The Coffee Trader

  Faced with a grave decision, one on which his future might well depend, he asked himself what had become the only question that came to mind in these circumstances: What route would Charming Pieter take? Would he defy Parido and follow his instincts, or would he surrender his will to the man who had once been his enemy but now protested friendship? Pieter, Miguel knew, never foreclosed an opportunity, and it was better to make a man who intended trickery believe he had succeeded than to expose him to his face. Pieter would follow Parido’s advice.

  “I’ll make the trade,” Miguel said at last.

  “That is the only thing to do.”

  Perhaps it was. Miguel should have been euphoric. Perhaps he would be in a few hours, when the inexpressible relief of being rid of those poisonous shares finally seemed real. He said a prayer of thanks, but even as he recognized his luck he could not quite shake the bitter taste from his mouth. He had liberated himself from these difficulties only with the help of a man who, two weeks before, would have gladly sewn him in a sack and tossed him into the Amstel.

  It might be as Parido said—he wished only to mend their rift—so Miguel turned to the parnass and bowed in thanks, but his face was dark. Parido could not mistake its meaning. If this turned out to be a trick, Miguel would have his revenge.

  from

  The Factual and Revealing Memoirs of Alonzo Alferonda

  It will be hard to explain to my Christian readers precisely what the cherem, excommunication, can mean to a Portuguese Jew. To those of us who had lived under the thumb of the Inquisition, or in lands such as England where our religion was outlawed, or in places such as the cities of the Turks where it was barely tolerated, to dwell in Amsterdam seemed a small taste of the World to Come. We were free to congregate and observe our holidays and our rituals, to study our texts in the light of day. For us who belonged to a small nation, cursed with having no land to call our own, the simple freedom to live as we chose was a kind of bliss for which I never, not for a single day I lived with my brothers in Amsterdam, forgot to give my thanks to God.

  Of course there were those cast forth from the community who cared not at all. Some were happy to leave what they saw as an overly scrupulous and demanding way of life. They would look at our Christian neighbors, who ate or drank what they liked, for whom the Sabbath, even their Sabbath, was but another day, and they would see those freedoms as a release. Yet most of us knew who we were. We were Jews, and the power of the Ma’amad to take away a man’s identity, his sense of self and belonging, was truly terrifying.

  Solomon Parido did all he could to make me an outcast, but in truth I might have gone far away and changed my name. No one would have known I was Alonzo Alferonda of Amsterdam. I knew deception the way other men knew their names.

  And such was my plan. I would do it, but not quite yet. I had plans for Parido, and I would not leave until I had seen them through.

  8

  Hannah believed she knew what coffee was, but she had no guess as to why Daniel would want to keep Miguel from trading in it, or why Miguel would think anyone would want to buy the stuff. Miguel and Daniel had talked suspiciously about coffee, and there, in Miguel’s cellar, she found a sack of curiously pungent berries the color of dead leaves. She put one in her mouth. It was hard and bitter, but she chewed it anyway despite the vague ache in her teeth. Why, she wondered, would anyone care about so foul a substance?

  She supposed she probably ought not to be rummaging around in Miguel’s things, but it wasn’t as though she would let her husband know what she found. In any case, Miguel never told her anything about his life, and how else would she learn if she didn’t pursue these things herself? Only through her own guile had she learned about his debts and his troubles with Parido and the strange threatening notes he’d been receiving. Annetje, whom Hannah sometimes sent to follow Miguel at a distance, told her he maintained a curious friendship with a pretty Dutch widow. One time Annetje had even led Hannah to peer through the window of a tavern and she’d seen the woman for herself, proud and convinced of her own importance. What had this woman ever done that was so significant, other than marry a man with money and then outlive him? Another time, when the two of them had clearly been drinking, he brought the widow home, believing that she and Daniel were off eating with one of his business associates. The widow had stared at her until Hannah blushed, and she and Miguel hurried outside, erupting in childish laughter. Hannah thought that if Miguel wanted to be friends with a woman, surely he ought to choose one far less silly, one who lived in the same house.

  She opened the bag of coffee again and took out a handful of the berries, letting them run through her fingers. Maybe she should eat more of them, develop a taste for their bitterness. When Miguel someday suggested that she eat coffee, she could laugh and say, “Oh, coffee, how delightful!” and toss a handful in her mouth as though she had been eating bitter fruit all her life—which, after all, she had. She carefully picked out another berry and crushed it with her back teeth. It would take some time before she could find it delightful.

  Still, there was something pleasant about it. By the time she’d eaten her third berry, she’d come to like the way the bits of coffee shards shattered in her mouth. The flavor seemed to her less bitter, even slightly satisfying.

  Sneaking through Miguel’s things and eating his secret berries left her feeling guilty, which was probably why Annetje caught her by surprise when she went back upstairs. The girl slyly raised her narrow eyebrows.

  “It’s almost time to go, senhora,” she said.

  Hannah had been hoping she’d forgotten. Why should the girl even care if they went or not? Well, Hannah knew why: it made Annetje feel powerful. It gave her something to hold over Hannah, to get from her another few guilders when she wanted them, to get Hannah to look the other way when she found Annetje frittering away her time with some Dutch fellow instead of tending to her chores.

  There was a place in their own neighborhood but Hannah had never dared to visit it, not with the thick crowds that gathered on the Breestraat and wide walkway on their side of the Verversgracht. When they went, they went instead down near the docks, just off the Warmoesstraat, trekking circuitously through crooked streets and over steep bridges. Only when they were far from the Vlooyenburg, a good distance past the Dam, walking along the crumbling narrow alleyways of the oldest part of the city, did Hannah pause to remove her veil and scarf, terrified as she did so of the Ma’amad spies who were known to lurk everywhere.

  Covering herself had been one of the most odious adjustments to life in Amsterdam. In Lisbon her face and her hair had been no more private than her outer coat, but when they’d moved to this city, Daniel had told her no man but he could ever see her hair again, and she must cover her face when in public. She later learned that nothing in Jewish law demanded that women hide their faces. The custom had come from the Jews of North Africa, and it had been adopted here.

  Hannah surreptitiously ate a few of the coffee beans on the way, slipping them into her mouth as Annetje forged ahead. By the time she’d eaten more than a dozen, she’d come to find them pleasant, almost reassuring, and she regretted that with each berry she ate there was one less in her little stash.

  When they were near, Annetje helped her place a simple white cap upon her head, and in an instant she could hardly be distinguished from any Dutchwoman. With her face and hair exposed, Hannah now walked to the open street, emerging on the Oudezijds Voorburgwal, the canal named for the old city wall. And there it stood. Several houses had been combined to make a space that was handsome, if paltry by Lisbon standards, and though the street was not far from some of the most dangerous parts of Amsterdam, here all seemed quiet and contained. Great oaks lined the canal on either side, and men and women walked along in their Sunday finery. A small cluster of gentlemen had gathered in their bright suits of blues and reds and yellows, unencumbered as they were by the Reformed Church’s dislike of gaudy colors. Their wives wore jeweled gowns with shimmering si
lk bodices and sparkling caps; they talked loudly, laughed, and pressed hands to shoulders.

  Still following Annetje, Hannah climbed to the fourth floor, a single room, hollowed out and turned into a holy place. The large windows let in the soft cloud-filtered light, but the church was made brighter by the countless smokeless candles flickering on the chandeliers. She glanced at the paintings: Christ upon the cross, Saint Veronica with the burial shroud, Saint John in the wilderness. Once they’d given her some comfort, made her feel as though she recognized herself, but increasingly they had begun to make her uneasy, as if saints were Annetje’s conspirators, winking and smirking as the two women passed.

  The burgomasters had not ruled Catholic worship illegal in Amsterdam, but it was condoned only if conducted privately, and churches must be unrecognizable as such from the outside. Inside they could be as opulent as the Catholics liked, and the wealthy merchants of the Catholic community had been generous with their donations. The church served as a sanctuary as well; though Catholic worship enjoyed legal protection, papists were not well loved by the populace, the memory of Spanish oppression running deep as it did. Hannah had once seen Father Hans of this church hounded through the streets by a pack of dung-throwing children.

  Hannah found a seat on the first level, for the church was not crowded today, and began to relax a little. She liked the familiar sounds of the organ, and she allowed herself the luxury of letting her mind wander. She thought about her child—a daughter, she decided. She’d had a dream the night before that the child was a beautiful girl. Most dreams were only silly illusions, but this one had the firm substance of prophecy. What a blessing a girl child would be. She wrapped herself in the thought until she could almost feel the baby in her arms, but when the priest began to intone his prayers, her fantasy shattered.

  Perhaps it had been wrong to seek comfort in the old religion, but Annetje had sweetly convinced her to go once—and after that she had no more choice in the matter. Besides, all those men who had kept the truth from her or given her sad half versions of it had no right to pull her this way and that. How could she decide for herself if she wanted to be Jew or no? She could not choose her religion any more than she could choose her own face or disposition. As she sat there, only half listening to the prayers echoing through the chamber, Hannah felt her irritation with Daniel gathering force. Who was he to tell her that she had to worship in a new way and then not tell her anything about the new way? Ought she not to complain of this injustice? Other women spoke their minds to their husbands—she could hardly step out on the streets without seeing a Dutch wife scolding her man for drunkenness or sloth. It was wrong, she determined fiercely. She surprised herself by slapping a hand against her thigh.

  After the service, the maid chatted amiably as they walked down the stairs, but Hannah was in no mood for idle talk. She wanted to get out, to go home, to go somewhere. She ought to enjoy Annetje’s easy mood, she told herself. The girl made herself most companionable when she had her own way, and she was so delighted with having taken Hannah to church that she would now be at her most agreeable. But why, Hannah asked herself, as she slipped a coffee berry into her mouth, should she require the agreeableness of her maid?

  This was one injustice she ought not to tolerate. She could hardly rebel against her husband, but her maid was another matter. These threats to report her worship to Daniel were nonsense. Why would Daniel believe the girl? He thought no more of her than of a dog.

  They emerged from the church and walked along the Oudezijds Voorburgwal with the other worshipers. Hannah allowed herself to enjoy the anonymity of the crowd for a few sweet moments before deciding that the time for playing at freedom had ended.

  “My veil and scarf, please,” she said to the maid. She spoke faster than she had intended, so the words sounded like an order. She took several more steps before she realized that Annetje had stopped and stood behind her, grinning.

  “Come quickly,” Hannah said. “Someone might see me.”

  “A woman shouldn’t have to hide herself from the world,” Annetje told her, taking a step forward. “Not when she is as pretty as you. Come, we’ll take a stroll.”

  “I don’t want to take a stroll.” Sharp words began to well up inside her, and she was in no mood to restrain them. The girl loved to tease, to take liberties, to push the limits of her power, but that was because Hannah always let her win. What would happen if Hannah refused to let her order everything as she liked? “Give them to me,” she demanded.

  “Don’t be a prude. I think we should show the world your great beauties.”

  “My beauties,” Hannah said, “are none of the world’s business. Give me my things.”

  Annetje took a step back. She reddened, and for a moment Hannah feared she would grow angry. Instead, she burst into a shrill laugh. “Come and get them, then.” And she lifted her skirts just a bit and ran out of Stoofsteeg, the way they had come.

  Hannah remained motionless, too stunned to move. Out of the alleyway, the girl turned right and disappeared. And here was Hannah, across town from the Vlooyenburg, alone and unescorted, with no covering for her head and face. What could she say to Daniel: that she had been attacked? That some ruffian had stolen her veil and scarf and sent her on her way?

  Maybe the girl only made sport. She would be waiting just outside the alleyway on Koestraat, that impish grin on her face. Should she run and give Annetje the satisfaction of showing terror, or should she stroll slowly and preserve the illusion of dignity?

  She walked, but she walked quickly. Outside the alley, crowds of handsome men and women strolled along, a group of children loudly played a game with a ball, and some ragtag jugglers performed for spare stuivers along the canal side. But no Annetje.

  Then she heard the maid’s voice, her laughter: across the canal and moving away from her, toward the Zeedijk. She waved the scarf in the air as though it were a flag of victory; then she began to run again.

  Hannah lifted her skirts and ran after her. She hardly ever had cause to exert herself in this way, and her lungs began to ache after only a few steps up the steep canal bridge. Men paused to stare at her, children to call her names she did not understand.

  Annetje slowed her pace to let Hannah gain ground and then began to run south on the Zeedijk. What did she mean by running toward the Nieuwmarkt? In that part of the city they would be attacked for certain. But an attack could be Hannah’s salvation. She envisioned herself returning home bloodied and bruised, to be cared for rather than condemned. So she followed the maid, who ran and ran and ran. And then stopped. Hannah stopped too, and turned around to observe Annetje coming toward her, and then she turned to face the Weigh House. At the north end of the Nieuwmarkt, it marked the divide between the clean and the unclean, the foul and the fair. It was no place for the wife of a Jewish merchant.

  Seeing that her mistress had stopped running, Annetje laughed loudly and ran back the way she had come. Hannah thought the clouds had begun to empty themselves of a hot rain but then realized they were tears, moistening her face, and cursed herself for being so weak. It took a moment for her to recognize that these weren’t tears of fear or sadness but of rage. Run, she thought, as she watched the little bitch scurry off. You had better run, because if I catch you, I’ll strangle you.

  For an instant she forgot where she was, so clear was the image in her mind of wrapping her hands around Annetje’s slender neck. When she snapped out of her reverie she realized that a face had caught her eye. Over by the Weigh House was a woman in a red and black dress, cut low to expose her ample bosom. A pert little red cap sat aside her head, showing off to the world the generous pile of nut-brown hair. She stood conversing with a pair of men; they looked most serious, but not the woman. No, the woman hardly knew seriousness.

  Hannah looked too long and too hard, and somehow the woman felt her gaze and returned it. And in an instant, Hannah knew. It was Miguel’s friend, the widow.

  The woman glanced over, and her
pretty gaze locked with Hannah’s, and recognition washed over the widow’s face.

  And the widow recognized more than her face; she knew with an understanding beyond words that Hannah was on a secret errand—and Hannah, though she could not say how, understood that the widow was on a secret errand of her own.

  The widow smiled at Hannah and then raised a finger to her red lips in a gesture of silence, absolute and unambiguous. Hannah would see it again in her dreams. She would see it whenever she closed her eyes. It was with her when she wandered, dazed as a soldier limping off the battlefield, back toward the secret church, where Annetje returned her clothes and tried to make idle chat as though they had only been teasing each other like little girls.

  Hannah had no mind to make chatter, to forgive Annetje—or not to forgive her. She could only think of that finger to those lips. It would be some days before Hannah was to learn whether this gesture had been a command or a promise.

  9

  On Monday the Exchange opened once more, and Miguel approached the Dam with an excitement fueled partly by an eagerness to see how his affairs closed and partly by the three bowls of coffee he’d taken that morning. He deserved a reward for having freed himself of the brandy futures, and he’d been unable to resist any longer the seductive odor that had begun to permeate his chamber. That morning he’d slipped off to the kitchen for a mortar and pestle. Back in the cellar, he’d removed the bag, which seemed not so full as he recollected. No matter, he told himself, and ground the coffee into a coarse grain and mixed it with some sweet wine, stirring constantly, hoping to see the grains dissolve. He then recalled that this was not sugar or salt, so he let the grounds sink to the bottom and drank deep.

  It was not as good as what he had taken with Geertruid, or even what he’d tasted at the Turkish tavern, but he nevertheless liked the way the bitterness and the sweetness played off each other. He took a sip and savored how the coffee washed into his mouth like a kiss. He sniffed at the bowl and looked at it in the light of the oil lamp. And before he finished, he knew he would make another helping.