The bags of sugar arrive at a trestle-table by the Company tripod.

The weighing is viewed by another trio of Japanese officials: an interpreter; and two Europeans in their twenties. ‘On the left,’ van Cleef points, ‘is Peter Fischer, a Prussian out of Brunswick…’ Fischer is nut-coloured, brown-haired but balding ‘… and an articled clerk – although Mr Vorstenbosch tells me you are also qualified, giving us an embarrassment of riches. Fischer’s companion is Con Twomey, an Irishman of Cork.’ Twomey has a half-moon face and a sharkish smile; his hair is cropped close and he is roughly tailored in sailcloth. ‘Don’t fret you forget these names: once the Shenandoah departs, we’ll have a tedious eternity in which to learn all about each other.’

‘Don’t the Japanese suspect some of our men aren’t Dutch?’

‘We account for Twomey’s bastard accent by saying he hails from Groningen. When were there ever enough pure-blooded Dutch to man the Company? Especially now’ – the stressed word alludes to the sensitive matter of Daniel Snitker’s incarceration – ‘we must catch-as-catch-can. Twomey’s our carpenter, but doubles as inspector on Weighing Days, for the infernal coolies’ll spirit away a bag of sugar in a blink without they’re watched like hawks. As will the guards – and the merchants are the slyest bastards of all: yesterday one of the whoresons slipped a stone into a bag which he then “discovered” and tried to use as “evidence” to lower the average tare.’

‘Shall I begin my duties now, Mr van Cleef?’

‘ Have Dr Marinus breathe a vein first, and join the fray once you’re settled. Marinus you shall find in his surgery at the end of Long Street – this street – by the bay tree. You shan’t get lost. No man ever lost his way on Dejima, without he had a bladder-full of grog in him.’

‘Fine thing I happened along,’ says a wheezing voice, ten paces later. ‘A cove’ll lose his way on Dejima faster’n shit through a goose. Arie Grote’s my name an’ you’ll be’ – he thumps Jacob’s shoulder – ‘Jacob de Zoet of Zeeland the Brave an’, my oh my, Snitker did put your nose out of joint, didn’t he?’

Arie Grote has a grin full of holes and a hat made of shark-hide.

‘Like my hat, do you? Boa Constrictor, this was, in the jungles of Ternate, what slunk one night into my hut what I shared with my three native maids. My first thought was, well, one of my bed-mates was wakin’ me gentle to toast my beans, eh? But no no no, there’s this tightenin’ an’ my lungs’re squeezed tight an’ three of my ribs go pop! snap! crack! an’ by the light o’ the Southern Cross, eh, I see him gazin’ into my bulgin’ eyes – an’ that, Mr de Z., was the squeezy bugger’s downfall. My arms was locked behind me but my jaws was free an’ oh I bit the beggar’s head that ’ard… A screamin’ snake ain’t a sound you’ll forget in an hurry! Squeezy Bugger squeezed me tighter – he weren’t done yet – so I went for the worm’s jugular an’ bit it clean through. The grateful villagers made me a robe of its skin and coronated me, eh, Lord of Ternate – that snake’d been the terror of their jungle – but…’ Grote sighs ‘… a sailor’s heart’s the sea’s plaything, eh? Back in Batavia a milliner turned my robe to hats what fetched ten rix-dollars a throw… but nothing’d splice me from this last one ’cept, mayhap, a favour to welcome a young cove whose need be sharper’n mine, eh? This beauty’s yours not for ten rix-dollars, no no no, not eight but five stuivers. As good a price as none.’

‘The milliner switched your Boa skin for poorly cured shark-hide, alas.’

‘I’ll wager you rise from the card table,’ Arie Grote looks pleased, ‘with a well-fed purse. Most of us hands gather of an evenin’ in my humble billet, eh, for a little hazard ’n’ companionship, an’ as you plainly ain’t no Stuffed-Shirt Hoity-Toity, why not join us?’

‘A pastor’s son like me would bore you, I fear: I drink little and gamble less.’

‘Who ain’t a gambler in the Glorious Orient, with his very life? Of every ten coves who sail out, six’ll survive to make what hay they may, eh, but four’ll sink into some swampy grave an’ forty-sixty is damn poor odds. By-the-by, for every jewel or ducatoon sewn into coat lining, eleven get seized at the Sea-Gate, and only 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 Sea Wall Lane: an’ thataways,’ 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 forwards, ‘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 informin’ 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 spreads 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 into 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 blood-stains. 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 Sick Room, 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?