The Coffee Trader

  “Then we shall have to teach you what you want to know,” he told her kindly.

  Hannah turned her head away for a moment, burrowing into her pillow.

  “I must ask you something else,” he said, rubbing her hand with his, “and then I’ll let you rest. You mentioned Madam Damhuis. What more did you wish to tell me?”

  Hannah remained motionless, as if she might pretend not to have heard him. Finally she turned back to face him with her reddened eyes. “I hardly even know. She was speaking to some men when I saw her, and I scarcely looked at all. But she thought I had seen something I ought not to have.”

  Miguel nodded. “Did you know the men? Did they appear to you of the Nation or Dutch or something else?”

  She shook her head. “I can’t even say that. I think they were Dutch, but one might have been a Jew. I am not certain.”

  “You did not know them? You had never seen them?”

  “I think one was her servant man, but I can’t say.” She shook her head. “Senhor, I was too frightened to see them.”

  Miguel knew the feeling well. “I’ll let you sleep,” he said. He knew he should not do it, he told himself not to, that he would regret it, that it would only bring trouble. But he did it anyway. Before gently setting her hand down upon the bed, he raised it to his lips and softly kissed her warm skin. “And thank you, senhora.”

  He didn’t wait for a reply but hurried out of the room, fearing he might cross paths with his brother on the stairwell, but no such thing happened.

  Hannah closed her eyes, not knowing what to think, or even how. Miguel had forgiven her. He understood her. He had taken her hand and kissed it. Could she dare to hope for more than that? Oh, what had she done to deserve such mercy? She slid a hand down to the comforting bulge of her belly, caressing this unborn child, this daughter, whom she would protect from all the evil that threatened them both.

  When she opened her eyes, Annetje stood before her. Her face was immobile, jaw thrust outward, eyes little more than slits. Where had she come from? Hannah had heard no one climb the stairs. The girl could do that; she went in and out of rooms like a ghost.

  “You told him,” Annetje said, so quietly Hannah could hardly hear her.

  She briefly considered lying, but what good would it do? “Yes,” she said. “I thought it important he know.”

  “You foolish bitch,” she hissed. “I told you to keep quiet.”

  “You must not be angry with me,” Hannah said, hating the tone of pleading in her voice, but there were things far more important than that tiny shriveled thing she called her pride. “The doctor said that I must not grow warm in temper, lest I risk the child.”

  “The devil take your child,” Annetje said. “I hope he does, along with the rest of you heathen Jews.” She took a step closer.

  Hannah pulled the comforter up to protect herself. “He won’t betray us.”

  Annetje now stood over her, looking down with her cold eyes, green as the eyes of an evil spirit. “Even if he does not, do you think the widow will honor his silence? And do you think he is so clever that he can avoid betraying you, even without so meaning? You’re a fool, and you ought never to be allowed to have a child in your care. I came here with the intention of thrusting a knife up your quim and killing that wretched child of yours.”

  Hannah gasped and pushed herself backwards.

  “Oh, calm yourself. You are as timid as a rabbit. I said I came up here with that intention, but I have since changed my mind, so you needn’t move about like that. I only hope you are grateful that I am not seeking a more fitting punishment. And you’d better hope that the senhor is as good at keeping secrets as he is at learning them, because if you are betrayed, you can be sure I’ll not help you. If need be, I’ll tell your husband all I know, and the lot of you may go to the devil.”

  Annetje hurried out of the room. Hannah listened to her feet slap clumsily against the stairs and then, in the distance, the slam of a door.

  Hannah took a deep breath. She felt her pulse pound in her temples and she concentrated on soothing her anguish. But even more than fear she felt confusion. Why did Annetje care so much if Miguel knew about the widow? What did it matter to her?

  Hannah shuddered. Why had she not seen it before? Annetje was in the widow’s service.

  Within two days the doctor permitted Hannah to rise from her bed, but things had grown uncomfortably tense in the house. No one spoke more than a few words at a time, and Miguel remained out of the house as much as he could. On Shabbat he invited himself to the home of a West Indian merchant with whom he maintained a friendly acquaintance.

  Not all had turned sour, however. He had received a message from Geertruid saying that she had gone to visit relatives in Friesland. She would be back in Amsterdam any day, but in the meantime she had heard that her man in Iberia had secured agents in Oporto and Lisbon and now traveled to Madrid, where he felt sure of success. The news was good, but nevertheless troubling in light of Hannah’s story. What secret could Geertruid have that she wanted kept from her partner? Did he dare trust her? Did he dare do otherwise?

  He had received a few notes from Isaiah Nunes, who was finding it difficult to conjure up language that sufficiently expressed his irritation. He wanted his five hundred guilders, and the bonds of friendship that restrained him were growing increasingly frayed. Miguel had no difficulties penning his replies, which made vague promises of immediate action.

  Meanwhile, the price of coffee continued to go up, stemming, Miguel believed, from Solomon Parido’s influence. He bought calls in anticipation of an increase, and he made it known that he bought them. On the Amsterdam bourse, that was enough to alter the price. Merchants who had hardly ever noticed coffee now began to gamble on its continued rise.

  But Miguel still had no idea what Parido planned. Would he entice his trading combination to exercise the calls and buy large quantities, making a monopoly even harder to obtain? Further, such a move would destroy the value of Miguel’s puts, ruining his chance to erase his debts and putting him further in debt to his brother. But Parido’s strategy would have to be approved by all members of his combination, and most were not content to make business plans based on the desire to shame a rival. Buying calls would cause the price to rise even further, and since the market would become artificially inflated, the combination would have a hard time selling at a profit. Parido might not have the strength of his combination behind him, but he might happily content himself with the thought that Miguel would lose on his investments.

  At the Flyboat that afternoon, Miguel turned and nearly collided with Isaiah Nunes, who smiled in the awkward manner of a guilty child. Miguel had been drinking coffee almost constantly that day, and he felt equal to anything, so he approached the merchant and embraced him warmly. “How are you, my friend?”

  “Just the man I’ve been looking for,” Nunes said, without a hint of irritation.

  “Oh? Whatever for?”

  Nunes laughed. “I wish I had your easy way about you, Miguel. But come with me for a moment. I need to show you something.” He led Miguel to the back of the tavern near a window, and in the muted light he spread out a piece of paper he removed from his coat. It was his contract with Miguel.

  “I hate to be so particular with you,” he said, “but I must bring some of the wording to your attention.”

  Miguel had felt full of optimism as he strolled along the canal sides, his puts bought (though illicitly, with his brother’s money), Joachim no longer a problem (if he wished to unleash Hendrick), his agents in place (if he could trust his partner)—but now, confined in the dark tavern, the energy of the coffee began to work against him. He wanted to move, but it was hard to breathe. The quick words came not so easily as they once had. “I know what you have to say, my friend, and if you will but—”

  “Hear me out, and then I will hear you. It is only fair, yes?” Nunes did not wait for an answer. “You see what it says here, of course.” He smoothed out th
e contract and pointed to a few neat and closely written lines. “It says that you will pay half the delivery cost upon demand of the agent—being myself—when such a price is demanded by the provider—being the East India Company.”

  Miguel nodded eagerly. “I understand the terms—”

  “Please. Let me speak.” Nunes took a breath. “You see the wording. It says here that the money must be paid when the Company demands it, not on the date of delivery. The Company may demand payment when it agrees to sell the goods and deliver them by the earliest date convenient. You understand that, yes?”

  “Of course I understand that,” Miguel said, “and I have every intention of getting you that remaining five hundred guilders. I know you have had to advance the money out of pocket, but I assure you it will be forthcoming.”

  “I am sure it will. I only wanted you to understand the terms of the contract because there has been some rather troubling news.”

  This contract business had been irritating, but he now realized that Nunes had been building up to something. “How troubling?”

  “I hope not too troubling. These things can always be resolved, I think.” He kept his voice steady, his back erect, like a man awaiting a blow. “I fear your shipment will be delayed.”

  Miguel pounded the table. “Delayed? Why? By how long?”

  Nunes let out a sigh. “It is an unfortunate business, but you know I can only factor out my requests to men on East India Company vessels. The ship that had been promised changed its plans in accordance with the will of the Company. It’s not going to Mocha at all, and it cannot therefore obtain coffee. What can one do with such bad luck?”

  Miguel put his head in his hands. For a moment he thought he might faint. “Delayed,” he whispered, and then released his face and held on to the side of the table. He looked up at Nunes and forced a broken grin. “Delayed, is it?”

  “I know this seems as though it bodes ill for you, but all is not so bad as you think,” Nunes said quickly. “My man at the Company promises to obtain the goods for us. It will only take a little bit longer. I asked for a delay of the payment, but the contract, as I showed you, only requires them to send the shipment upon the first convenient vessel, and it is for the Company to determine its own convenience.”

  “How much time?” His voice cracked, and he had to repeat the question, again with a forced smile. He dared not display any fear, yet a tingling panic radiated out to his extremities. His fingers went numb, and he flexed his hands as though they had fallen asleep.

  Nunes bobbed his head as if to encourage a calculation. “It’s hard to say precisely. There are so many details to consider when trying to organize a shipment. They must find a ship that sails the route in question and then make certain it has room in the hold. You had concerns about secrecy that I assume you still wish honored, which is something that cannot be accommodated on every ship. Each detail must be planned with the greatest care.”

  “Of course, I understand that.” He lifted his hat and ran a clumsy hand across his head. “But you can speculate, can’t you?” The hat fell on the floor, and Miguel stooped to retrieve it.

  “Speculate,” Nunes repeated, trying not to be made anxious by Miguel’s jittery antics. “Under these conditions, sometimes it can take a year to set things right, but I’ve already written some letters and called in some favors. I hope to have your shipment within two or three months of the original date. Perhaps a bit longer.”

  Two or three months. He might yet avert disaster. With their agents in place, surely they could delay that long. Yes, there was no good reason why they could not delay. A few months meant nothing in the grand scheme of things, not if they had their coffee in the end. A year from now, they would laugh at those two or three months.

  Then there was the matter of his investments, the puts that depended on the arrival of that shipment. The puts he had bought with his brother’s money.

  Miguel had bet a thousand guilders on the price of coffee going down, and with no coffee to flood the market he had no way of manipulating the price. If he lost that money on coffee months before the shipment arrived, he could face a new ruin to make his last look like a mere inconvenience. Once the world knew that Miguel had committed Daniel without his brother’s permission, his name would be a byword for deception. Even if he avoided prosecution, he might never do business on the Exchange again.

  “There is something else.” Nunes sighed. “The price of coffee, as you are aware, has gone up since we struck our first deal. Coffee has risen to sixty-five hundredths of a guilder per pound, which makes it thirty-nine guilders per barrel. Of course you knew that; you bought puts and such. In any case, you’ll have to pay another five hundred and ten guilders, half of which I’ll need immediately along with the five hundred you now owe, or you must reduce your order from ninety to seventy-seven barrels to cover the price difference.”

  Miguel waved his hand in the air. “Very well,” he said. He had nothing to lose now by risking more debt. “I must have the ninety barrels, cost what they may.”

  “And the money? I hate to be so insistent, but I am, myself, somewhat extended, if you take my meaning. Had I but a little room for my own affairs, I would not so trouble you, but right now seven hundred and fifty-five guilders signify quite a lot to me.”

  “I’ve just now spoken to my partners.” The words sounded like gibberish to him, but he had told such lies so many times he knew he could tell them again, and tell them convincingly, in his sleep if he had to. He slapped his hands together and rubbed vigorously. “I’ll have to speak to them again, of course. They will be disappointed, but they love a challenge as much as I do.”

  “And the money?”

  Miguel put a hand on Nunes’s shoulder. “They promise to put the money in my account no later than tomorrow. Or the next day. I promise you will be paid by then.”

  “Very good.” Nunes twisted out of Miguel’s embrace. “I am sorry about the delay. This sort of thing was always a possibility, you understand. Surely you considered a delayed shipment in your plans.”

  “Absolutely. Please keep me informed of any news. I have a great deal to tend to.”

  Miguel suddenly found the tavern unbearably hot, and he hurried outside, charging into the street—and without seeing Joachim until the man stood only a few feet away. If anything, the fellow looked worse than when they had last met. He wore the same clothes, which had grown filthier, the sleeve of his outer coat had a rip from the wrist almost up to the shoulder, and his collar was streaked with blood.

  “I’m sorry I haven’t had much time for you of late,” Joachim said, “but I’ve been occupied.” He swayed back and forth a little, and his face flushed red.

  Miguel did not pause to consider or contemplate or measure. Black swirls of hatred clouded his vision. He could feel nothing but all the rage in his guts, spurred on by the coffee, turning his humors black and evil. In an instant he was no longer himself but a beast, beyond all thought. He came toward Joachim and shoved him hard, using both hands and without breaking his stride.

  The pressure against his flesh felt good and right. There was a momentary sensation of a fragile body against his hands—and then Joachim was gone, blasted out of existence. Miguel felt joy. Elation. He felt like a man. With a simple push he had banished Joachim from his life.

  Only Joachim did not stay banished for long. Miguel had intended to continue walking, but he saw from the corner of his eye that his enemy landed somewhat harder than he had intended. He went down on his side, sliding like a fish tossed along a slick dock.

  Miguel froze in his tracks. Joachim was dead. Only a dead man would lie like that, limp and motionless and defeated.

  He struggled to break free from the haze of dreamlike disbelief. All his hopes had been dashed in a single act. What might he now expect? Trial and execution, scandal and shame. He, a Jew, had struck down a Dutchman; the Dutchman’s lowness would not matter.

  Then Joachim moved. He stirred briefly and
, with his back to Miguel, pushed himself to his feet. A crowd had gathered and there was a gasp as the onlookers saw his face, which had been scraped hard against the brick of the road. He turned slowly to show the injury to Miguel.

  The skin on his right cheek looked all but torn away, as did the very tip of his nose. Neither wound bled very much, but both bled steadily, and the image of blood and dirt sickened Miguel. Joachim looked straight ahead and remained motionless, as though on display before a body of judges. Then, after a moment, he spat out a mouthful of blood and what looked like the better part of one of his precious remaining teeth.

  “The Jew attacked that poor beggar, and without cause too,” he heard a woman say. “I’ll call the constable’s men.”

  The relief vanished. Were he to be arrested for attacking a Dutchman for no reason—and there were witnesses aplenty to testify that the attack had been unprovoked—the Ma’amad would have no choice but to issue the cherem, and no temporary one either. All lay in ruins.

  Except that Joachim saved him. Joachim had the power to destroy him in his hands, and he held back. Miguel had no illusions. He knew that Joachim had saved him only that he might continue his torments. A destroyed Miguel served no purpose.

  “No need to send for anyone,” Joachim called out, his words slow and syrupy. He was surely drunk, though it seemed likely that the injury to his mouth also made speaking difficult. “I am content to settle this matter privately.” He took a halting step forward and spat another thick mass of blood. “I think we should make a hasty departure,” he said to Miguel, “before someone chooses to send for the law despite my best efforts to protect you.” He put one arm around Miguel’s shoulder, as though they were wounded comrades fresh from the field of battle.

  Joachim stunk of vomit and shit and piss and beer, but Miguel ignored it all. He dared not show his disgust as he helped the poor fellow limp away from the crowd.

  They walked toward the Oude Kerk with a slow and deliberate pace. Miguel couldn’t spare the energy to worry about who might see them. He only wanted to keep moving.