The Thousand Autumns of Jacob De Zoet Read Online Free PDF

a one slips through. They’re best poked up yer fig hole an’ by the by should
your
cavity, eh, be so primed, Mr. de Z., I can get you the best price of all …”
    At the crossroads, Jacob stops: ahead, Long Street continues its curve.
    “That’s Bony Alley,” Grote points to their right, “goin’ to Seawall Lane; an’
that
aways,” Grote points left, “is Short Street; and the land gate …”
    … 
and beyond the land gate
, thinks Jacob,
is the Cloistered Empire
.
    “Them gates’ll not budge for us, Mr. de Z., no no no. The chief, deputy, an’ Dr. M. pass through from time to time, aye, but not us. ‘The shogun’s hostages’ is what the natives dub us, an’ that’s the size of it, eh? But listen,” Grote propels Jacob forward, “it ain’t just gems and coins I deal in, let me tell yer. Just yesterday,” he whispers, “I earned a select client aboard the
Shenandoah
a box of purest camphor crystals for some ratty bagpipes what you’d not fish from a canal back home.”
    He’s dangling bait
, Jacob thinks, and replies, “I do not smuggle, Mr. Grote.”
    “Strike me
dead
afore I’d accuse yer ’f
malpractice
, Mr. de Z.! Just in
form
in’ you, eh, as how my commission is one quarter o’ the selling price, regular-like: but a smart young cove like
you
’ll keep seven slices per pie o’ ten, for I’m partial to feisty Zeelanders, eh? ’Twill be a pleasure to handle your pox powder, too”—Grote has the casual tone of a man masking something crucial—“what with certain merchants who call me ‘Brother’ beatin’ up the price faster an’ fatter ’n a stallion’s stiffy
as we speak
, Mr. de Z., aye,
as we speak
, an’ why?”
    Jacob stops. “How can you possibly know about my mercury?”
    “Hearken to my joyous tidin’s, eh? One o’ the shogun’s numerous sons,” Grote lowers his voice, “undertook the mercury cure, this spring. The treatment’s been known here twenty years but weren’t never trusted, but this princeling’s gherkin was so rotted it glowed green; one course o’ Dutch pox powder an’ praise the Lord, he’s cured! The story spread like wildfire; ev’ry apothecary in the land’s howlin’ f’ the miraculous elixir, eh; an’ here comes
you
with eight crates! Let
me
negotiate an’ yer’ll make enough to buy a thousand hats; do it yerself an’ they’ll skin yer an’ make
you
into the hat, my friend.”
    “How,” Jacob finds himself walking again, “do you know about my mercury?”
    “Rats,” Arie Grote whispers. “Aye, rats. I feed the rats tidbits now an’ then, an’ the rats tell me what’s what an’ that’s that.
Voilà
, eh? Here’s the hospital; a journey shared’s a journey halved, eh? So, we’re agreed: I’ll act as yer agent forthwith, eh? No need for contracts or such stuff: a gentleman’ll not break his word. Until later …”
    Arie Grote is walking back down Long Street to the crossroads.
    Jacob calls after him, “But I never
gave
you my word!”
    THE HOSPITAL DOOR opens into a narrow hall. Ahead, a ladder ascends to a trapdoor, propped open; to the right, a doorway gives in to the surgery, a large room ruled over by an age-mottled skeleton crucified on a T-frame. Jacob tries not to think of Ogawa finding his Psalter. An operating table is equipped with cords and apertures and plastered with bloodstains. There are racks for the surgeon’s saws, knives, scissors, and chisels; mortars and pestles; a giant cabinet to house, Jacob assumes,
materia medica;
bleeding bowls; and several benches and tables. The smell of fresh sawdust mingles with wax, herbs, and a clayey whiff of liver. Through a doorway is the sickroom, with three vacant beds. Jacob is tempted by an earthenware jar of water: he drinks with the ladle—it is cool and sweet.
    Why is nobody here
, he wonders,
to protect the place from thieves?
    A young servant or slave appears, swishing a broom: he is barefoot, handsome, and attired in a fine surplice and loose