As Jacob opens the Bureau door, Vorstenbosch calls, ‘Philander!’

The Malay pretends not to have been listening at the keyhole. ‘Master?’

‘Fetch me Mr Fischer on the instant. We have welcome news for him.’

‘I’ll tell Fischer!’ Jacob calls over his shoulder. ‘Why, he can finish my wine!’

‘Fret not thyself because of evildoers, neither be thou envious against the workers of iniquity.’ Jacob studies the thirty-seventh psalm. ‘For they shall soon be cut down like the grass, and wither as the green herb. Trust in the Lord, and do good; so shalt thou dwell in the land, and verily thou shalt be fed…’

Sunshine rusts the upstairs apartment in Tall House.

The Sea-Gate is closed now until next trading season.

Peter Fischer shall be moving into the Deputy’s spacious residence.

After fifteen weeks at anchor, the Shenandoah shall be unfurling her sails, her sailors yearning for the open sea and a fat purse in Batavia.

Don’t pity yourself, thinks Jacob. Maintain your dignity, at least.

Hanzaburo’s footsteps come up the stairs. Jacob closes the Psalter.

Even Daniel Snitker must be looking forward for the voyage to begin…

… at least, in Batavia Gaol, he can enjoy the company of his friends and wife.

Hanzaburo busies himself in his cubby-hole in the ante-room.

Orito preferred incarceration in a nunnery, his loneliness whispers…

A bird in the bay tree sings an ambling, musical doodle.

… to a Dejima marriage with you. Hanzaburo’s footsteps go down the stairs.

Jacob worries about his letters home to Anna, to his sister and uncle.

Vorstenbosch shall post them, he fears, through the Shenandoah’s privy.

Hanzaburo is gone, the common clerk realises, without even a goodbye.

One-sided news of his disgrace shall travel: first to Batavia, then Rotterdam.

‘The Orient’, Anna’s father shall opine, ‘tests a man’s true character.’

Jacob calculates she shan’t hear from him until January of 1801.

Until then, every rich, horny, eligible son of Rotterdam shall pay her court…

Jacob reopens his Psalter, but is too agitated even for David’s verses.

I am a righteous man, he thinks, but see what righteousness has done.

Going outside is intolerable. Staying inside is intolerable.

The others will think you are afraid to show your face. He puts on his jacket.

On the bottom stair Jacob steps in something slippery, falls backwards…

… and bangs his coccyx on the edge of a step. He sees, and smells, that the mishap was caused by a large human turd.

Long Street is deserted but for two coolies who grin at the red-haired foreigner and make goblin horns on their heads in the way the French denote a cuckold.

The air is swimming with insects, born of damp earth and autumn sun.

Arie Grote trots down the steps of Chief van Cleef’s Residence. ‘Mr de Z. was conspicuous by his absence, eh, at Vorstenbosch’s farewell.’

‘He and I had said our goodbyes,’ Jacob finds his path blocked, ‘earlier.’

‘My jaw dropped this far -’ Grote demonstrates ‘- when I heard the news!’

‘Your jaw, I see, has since recovered its customary altitude.’

‘So yer’ll be servin’ out yer sentence in Tall House an’ not the Deputy’s… “A Difference of Opinion over the Deputy’s Role”, I understand, eh?’

Jacob has nowhere to look but the walls, the gutters or Arie Grote’s face.

‘Meanin’, the rats tell me, you’d not sign off on that crooked Summation, eh? Expensive habit is honesty. Loyalty ain’t a simple matter. Din’t I warn yer? Y’know, Mr de Z., a nastier-minded cove, smartin’ from the loss of his friendly playin’ cards, might even be tempted to gloat a little at his, eh, antagonist’s misfortunes…’

Limping, Sjako walks by, carrying the toucan in its cage.

‘… but I reckon as I’ll leave the gloatin’ to Fischer.’ The leathery cook places his hand on his heart. ‘All’s well as ends well, I say. Mr V. let me ship my whole stock for ten per cent: last year Snitker wanted fifty-fifty for a mouldy corner o’ the Octavia, that graspin’ grasper – an’ given her fate ’twas a blessin’ we din’t agree! The trusty Shenandoah’s’ – Grote nods at the Sea-Gate – ‘leavin’ laden with the harvest o’ three honest years’ toil, eh. Chief V. even cut me a fifth slice of four gross Arita figurines in lieu, eh, o’ my brokerage fees.’

A night-soil man’s buckets, swinging on his pole, stain the air.

‘Wonder how close,’ Grote thinks aloud, ‘the friskers search them.’

‘Four gross figurines,’ Jacob registers the number, ‘not two gross?’

‘Forty-eight dozen, aye. Tidy packet they’ll fetch at auction. Why d’yer ask?’

‘No reason.’ Vorstenbosch lied, thinks Jacob, from the start. ‘Now if there’s nothing I can do for you-’

‘ ’S’ matter o’ fact,’ Grote produces a bundle from his jerkin, ‘it’s what I…’

Jacob recognises his tobacco pouch, given by Orito to William Pitt.

‘… can do f’you. This well-sewn item is yours, I do believe.’

‘Do you intend to charge me for my own tobacco pouch?’

‘Just returnin’ it to its rightful owner, Mr de Z., at no price what-so-ever…’

Jacob waits for Grote to name his true price.

‘… though it may be an opportune time, eh, to remind yer that a Wise Head’d sell our two last crates o’ pox-powder to Enomoto sooner an’ not later. The Chinese junks’ll come back laden low with every ounce o’ mercury to be had within their, eh, Sphere of Commerce an’ entre nous, eh, Messrs Lacy an’ V-bosch’ll be sendin’ a German ton o’ the stuff next year, an’ when the market floods, the prices turn soggy.’

‘I shan’t be selling to Enomoto. Find another buyer. Any other buyer.’

‘Clerk de Zoet!’ Peter Fischer marches into Long Street from Back Alley. He shines with vengefulness. ‘Clerk de Zoet. What is this?’

‘We call it a “thumb” in Dutch.’ Jacob cannot yet muster a Sir.

‘Yes, I know it is a thumb. But what is this on my thumb?’

‘That would be,’ Jacob senses Arie Grote has disappeared, ‘a dirty smudge.’

‘The clerks and hands address me,’ Fischer draws level, ‘as “Deputy Fischer” or “sir”. Do you understand?’

Two years of this, Jacob calculates, turn into five if he becomes Chief.

‘I understand what you say very well, Deputy Fischer.’

Fischer wears triumphant Caesar’s smile. ‘Dirt! Yes. Dirt. It is on the shelfs of the Clerks’ Office. So, I direct you to clean it.’

‘Ordinarily,’ Jacob swallows, ‘Sir, one of the servants-’

‘Ah, yes, but I direct you’ – Fischer prods Jacob’s sternum with his dirty thumb – ‘to clean the shelfs now, because you dislike slaves, servants and unequalities.’

A ewe, escaped from her paddock, ambles down Long Street.

He wants me to hit him, thinks Jacob. ‘I shall clean them later.’

‘You shall address the Deputy as Deputy Fischer, at all times.’

Years of this ahead, thinks Jacob. ‘I shall clean them later, Deputy Fischer.’

Protagonist and antagonist stare at each other; the ewe squats and pisses.

‘I order you to clean the shelfs now, Clerk de Zoet. If you do not-’

Jacob is breathless with a fury he knows he shan’t control: he walks off.

‘Chief van Cleef,’ Fischer calls after him, ‘and I shall discuss your insolence!’

‘It’s a long way,’ Ivo Oost smokes in a doorway, ‘down to the bottom…’

‘It is my signature,’ Fischer shouts after him, ‘that authorises your wages!’

Jacob climbs the Watchtower, praying that nobody is on the platform.

Anger and self-pity are lodged in his throat like fish-bones.

This one prayer, at least, he gains the unoccupied platform, is answered.

The Shenandoah is half a mile up Nagasaki Bay. Tug-boats trail in her wake like unwanted goslings. The narrowing bay, pouring clouds and the brig’s billowing canvas suggest a model ship being drawn from its bottle’s mouth.