The Coffee Trader

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 were 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.