The Coffee Trader (28 page)

“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.

Once they were in the shadow of the church, Joachim pulled himself free of Miguel and leaned himself against a building, settling into the grooves in the stone. “You needn’t have attacked me,” he said. He put his free hand up to his cheek and then examined the blood.

“Have you not threatened to kill me many times?” Miguel answered blankly.

“I only greeted you, and you knocked me down upon the street. I wonder what this Ma’amad of yours would think, were I to report this incident.”

Miguel looked around, as though something might offer him inspiration. There were only thieves and whores and laborers. “I’ve grown weary of your threats,” he said weakly.

“Maybe so, but what does that matter now? You tried to fuck my wife. You have attacked me. Perhaps I should go right away to that fellow you mentioned, Solomon Parido.”

“I have no heart for this,” Miguel said wearily. “I never touched your wife. Tell me what you want so we may end our conversation the sooner.”

“I want what I’ve always wanted—my five hundred guilders. You might have given it to me because it was the just thing to do, but now that I have something you want, I am willing to take the money in exchange.”

“And what do you have that I want?”

Joachim wiped away some of his blood with the sleeve of his shirt. “My silence. You have brokered for a gentile and you’ve attempted to commit adultery with a Christian woman. And even more, I’ve seen you with your friend. I know where she gets her money, and I wonder if this Ma’amad of yours would be interested to learn.”

Joachim could have seen Miguel with Geertruid, but how could he know about Geertruid taking money from her husband’s children? It made no sense, but Miguel hadn’t the heart to find out how Joachim knew what he knew—he only wished to end the conversation. “I won’t discuss this with you.”

“With so much hanging in the balance,” Joachim said evenly, “I think you’ll find a way to get that money. You’ll borrow it, steal it—I don’t care, just so long as you get it to me.”

“Your threats are worth nothing, and they won’t change what is.”

Miguel turned away and began walking very quickly, sensing somehow that Joachim would not follow. His hands shook and he had to concentrate to make sure he walked properly. His luck this day could not have been worse, but nevertheless he believed with absolutely certainty that Joachim would not go to the Ma’amad. If he had wanted to ruin Miguel, he would have allowed the woman to call the Watch. But once Miguel was punished, the game would be over, and it now appeared that Joachim had become attached to playing it. He fed off his injuries, blossomed with the issuing of new warnings. It was all he had left.

26

Miguel needed Geertruid. It hardly mattered now what secrets she kept from him—let her have her secrets, just as he had his. He needed her capital, not her honesty. If he could get another thousand guilders from her, it might be enough to save himself. He could pay off Nunes, and he could buy more puts to counter Parido’s calls. With a little luck, he could yet turn the tide on the price of coffee. Then he would use those profits, not to pay off his debts as he had planned, but to restore Geertruid’s original investment. It was not all he had hoped, but with another thousand guilders, or fifteen hundred if he dared hope, he might make everything easy.

Even though there had been some sort of falling out, Miguel thought that the foul Golden Calf might be his best opportunity. Miguel hurried over and found the fat barman, Crispijn, nearly alone in the tavern, sitting on a stool behind the bar, slurping at a bowl of beer soup and washing it down with a redundant tankard of beer.

“Good morning, Crispijn,” Miguel shouted cheerfully, as though they were old friends. “How does the day find you?”

“Who in Christ are you?” Crispijn studied Miguel for a moment and then lost interest, wrapping his large hands once more around the soup bowl.

“We met many weeks earlier,” Miguel explained, attempting to keep his cheer intact. “I was with Geertruid Damhuis.”

Crispijn’s forehead wrinkled. “Were you now?” He spat, inexplicably, into his own soup. “Well, I’ll have no more to do with that devil’s bitch if I can help it.”

“Let’s be civil.” Miguel took a step forward. “I don’t know what has happened between the two of you, but I must contact Madam Damhuis, and I thought you might know how I could do so, or know someone who would.”

“How should I know how to contact that she wolf? I have heard she’s gone south, and while that is not nearly so good as her going to the devil, I’ll take it as good enough.”

“Differences aside”—Miguel pressed on—“you are still family.”

Crispijn laughed hard enough to make his large body undulate. “She’s no kin of mine, nor would I want any such. I have better family than that come out my ass each morning.”

Miguel put his index finger and thumb to his forehead. “You are not her kinsman?”

Another laugh, but not nearly so forceful. Now the barkeep showed something like compassion. “You seem to be confused. I know nothing of either my father or my mother. I haven’t a relative in the world I can call my own, and no cousins neither. Maybe she would be kinder to a man if she were his relative, but I’ve no luck to call her that.”

More than once she had called Crispijn her cousin. Perhaps the term was some new cant she used freely. It hardly mattered, and Miguel lacked the energy to sort out the confusion.

He might again try Hendrick. The Dutchman had made it clear he could reach Geertruid, even if he seemed unwilling to reveal how. “Do you know where I can find her man?” he asked.

“Hendrick? You’ll do better to run from him than seek him,” the barman said. “I don’t understand you, friend. You’re no ruffian to be seeking out someone of Hendrick’s sort, and you don’t seem to understand that you’re plunging into deep water. What want you with such filth?”

“I’ve dealt with Hendrick before. Do you know where I can find him or no?”

Crispijn shrugged his heavy shoulders.

Miguel understood perfectly, though in his mood he would have preferred a simple request. He handed the tavern keeper a half guilder.

Crispijn smiled. “I hear he’s got something planned at the Spaniard’s Lame Horse, a musico on the far end of the Warmoesstraat. He’ll be there tonight, I heard, but not too late. And if I know Hendrick, which I do more than I’d like, he’ll be in and out quickly. You’ll want to be there no later than when the tower strikes seven, I think. Then maybe you’ll be able to catch him, though maybe it were better that you didn’t.”

Miguel muttered his thanks and headed out, wishing it were not already too late to visit the Exchange. He despised the feeling of a day of business entirely lost. Damn the East India Company, he cursed silently. Was there not another ship for them to have rerouted than his? His coffee would be on its way and therefore he would not have struck Joachim.

With no business to conduct, Miguel wanted to avoid being seen, particularly by Joachim. He visited a bookseller and purchased, on credit, a few pamphlets—and, on a whim, a simple book in the most elementary Portuguese on the basics of holy Law. He would give it as a gift to Hannah. She could not read, but perhaps she might learn someday.

After passing the day in taverns, reading his lurid tales of crime, he took Crispijn’s advice and traveled to the Spaniard’s Lame Horse. Miguel generally avoided musicos of this nature, catering to low sorts of fellows. A band of three string musicians played simple tunes while the whores drifted from table to table, seeking business. Miguel suspected there were rooms in the back, and he briefly considered inspecting them with one buxom beauty with dark hair and fetching black eyes, but his business was with Hendrick and he considered it no good bargain to miss his opportunity while gaining the clap.

Within an hour the whores knew they would get nowhere with him, and they kept their distance, ignoring him except to administer the occasional scowl. Miguel drank quickly and ordered repeatedly. He reasoned that he would have to pay for his seat in beer or the owner might toss him out.

After nearly two hours of steady drinking, Hendrick had not yet shown himself. Sleepy with beer, Miguel wondered if he might not be better off abandoning his station; this was no place for a man to fall asleep unless he wanted to awaken stripped of all his goods.

He lifted his tankard and set it down again. A loud conversation a few tables over began to distract him. Something about cargo, ruin, a lost ship called the
Bountiful Providence
carrying slaves in the Africa trade.

Then something happened. A drunk fellow rose to his feet and turned toward the sailors. “The
Bountiful Providence
!” Saliva flew from his mouth. “Are you certain?”

“Aye,” one of the sailors said. “She’s been taken by pirates all right. Vicious Spanish pirates, too. Bloodthirsty bastards. The very worst of the lot. My brother was a seaman aboard her and barely escaped with his life. Do you know the ship, friend, or have kin upon her?”

“I know her.” He put his face in his hands. “I owned stock in her. Good God, I’ll be ruined. I have sunk my fortune in a ship now sunk!”

Miguel stared. Even in the murkiness of beer he knew the scene was far too familiar. It reminded him not only of his recent misfortune with the coffee but of something else, from many months before. It was like watching his own life played on stage before him.

“You might not be entirely ruined,” said one of the sailor’s companions in a voice full of hope, such as one might use with a frightened child. “You see, the news has not yet reached the Exchange, and that might work in your favor.”

The stockholder turned to the new speaker. He alone of the party did not look like a sailor. Not exactly a man of substance, he yet had something more to him than his companions.

“What do you say?” the stockholder asked.

“That you may take advantage of the ignorance still to be found upon the Exchange. Or at least someone could. I would be willing to take those shares from you, sir, for fifty percent of their value. That should be far more lucrative than if you lose it all.”

“And sell them at a discount at the Exchange tomorrow?” the stockholder said, rolling the words about on his tongue. “Why should I not do that as well as you?”

“You are welcome to try, friend, but then you assume the risk. And when the world learns that you have unloaded your stock only hours before news of the loss becomes general, you will become mistrusted. I, on the other hand, do not spend much time upon the Exchange and can escape from such an adventure entirely unscathed.”

The man said nothing, but Miguel could see that he stood on the precipice of acquiescing.

“I might also add,” the prospective buyer told him, “that not every man might sell spoiled goods with an honest look in his eye. You might find yourself ready to sell and with no one to buy because you cannot conduct yourself like a man who has nothing to hide.”

“You, however, do a mighty good job of looking like an honest man,” a new voice, a heroic voice announced, “though as sure as I am standing here, I know you to be a scoundrel.”

And there was Hendrick, dressed in black like a man of business. He stood behind the prospective buyer with his arms crossed, and he appeared nothing if not heroic.

“I know you, Jan van der Dijt,” Hendrick announced, “and you are a liar and a knave.” He turned to the shareholder. “Nothing has befallen your ship, sir. These men are tricksters, who prey upon the fear of investors. They seek to rob you of your shares at half their value and then reap the rewards when the cargo arrives safely.”

The sailors and their companion rose from their seats and hurried out the door. The shareholder stiffened and looked as though he prepared himself to sprint after the cheats, but Hendrick put his arm around the man’s shoulders and held him back.

“Let the villains run,” he said soothingly. “You’ve undone their scheme, and you can’t defeat so large a group. Come.” He led the man to a table and applied pressure upon his shoulder so he would sit.

Miguel had just witnessed the precise events that had transpired when he had met Geertruid and become her friend. But their friendship was a sham and everything had been false. The men who had offered to buy his shares hadn’t been exposed by Geertruid, they had been in her employ. It had been no more than a trick to gain Miguel’s trust.

Making sure the fellow’s back was toward him, Miguel quickly paid his reckoning—indeed, he overpaid, that he might get out quickly and with little conversation. He then found the door and slipped out unseen.

Out in the cool night, he lit his lantern, which barely penetrated the thick fog off the IJ. What did it mean? How could he explain it?

In an instant, all became clear. Geertruid had laid some scheme that involved gaining his trust not for a single night at a single moment but over a period of days or weeks. Then Miguel had lost almost everything when sugar collapsed. Surely that explained why Hendrick appeared so uneasy around him—the man did not understand what Geertruid wanted with this Jew who had now become penniless and of no value to them.

So Geertruid had created value. She had hatched this coffee scheme in order to—to do what? What plot had she constructed? It could not be that Geertruid planned to take anything from Miguel. She had provided money, money that, by her own admission, did not truly belong to her.

Perhaps it did not belong to her late husband’s children either. That story, Miguel realized, had the hollow ring of a lie. How could he have not seen it sooner? He, who made his livelihood by distinguishing truth from falseness, though it was but a scurvy livelihood now. And coffee, which was to save him from his ruin, was now revealed to be but another disaster. But why? Why would Geertruid advance money, why would anyone advance money, to dupe a ruined man into ruining himself further?

There could be only one answer. There could be only one person willing to expend capital on Miguel’s destruction. Geertruid, he concluded with perfect clarity, served Solomon Parido.