“Aye, you know me. My name is Geertruid Damhuis, and you were the kindly stranger who told me of the wreck of the Angel’s Mercy, a ship in which I owned shares. You were good enough to take those shares off of me for half price. Then the ship sailed into port a few weeks later, on schedule and bursting with cargo.”
“You’ve made a mistake,” the older man said, at the same moment that the trader said, “I cannot guarantee the truth of every rumor I hear.” Seeing that they had undone themselves, the party arose in a single movement and dashed out the door.
“Should we pursue,” Miguel asked, “or call the Night Watch?”
Geertruid Damhuis shook her pretty head. “I’ll not raise my skirts to go running in the dark for a gang of ruffians who would only knock me down.”
Miguel laughed, feeling a sudden rush of friendship and gratitude. “I thought you valiant enough just this moment.”
She grinned: wide, beautiful, white as pearl. Miguel sucked in his breath, feeling as though he had caught a glimpse of something forbidden. “It’s an easy thing to be valiant when surrounded by a few dozen men who would never stand to see a woman set upon. Quite another to go chasing after thieves in the dark.” She let out a long sigh and pressed her fingers to her chest. “By Christ, I could use a drink. See how I shake?” She held up her trembling hand.
While she drank, Geertruid explained that these men made it their business to learn the names of those who had invested in particular ships and then to track them down and tell stories so the investors might overhear. From there it took only a little trickery to convince even the most skeptical man to part with his shares.
“It is the urgency that undoes their victims,” Geertruid told him. “I had to make a decision at that moment or suffer the consequences, and I could not endure the thought that I might have avoided total disaster yet lacked the resolve to do so. As they say, the patient dog eats rabbit while the hasty dog goes hungry.”
Miguel was taken at once with Geertruid’s easy demeanor, somehow both mannish and seductive. She explained that her husband, who had never done her a kind turn before he died, had left her comfortable, and though most of her money was bound up in neat little investments, she had some few guilders with which to play.
Since that night they had made a habit of smoking and drinking together, but there were many things Miguel did not understand about this widow. She kept much about herself quiet—Miguel hardly even knew the part of town she called home. She would ask him to broker for her but only small quantities, surely far less than she had at her disposal. She would disappear for weeks at a time, neither telling Miguel before she departed nor explaining her absence after her return. She would flirt with Miguel incessantly, leaning in close to speak with him, showing him her deep cleavage, intriguing him with talk both lascivious and vague.
One summer night, after they had both had too much beer and were wet from an unexpected rain shower, Geertruid had leaned in to whisper some silly thing in his ear, and he kissed her hard upon the mouth, knocking his teeth into hers as he attempted to slide a hand between her breasts. Geertruid extricated herself from his clumsy grip and made some little quip, but it was clear that Miguel had crossed a line she would not have him cross again. The next time she saw Miguel, she handed him a tiny volume as a present: ‘t Amsterdamsch Hoerdom, a guide to the whores and bawdy houses of the city. Miguel had thanked her with good cheer but in truth had felt a humiliation greater than that of his bankruptcy, and he vowed never again to fall victim to her amorous nonsense.
And then there was the matter of Hendrick, a man some fifteen years her junior. Geertruid kept him at her feet almost all the time. He would sit sometimes apart from her at taverns while she chatted with men of business, but he always kept one eye upon her, like a half-sleeping hound. Was he her lover, her servant, or something else Miguel could not quite fathom? She would never say, eluding his questions with graceful ease so that Miguel had long since ceased to ask them.
Often when they met, Hendrick would slink off, glowering at Miguel for a moment before he took himself to wherever such a man might go. Yet he never quite acted with resentment. He called Miguel Jew Man, as though to do so were the height of wit or a sign of their private friendship. He would clap Miguel on the back, always just hard enough to seem something other than amicable. But when the three of them sat together, if Miguel grew quiet or preoccupied with his troubles, it was always Hendrick who tried to draw him out, Hendrick who would burst into a bawdy song or tell some ribald tale, often at his own expense, such as the time he nearly drowned in a trough of horse dung. If such a thing had happened to Miguel, he was sure he’d never recount the tale, not even to bring cheer to the Messiah.
Miguel resented Geertruid’s refusal to talk about her companionship with Hendrick, but he understood her to be a woman well able to keep a secret, and that was a quality not to be underestimated. She knew their friendship could cause Miguel problems with the Ma’amad and so rarely showed herself at taverns where Jews congregated—or, if she did have business there, she pretended not to know Miguel. Certainly he had been seen speaking to her a little intimately once or twice, but that was the very beauty of her being a woman—she was invisible to the men of the Nation. If they saw her at all, they saw her as Miguel’s whore; he had even been teased once or twice for liking his Dutchwomen overripe.
6
Miguel arrived at the Dam a quarter of an hour before noon, when the Exchange gates would open. Already the din of trade had begun to echo off the walls of the surrounding buildings. The burgomasters had limited the hours of trade from noon until two because the guilds complained that the din of commerce disturbed all manner of business across the city. Miguel thought the charges absurd. The sound of trade was a monetary aphrodisiac; it drove men to empty their purses. If the hours of trade were twice as long each day, the city would be twice as rich.
Miguel loved the excitement that spread across the plaza in the moments before the Exchange gates opened. The conversation quieted to a hum. Dozens of men looked like racers, awaiting the signal to begin their sprint.
All along the Dam, peddlers hawked bread and pies and trinkets in the shadow of the great wonders of the plaza, the monuments of Dutch grandeur: the massive and imposing Town Hall, which stood like a civic cathedral; the Nieuwe Kerk and the Exchange; and, puny by comparison, the Weigh House. Along the Damrak, fishmongers shouted their wares in the busy market, and whores cast their lines for amorous investors; moneylenders operating outside the law looked for the eager and desperate; fruit and vegetable sellers wheeled their pushcarts through the maze of merchants eager to spend newly got money on anything polished or juicy or bright with color. Tradesmen joked amiably with fat-pursed merchants, and women attempted to shock men into purchases with talk so bawdy that even Miguel blushed to hear it.
Among the brokers and speculators, black suits such as Miguel always wore remained the height of Dutch fashion. Here was perhaps the height of the austere influence of the Calvinist divines. The preachers of the Reformed Church ruled that gaudy fashions and bright colors only indulged vanity, and thus the men of Amsterdam dressed in modest black but spiced their dark ensembles with fine cloth, expensive lace, silk collars, and costly hats. The sea of black occasionally sparkled with an Iberian Jew in red or blue or yellow or perhaps a defiant Dutch Catholic who dressed in what colors he liked. In other lands the locals would gawk at foreign dress, but there were so many aliens in the city that strange clothes were admired more often than ridiculed. Miguel believed the Dutch the most curious of all races—the perfect blend of Protestant faith and business ambition.
As Miguel gazed out at the crowd he noticed a desperate-looking fellow moving directly toward him. He thought the man might be a petty tradesman, perhaps in the midst of a dispute with a customer, but as he stepped aside the ruffian continued to fix his gaze on Miguel.
The fellow stopped and flashed a mouth full of wretched teeth. “You don’t know me, Lienzo?”
The sound of the voice steadied him. Miguel saw that he did indeed know the man: Joachim Waagenaar. Joachim, who had once dressed like a gentleman in velvet suits and fine lace, now wore the close-fitting leather cap of a farmer, a stained doublet of rough cloth, and torn, baggy breeches. Once a man to wear perfume and trim his mustache just so, Joachim now smelled of piss and sweat like a beggar.
“Joachim,” he said after a moment. “I didn’t recall you at first.”
“I suppose not.” He unfurled another strained grimace. He’d always had unhealthy teeth, but several that had been broken before were now gone, and along the bottom they were all cracked and had the rough edges of gravel. “Times haven’t gone well with me.”
“I was sorry to hear of your losses,” Miguel answered, speaking so quickly that his Dutch sounded garbled even to his own ears. “I lost greatly too,” he added hastily, in answer to unspoken charges. He had, after all, urged Joachim to put his fortune in Miguel’s failing sugar futures, believing that if he found enough investors he could keep the price of sugar buoyant, but these efforts were like sandbags set against the force of a flood, and the price had tumbled all the same. Joachim had not lost nearly as much as Miguel, but his fortune had been much smaller, so he had fallen fast and hard.
“Those are fine clothes you have upon your back.” Joachim looked him up and down and ran a hand along his own face, which was rough with a beard that grew in a great diversity of lengths, as though he had taken to shaving by hacking at himself with a dull blade. “They did not take your clothes,” he said. “They took my clothes. They forced me to sell them.”
Who might they be—creditors, pawnbrokers? Miguel had been abducted and taken to taverns where he was held prisoner until he agreed to pay bills. He had suffered the humiliation of having his hat knocked into the mud by a particularly angry wine merchant. He had been threatened and insulted and angered beyond all reason. But he’d never been made to sell his clothes.
Who could say what might happen to an odd fellow like Joachim. The son of a fishmonger who had profited in the tulipomania thirty years before, Joachim had come of age believing that only fools labored for their money when they might buy and sell for it instead. Even so, he seemed to know nothing of the Exchange but which taverns were closest, and he always depended on brokers to do his thinking. But for a man who was little more than a drunk with money, he was remarkably anxious about holdings, and he’d always fretted over a stuiver lost here and there, suspicious of the very means by which he chose to make his money.
“The business of the Exchange is like the weather,” Miguel had told him once. “You might see signs of rain, but then nature delivers sunshine.”
“But what has happened to my guilders?” Joachim had asked him, after losing a trifling fifty guilders in an East India deal that had not gone quite as Miguel had expected.
Miguel forced a laugh. “Where is the wind after it blows on your face?” He almost added that any man who wonders such things should remove his money from the Exchange and return to selling. Joachim seemed to Miguel ill-suited for this new species of investment, but Miguel did not have so many clients that he could afford to send one away.
Joachim now stood there, panting like a dog, letting his breath blow in Miguel’s face. In the distance the gates to the Exchange opened, and the traders began to file inside, some of the more eager men shoving like unruly boys.
Although everyone had his own affairs to tend to, Miguel worried that someone might see him with this wretch. The burghers of Amsterdam had forbidden Jewish traders to broker for gentiles, and though the Ma’amad claimed to punish this crime with excommunication, Miguel believed it to be the second most violated law in the city (just after the law prohibiting brokers to trade for their own profit as well as their clients’). Nevertheless, a man in Miguel’s situation had to fear being prosecuted for crimes that others could perpetrate with impunity. This conversation with Joachim would have to end quickly.
“I am sorry things have gone hard with you, but I haven’t the time to speak of it now.” Miguel took a tentative step back.
Joachim nodded and stepped closer forward. “I would like to do a little business with you to make up for what I’ve lost. Perhaps, as you say, everything was unintentional.”
Miguel could not think quite how to respond. Perhaps everything was unintentional. Did this man have the audacity to accuse Miguel of deceiving him, of having set some sort of trap, as though Miguel’s losses in sugar had been some ruse to get Joachim’s five hundred guilders? Not a day goes by that a broker does not give unsound advice, perhaps ruining those he aims to serve. Those who cannot live with risk have no business in trade.
“I want what you owe me,” Joachim insisted.
At once Miguel recognized Joachim’s ragged voice. He could see it transposed in his mind into an awkward hand, scratchy and uneven. “You’ve been sending me those notes.”
“I want my money,” Joachim affirmed. “I want you to help me get back my money. It’s no less than what you owe me.”
With no more room in his life for debt, Miguel disliked this talk of what he owed. He’d made an error in judgment, nothing more. They had both suffered; it should end there.
“What manner of business is this when you send such notes? What am I to make of your strange communications?”
Joachim said nothing. He looked at Miguel the way a dog looks at a man who lectures it.
Miguel tried once more. “We will talk about this when I am at leisure,” he told Joachim, looking about nervously for signs of Ma’amad spies.
“I understand that you are a busy man.” Joachim spread his hands wide. “I, as you can see, haven’t many demands on my time.”
Miguel cast a glance at the Exchange. Every minute here could mean lost money. What if, even now, the man on whom he could unload his brandy futures, at perhaps not too significant a loss, was buying those shares from someone else?
“But I have,” he said to Joachim. “We’ll talk later.” He took another exploratory step backwards.
“When!” It came out hard, a command more than a question. The word had a power to it, as though he had shouted stop! Joachim’s face had changed, too. He now gazed at Miguel sternly, like a magistrate issuing a decree. In the butcher stalls, several people halted in their steps and looked over. Miguel’s heart began to thump a panicky beat.
Joachim moved along with him in the direction of the Dam. “How will you contact me when you don’t know how to find me?”
“Very true,” Miguel agreed, with a foolish laugh. “How thoughtless of me. We’ll speak on Monday, after the close of the Exchange, at the Singing Carp.” It was a little out-of-the-way tavern that Miguel visited when in need of a quiet spot for drink and contemplation.
“Good, good.” Joachim nodded eagerly. “I see it will all be made right. What’s done can surely be undone, so now we’ll shake on it like men of business.”
But Miguel was not about to touch Joachim’s flesh if he could help it, so he hurried away pretending he had not heard. After pressing into the crowd outside the Exchange, he risked a look behind him and saw no sign of Joachim, so he took a moment of rest before entering. Merchants filed past him, many shouting a greeting as they headed through the gates. Miguel straightened his hat, caught his breath, and muttered in Hebrew the prayer said upon receiving ill news.
7
He should have known better than to stand still in the Exchange, for the moment Miguel stopped moving he found himself descended upon by a dozen traders of the lowest sort, each out to test the limits of his indebtedness. “Senhor Lienzo!” A man he hardly knew stood inches away, nearly shouting. “Let’s take a moment to talk of a shipment of copper from Denmark.” Another edged the first aside. “Good senhor, you are the only one I would tell this to, but I have reason to believe that the price of cinnamon will shift dramatically in the next few days. But will it go up or down? Come with me to learn more.” A young trader in Portugue
se attire, probably not even twenty years of age, tried to pull him from the crowd. “I want to tell you how the syrup market has expanded these past three months.”
After the unnerving encounter with Joachim, Miguel was in no mood for these scavengers. They were of all nations, the fellowship of desperation requiring no single language or place of origin, only a willingness to survive by leaping from one precipice to the next. Miguel was attempting to force his way past when he saw his brother approach, the parnass Solomon Parido by his side. He hated for Daniel and Parido to see him in such low company, but he could hardly run off now that he had been spotted. It is all posture, he told himself. “Gentlemen, gentlemen,” he told his gathering of unfortunates, “I think you mistake me for a man who might have interest in doing business with you. Good day.”
He pushed off and nearly collided with his brother, who now stood inches away.
“I’ve been looking for you,” said Daniel, who, since the sugar collapse, had rarely so much as glanced at Miguel during Exchange hours. Now he stood close, leaning in to avoid having to shout above the clamor of trade. “I did not, however, expect to see you dealing with miserable men such as these.”
“What is it you gentlemen wish?” he asked, directing his attention in particular to Parido, who had thus far remained silent. The parnass had developed a habit of turning up far too frequently for Miguel’s taste.
Parido bowed to Miguel. “Your brother and I have been discussing your affairs.”
“The Holy One has truly blessed me, that two such great men take the time to discuss my dealings,” Miguel said.
Parido blinked. “Your brother mentioned that you were having difficulties.” He ventured a half smile, but he looked no less sour for it.