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‘ “What you not sell today”,’ Yonekizu says, ‘ “you sell soon.” ’
‘Then the Lord Abbot,’ Jacob remains defiant, ‘knows my mind better than I.’
Abbot Enomoto has the last word: the word is, ‘ “Affinity.” ’ Then he nods at Kosugi and Yonekizu and his retinue leaves the warehouse without further ado.
‘You can come out now, Weh.’ Jacob is obscurely troubled, despite the likelihood of his going to bed tonight a much richer man than when the earthquake threw him from it this morning. Provided, he concedes, Lord Abbot Enomoto is as good as his word.
Lord Abbot Enomoto was as good as his word. At half past two Jacob walks down the steps from the Chief’s Residence in possession of a Certificate of Lodgement. Witnessed by Vorstenbosch and van Cleef, the document can be redeemed in Batavia or even at the Company’s Zeeland offices in Vlissingen on Walcheren. The sum represents five or six years’ salary from his former job as a shipping clerk. He must repay the friend of his uncle in Batavia who lent him the capital to buy the medicinal mercury – the luckiest gamble of my life, Jacob thinks, how nearly I bought the bêche-de-mer instead – and no doubt Arie Grote has not done badly from the deal but, by any measure, the transaction made with the enigmatic Abbot is an exceptionally lucrative one. And the remaining crates, Jacob anticipates, shall fetch an even higher price, once other traders see the profit that Enomoto earns. By Christmas of next year he should be back in Batavia with Unico Vorstenbosch, whose star should, by then, be even brighter as a consequence of purging Dejima of its notorious corruption. He could consult with Zwaardecroone or Vorstenbosch’s colleagues and invest his mercury money in a yet bigger venture – coffee, perhaps, or teak – to generate an income that might impress even A
Back on Long Street, Hanzaburo reappears from the Interpreters’ Guild. Jacob returns to Tall House to deposit his precious certificate in his sea-chest. He hesitates before taking out a paulownia-handled fan and putting it in his jacket pocket. Then he hurries to the Weighing Yard where, today, lead ingots are being weighed and checked for adulterants before being returned to their boxes and sealed. Even under the supervisors’ awning the heat is sleepy and torrid, but a vigilant eye must be kept on the scales, the coolies and the numbers of boxes.
‘How kind of you,’ says Peter Fischer, ‘to report for duty.’
News of the new clerk’s profit on his mercury is common knowledge.
Jacob ca
Interpreter Yonekizu watches the adjacent awning. It is slow work.
Jacob thinks about A
Sun-coppered coolies prise off the nailed-on lids from the crates…
Wealth brings our future together closer, he thinks, but five years is still a long, long time.
Sun-coppered coolies hammer the lids back on to the crates.
Four o’clock, according to Jacob’s pocket watch, comes and goes.
At a certain point, Hanzaburo wanders away without explanation.
At a quarter to five, Peter Fischer says, ‘That is the two-hundredth box.’
At a minute past five, a senior merchant faints in the heat.
Immediately, Dr Marinus is sent for, and Jacob makes a decision.
‘Would you excuse me,’ Jacob asks Fischer, ‘for a minute?’
Fischer fills his pipe with provocative slowness. ‘How long is your minute? Ouwehand’s minute is fifteen or twenty. Baert’s minute is longer than an hour.’
Jacob stands: his legs have pins and needles. ‘I shall return in ten.’
‘So your “one” means “ten”; in Prussia, a gentleman says what he means.’
‘I’ll go,’ mutters Jacob, perhaps audibly, ‘before I do just that.’
Jacob waits at the busy Crossroads, watching the labourers pass to and fro. Dr Marinus is not long in coming: he limps past, with a pair of house interpreters carrying his medical box to attend the fainted merchant. He sees Jacob but does not acknowledge him, which suits Jacob. The turd-scented smoke escaping his oesophagus at the end of the smoke-glister experiment cured him of any desire for Marinus’s friendship. The humiliation he suffered that day has caused him to avoid Miss Aibagawa: how can she – and the other seminarians – ever regard him as anything but a half-naked apparatus of fatty valves and fleshy pipes?
Six hundred and thirty-six kobans, he admits, salve one’s self-esteem, however…
The seminarians leave the Hospital: Jacob predicted that their lecture would be cut short by Marinus’s summons. Miss Aibagawa is rearmost, half hidden by a parasol. He withdraws a few steps into Bony Alley, as if he is going to Warehouse Lelie.
All I am doing, Jacob assures himself, is returning a lost item to its owner.
The four young men, two guards and one midwife turn into Short Street.
Jacob loses his nerve: Jacob regains his nerve and follows. ‘Excuse me!’
The retinue turns around: Miss Aibagawa meets his eyes for a moment.
Muramoto, the senior student, walks back to greet him. ‘Dombâga-san!’
Jacob removes his bamboo hat. ‘It is another hot day, Mr Muramoto.’
He is pleased that Jacob remembers his name; the others join his bow. ‘Hot, hot,’ they agree warmly. ‘Hot!’
Jacob bows to the midwife. ‘Good afternoon, Miss Aibagawa.’
‘How,’ her eyes betray a droll mischief, ‘is Mr Domburger’s liver?’
‘Much better today, I thank you.’ He swallows. ‘I thank you.’
‘Ah,’ says Ikematsu with mock sobriety. ‘But how is in-tus-sus-cep-tion?’
‘Dr Marinus’s magic cured me. What did you study today?’
‘Kan-somu-shan,’ says Kajiwaki. ‘When cough blood from lungs.’
‘Oh, consumption. A terrible disease, and a common one.’
An inspector approaches from the Land-Gate: one of the guard complains.
‘Your pardon, sir,’ says Muramoto, ‘but he says, “We must leave”.’
‘Yes, I shan’t detain you: I just wish to return this,’ he produces the fan from his jacket and proffers it, ‘to Miss Aibagawa, who left it at the Hospital today.’
Her eyes flash with alarm: they demand, What are you doing?
His courage evaporates. ‘The fan you forgot in Dr Marinus’s Hospital.’
The inspector arrives. Glowering, he speaks to Muramoto.
Muramoto says, ‘Inspector wish to know “What is?” Mr Dombâga.’
‘Tell him,’ this is a terrible mistake. ‘Miss Aibagawa forgot her fan.’
The inspector is unimpressed: he issues a curt demand and holds out his hand for the fan, like a schoolmaster demanding a schoolboy’s note.
‘He ask, “Please show”, Mr Dombâga,’ translates Ikematsu. ‘To check.’
If I obey, Jacob realises, all Dejima, all Nagasaki, shall learn how I drew her likeness and pasted it, in strips, on to a fan. This friendly token of esteem, Jacob sees, shall be misconstrued. It may even light the touch-paper of a minor scandal.
The inspector’s fingers are troubled by the stiff catch.
Blushing in anticipation, Jacob prays for some – for any – deliverance.
Quietly, Miss Aibagawa says something to the inspector.
The inspector looks at her: his grimness softens, just a little…
… then he snorts with gruff amusement, and hands her the fan. She gives a slight bow.
Jacob feels admonished by this narrowest of escapes.
The bright night is raucous with parties, both on Dejima and ashore, as if to frighten away the bad memory of the morning’s earthquake. Paper lanterns are strung along Nagasaki’s principal thoroughfares, and impromptu drinking parties are taking place at Constable Kosugi’s house, Deputy van Cleef’s residence, the Interpreters’ Guild and even the Land-Gate’s guard-room. Jacob and Ogawa Uzaemon have met on the Watchtower. Ogawa brought an inspector to ward off accusations of fraternising, but he was already drunk, and a flask of sake has set him snoring. Hanzaburo is perched a few steps below the platform with Ouwehand’s latest much put-upon house interpreter: ‘I cured myself of Herpes,’ Ouwehand boasted, at the evening mustering. An overladen moon has run aground on Mount Inasa and Jacob enjoys the cool breeze, despite its soot and smell of effluence. ‘What are those clustered lights,’ he points, ‘up above the city?’