Eight liveried horses proceed along a thoroughfare. Their hoofs echo.

How far would I get, Jacob wonders, if I ran, hooded, through the streets? if I ran, hooded, through the streets?

. . . up through rice terraces, up to the folded mountains, the folds within folds.

Not so far as Kyoga Domain, Jacob thinks. Someone fumbles at a casement.

He readies himself to be ordered inside by a worried official.

'Did gallant Sir de Zoet,' hairy and naked van Cleef flashes his teeth, 'find the golden fleece last night?'

'It was . . .' not not, Jacob thinks, to my credit to my credit '. . . it was what it was, sir.' '. . . it was what it was, sir.'

'Oh, hearken to Father Calvin.' Van Cleef puts on his breeches and clambers out of the window to join him with a flagon hooked on his thumb. He is not drunk, Jacob hopes, but he is not altogether sober. 'Our Divine Father made all all of you, man, in his own image, under-tackle included - or do I lie?' of you, man, in his own image, under-tackle included - or do I lie?'

'God did did make us, yes, but the Holy Book is clear about--' make us, yes, but the Holy Book is clear about--'

'Oh, lawful wedlock, awful bedlock, yes, yes, well and good in Europe, but here -' van Cleef gestures at Nagasaki like a conductor '- a man must improvise! Celibacy is for vegetarians. Neglect your spuds - I quote a medical fact - and they shrivel up and drop off and what future then -'

'That is not not,' Jacob almost smiles, 'a medical fact, sir.'

'- what future then for the Prodigal Son on the Isle of Walcheren, sans sans cods?' Van Cleef swigs from his flagon, wiping his beard on his forearm. 'Bachelordom and an heirless death! Lawyers feasting on your estate like crows on a gibbet! This fine house,' he slaps the ridge-tile, 'is no sink of iniquity but a spa to nourish later harvests - you cods?' Van Cleef swigs from his flagon, wiping his beard on his forearm. 'Bachelordom and an heirless death! Lawyers feasting on your estate like crows on a gibbet! This fine house,' he slaps the ridge-tile, 'is no sink of iniquity but a spa to nourish later harvests - you did did use the armour urged upon us by Marinus? But who am I talking to? Of course you did.' use the armour urged upon us by Marinus? But who am I talking to? Of course you did.'

Van Cleef's girl watches them from the depths of her room.

Jacob wonders about Orito's eyes, now.

'A pretty little butterfly on the outside . . .' a sigh heaves van Cleef and Jacob fears his superior is drunker than he thought - a fall could end in a broken neck '. . . but unwrapped, one finds the same disappointments. 'Tweren't the girl's fault, it's Gloria's fault, the albatross hanging 'round my neck . . . But why would you want to hear about that, young man, with your heart not yet broken?' The Chief stares in the face of Heaven and the breeze stirs the world. 'Gloria was my aunt. Batavia-born, I was, but sent to Amsterdam to learn the gentlemanly arts: how to spout pig Latin, how to dance like a peacock and how to cheat at cards. The party ended on my twenty-second birthday when I took passage back to Java with my uncle Theo. Uncle Theo had visited Holland to deliver the Governor-General's yearly fictions to East India House - the van Cleefs were well connected in those days - grease palms and marry for the fourth or fifth time. My uncle's motto was "Race is All". He'd fathered half a dozen children on his Javanese maids, but he acknowledged none and made dire warnings about God's discrete races mingling into a single pigsty breed.'

Jacob remembers the son in his dream. A Chinese junk's sails swell.

'Theo's legal heirs, he avowed, must have "Currency" mothers - white-skinned rose-cheeked flowers of Protestant Europe - because Batavia-born brides all have orang-utans cavorting in the family tree. Alas, his previous wives all expired within months of arriving in Java. The miasma did for them, you see. But Theo was a charming dog, and a rich charming dog, and, lo, it came to pass that between my cabin and my uncle's aboard the Enkhuizen Enkhuizen was accommodated the latest Mrs Theo van Cleef. My "Aunt Gloria" was four years my junior and one-third the age of her proud groom . . .' was accommodated the latest Mrs Theo van Cleef. My "Aunt Gloria" was four years my junior and one-third the age of her proud groom . . .'

Below, a rice-seller opens up his shop for the day.

'Why bother describing a beauty in her first bloom? None of the bewhiskered Nabob-hookers on the Enkhuizen Enkhuizen could compare, and before we'd rounded Brittany, all the eligible men - and many ineligible ones - were paying Aunt Gloria more attention than her new husband would wish. Through my thin cabin wall, I'd hear him warning her against holding X's gaze or laughing at Y's limp jokes. She'd reply, "Yes, sir," meek as a doe, then let him exact his marital dues. My imagination, de Zoet, was better than any peep-hole! Then, afterwards, when Uncle Theo was back in his own cot, Gloria would weep, so delicately, so quietly, none but I could hear. She'd had no say in the marriage, of course, and Theo allowed her just one maid from home, a girl called Aagje - a second-class fare would buy five maids at Batavia's slave market. Gloria, you must remember, had rarely gone beyond the Singel Canal. Java was as far off as the moon. Further, in fact, for the moon is, at least, visible from Amsterdam. Come morning, I'd be kind to my aunt . . .' could compare, and before we'd rounded Brittany, all the eligible men - and many ineligible ones - were paying Aunt Gloria more attention than her new husband would wish. Through my thin cabin wall, I'd hear him warning her against holding X's gaze or laughing at Y's limp jokes. She'd reply, "Yes, sir," meek as a doe, then let him exact his marital dues. My imagination, de Zoet, was better than any peep-hole! Then, afterwards, when Uncle Theo was back in his own cot, Gloria would weep, so delicately, so quietly, none but I could hear. She'd had no say in the marriage, of course, and Theo allowed her just one maid from home, a girl called Aagje - a second-class fare would buy five maids at Batavia's slave market. Gloria, you must remember, had rarely gone beyond the Singel Canal. Java was as far off as the moon. Further, in fact, for the moon is, at least, visible from Amsterdam. Come morning, I'd be kind to my aunt . . .'

In a garden, women drape washing on a juniper tree.

'The Enkhuizen Enkhuizen took a bad mauling in the Atlantic,' van Cleef pours the last sunlit drops of beer on to his tongue, 'so the Captain settled upon a month's stay at the Cape for repairs. To protect Gloria from the common gaze, Uncle Theo took apartments in the villa of the Sisters den Otter, high above Cape Town, up between Lion's Head and Signal Hill. The six-mile track was a quagmire in wet weather and a hoof-twister in dry. Once upon a time the den Otters were amongst the colony's grandest families, but by the late seventies the villa's once-famous stucco-work was falling off in chunks, its orchards were reverting to Africa and its former staff of twenty or thirty reduced to a housekeeper, a cook, a put-upon maid and two white-haired Black gardeners both called "Boy". The sisters kept no carriage, but sent for a landau from an adjoining farmstead, and most of their utterances began with "When dear Papa was alive" or "When the Swedish Ambassador would call". Deathly, de Zoet - deathly! But young Mrs van Cleef well knew what her husband wanted to hear, and declared the villa to be private, safe and enchantingly Gothic. The Sisters den Otter were "a treasure-trove of wisdom and improving stories". Our landladies were defenceless against her flattery, and her sturdiness pleased Uncle Theo, and her brightness . . . her loveliness . . . She pulled me under, de Zoet. Gloria took a bad mauling in the Atlantic,' van Cleef pours the last sunlit drops of beer on to his tongue, 'so the Captain settled upon a month's stay at the Cape for repairs. To protect Gloria from the common gaze, Uncle Theo took apartments in the villa of the Sisters den Otter, high above Cape Town, up between Lion's Head and Signal Hill. The six-mile track was a quagmire in wet weather and a hoof-twister in dry. Once upon a time the den Otters were amongst the colony's grandest families, but by the late seventies the villa's once-famous stucco-work was falling off in chunks, its orchards were reverting to Africa and its former staff of twenty or thirty reduced to a housekeeper, a cook, a put-upon maid and two white-haired Black gardeners both called "Boy". The sisters kept no carriage, but sent for a landau from an adjoining farmstead, and most of their utterances began with "When dear Papa was alive" or "When the Swedish Ambassador would call". Deathly, de Zoet - deathly! But young Mrs van Cleef well knew what her husband wanted to hear, and declared the villa to be private, safe and enchantingly Gothic. The Sisters den Otter were "a treasure-trove of wisdom and improving stories". Our landladies were defenceless against her flattery, and her sturdiness pleased Uncle Theo, and her brightness . . . her loveliness . . . She pulled me under, de Zoet. Gloria was was Love. Love Love. Love was was Gloria.' Gloria.'

A tiny girl skips like a skinny frog around a persimmon tree.

I miss seeing children, Jacob thinks, and looks away to Dejima.

'On our first week at the villa, in a grove of agapanthus run amok, Gloria found me and told me to go and tell my uncle that she had flirted with me. Surely I'd misheard. She repeated her injunction: "If you are my friend, Melchior, as I pray God you are for I have no other in this wilderness, go to my husband and tell him that I confessed 'inappropriate sentiments'! Use those very words, for they could be yours." I protested that I couldn't besmirch her honour or place her in danger of a beating. She assured me that if I didn't do as she asked, or if I told my uncle about this conversation, then then she would earn a beating. Well, the light in the grove was orange, and she squeezed my hand and said, "Do this for me, Melchior." So I went.' she would earn a beating. Well, the light in the grove was orange, and she squeezed my hand and said, "Do this for me, Melchior." So I went.'

Fingers of smoke appear from the House of Wistaria's chimney.

'When Uncle Theo heard my false witness, he agreed with my charitable diagnosis of nerves damaged by the voyage. I went for a confused walk along the steep cliffs, afraid of what might befall Gloria back at the villa. But at lunch Uncle Theo made a speech about family, obedience and trust. After the blessing, he thanked God for sending him a wife and nephew in whom these Christian virtues blossomed. The Sisters den Otter chimed their brandy glasses with their apostle-spoons and said, "Hear hear!" Uncle Theo gave me a pouch of Guineas and invited me to go and enjoy all the pleasures the Tavern of the Two Seas could offer for two or three days . . .'

Below, a man leaves from a brothel's side-door. He is me He is me, Jacob thinks.

'. . . but I'd rather have broken a bone than be separated from Gloria. I begged my donor leave to return his Guineas, asking only to keep the empty pouch to encourage me to fill it, and ten thousand more, with the fruits of my own acumen. All Cape Town's tinsel and baubles, I claimed, were not worth an hour of my uncle's company, and, time allowing, perhaps a game of chess? My uncle was silent, and I feared I'd over-sugared the tea, but then he declared that, whilst most young men were rascally popinjays who considered it their birthright to spend their fathers' hard-won fortunes in dissipation, Heaven had sent him an exception for a nephew. He toasted the finest nephew in Christendom and, forgetting to conceal his clumsy test of marital fidelity, "a true little wife". He enjoined Gloria to raise his future sons with my image in mind, and his true little wife said, "May they be in our nephew's image, Husband." Theo and I then played chess, and it taxed my ingenuity, de Zoet, to let the clod outmanoeuvre me.'

A bee hovers around Jacob's face, and goes.

'Gloria's and my loyalties now proven, my uncle felt at liberty to enter Cape Town society himself. These pursuits took him out of the villa for most of the day, and sometimes he even slept down in the town. Me, he set to the task of copying paperwork in the library. "I'd invite you along," he said, "but I want the Kaffirs hereabouts to know there's a White man in the villa who can use a flintlock." Gloria was left to her books, diary, the garden and the "improving stories" of the sisters: a spring that ran dry by three o'clock daily, when their lunchtime brandy plunged them into bottomless siestas . . .'

Van Cleef's flagon rolls down the tiles, falls through the Wistaria frames, and smashes in the courtyard. 'My uncle's bridal suite lay down a windowless corridor from the library. Concentrating on correspondence, I'll admit, was harder than usual that afternoon . . . The library clock, in my memory, is silent. Perhaps it is wound down. Orioles are singing like the choirs of Bedlam, and I hear the click click of a key . . . that pregnant silence, when someone is waiting . . . and here she is in silhouette at the far end. She . . .' Van Cleef rubs his sunburnt face '. . . I was afraid Aagje would find us, and she says, "Haven't you noticed, Aagje's in love with the eldest son of the next farm?" and it's the most natural thing in the world to tell her I love her, and she kisses me, and she tells me she makes my uncle bearable by imagining he is me, and his is mine, and I ask, "What if there's a child?" and she says of a key . . . that pregnant silence, when someone is waiting . . . and here she is in silhouette at the far end. She . . .' Van Cleef rubs his sunburnt face '. . . I was afraid Aagje would find us, and she says, "Haven't you noticed, Aagje's in love with the eldest son of the next farm?" and it's the most natural thing in the world to tell her I love her, and she kisses me, and she tells me she makes my uncle bearable by imagining he is me, and his is mine, and I ask, "What if there's a child?" and she says Shush Shush . . .' . . .'

Mud-brown dogs race up the mud-brown street.

'Our unlucky number was four. The fourth time Gloria and I lay together, Uncle Theo's horse threw him on his way down to Cape Town. He walked back to the villa so we didn't hear the horse. One moment I was deep inside Gloria, as naked as silk. The next, I was still as naked as silk but lying amongst shards of the mirror my uncle had hurled me against. He told me he'd snap my neck and throw my carcass to the beasts. He told me to go to town, withdraw fifty guilders from his agent and make sure I was too ill to board the Enkhuizen Enkhuizen when she sailed on to Batavia. Last, he swore that whatever I'd put inside that whore, his wife, he would be digging out with a spoon. To my shame - or not, I don't know - I went away without saying goodbye to Gloria.' Van Cleef rubs his beard. 'Two weeks later I watched the when she sailed on to Batavia. Last, he swore that whatever I'd put inside that whore, his wife, he would be digging out with a spoon. To my shame - or not, I don't know - I went away without saying goodbye to Gloria.' Van Cleef rubs his beard. 'Two weeks later I watched the Enkhuizen Enkhuizen embark. Five weeks later I shipped on a maggoty brig, the embark. Five weeks later I shipped on a maggoty brig, the Huis Marquette Huis Marquette, whose pilot spoke with dead spirits and whose captain suspected even the ship's dog of plotting mutiny. Well, you've crossed the Indian Ocean so I shan't describe it: eternal, sinister, obsidian, mountainous, monotonous . . . After a seven-week crossing we weighed anchor in Batavia by the grace of God, with little thanks due to the pilot or the captain. I walked along the stinking canal, steeling myself for a thrashing from Father, a duel with Theo, lately arrived on the Enkhuizen Enkhuizen, disinheritance. I saw no familiar faces and none saw me - ten years is a long time - and knocked on the shrunken door of my boyhood home. My old nurse, wrinkled, now, like a walnut, opened the door and screamed. I remember Mother hurrying through from the kitchen. She held a vase of orchids. Next thing I knew, the vase had turned into a thousand broken pieces, and Mother was slumped against the wall. I assumed that Uncle Theo had made a persona non grata persona non grata of me . . . but then noticed that Mother was in mourning. I asked if my father was dead. She answered, " of me . . . but then noticed that Mother was in mourning. I asked if my father was dead. She answered, "You are, Melchior: you drowned." Then there was a sobbing embrace, and I learnt that the are, Melchior: you drowned." Then there was a sobbing embrace, and I learnt that the Enkhuizen Enkhuizen had been wrecked on a reef just a mile from the Straits of Sunda, in a bright and savage sea, with all hands lost . . .' had been wrecked on a reef just a mile from the Straits of Sunda, in a bright and savage sea, with all hands lost . . .'

'I'm sorry, Chief,' says Jacob.

'The happiest ending is Aagje's. She married that farmer's boy and now owns three thousand head of cattle. Each time I'm in the Cape I mean to go and pay my compliments, but never do.'

Excited shouts ring out nearby. The two foreigners have been spotted by a gang of carpenters at work on a nearby building. 'Gaijin-sama!' calls one, with a grin wider than his face. He holds up a measuring-rule and offers a service that makes his colleagues howl with laughter. 'I didn't catch all of that,' says van Cleef.

'He volunteered to measure the length of your manhood, sir.'

'Oh? Tell the rogue he'd need three of those rules.'

In the jaws of the bay Jacob sees a fluttering rectangle of red, white and blue.

No, thinks the head clerk. It's a mirage . . . or a Chinese junk, or . . . It's a mirage . . . or a Chinese junk, or . . .

'What's wrong, de Zoet? You look like your breeches are beshatten.'

'Sir - there's a merchantman entering the bay or . . . a frigate?'

'A frigate frigate? Who's sending a frigate frigate? Whose flag is it, man?'

'Ours, sir.' Jacob grips the roof and blesses his far-sightedness. 'It's Dutch.'

XXX.

The Room of the Last Chrysanthemum at the Magistracy in Nagasaki

The Second Day of the Ninth Month Lord Abbot Enomoto of Kyoga Domain places a white stone on the board.

A way-station, sees Magistrate Shiroyama, between his northern flank . . . between his northern flank . . .

Shadows of slender maples stripe the board of gold kaya kaya wood. wood.

. . . and his eastern groups . . . or else a diversionary attack? Both . . .

Shiroyama believed he was gaining control, but he was losing it.

Where is the hidden way, he wonders, to reverse my reverses? to reverse my reverses?

'Nobody can refute,' comments Enomoto, 'we live in straitened times.'

One may may refute refute, thinks Shiroyama, that that your your times are straitened times are straitened.

'A minor daimyo daimyo of the Aso Plateau who sought my assistance -' of the Aso Plateau who sought my assistance -'

Yes, yes, thinks the Magistrate, your discretion is impeccable . . . your discretion is impeccable . . .

'- observed that what grandfathers called "debt" is now called "credit".'

'Meaning,' Shiroyama extends his north-south group with a black stone, 'that debts no longer have to be repaid?'

With a polite smile, Enomoto removes his next stone from his rosewood bowl. 'Repayments remain a tiresome necessity, alas, but the Aso noble's case illustrates the point. Two years ago he borrowed a sizeable sum from Numa here,' Numa, one of the Abbot's pet money-lenders bows in his corner, 'to drain a marsh: in the Seventh Month of this year, his smallholders harvested their first rice crop. So in an age when Edo's stipends are tardy and dwindling, Numa's client has well-fed, grateful peasants fattening his storehouses. His account with Numa shall be settled in full . . . when?'

Numa bows again. 'A full two years early, Your Grace.'

'That same daimyo daimyo's lofty neighbour, who swore never to owe a grain of rice to anyone, despatches ever-more frantic begging letters to the Council of Elders . . .' Enomoto places an island stone between his two eastern groups '. . . whose servants use them for kindling. Credit is the seed of wealth. The finest minds of Europe study credit and money within a discipline they call,' Enomoto uses a foreign phrase, ' "Political Economy".'

This merely confirms, thinks Shiroyama, my view of Europeans my view of Europeans.

'A young friend at the Academy was translating a remarkable text, The Wealth of Nations The Wealth of Nations. His death was a tragedy for us scholars, but also, I believe, for Japan.'

'Ogawa Uzaemon?' Shiroyama remembers. 'A distressing affair.'

'Had he but told me he was using the Ariake Road, I would have provided an escort through my domain. But on a pilgrimage for his ailing father, the modest young man wanted to eschew comfort . . .' Enomoto runs a thumbnail to and fro along his lifeline. The Magistrate has been told the story by several sources, but does not interrupt. 'My men rounded up the bandits responsible. I beheaded the one who confessed, and hung the others by iron spikes through the feet until wolves and crows had done their work. Then,' he sighs, 'Ogawa the Elder died, before an heir was chosen.'

'The death of a family line,' Shiroyama concurs, 'is a terrible thing.'

'A cousin from a lesser branch is rebuilding the house - I made a donation - but he's a common cutler, and the Ogawa name is gone from Dejima forever.'

Shiroyama has nothing to add, but to change the subject is disrespectful.

Doors are slid open to reveal a veranda. Bright clouds bloom to the south.

Over the hilly headland, smoke uncoils from a burning field.

One is here and one is gone, thinks Shiroyama. Platitudes are profundities Platitudes are profundities.

The game of Go Go reasserts itself. Starched silk sleeves rustle. 'It is customary,' observes Enomoto, 'to flatter a magistrate's skill at reasserts itself. Starched silk sleeves rustle. 'It is customary,' observes Enomoto, 'to flatter a magistrate's skill at Go Go, but truly you are the best player I have met these last five years. I detect the influence of the Honinbo School.'

'My father' - the Magistrate sees the old man's ghost scowling at Enomoto's money-lender - 'reached the Second Ryu Ryu of the Honinbo. I am an unworthy disciple . . .' Shiroyama attacks an isolated stone of Enomoto's '. . . when time permits.' He lifts the teapot, but it is empty. He claps, once, and Chamberlain Tomine appears in person. 'Tea,' says the Magistrate. Tomine turns around and claps for another servant, who glides to the table, retrieves the tray in perfect silence and vanishes, with a bow in the doorway. The Magistrate imagines the tray descending the ladder of servitude to the toothless crone in the furthest kitchen who warms the water to the perfect heat before pouring it over perfect leaves. of the Honinbo. I am an unworthy disciple . . .' Shiroyama attacks an isolated stone of Enomoto's '. . . when time permits.' He lifts the teapot, but it is empty. He claps, once, and Chamberlain Tomine appears in person. 'Tea,' says the Magistrate. Tomine turns around and claps for another servant, who glides to the table, retrieves the tray in perfect silence and vanishes, with a bow in the doorway. The Magistrate imagines the tray descending the ladder of servitude to the toothless crone in the furthest kitchen who warms the water to the perfect heat before pouring it over perfect leaves.

Chamberlain Tomine has gone nowhere: this is his mild protest.

'So, Tomine: the place is infested with landowners in boundary disputes, petty officials needing positions for errant nephews, bruised wives begging for divorces, all of whom assail you with offers of coins and daughters, chorusing and imploring, "Please, Chamberlain-sama, speak with the Magistrate on my behalf." '

Tomine makes an awkward mmf mmf noise in his crushed nose. noise in his crushed nose.

A magistrate is the slave, Shiroyama thinks, of that many-headed wanting . . . of that many-headed wanting . . .

'Watch the goldfish,' he tells Tomine. 'Fetch me in a few minutes.'

The circumspect chamberlain withdraws to the Courtyard.

'Our game is unfair,' says Enomoto. 'You are distracted by duty.'

A jade-and-ash dragonfly lands on the edge of the board.

'High office,' replies the Magistrate, 'is distractions, of all sizes.' He has heard that the Abbot can remove the distractions, of all sizes.' He has heard that the Abbot can remove the ki ki of insects and small creatures through the palm of his hand, and he half hopes for a demonstration, but the dragonfly is already gone. 'Lord Enomoto, too, has a domain to govern, a Shrine to maintain, scholarly interests and . . .' to accuse him of commercial interests would be an insult '. . . other matters.' of insects and small creatures through the palm of his hand, and he half hopes for a demonstration, but the dragonfly is already gone. 'Lord Enomoto, too, has a domain to govern, a Shrine to maintain, scholarly interests and . . .' to accuse him of commercial interests would be an insult '. . . other matters.'

'My days, to be certain, are never idle,' Enomoto places a stone in the heart of the board, 'but Mount Shiranui rejuvenates me.'

An autumn breeze drags its invisible robes around the fine room.

I am powerful enough, the casual reference reminds the Magistrate, to oblige the Aibagawa girl, a favourite of yours, to take vows in my Shrine, and you could not intercede to oblige the Aibagawa girl, a favourite of yours, to take vows in my Shrine, and you could not intercede.

Shiroyama tries to concentrate on the game's present and future.

Once, Shiroyama's father taught him, nobility and samurai ruled Japan . . . nobility and samurai ruled Japan . . .

The kneeling servant parts the doors, bows, and brings in the tray.

. . . but now it is Deception, Greed, Corruption and Lust who govern.

The servant brings two new cups and a teapot.

'Lord Abbot,' says Shiroyama, 'would you care for some tea?'

'You shan't be insulted,' he states, 'by my preference for my own drink.'

'Your . . .' what is the tactful word? what is the tactful word? '. . . your reticence no longer surprises.' '. . . your reticence no longer surprises.'

Enomoto's indigo-clad aspirant is already there. The shaven-headed youth uncorks a gourd and leaves it with his master.

'Has your host ever . . .' Once again, the Magistrate hunts for the right words.

'Been angered by an implicit accusation that he meant to poison me? Yes, upon occasion. But then I pacify him with the story of how an enemy's servant - a woman - obtained a post at the residence of a famous Miyako family. She worked there as a trusted maid for two years until my next visit. She embellished my meal with a few grains of an odourless poison. Had my Order's doctor, Master Suzaku, not been on hand to administer an antidote, I would have died, and my friend's family would have been disgraced.'

'You have some unscrupulous enemies, Lord Abbot.'

He lifts the neck of the gourd to his mouth, tilts his head and drinks. 'Enemies flock to power,' he wipes his lips, 'like wasps to split figs.'