The Coffee Trader

  Nunes laughed and put a hand on Miguel’s shoulder. “You’re making me laugh now. You know how these things are done. If you’ll transfer half the amount to my account by the end of next week, I’d be most appreciative.”

  Miguel cleared his throat. “Sadly, one of my partners has suffered a small—and temporary, I assure you—setback. We cannot come up with the entire sum by next week.”

  The smile dropped from Nunes’s face.

  “I can pay you a thousand,” Miguel suggested. “No small sum, and certainly an indication of our seriousness.”

  Nunes’s hand had remained on Miguel’s shoulder, but it now pressed so hard he pushed Miguel up against the tavern wall. “Have you lost your wits?” he asked in a husky whisper. “There is no maneuvering with the Company. If I say I need fifteen hundred, I need that sum, not some token. I’ve contracted with them, you’ve contracted with me, and the deal is to be done. If you don’t give me that money, I will have to pay it out of my own account. You’re my friend, Miguel, but you have put me in a terrible position.”

  “I know, I know.” Miguel held his hands up like a supplicant. “It’s these partners of mine—good for the money but slow with payment. But I’ll have the funds—by the end of next week, as you say.” Miguel would have told him anything to end the talk of contracts. “Perhaps,” he suggested as he turned away, “you could say a word or two to Ricardo on my behalf.”

  “I’ll not fight your battle for you,” Nunes called after him, “nor get between you and Parido.”

  He’d had enough disquiet for one day, but when he walked into his brother’s house, he knew at once that something terrible had happened. Daniel sat in the front room with a strange look on his face, disappointment and satisfaction all at once.

  “What is it?” Miguel asked him. “Have you been searching—” He stopped. It was a line of inquiry that could lead to no good.

  Daniel stretched out his arm to present a sealed letter. A sealed letter. How many times would Daniel confront him about his correspondence? But even as he thought the words, Miguel knew this letter was different—and Daniel already knew its contents.

  Miguel numbly broke the seal and opened the triply folded paper. He did not have to read the ornate handwriting or the carefully chosen words in formal Spanish. He knew what it said. Miguel had been summoned to appear the next morning before the Ma’amad.

  19

  There were only a few hours of daylight remaining, and Miguel wished to use them to his advantage. He could feel the hot breath of ruin upon the back of his neck, but he might still arm himself against the battle and prevail. For all his grievances with the Ma’amad—and he had many—he believed it did possess one quirk that might work in his favor. The council did not condemn on mere principle. Parido might speak against him, might try to persuade the council to act, but the parnassim would listen to reason. They wanted the community to thrive so they were inclined to accept apologies and consider particular circumstances. Many a man had pulled his fat out of the Ma’amad’s fire by having a careful argument at the ready.

  To prepare such an argument, Miguel would have to learn precisely why the Ma’amad wished to see him, though he felt almost certain he knew. Surely Joachim had spoken ill of him to the council. Now he needed to know what he had said and what kinds of charges were to be brought against him, and that presented a terrible irony. He had wanted nothing so much as to avoid that madman, but now he must seek him out.

  Before Miguel had even begun to formulate a plan whereby he might find Joachim, he recalled something else, something Hendrick had said before he had been attacked in the tavern. You can tell us a story of your amorous victories or the strangeness of your race or some incomprehensible plan to conquer the Exchange. Geertruid had sworn to keep their business a secret from her dog, so why was he barking on about it? And what was the true source of her money? Could she and her loose lips be the source of this summons?

  Without taking a moment to explain himself to Daniel, Miguel rushed out of the house and returned to the Singing Carp, muttering hopeful half prayers that Geertruid would still be there. She was not. Miguel asked the tap man, who let it be known he might very well have heard something of her destination, and a coin might help his memory; for two stuivers, the fellow recalled that she attended a banquet at the far end of the Bloemstraat.

  Miguel found the entrance to the banquet hall in the upper portion of an unpretentious red-brick house. He climbed the stairs and pounded; when a servant boy answered the door, Miguel only said he had come for the feast and the boy ushered him up the stairs to a wide room with six or seven dark wood tables spread out on a series of mismatched Eastern rugs. Sconces with good smokeless candles reached out of the doorposts and along the walls, and great chandeliers descended from the ceiling. Dozens of paintings had been hung without regard to spacing or ease of viewing. Two large fireplaces on the far sides of the room blasted out oppressive heat, and in the corner a pair of fiddlers played madly to make their music audible above the din of drunken chatter.

  On the tables, at each of which sat ten or twelve banqueters, were piles and pots of food: oysters, boiled fowl, a steaming vessel of hutsepot with the leg of some unclean animal thrust outward like the desperate grasp of a drowning man. There were enormous wheels of cheese and plates of herring, pickled, baked, and stewed. There were bowls of hot milk with melted butter floating at the top; also white breads, figs and dates, roast parsnips, and Dutch sla, made of chopped raw cabbage and carrot. While Miguel struggled to preserve himself, Geertruid feasted.

  Buxom girls moved from table to table, pouring drink into cunning goblets with no stems. Miguel had seen, and fallen victim to, these vessels himself; they could not be set down, and so they encouraged drinking far beyond one’s limit. This merry crowd consisted mostly of men, but there was a woman or two at each table, as red and drunk and merry as the assortment of black-clad tall-hatted gentlemen diners, who managed to drink, smoke, and eat all at once.

  At the table nearest the entrance, a man with one eye and one arm took notice of Miguel. In his remaining hand, his left, he clutched his goblet tight, unable to let go, even to dine. “Ho, there,” he shouted above the din. “Who called for a Jew?”

  Miguel had not noticed Geertruid until that moment. Even from a distance, the length of two or three men, he could see the gracelessness of her movements and the unfocused wonders of her eyes. With one hand, she pushed herself from her chair and walked unsteadily to meet him by the door.

  “Sober yourself,” Miguel snapped. “I must have words with you. What is this, anyhow? With whom do you feast?”

  “It is the Brewers’ Guild,” she said.

  “What business have you with these men?” he demanded.

  “Oh, Miguel, I may have friends and acquaintances outside your approval, you know. Now tell me what has happened.” Her eyes went as wide as a child’s.

  “It is the Ma’amad. It has summoned me to appear before it tomorrow morning.”

  She let out a loud laugh that pierced through the clamor of drunken revelry. “You and your Mohammed. Are you a Jew or a Turk?”

  He took a deep breath. “Geertruid, I must have some answers.” He hardly ever called her by her given name. He recalled that he had done so the night he had tried to kiss her, and the memory still left him mortified. “Have you spoken of our business to anyone?”

  “Of course not.” She shook her head rapidly, and then reached up with one exploratory hand to make sure her prim little cap, beaded with rubies, had not been knocked out of place.

  “Ho, Jew,” one of the men from her table called. “Send us back our merry friend.”

  Geertruid waved them off: a quick, gawky gesture with the back of her hand.

  “You haven’t told Hendrick?”

  “Hendrick,” she repeated. “That ox. I would not trouble him with the secret of making rocks sink in a canal.”

  Miguel swallowed hard. “What about the money? I know you we
re not honest with me. How did you get it?”

  “Who said I was not honest with you? Who said that? I am very angry.” She lost her balance and held on to the wall, though her gentle swaying continued.

  Miguel took her arm, to steady her. “I haven’t time for your anger. I have to know where the money comes from. If it wasn’t left to you by your husband, whence does it come?”

  She laughed a little and then covered her mouth. “Oh, it comes of my husband, sure enough. That bastard knew only how to take his fill of me, never thinking of my pleasure. Even in death, that’s how he fucks me.” Her eyes narrowed, and something dark passed across her face. “He left me some little money, but not nearly so much as he should have for what I endured.”

  Something twisted in Miguel’s guts. “Where did you get the capital?”

  “From the wretched children of his foul first wife. They live with their aunt, his sister, but the bastard left me to guard the funds. He gave me the work of ordering their trust and instructed them that, when they came of age, they should reward me as they saw fit. Can you imagine such treachery?”

  Guardians and children from other marriages—none of it made sense. “Tell me the rest.”

  “I have some freedom in what I may do with their wealth, though in order to have such freedom, I must convince a wretched old lawyer in Antwerp that I invest for the good of those evil children. Not so easy to do, but I have been known to charm a man or two in my time.”

  A lawyer in Antwerp. Now, at least, Miguel could guess to what place she disappeared. She was off lifting her skirts for this pettifogger.

  “So, you have used money meant to be held in trust for your late husband’s children. You have done this before.”

  She nodded. “Sometimes I have invested it, and sometimes I have simply spent it. There is a matter of a few thousand guilders I should like to replace.”

  She had stolen from her husband’s children, and when they came of age there would be a reckoning. “When do they collect their inheritance?”

  “The eldest is not of age for another three years, so I have time to set things right.” She reached out and put her arms around his neck. “You must help me, Miguel. You are my only true friend.” She laughed again, her yeasty breath blasting his face. “Not my only friend, but my only true friend, and that is something. Do you not think so?”

  “Careful,” a Dutch reveler shouted, “lest you become entangled in Hebrew scripture!”

  Geertruid only pulled him closer, but Miguel worked his way out of the embrace, which now only made him uneasy.

  He sucked in air until his lungs hurt, and then took her hand and held it in both of his, ignoring the jeers of the drunken Dutchmen. “Please understand that everything I value is at risk. You must tell me who knows of this.”

  She shook her head. “No one. Only you and, of course, my lawyer. But he won’t tell, for I have secrets of my own, and he’s afraid to cross me.”

  Miguel nodded. His fortunes, he now understood, would be built upon stolen money. It troubled him, but not so much as next morning’s meeting with the Ma’amad, and he now believed that meeting had nothing to do with Geertruid or her trickery.

  He cursed himself for the time he had wasted. Night would soon be upon him. It was time to begin his hunt for Joachim.

  20

  Because Miguel had no precise knowledge of where Joachim lived, finding him would be time-consuming but yet possible. The fellow said he and his wife had been forced to move to one of the worst parts of the city, the run-down hovels in the shadow of the Oude Kerk where seedy musicos attracted whores and sailors and thieves. Someone in the area would know Joachim; so disorderly a man is always conspicuous.

  Before entering the most unsavory part of town, he took out his purse and counted his money. He had more on him than a man in those neighborhoods would like, so he separated his coins, leaving some in his purse, some in his pocket, and some wrapped in a nose cloth.

  As he walked toward the Oude Kerk, buildings began to take on a gloomy, dilapidated cast. The people in the street seemed to belong almost to a different race of man than those in the rest of the city. Foreigners often wrote that one of the great marvels of Amsterdam was its absence of beggars. That was untrue, though Miguel knew well enough that compared to most cities in Europe, the beggars were few indeed, at least in most parts of town. Those foreigners had no doubt not crossed into this district, where they would have found enough of the legless and leprous tribe to satisfy anyone’s requirements.

  Miguel walked quickly among the poor, among the whores who slouched in doorways, dangling to one side or the other like hanged men, until they spotted a fellow to their liking. More than once in his short walk, Miguel pushed away some greedy she-devil or other who sprang from her lair and attempted to drag him inside.

  He was about to ask a man pushing a cart of root vegetables if he knew of Joachim Waagenaar when he saw a woman with a tray of pies round the corner, calling out her goods. Though she was dressed in stained and loose clothes and somewhat dirty in the face, Miguel was sure he knew this woman. And then at once he understood where he had seen her before: she was Joachim’s wife, Clara. No longer quite the beauty he remembered, she remained pretty enough for the sailors to shout out to her with their cheerful obscenities. One approached her, staggering and lecherous, and Miguel thought to step forward, but Clara spoke a couple of pleasant words to the man, who then doffed his cap and wandered off.

  Miguel then stepped forward. “Have you pies with no meat?” he asked. He thought it unlikely that she would recollect his face, so he said nothing to her to give himself away.

  Her neck linen was torn and stained yellow, but the cap that covered the crown of her head appeared new. Where could she have acquired such a thing? Miguel recalled Joachim’s fears that his wife would turn whore.

  “I have an onion and radish pie, sir,” she told him, watching him with evident caution.

  Her caution was well founded, Miguel thought. What business had a Jew looking for his evening meal in this part of the city? “I’ll be glad of it.”

  He ought not to eat such a thing. He had no knowledge of its preparation, and it had certainly sat upon her tray in close proximity to pork and other unclean meats. But there was no Ma’amad here. If this pie allowed him to obtain wealth and thereby become a better Jew, its preparation hardly mattered. He bit into it and discovered that he was ravenous. He liked his crust flakier, his vegetables less cooked—the Dutch did not consider vegetables done until they were almost turned to liquid.

  “Did you bake these yourself?” he asked.

  She eyed him while pretending to look upon the dirt. “Yes, sir.”

  Miguel smiled. “What is your name, my dear?”

  “My name,” she said, holding her hand forward that he might see her little pewter ring, “is Another Man’s Wife.”

  “It’s not so pretty a name,” Miguel told her, “but you misunderstand me. If I wished for that sort of companionship, I might easily find it without buying a pie for my troubles.”

  “Some men like the sport.” She smiled at him, and her eyes widened slightly. “Yet I take your point. My name is Clara, and I’d be curious to know what your business is, sir. You appear to buy your pie as a means and not an end.”

  Miguel felt an unexpected tingle of interest. Were he on a different kind of business it might be no difficult thing to convince her to continue this conversation in the private room of a tavern. But what kind of a man would that make him? Regardless of Joachim’s current treachery, he had—however unintentionally—wronged the poor fellow, and he was hesitant to make matters worse by cuckolding a madman.

  “Perhaps I hardly know my business myself,” he told her. “It is only that—well, if I may be so bold—you have not the look, nor the sound either, of a woman I might expect to find selling pies near the Oude Kerk.”

  “And you have not the look of the sort of man I might expect to buy one.”

  Mig
uel bowed. “I speak to you in earnest. You’re a beautiful woman who I think is used to better things. How does your husband permit you to ply such a trade?”

  Some of the humor drained from Clara’s face. “My husband has fallen on hard times,” she said at last. “We once had a fine place to live and fine clothes, but he lost his money, alas, to the trickery of one of your race. Now he has nothing but debts, senhor.”

  Miguel smiled. “You know something of our forms of address. I like that. How long has it been since your husband lost his money?”

  “Several months, senhor.” This time the honorific was missing its touch of irony. She began to see something of value in this conversation.

  “And you still have debts?”

  “Yes, senhor.”

  “How much do you owe?”

  “Three hundred guilders, senhor. Not so very much money as what we used to have, but now it is enough.”

  “I hope you will at least accept my charity.” Miguel took out his nose cloth, heavy with coin. “Here are five guilders.”

  She smiled when he pressed the handkerchief into her hands. Without taking her eyes off her benefactor, she slid the little package into her own purse. “I cannot thank you enough.”

  “Tell me,” he said brightly, “where I can find this husband of yours.”

  “Find him?” Her eyes narrowed and her brow folded upon itself.

  “You say he was done wrong by one of my race; perhaps I can do right by him. I might be able to find him some employment or introduce him to someone who could.”

  “You’re very kind, but I don’t know that he would want to speak with you, and I know not in what way you might help. He is beyond such simple charity.”

  “Beyond? What say you?”

  Clara turned away. “He has been taken, senhor, for refusing to work and for lying in a drunken state in the street. He is now at the Rasphuis.”

  Miguel felt a vague elation, the thrill of revenge, when he thought of the Rasphuis, that place of cruel discipline from which few emerged and none emerged unbroken. But he was not here for revenge, and Joachim’s suffering brought him nothing of value.