A sudden disturbance broke out down the aisle of stalls along which Sano walked in search of Urabe. Two shouting Chinese merchants lunged at each other. Fists flew and feet kicked. Nearby Chinese flocked around the fighters, yelling and waving. Coins changed hands: Instead of stopping the brawl, the Chinese were betting on it!

“Break it up!” Wielding bamboo canes, Japanese guards delivered sharp blows to Chinese rear ends. “Fun’s over. Go back to your business!”

The guards dragged away the two troublemakers. The audience scattered, howling unintelligible complaints. “Ouch, my behind hurts!” a passing interpreter translated.

Sano watched in amazement. As a scholar, he’d always viewed the great Middle Kingdom as the font of knowledge and civilization. From China had come many mainstays of Japanese culture: Buddhism; the Confucian system of education and government; herbal medicine; the formal written language. Chinese influence had shaped Japanese architecture, music, painting, and literature. Chinese scientists had invented steel, lacquer, paper, porcelain, matches, gunpowder, block printing, and the compass. But the Chinese whom Sano now beheld seemed like pure rabble. Disillusioned, he approached a guard.

“Where can I find the merchant Urabe?” he asked.

The guard pointed. “That’s him at the lumber stall—in the green kimono, bargaining for all he’s worth. His business isn’t doing too well lately.”

Sano worked his way over to the lumber stall, where Urabe was inspecting rough, fragrant boards through a small magnifying lens. Seeing the device, Sano uneasily remembered Dr. Huygens and their illicit collaboration.

“This wood has wormholes in it,” Urabe announced. His voice rasped like a sliding door in a warped frame. He was in his mid-forties, and had a neck so short that his head seemed set directly upon his shoulders. His face wore a look of perpetual irritation, with frown lines on the low brow above his narrowed eyes, and tensely puckered lips. Urabe moved from board to board, peering through his lens, sharp chin jutting forward as if eager to get ahead of himself. “I won’t pay more than fifty momme for this whole lot.”

An interpreter translated the words into Chinese for the dealer, who erupted in angry disagreement. “He says that what you see are natural pores in the wood, not wormholes,” the interpreter told Urabe. “He won’t lower his price.”

“Well, then, the deal is off. Let’s go.”

Urabe sauntered down the aisle past Sano, gesturing for his staff to follow. But Sano saw the hard, acquisitive gleam in Urabe’s eyes, the nervous way he picked at a mole on his left cheek. He meant to get the lumber on his terms, but he was afraid he wouldn’t.

The Chinese man hurried after Urabe. He entreated and gestured. “My final offer is seventy momme,” Urabe rasped, chin thrust forward belligerently. “Take it or leave it.”