A young servant or slave appears, swishing a broom: he is barefoot, handsome, and attired in a fine surplice and loose 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 apologise 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 neighbours.’

‘So propinquity propagates neighbourliness, 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 towards 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 convex 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 cancer-ated”?’ Ogawa mocks him. ‘My poor Dutch is failing me.’

The clerk’s heart pounds like a broken pump. ‘Is it human to toy with me?’

‘Toy?’ Ogawa’s perplexity grows. ‘This is proverb, Mr de Zoet? In Mr de Zoet’s chest I found book of Mr… Adamu Sumissu.’

Jacob opens his eyes: Long Street is no longer tilting. ‘Adam Smith?’

‘ “Adam Smith” – please excuse. The Wealth of Nations… You know?’

I know it, yes, thinks Jacob, but I don’t yet dare hope. ‘The original English is a little difficult, so I bought the Dutch edition in Batavia.’

Ogawa looks surprised. ‘So Adam Smith is not Dutchman but Englishman?’

‘He’d not thank you, Mr Ogawa! Smith’s a Scot, living in Edinburgh. But can it be The Wealth of Nations about which you speak?’

‘What other? I am rangakusha – scholar of Dutch Science. Four years ago, I borrow Wealth of Nations from Chief Hemmij. I began translation to bring,’ Ogawa’s lips ready themselves, ‘ “Theory of Political Economy” to Japan. But Lord of Satsuma offered Chief Hemmij much money so I returned it. Book was sold before I finish.’

The incandescent sun is caged by a glowing bay tree.

God called unto him, thinks Jacob, out of the midst of the bush…

Hooked gulls and scraggy kites criss-cross the blue-glazed sky.

… and said, Moses, Moses. And he said, Here am I.

‘I try to obtain another, but’ – Ogawa flinches – ‘but difficulties is much.’

Jacob resists an impulse to laugh like a child. ‘I understand.’

‘Then, this morning, in your book-chest, Adam Smith I find. Very much surprise, and to speak with sincerity, Mr de Zoet, I wish to buy or rent…’

Across the street in the garden, cicadas shriek in ratcheted rounds.

‘Adam Smith is neither for sale nor rent,’ says the Dutchman, ‘but you are welcome, Mr Ogawa – very welcome indeed – to borrow him for as long as ever you wish.’

IV Outside the Privy by Garden House on Dejima

Before breakfast on the 29th July, 1799

Jacob de Zoet emerges from buzzing darkness to see Hanzaburo, his house interpreter, being interrogated by two inspectors. ‘They’ll be ordering your boy,’ Junior Clerk Ponke Ouwehand appears from thin air, ‘to open up your turds to see what you shat. I tormented my first snoop into an early grave three days ago, so the Interpreters’ Guild sent this hat-stand.’ Ouwehand jerks his head at the gangly youth behind him. ‘His name’s Kichibei but I call him “Herpes” after how closely he sticks to me. But I’ll defeat him in the end. Grote bet me ten guilders I can’t wear out five by November. Broken our fast yet, have we?’

The inspectors now notice Kichibei and summon him over.

‘I was on my way,’ says Jacob, wiping his hands.

‘We should go before all the hands piss in your coffee.’

The two clerks set off up Long Street, passing two pregnant deer.

‘Nice shank of venison,’ comments Ouwehand, ‘for Christmas dinner.’

Dr Marinus and the slave Ignatius are watering the melon patch. ‘Another furnace of a day ahead, Doctor,’ says Ouwehand, over the fence.

Marinus must have heard but does not deign to look up.

‘He’s courteous enough to his students,’ Ouwehand remarks to Jacob, ‘and to his handsome Indian, and he was gentleness made man, so van Cleef says, when Hemmij was dying, and when his scholar friends bring him a weed or a dead starfish, he wags his tail off. So why is he Old Master Misery with us? In Batavia, even the French Consul – the French Consul, mark you – called him “un buffalo insufferable”.’ Ouwehand squeaks in the back of his throat.

A gang of porters is gathering at the Crossroads to bring ashore the pig-iron. When they notice Jacob, the usual nudges, stares and grins begin. He turns down Bony Alley rather than run the gauntlet any further.