The Coffee Trader

11

Coffee. It was a fire that fed on itself.

Miguel sat in his cellar, his feet cold from canal water, as he drank bowl after bowl of coffee and wrote to brokers and traders on every exchange he knew. It would be weeks, of course, before he would get responses, but soon they would come. He urged quick replies. He promised generous commissions.

It was as Alferonda had said. He remained awake half the night, reading through his letters, tearing them up, and rewriting them. He studied the week’s Torah portion and knew he would dazzle his study group at the synagogue. He reread eight tales of Charming Pieter.

The next day he felt weary, but if that was the price of productivity he was willing to pay. In any case, morning coffee paid the debts incurred by the coffee of the previous night.

Miguel heard that Parido and his trading combination had lost a great deal-that is to say, they had not profited as handsomely as they had intended-because of Miguel’s interference in whale oil. When the two men saw each other on the Exchange, however, Parido showed no ill will.

“I hear your month ended well,” the parnass said. He might have been discussing the death of a friend for all the cheer in his voice.

Miguel smiled brightly. “It might have been better.”

“I could say the same for my own. Did you know your machinations in whale oil caused me to incur some unpleasant losses?”

“I’m terribly sorry to learn that,” Miguel said. “I had no idea you were involved, or I would never have ventured there myself.”

“So you tell me, but things appear somewhat dubious,” Parido said. “There are those who whisper in my ear to tell me your whale-oil scheme was a slap in the face.”

“I would not let my brother whisper in your ear if I were you. His breath would fell a horse. If you don’t have faith in my honesty, at least have faith in my caution. Why would I risk your displeasure by trading knowingly against your interests?”

“I cannot say what compels a man to act as he acts.”

“Nor can I. You know, brandy surged at the last moment. Some Dutch fellows bought a massive quantity and sent the price soaring. You had no knowledge of that, I suppose, though men might whisper a thing or two in my ear if I let them.”

Parido frowned. “You don’t think I would trick you out of your futures, do you?”

“Things appear somewhat dubious,” Miguel said.

Parido let out a sour little laugh. “Perhaps we are on an equal footing. You lost far less in brandy than I did in whale oil, but your losses are surely more significant to you than mine are to me.”

“Surely,” Miguel agreed.

“Let me ask you one thing, however. How is it that you just happened upon whale oil? It is an odd coincidence, don’t you think?”

Miguel could think of no answer, but Parido spoke again before the silence became too conspicuous.

“Did someone advise you to trade in whale oil?”

It was as though Charming Pieter whispered the name. Of course. Why not say so?

To implicate this man could not be counted as a betrayal, because the man was out of Parido’s grasp. “I did receive a note-unsolicited, of course-from that fellow Alferonda. He advised me to buy into whale oil.”

“And you believed him, this man we had cast out of the community?”

“I thought he had no reason to lie, and when I examined the commodity for myself and asked around the Exchange, I concluded that the advice had been good.”

Parido scratched at his beard thoughtfully. “I had supposed it might come to this. I would advise you to have no more dealings with him, Lienzo. Pay him a broker’s fee if you must, but be rid of him. The man is a danger to anyone he touches.”

Miguel could hardly believe his luck, having so easily escaped Parido’s anger. Certainly he seemed irritated that he had lost money, but he was too eager to blame Alferonda to waste his anger upon Miguel.

Meanwhile, he had begun to realize that obtaining his whale-oil profits might be more difficult than he thought. After reckoning day, when no money had been deposited into his account at the Exchange Bank and he began receiving letters from his Muscovy agent regarding his nineteen hundred guilders, Miguel thought it was time to hunt his money. He found Ricardo, the broker to whom he’d sold his shares, at a tavern popular with Portuguese Jews. He was already slightly drunk and looking like he wanted, more than anything else, to be in his own bed-or, at the very least, away from Miguel.

“How are you, Lienzo?” he asked, and then walked away without waiting for an answer.

“Oh, I’ve been a busy man, Ricardo,” Miguel said, hurrying after him. “I’ve made a few trades here and there and earned a few guilders. The thing of it is, when a man earns a few guilders, he expects to have those guilders appear in his account at the Exchange Bank.”

Ricardo turned. “I’ve heard your creditors say much the same thing.”

“Oh, ho!” Miguel shouted back. “You’ve a sharp tongue today. Well, you may sharpen your tongue all you like so long as you also sharpen your pen before signing over my money.”

“As you’ve only been in Amsterdam five years,” Ricardo said quietly, “and you clearly haven’t mastered the art of doing business here, let me make bold by explaining something to you. The flow of money is like the flow of water in a river. You may stand by the shore and urge it on, but doing so won’t earn you much advantage. You’ll get your money in due time.”

“In due time? The fellow I borrowed from in order to buy that whale oil isn’t talking about due time.”

“Maybe you should not have extended credit when you had none to extend. I would have thought you might have learned that lesson before now.”

“You’re in no position to lecture me about extending credit when you won’t pay me. Who is your blackguard client anyhow who holds back?”

Ricardo sneered under his unkempt mustache. “You know I won’t tell you that,” the broker explained. “I won’t have you making trouble for my clients, or for me either. If you don’t like the way I do business, you know what you may do about it.”

Here was something of a bind. Had Ricardo been a Dutchman, Miguel could have taken the matter to the Exchange board or to the courts, but the Ma’amad discouraged Jews from resolving their differences so publicly. Instead, it preferred to resolve these things itself, but Miguel was disinclined to bring a matter before the council. Parido might choose to lead the Ma’amad against Miguel out of spite, and then he would have no recourse.

“I don’t much like the tone you’ve taken with me, Ricardo,” Miguel said, “and I promise you that this incident will not shine favorably on your reputation.”

“You’re a fine fellow to talk about reputations,” the broker answered, as he turned away.

Later that week, Miguel left his brother’s house early and strolled along the Herengracht, whose handsome wide streets were bursting with linden trees newly rich with foliage. Grand houses rose upward on either side of the canal, glories of the prosperity that the Dutch had built for themselves in the last half century. These were enormous red-brick dwellings-too well constructed to require the sealing black tar that covered so many houses in the city-grand structures with ornate angles and dazzling flourishes. Miguel loved to study the gable stones above the doorways, coats of arms or symbols of the source of the household’s wealth: a bound bundle of wheat, a tall-masted ship, an African brute in chains.

Just ahead, a beggar wound his way through the street, stumbling like a drunkard. He was filthy, covered in rags, and missing most of his left arm from an accident still new enough to leave the wound raw and rancid. Miguel, who was kind, sometimes too kind, with the city’s mendicants, felt the pull of generosity. Why should he not be munificent? Charity was a mitzvah, and in a few months’ time he would hardly miss a handful of stuivers.

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.