The Thousand Autumns of Jacob De Zoet Read Online Free PDF Page B

Indian trousers.
    Jacob feels a need to justify his presence. “Dr. Marinus’s slave?”
    “The doctor employs me,” the youth’s Dutch is good, “as an assistant, sir.”
    “Is that so? I’m the new clerk, De Zoet; and your name is?”
    The man’s bow is courteous, not servile. “My name is Eelattu, sir.”
    “What part of the world do you hail from, Eelattu?”
    “I was born in Colombo on the island of Ceylon, sir.”
    Jacob is unsettled by his suavity. “Where is your master now?”
    “At study, upstairs; do you desire that I fetch him?”
    “There’s no need—I shall go up and introduce myself.”
    “Yes, sir; but the doctor prefers not to receive visitors—”
    “Oh, he’ll not object when he learns what I bring him …”

    THROUGH THE TRAPDOOR, Jacob peers into a long, well-furnished attic. Halfway down is Marinus’s harpsichord, referred to weeks ago in Batavia by Jacob’s friend Mr. Zwaardecroone; it is allegedly the only harpsichord ever to travel to Japan. At the far end is a ruddy and ursine European of about fifty years, with tied-back stony hair. He is sitting on the floor at a low table in a well of light, drawing a flame-orange orchid. Jacob knocks on the trapdoor. “Good afternoon, Dr. Marinus.”
    The doctor, his shirt unbuttoned, does not respond.
    “Dr. Marinus? I am delighted to make your acquaintance at last …”
    Still, the doctor gives no indication of having heard.
    The clerk raises his voice: “Dr. Marinus? I apologize for disturb—”
    “From what mouse hole,” Marinus glares, “did
you
spring?”
    “I just arrived a quarter hour ago, from the
Shenandoah
. My name’s—”
    “Did I ask for your name? No: I asked for your
fons et origo.”
    “Domburg, sir: a coastal town on Walcheren Island, in Zeeland.”
    “Walcheren, is it? I visited Middelburg once.”
    “In point of fact, Doctor, I was educated in Middelburg.”
    Marinus barks a laugh.
“Nobody
is ‘educated’ in that nest of slavers.”
    “Perhaps I may raise your estimate of Zeelanders in the months ahead. I am to live in Tall House, so we are nearly neighbors.”
    “So propinquity propagates neighborliness, does it?”
    “I—” Jacob wonders at Marinus’s deliberate aggression. “I—well—”
    “This
Cymbidium koran
was found in the goats’ fodder: as
you
dither,
it
wilts.”
    “Mr. Vorstenbosch suggested you might drain some blood—”
    “Medieval quackery! Phlebotomy—and the Humoral Theory on which it rests—was exploded by Hunter twenty years ago.”
    But draining blood
, thinks Jacob,
is every surgeon’s bread
. “But …”
    “But but but? But but?
But?
But
but
but but but?”
    “The world is composed of people who are convinced of it.”
    “Proving the world is composed of dunderheads. Your nose looks swollen.”
    Jacob strokes the kink. “Former Chief Snitker threw a punch and—”
    “You don’t have the build for brawling.” Marinus rises and limps toward the trapdoor with the aid of a stout stick. “Bathe your nose in cool water, twice daily, and pick a fight with Gerritszoon presenting the con
vex
side, so he may hammer it flat. Good day to you, Domburger.” With a well-aimed whack of his stick, Dr. Marinus knocks away the prop holding up the trapdoor.
    BACK IN THE sun-blinding street, the indignant clerk finds himself surrounded by Interpreter Ogawa, his servant, a pair of inspectors: all four look sweaty and grim. “Mr. de Zoet,” says Ogawa, “I wish to speak about a book you bring. It is important matter …”
    Jacob loses the next clause to a rush of nausea and dread.
    Vorstenbosch shan’t be able to save me
, he thinks,
and why would he?
    “… and so to find such a book astonishes me greatly …. Mr. de Zoet?”
    My career is destroyed
, thinks Jacob,
my liberty is gone, and Anna is lost
 …
    “Where,” the prisoner manages to croak, “am I to be incarcerated?”
    Long Street is tilting up and down. The clerk shuts his eyes.
    “In