The Coffee Trader

  As he reached for his purse, something stayed his hand. Miguel felt the burn of eyes on him and turned. Not fifteen feet behind him, Joachim Waagenaar flashed his wincing smile.

  “Don’t let me stop you,” he said as he approached. “If you, in your goodness, meant to give a few coins to that unfortunate, I would hate to think I stood in your way. A man with money to spare must never be shy in giving charity.”

  “Joachim!” he called out, with all the semblance of cheer he could muster. “Well met.”

  “Keep your false kindness,” he said, “after you so rudely spurned our meeting.”

  Miguel deployed the easy voice with which he convinced men to buy what they did not want. “An unfortunate turn of events prevented me from arriving. It was all very disagreeable, and I assure you I would rather have been with you than those unpleasant gentlemen.”

  “Oh, such dreaded circumstances can only be imagined,” Joachim said, raising his voice like a mountebank. “Such horrible circumstances as would prevent you not only from fulfilling a promise but from sending along word to tell me that you could not make it as we had agreed.”

  It occurred to Miguel that he ought to be worried about this public encounter. Should he be spotted by a Ma’amad spy, Parido might well undertake an official investigation. A quick glance revealed only housewives, maids, and a few artisans. He had walked a route not generally frequented by those of his neighborhood, and he believed he might continue this conversation, at least for a few more minutes, without risk of exposure.

  “I must tell you that I don’t believe any business arrangement between us is possible at this time,” he said, making an attempt to keep a kindly tone in his voice. “My resources are limited, and, if I may speak frankly, I am encumbered by a great deal of debt.” It pained him to say the words aloud to this wretch, but at the moment the truth struck him as the best strategy.

  “I too have debts—with the baker and the butcher—and both have threatened action if I do not pay what I owe at once. Therefore, let’s go to the Exchange,” Joachim suggested. “We can put some money into a likely trading ship or some other scheme you devise.”

  “What manner of investment is this,” Miguel asked, “when you cannot pay for bread?”

  “You’ll lend me the money,” he answered confidently. “I’ll repay you from my portion of the profits, which ought to motivate you to invest more wisely than you have sometimes done in the past—when you invested someone else’s money.”

  Miguel stopped walking. “I am sorry you believe yourself wronged, but you must understand that I too lost a great deal in that unfortunate affair.” He took a breath. Better to say it than to endure Joachim’s fantastical notions. “You speak of your debts, but I have debts that would buy your baker and butcher outright. I’m sorry for your need, but I don’t know what I can do for you.”

  “You were going to give to that beggar. Why give to him if you will not give to me? Are you not being merely willful?”

  “Will a handful of stuivers make a difference to you, Joachim? If so, you may have them with all my heart. I would have suspected that such an amount would only insult you.”

  “It would,” he snapped. “A few stuivers against the five hundred you took from me?”

  Miguel sighed. How could life hold such promise and such tedium all in the same morning? “My finances are a bit disordered just now, but in half a year I’ll be able to offer you something—I’ll be able to help you in this plan as you’ve suggested, and I’ll do it gladly.”

  “Half a year?” Joachim’s voice had begun to grow shrill. “Would you lie in shit-smeared straw and dine on piss gruel for half a year? My wife, Clara, whom I promised to make comfortable and content, now sells pies in the alleys behind the Oude Kerk. She’ll turn whore in half a year. I tried to take her to live with relations in Antwerp, but she wouldn’t stay in that wretched city. You think you can make things easy for us by telling me about half a year?”

  Miguel thought about Joachim’s wife, Clara. He had met her once or twice, and she had proved to be a spirited woman with more sense—and certainly more beauty—than her husband.

  Thinking about Joachim’s pretty wife left Miguel feeling more generous than he might have been otherwise. “I don’t have very much on me,” he said. “Nor have I much elsewhere. But I can give you two guilders if that will help your immediate needs.”

  “Two guilders is but a paltry beginning,” Joachim said. “I’ll consider it but the first payment of the five hundred I lost.”

  “I’m sorry you believe yourself injured, but I have business to attend to. I can hear no more.”

  “What business is this?” Joachim asked, stepping in front of Miguel, blocking his exit. “Business without money, is it?”

  “Yes, so you may find it in your best interest not to hinder my efforts.”

  “You should not be so unkind to me,” Joachim said, shifting to heavily accented Portuguese. “A man who has lost everything can lose nothing more.”

  Some time ago, when they had been on far more pleasant terms, Miguel had muttered something to himself in Portuguese, and Joachim had astonished him by answering back in that language. Then he had laughed and told Miguel that in a city like Amsterdam one must never assume that a man does not understand the language you speak. Joachim used Portuguese now perhaps to suggest a dangerous intimacy, a familiarity with the ways of the Portuguese Nation, including the power of the Ma’amad. Was the Portuguese a threat, an indication that, if he did not get what he wanted, Joachim would tell the council that Miguel had been brokering for gentiles?

  “I’ll not be menaced,” he said in Dutch. He held himself straight.

  Joachim pushed Miguel. The gesture lacked power; it was almost contemptuous—just a little shove, enough to make Miguel take a step and a half backwards. “I think,” he said, mocking Miguel’s accent, “that you will be menaced.”

  Miguel had no idea what to say. He hated Joachim well enough for threatening him with the Ma’amad, but to threaten him with violence was more than he could endure. But what could he do, strike at him? The dangers of striking a madman aside, Miguel could not risk a violent confrontation with a Dutchman. The Ma’amad would expel him without a moment of hesitation. Back in Lisbon, he hardly would have hesitated to beat this wretch bloody, but here he could only stand impotently.

  Sensing Miguel’s hesitation, Joachim flashed his broken teeth with animal menace.

  Around him Miguel noticed the glances of passing strangers: a neatly dressed Jew locked in uncomfortable conversation with a beggar. Among the openly curious Catholic Portuguese, this strange pair would have been surrounded by a crowd of curious maids and peasant housewives, staring with open amusement as they wiped their floured hands on their aprons, laughing and heckling as though this conflict were a puppet show staged for their pleasure. Here, among the Dutch, who had taken to heart the introspective doctrine of their Reformed Church, the curious looked away politely, as if to cast their eyes upon someone else’s business was shameful. Surely they had troubles of their own that needed tending.

  “We understand each other,” Joachim said. “I’ll take those two guilders.”

  Miguel took a step back, but he considered it a defiant retreat. “You’ll get nothing from me now. I offered you kindness, and you repay me with impudence. Keep your distance from me, or shit-smeared straw and piss gruel will seem to you the greatest luxuries in the world.”

  Miguel turned in the other direction and headed toward the Exchange, pushing his legs, now heavy and stiff, as quickly as he could, trying to erase the discomfort of the encounter by doing something decisive. He replayed the incident again and again in his mind. He should have given the fellow his two guilders. He should have given him ten. Anything to make him go away.

  “Damn my pride,” he murmured. A madman might say anything to anyone, including the Ma’amad. If Parido should learn that Miguel had been brokering for a gentile, all his protests of goodwill would
be like smoke in the air.

  A few weeks before, Miguel might have even struck Joachim and allowed the consequences to come as they may. Now he had too much to lose. He would not put his new expectations at risk for a disgruntled vagabond. He would see Joachim at the bottom of a canal first.

  12

  Hannah loved to visit the fish market during Exchange hours because she had to pass along the Dam and would occasionally catch sight of Miguel. He would be oblivious to her presence, locked in conversation with some great merchant or other, his confidence radiating, one hand contemplatively rubbing his bristly beard. He would laugh and slap his friend upon the back. She had never seen him so at ease as when he was upon the Dam, and she liked to believe that this agreeable happy man was Miguel’s secret self, at home in the shadow of the palatial Town Hall and the glorious Exchange, the self he would become once he cleared himself of his debt and his brother’s yoke.

  Daniel had grown particularly fond of herring, since their arrival in Amsterdam, and wanted to eat it three times a week, prepared in stews, or in sauces with raisins and nutmeg, and sometimes smothered in butter and parsley. The stall keepers down at the fish market had a hundred ways to sell bad herring, but Annetje knew all their tricks and made herself useful in testing the most handsome specimens for signs of being slicked with oil, dyed, or salted to hide the smell of rot. After the women bought their fish, they crossed the Dam to seek out sellers of vegetables and, as Daniel had been generous with money that morning, fruit for after the meal. As she went about her purchases, Hannah kept her eyes on the Exchange, never knowing when she might be treated to a glimpse of Miguel, aglow in his pecuniary glory.

  Annetje had been unusually kind to her since their church outing. She knew nothing of Hannah’s fleeting encounter with the widow, so she could not guess why Hannah had returned to her care so sullen. The girl had brought her home and given her hot wine with extra cloves. She had cooked leafy cabbage for her to improve her blood, but if her blood had improved, Hannah showed no signs of it. Annetje joked with her, snapped at her, coddled her, poked fingers in her sides, and by turns kissed and pinched her cheeks, but nothing worked. The girl eventually settled in with Hannah’s new moodiness and declared she would not waste her time attempting to coax so sad a mope into better spirits.

  Hannah had thought to tell her. She wanted to tell someone, but she had been in no mind to share more secrets with the girl, so she said nothing. She lay in bed at night thinking of that wicked stare, and once or twice she had thought to awaken Daniel—or merely shove him, for he was often enough awake with aching teeth—and confess all to him. He would never cast her out, not while she carried his child. Still, she kept her tongue. She thought about telling Miguel. The widow was his friend, after all, but she could not even dream of explaining to him what she had been doing in that part of town.

  No one need know, she repeated to herself during those long nights. No one would find out, and there would be no consequences if she just kept silent.

  Only the coffee berries comforted her now. She had slipped down to Miguel’s cellar once more and slid a handful into her apron. One handful. How long would that last? So she took another, and then a half handful to be sure she need not come again so soon. Inside the sack, the beans appeared diminished, but Miguel would hardly notice. If he traded in the fruit, he might get more as easily as he pleased. For all she knew, this was a new sack entirely.

  Now, as she and Annetje returned to the Vlooyenburg, their baskets heavy with fish and carrots, she chewed on her berries, working them slowly so they might last longer. But even though she had eaten a dozen berries or more, the fear pulled at her, and she began to wonder if the effect of the fruit was no match for the terrors that now lurked everywhere.

  She hardly noticed where they walked, so Annetje, observing her absent frame of mind, led her through the narrow and ancient Hoogstraat, where the stones were red with blood from the hog butchers that lined either side. She took obvious pleasure in the idea of trailing pig blood into a Jew’s house. Hannah snapped alert to avoid the congealing puddles, but when they were halfway through the aisle she was distracted by the burn of eyes upon her like the hot breath of a predator. She dared not turn around, so with her free hand she gripped Annetje’s arm, hoping her intent would be clear: let us hurry. It was not. Annetje sensed something was amiss, so she stopped and turned to look. There was nothing left for Hannah but to turn around too.

  Pretty as a portrait, the widow approached her, smiling her wide irresistible smile. She hardly looked where she walked, but her natural grace steered her past the puddles of blood and offal. A few paces behind lagged her man, young, fair-haired, and handsome in the most menacing way imaginable. He held back, to keep a watchful eye on her.

  “My dear,” the widow said to Hannah, “do you understand my language?” She turned to Annetje. “Girl, does the senhora understand?”

  Hannah was too frightened to lie or even to answer. Her head clouded with the pungent scent of pigs’ blood. Surely the widow now wanted something for her silence, and if Hannah could not provide it, she would find herself, her husband, her child destroyed. To save himself, Daniel would surely divorce her. He might be able to repair his reputation in the community by acting cruelly to the wife who had defiled his name. And then what would Hannah do, throw herself and her child upon the mercy of some convent?

  “She understands well enough,” Annetje said, making no effort to hide her confusion. She knew who the widow was and could not imagine her business with Hannah. “But her tongue is too ill made to form the sounds of Dutch.”

  Wicked though she might be, Annetje proved her worth now. If Hannah could not speak, it would shorten their conversation, force the widow to be clear and direct.

  “Very well, sweetheart, you just nod if you understand me and shake your head if you do not. Can you do that, my dear?”

  Hannah nodded.

  “You are a stout girl, you know, and a pretty one too, under those cruel clothes. How sad such beauty must be hidden. Senhor Lienzo has often spoken of how pretty you are, and of his brother’s good fortune to have such a pretty wife.”

  Hannah did not know if she should nod. It seemed to her immodest to affirm her own beauty. But Miguel thought her pretty, and that was something.

  Unable to resist, she reached into her apron and grabbed one of the last coffee berries, dirty with lint and street dust. With it clutched in her fingers, she lifted her hand, as though holding it to her mouth in fear, and slipped the hard fruit inside. It was too soon to chew, she told herself, and took comfort in clenching the berry with her molars. A little too much pressure, and the bean split. It would be fine if she just chewed it carefully.

  “On Sunday.” Annetje was repeating some words Hannah had missed. The girl’s mind churned through possibilities. “Near the Weigh House?”

  “Near the Weigh House,” the widow agreed affably. “The senhora and I saw each other. Is that not right, my dear?”

  Hannah nodded again: a fine opportunity to work at some of the larger pieces of the berry.

  “I saw you chasing after your girl. I can hardly imagine what she had done to make her mistress chase after her, but I suppose that is none of my concern.”

  Annetje clucked her tongue. “I am certain the antics of youth are a distant memory to you, and so they appear puzzling.”

  “Such a witty slut. I’ll indulge you your barbs, so I may sooner get to the heart of my meaning.” She looked at Hannah. “I only want you to know that I happened to be near the Weigh House all morning. Indeed, I saw you as I came by way of the Oudezijds Voorburgwal, and I saw from which house you came. I know what it would mean if the world were to know you were inside it.” She reached out and pressed her fingers ever so gently on Hannah’s belly. Just for an instant. “I only wanted to beg you to be more careful. Do you understand?”

  Hannah nodded once more.

  “What does she care for your concern, old woman?” Annetje dema
nded.

  The widow smiled thinly. “You probably know nothing of who I am. I cannot imagine dear Senhor Lienzo speaks of me to you, so I must think you concerned about this knowledge I now possess. I only wanted to tell you that you needn’t fear anything from me. I have many talents, dear senhora, but none so precious to me as that of keeping secrets. You may sleep at night knowing I will never speak of what I saw to a living soul—not to Senhor Lienzo, though he is a great friend of mine; not even to my dear Hendrick.”

  Hendrick bowed at Hannah.

  “All I ask in exchange,” began Geertruid, but she stopped herself. “No, not in exchange. I won’t make a bargain with you; I won’t have you believe my silence some precious thing, easily broken. I will keep your secret, yet I would ask a favor of you, lamb. May I do so?”

  Hannah nodded and swallowed the last of her coffee.

  “I’m so very glad. You see, I only ask that you not speak of what you saw—not to Senhor Lienzo or your husband or your friends or even to this sweet girl here, upon whom you depend. I think it best we both forget we saw each other that day. Do you not think so?”

  Another nod.

  “I’m so glad. May I kiss you?” This time Geertruid did not wait for a nod. She leaned in and put her soft lips against Hannah’s veil, pressing through so she could feel the warmth the widow’s mouth. “Were things ordered differently, I’m sure we could be friends. It’s sad that it cannot be, but know that I always wish you well. Good-bye, my dear.”

  Geertruid turned and walked toward Hendrick, who offered the ladies another bow.

  “Christ,” Annetje said loudly. “I hope the senhor doesn’t fuck anything that withered.”

  Hannah began walking quickly. Annetje remained a moment, watching them depart, and then hurried after her mistress.

  “By Jesus,” Annetje swore, “you had better tell me what that was about.”

  Hannah kept her eyes straight ahead. A group of women, thick-waisted matrons, passed them by, glancing at Hannah’s veil.