, each time in a new child. A good kwaio may become a shaman, but nothing in this world is worse than a bad kwaio.

The doctor persuaded Master Fischer that I should be taught to write Dutch.

Master Fischer did not like the idea. He said that a slave who can read might ruin himself with ‘revolutionary notions’. He said he saw this in Surinam. But Dr Marinus urged Master Fischer to consider how useful I will be in the Clerks’ Office, and how much higher a price I will fetch when he wants to sell me. These words changed Master Fischer’s mind. He looked down the dining table to Master de Zoet. He said, ‘Clerk de Zoet, I have the perfect job for a man like you.’

When Master Fischer finishes his meal in the Kitchen, I walk behind him to the Deputy’s House. When we cross Long Street I must carry his parasol so his head stays in the shade. This is not an easy task. If a tassel touches his head, or if the sun dazzles his eyes, he will hit me for carelessness. Today my master is in a bad mood because he lost so much money at Master Grote’s card-game. He stops, here, in the middle of Long Street. ‘In Surinam,’ he yells, ‘they know how to train stinking Negroid dogs like you!’ Then he slaps my face, as hard as he can, and I drop the parasol. He shouts at me, ‘Pick that up!’ When I bend down, he kicks my face. This is a favourite trick of Master Fischer’s, so my face is turned away from his foot, but I pretend to be in great pain. Otherwise he will feel cheated and kick me again. He says, ‘That’ll teach you to throw my possessions in the dust!’ I say, ‘Yes, Master Fischer,’ and open the door of his house for him.

We climb the stairs to his bedroom. He lies on his bed and says, ‘It’s too bloody damned hot in this bloody damned prison…’

There is much talk about ‘prison’ this summer because the ship from Batavia has not arrived. The White masters are afraid that it will not come, so there will be no trading season and no news or luxuries from Java. The White masters who are due to return will not be able to. Nor will their servants or slaves.

Master Fischer throws his handkerchief on the floor and says, ‘Shit!’

This Dutch word can be a curse, or a bad name, but this time Master Fischer is ordering me to put his chamber pot in his favourite corner. There is a privy at the foot of the stairs, but he is too lazy to go down the steps. Master Fischer stands, unfastens his breeches, squats over the pot and grunts. I hear a slithery thud. The smell snakes its way around the room. Then Master Fischer is buttoning up his breeches. ‘Don’t just stand there, then, you idle Gomorrah…’ His voice is drowsy because of his lunchtime whisky. I put the wooden lid on the chamber pot – and go outside to the Soil Barrel. Master Fischer says he cannot tolerate dirt in his house, so I cannot empty his chamber pot into the privy like other slaves do.

I walk down Long Street to the Crossroads, turn into Bony Alley, turn left at Sea Wall Lane, pass the Headman’s House, and empty the chamber pot into the Soil Urn, near the back of the Hospital. The cloud of flies is thick and droning. I narrow my eyes like a Yellow Man’s and wrinkle shut my nose to stop any flies laying their eggs there. Then I wash the chamber pot from the barrel of seawater. On the bottom of Master Fischer’s chamber pot is a strange building called a windmill from the White Man’s World. Philander says that they make bread, but when I asked how, he called me a very ignorant fellow. This means he does not know.