A tiger-emblazoned screen slides open, and a high official with a crushed nose emerges and walks to Interpreter Kobayashi. The interpreters bow low and Kobayashi introduces the official to Chief Vorstenbosch as Chamberlain Tomine. Tomine speaks in a tone as wintry as his demeanour. ‘ “Gentlemen”,’ Kobayashi translates. ‘ “In Hall of Sixty Mats is Magistrate and many advisers. You must show same obedience to Magistrate as to Shogun”.’

‘Magistrate Shiroyama shall receive,’ Vorstenbosch assures the interpreter, ‘exactly the respect he deserves.’

Kobayashi does not look reassured.

The Hall of Sixty Mats is airy and shaded. Fifty or sixty sweating, fanning officials – all important-looking samurai – enclose a precise rectangle. Magistrate Shiroyama is identified by his central position and raised dais. His fifty-year-old face looks weathered by high office. Light enters the hall from a sunlit courtyard of white pebbles, contorted pine trees and moss-coated rocks to the south. Hangings sway over openings to the west and east. A meaty-necked guard announces, ‘Oranda Kapitan!’ and ushers the Dutchmen into the rectangle of courtiers to three crimson cushions. Chamberlain Tomine speaks and Kobayashi translates: ‘Let the Dutchmen now pay respect.’

Jacob kneels on his cushion, places his clerk’s portfolio at his side, and bows. To his right, he is aware of van Cleef doing the same, but straightening up, he realises that Vorstenbosch is still standing.

‘Where,’ the Chief Resident turns to Kobayashi, ‘is my chair?’

The demand causes the muted commotion that Vorstenbosch intended.

The chamberlain fires a curt question at Interpreter Kobayashi.

‘In Japan,’ Kobayashi tells Vorstenbosch, reddening, ‘there is no dishonour to seat on floor.’

‘Very laudable, Mr Kobayashi, but I am more comfortable on a chair.’

Kobayashi and Ogawa must pacify an angry chamberlain and placate a stubborn chief.

‘Please, Mr Vorstenbosch,’ says Ogawa, ‘in Japan, we have no chairs.’

‘May one not be improvised for a visiting dignitary? You!’

The pointed-at official gasps, and touches the tip of his own nose.

‘Yes: bring ten cushions. Ten. You understand “ten”?’

In consternation, the official looks from Kobayashi to Ogawa and back.

‘Look, man!’ Vorstenbosch dangles the cushion for a moment, drops it and holds up ten fingers. ‘Bring ten cushions! Kobayashi, tell the tadpole what I want.’

Chamberlain Tomine is demanding answers. Kobayashi explains why the Chief refuses to kneel, whilst Vorstenbosch wears a smile of tolerant condescension.

The Hall of Sixty Mats falls silent, ahead of the Magistrate’s reaction.

Shiroyama and Vorstenbosch hold each other’s gaze for a magnified moment.

Then the Magistrate produces a victor’s easy smile and nods. The chamberlain claps: two servants fetch cushions and pile them up until Vorstenbosch glows with satisfaction. ‘Observe,’ the Dutch Chief tells his compatriots, ‘the rewards of the resolute. Chief Hemmij and Daniel Snitker undermined our dignity by their kowtowing and it falls to me,’ he thumps the unwieldy pile, ‘to win it back.’

Magistrate Shiroyama speaks to Kobayashi.

‘Magistrate asks,’ translates the interpreter, ‘ “You are comfort now?” ’

‘Thank His Honour. Now we sit face to face, like equals.’

Jacob assumes that Kobayashi omits Vorstenbosch’s last two words.

Magistrate Shiroyama nods, and musters a long sentence. ‘He says,’ begins Kobayashi, ‘ “Congratulate” to new Chief Resident and “Welcome to Nagasaki”; and “Welcome again to Magistracy”, to Deputy Chief.’ Jacob, a mere clerk, passes unacknowledged. ‘Magistrate hope voyage not too… “strenuous” and hope sun not too strong for weak Dutch skin.’

‘Thank our host for his concern,’ replies Vorstenbosch, ‘but assure him that, compared to July in Batavia, his Nagasaki summer is child’s play.’

Shiroyama nods at the translated rendering, as though a long-held suspicion is at last confirmed.

‘Ask,’ Vorstenbosch orders, ‘how His Honour enjoyed the coffee I presented.’

The question, Jacob notices, provokes arch glances between the courtiers. The Magistrate considers his reply. ‘Magistrate says,’ translates Ogawa, ‘ “Coffee tastes of no other.” ’

‘Tell him our plantations in Java can supply enough to satisfy even Japan’s bottomless stomach. Tell him future generations shall bless the name “Shiroyama” as the man who discovered this magical beverage for their homeland.’

Ogawa delivers a suitable translation and is met by a gentle rebuttal.

‘The Magistrate says,’ explains Kobayashi, ‘ “Japan is no appetite for coffee.” ’

‘Stuff! Once, coffee was unknown in Europe too, but now every street in our great capitals has its own coffee-house – or ten! Vast fortunes are made.’

Pointedly, Shiroyama changes the subject before Ogawa can translate.

‘The Magistrate give sympathy,’ says Kobayashi, ‘for wreck of Octavia on voyage home last winter.’

‘It’s curious, tell him,’ says Vorstenbosch, ‘how our discussion turns to the travails suffered by the Honourable Company in its struggle to bring prosperity to Nagasaki…’

Ogawa, who senses trouble he cannot avoid, must nevertheless translate.

Magistrate Shiroyama’s face expresses a knowing Oh?

‘I bear an urgent communiqué from the Governor-General on this same topic.’

Ogawa turns to Jacob for help: ‘What is “communiqué”?’

‘A letter,’ replies Jacob in a low voice. ‘A diplomat’s message.’

Ogawa translates the sentence; Shiroyama’s hands signal ‘Give.’

From his tower of cushions, Vorstenbosch nods to his secretary.

Jacob unties his portfolio, removes the freshly forged letter from His Excellency P.G. van Overstraten, and proffers it with both hands to the chamberlain.

Chamberlain Tomine places the envelope before his unsmiling master.

The Hall of Sixty Mats looks on with undisguised curiosity.

‘It is meet, Mr Kobayashi,’ says Vorstenbosch, ‘to warn these good gentlemen – and even the Magistrate – that our Governor-General sends an ultimatum.’

Kobayashi glares at Ogawa, who begins to ask, ‘What is “ultim -”?’

‘Ultimatum,’ says van Cleef. ‘A threat; a demand; a strong warning.’

‘Very bad time,’ Kobayashi shakes his head, ‘for strong warning.’

‘But surely Magistrate Shiroyama must know as soon as possible,’ Chief Vorstenbosch’s concern is soft with malice, ‘that Dejima is to be abandoned after the current trading season unless Edo gives us twenty thousand piculs?’

‘ “Abandoned”,’ repeats van Cleef, ‘meaning stopped; ended; finished.’

Blood drains from the three interpreters’ faces.

Inwardly, Jacob squirms with sympathy for Ogawa.

‘Please, sir,’ Ogawa tries to swallow, ‘not such news, here, now…’

Running out of patience, Chamberlain Tomine demands a translation.

‘Best not keep His Honour waiting,’ Vorstenbosch tells Kobayashi.

Word by faltering word, Kobayashi delivers the appalling news.

Questions are fired from all quarters but Kobayashi and Ogawa’s replies would be drowned out even if they tried to answer. During this mayhem, Jacob notices a man seated three places to the left of Magistrate Shiroyama. His face disturbs the clerk, though he could not say why; neither could Jacob guess his age. His shaven head and water-blue robes suggest a monk or even a confessor. The lips are tight, the cheekbones high, the nose hooked and the eyes ferocious with intelligence. Jacob finds himself as little able to evade the man’s gaze as a book can, of its own volition, evade the scrutiny of a reader. The silent observer twists his head, like a hunting dog listening to the sound of its prey.