I hurriedly drape my still-steaming, damp body in one of the familiar plain-cut dresses of my homeland. The skirt fails noticeably to reach my ankles, while I spend a few flustered minutes trying to lace the bodice tightly enough to make up for its width. The thus-far unseen Mevrou Van Doerburgh has a predictably middle-aged build, but at least the cornflower blue of her cotton gown flatters the color of my eyes…

Dinner is scheduled at six o’clock; Mineko has just informed me that I have five minutes left to rush downstairs and present myself. Twisting my slightly dripping hair into a tortoiseshell comb, I leave the room breathlessly.

Mineko escorts me wordlessly to the dining room, vanishing into some unseen hallway as I enter the doorway. I walk forward somewhat nervously; I’ve never been a guest without Jan’s easy presence smoothing over all relations with the hosts. I am not entirely sure that I can stand so gracefully alone.

The table is spread simply with breads, cheeses and other familiar foods, but a strong smell of fish pervades the air, and there are some unidentifiable dishes present. More interesting than the food, however, is the structure of the dining room itself. The Van Doerburghs’ house consists of two levels placed atop another bottom level which serves as Mr. Van Doerburgh’s workplace. The elevation allows for a rather good view of the city through the ten glass-paneled windows that line the dining room walls—the hurrying black heads of people beneath us, the surrounding businesses, the harbor full of delicate-looking fishing boats…

I turn my attention from the view to the people waiting expectantly for me—a bearded, dark-haired, rather thin man of about forty-five dressed in plain grey shirt and black pants, his plump, red-headed wife wearing a tan dress otherwise identical to mine, and a boy not much older than me that looks nothing like either of them; with hair like straw and ruddy complexion. He is dressed exactly like his father, and looking at me with the critical interest.

I smile, hoping that I look pleasantly ingratiating, rather than false. “Hello. I’m Johanna Bergmann.” Striding forward to take Mr. Van Doerburgh’s hand, he stands up to clasp it. “Yes, very pleased to meet the sister of a fine man like Jan. You may call me Hendrick; my wife Margrethe, and my son Pieter.” I continue smiling, shaking hands, politely kissing cheeks, and after a brief refrain of greeting from wife and son, I am instructed to sit, pray and eat.

The efficient process of dinner seems to become the general Van Doerburgh atmosphere rather well—though the view is enviable, the spacious dining room is only that—large and well-let, nobly austere like all the rest of the house I’ve seen so far. Everything bespeaks clean, well-mannered prosperity, and despite the briefness of conversation, I feel at home. Upon further study, there doesn’t seem to be much more than my initial impression of each Van Doerburgh’s character—Hendrick is rather quiet, responsible, thoughtful; his wife with a cheerful, but not exaggerated smile permanently imprinted on her large pink lips. Pieter, like any other boy of his age, looks at me rather stupidly; an attempt at a polite smile turns into something annoyingly like a smirk on his angular face.

As I serve myself from the large platters adorning the table’s center, I notice a large bowl of pillowy white rice—a grain I’ve had little experience with in times past—as well as what appear to be some large, cooked roots. Curiously, I address Margrethe—“Do you often eat much native food?”

She shrugs disinterestedly. “Occasionally. It’s not all terribly bad, just generally salty and tasting excessively of fish. I rather enjoy the native radish, however.”

Pieter looks straight at me, apparently pleased at the opening for conversation. “Much of its rice, anyway. Everyone eats it—except for the wealthy. The new upper-class Japanese now eat meat and drink milk—an expensive barbarism by their own ancient standards. They think that in doing so they’ll become strong enough to match the Europeans.”

“I see.” In spite of his over-eagerness, Pieter seems decently intelligent and more interesting than I’d like to give him credit for. Trying to remain cool, I stare at the steaming fillet of fish on my plate.

Hendrick looks at me, his voice indifferently polite. “Dutch ways, though not so much our food, have been a fixture in Japan for centuries, as you probably know—however outlawed they may have sometimes been. Mineko, the girl we sent for you, learned Dutch in her own home as a child. Now, of course, there are British, and Americans, and Russians, even, but I don’t believe any group of Europeans has so much a hold on the reformed Japanese consciousness as the Dutch.”

“Yes, I know generally of that—but do all Japanese embrace it? I mean, the educated ones.”

Hendrick leans back, chewing thoughtfully on a slice of potato before answering. “So it seems, according to the sort of men I deal with, and the new young Emperor himself—but I have my doubts. The entire society of this country has been completely turned upside down in these last few decades, and I don’t think everyone totally approves of it. There were losses. Furthermore, many of the men of such classes—and even the lower ones—from the south are inherently distrustful of Protestants. What few of them are not Buddhist or apathetic about religion are some sort of secret Catholics—even Meiji doesn’t approve of such, but two hundred years ago, we helped to quell something of a Catholic rebellion, and from then on, those surviving Catholics haven’t much approved of the Dutch, either. ”

Rather disturbed by this formerly unknown historical trivia, I move on to more familiar territory. “Yes—well, I have heard of the daimyos and samurai. Jan has written me letters in which mention of them was made. Are they not heroic swordsmen, legendary?”

Pieter interjects with a rueful laugh. “Were, perhaps something of the sort, but they’re not even able to wear their swords in public anymore. Those who haven’t joined with the Emperor Meiji are finding themselves uncomfortably deprived of more than just their blades—much of the samurai land has been confiscated. The elite heroes of centuries past are now no different than anyone else.”

“Yet there is no discord?” I cannot imagine that the mythically ascetic warriors I’ve heard so many vague tales of—no matter how embellished their images might be—would concede so much so easily.

“There is talk, but little more.” Margrethe talks now, rapidly, and with the same tireless cheerfulness of her smile. “I doubt that any disgruntled Japanese would be so foolish as to harm a foreigner—”

“Yet, as a foreign woman, you’d do best to avoid such types--not that it's a problem you'll likely encounter.” Hendrik looks at me critically, trying to assess my probable girlish foolishness from appearance alone. Dissatisfied, he turns back to his eating, which, I notice, is performed with the aid of two slender wooden sticks, and no Dutch implement in sight.