The Coffee Trader

21

Miguel was out of bed before first light. After urinating furiously from the coffee he’d taken before bed-to keep his thoughts active in his sleep-he washed and said his morning prayers with a kind of pleading enthusiasm. He dressed, ate a breakfast of bread and dried cheese, and hastily drank a large bowl of coffee.

Last night, he had been driven by desperate need to do something to further his cause, but in the silence of his room he could not escape the hard ball of fear that tightened in his belly. This was no ordinary summoning. There would be no indulgent lectures on the importance of the dietary laws or on resisting the charms of Dutch girls.

Could he really turn his back on everything as Alferonda had done? Instead of remaining in Amsterdam, a usurer and a known villain, Alonzo could easily have gone elsewhere, changed his name, settled into another community. There were other Jews in the world besides those in Amsterdam, and Miguel need not remain here. But the cherem would mean more than having to choose between being a Jew elsewhere and an outcast in Amsterdam. To leave the city would mean abandoning his plans in the coffee trade, abandoning the money Ricardo owed him. If he stayed, his creditors, no doubt including his sanctimonious brother, would descend upon him and pick his bones clean. Even if he did move to a city where no one knew him, how would he live there? A merchant without connections was no merchant at all. Was he to be a pushcart peddler?

Miguel made his way to the Talmud Torah unobserved by anyone from the community. At this hour the Vlooyenburg had just begun to stir, and though he heard the early morning cries of the milkmen and bakers, he crossed the bridge unheeded by all except a pair of beggars, who sat eating a loaf of stale and mud-splattered bread while eyeing Miguel suspiciously.

The Ma’amad held its meetings in the same building as the synagogue, but a separate entrance led to the chambers. At the top of a winding stairwell, Miguel stepped into the small familiar room where supplicants awaited their summonses. A few chairs had been set along the wall with semicircular windows behind them, allowing the early morning light to filter into a room smelling strongly of mildew and tobacco.

No one else awaited the call that morning but Miguel, and that was something of a relief. He hated making conversation with other penitents, whispering resentments and laughing off accusations. Better to wait alone. He paced back and forth and played out in his mind fantasy after fantasy: complete exoneration, excommunication, and all imaginable variations.

The worst would not happen, he told himself. He had always extricated himself from the council’s anger. And there was Parido-Parido, who was surely not Miguel’s friend but who wanted something from him. Parido, who had long known enough to have Miguel cast out and yet had not. There was no reason to believe he would let Miguel be cast out now.

He waited for nearly an hour before at last the door opened and he was ushered into the chamber. At a table at the far end of the room sat the seven men who would pass judgment. On the wall behind them was mounted the great marble symbol of the Talmud Torah: an immense pelican feeding its three young, the congregation having been formed of smaller synagogues some years before. The room reflected the wealth of the community’s elite with its lush India rug, handsome portraits of former parnassim, and an ivory cabinet in which records were stored. The men sat behind a massive dark table and looked both solemn and princely in their rich attire. To be a parnass a man must have the wealth to dress like a parnass.

“Senhor Lienzo, thank you for answering the summons.” Aaron Desinea, who led the council, spoke with a kind of arch seriousness. “Please.” He gestured to the narrow too-short chair that sat in the center of the room where Miguel would sit while in discussion with the council. One of the legs was shorter than the rest. It took far more concentration than Miguel could spare to keep from wobbling.

In the middle of his seventh decade, Desinea was the oldest of the parnassim and had begun to display signs of the ravages of age. His hair had gone from a stately gray to a sickly white and now had the coarse quality of dead leaves. His beard had grown spotty and molten, and it was generally known that his eyes were failing. Even now he stared beyond Miguel, as though looking for a friend in the distance. But Desinea had sat on the council many times, serving his three-year limit, standing down for the required three years, and then finding himself always reelected.

“You know everyone here, so I’ll dispense with introductions. I shall read the charges against you, and you will have an opportunity to answer them. Do you have any questions?”

“No, senhor.” Miguel felt himself longing for another bowl of coffee to sharpen his senses. Already he had become distracted, and he had to fight the childish urge to fidget.

“Of course.” Desinea allowed himself the vaguest hint of a smile. “By now you know the procedure well.” He held out a piece of paper, but his eyes made no contact with it. He must have memorized it earlier. “Senhor Miguel Lienzo-who is also known by and does business under the names Mikael Lienzo, Marcus Lentus, and Michael Weaver-you are charged with irresponsible conduct bringing shame before the Nation. You are accused of consorting with dangerous, disreputable, and inappropriate gentiles and bringing such gentiles into our own neighborhood, where they have behaved disruptively. Do you wish to respond to these charges?”

Miguel suppressed a smile, though he succumbed to the urge to breathe in the sweetness of the air. The meeting might be brought to its conclusion now, for the council would do him no harm. They did not know Joachim’s name or Miguel’s relationship with him. All the parnassim wanted was to hear an explanation and to issue a warning.

“Senhors, I should like to begin by offering my sincere apologies to this council and to the Nation. The man you mention is a Dutch unfortunate with whom, I admit, I have been friendly, but I can assure you that my intentions were always good.” He disliked lying in so holy a place, for it is written that a liar is no better than one who worships idols. But it is also written that the Holy One, blessed be He, hates a man who speaks one thing with his mouth and another with his heart. Therefore it seemed to Miguel that if he believed in his heart that his lie was justified, it was not so sinful after all.

“He is a sad man, ruined in a business misadventure,” he continued, “and seeing him begging upon the street, I gave him a few stuivers. Some days later, he engaged me in conversation, and not wishing to be rude, I made small chatter with him. The next time I saw him, he became aggressive and began to follow me, shouting things. Finally, he came into our own neighborhood and accosted members of my brother’s household. I then spoke to him harshly, warning him that if he continued to behave thus I would be forced to report him to the city authorities. I believe he won’t disturb our quiet again.”

“The giving of charity is one of our most important mitzvot,” said Joseph ben Yerushalieem. He was a wealthy merchant who had come to Amsterdam some months after Miguel and had been elected to the council after fulfilling (by a matter of weeks) the requirement that a parnass must have been living as a Jew for at least three years. Miguel knew he interpreted his duties as sourly as the Law would allow, showing no mercy to new arrivals who refused to embrace an equally strict adherence. “I commend you on your generosity, senhor, for charity exalts the Holy Name. This council is aware that you have suffered in business, but the rabbis say that a beggar must be treated kindly, for the Lord is with him.”

“Thank you, senhor,” said Miguel, who refused to believe that the Lord could possibly be with Joachim.

“However,” ben Yerushalieem continued, “this incident demonstrates something that this body has warned you of many times in the past. Your easy interactions with the Dutch, your fluency in their language, and your comfort with their companionship can lead only to difficulties between our two peoples. This community has thrived because it has kept its distance from our Dutch hosts. This incident with the beggar may seem small, and you have been guiltless of any ill intent, but it suggests that you are unwilling to follow this council’s advice that you keep a more formal distance from these people.”

“This problem has been brought to our attention before,” Desinea chimed in. “You are a man who habitually breaks the laws of this council because he believes he knows better than we do what is right for the Nation.”

“Precisely.” Ben Yerushalieem pressed on. “You have broken the rules of the Ma’amad because you thought yourself the best judge of right and wrong. It makes no difference, senhor, if you are seeking the affections of a pretty Dutch girl or giving alms to an inappropriate gentile. Both are forbidden, and forbidden for good reasons.”

Miguel found the pressure more intense than he had at first anticipated. “I thank you for taking the time to discuss these matters with me and allowing me the opportunity to improve my behavior. I shall redouble my efforts to be more vigilant in considering my actions in light of the larger good of this community.”

“I can only hope that you will,” Desinea told him sternly. “You are a grown man, Senhor Lienzo, not a boy whose transgressions can be overlooked.”

Desinea’s words stung furiously, but Miguel knew his pride would recover. The tide had begun to recede, after all. The Ma’amad had made its point. He had been warned.

“I wonder if that is enough.” Solomon Parido leaned forward as though scrutinizing something on Miguel’s face. Though animated by his expectation of triumph, he appeared, if anything, more morose than ever. Even the taste of victory brought him no joy. “Such warnings can be effective, I grant you, but I am not convinced they will suffice in this case. I am a friend of Senhor Lienzo’s family, so I speak with genuine concern when I say he has been issued many warnings in the past. Now we must ask, Have they led him to change his ways? Have they ever inspired in his heart a new love of the Law? Forgiveness is a blessing in the eyes of the Most High, but we must not forgive too easily or too often without damaging the community.”

Miguel swallowed hard. Perhaps, he thought, Parido only meant to appear harsh that he might better disguise his true intentions of protecting Miguel. Why would he have pretended friendship this past month only now to turn on him? If he sought to impose the cherem, why had he not made use of his knowledge that Miguel had bribed a servant girl into fingering Parido as the father of her child? None of it made sense.

“We cannot know how those warnings have shaped the senhor,” ben Yerushalieem commented. “Is it therefore not pure speculation to say that warnings have had no effect? We may have changed Senhor Lienzo’s behavior greatly and rescued him from his own worst self.”

“Senhors, I must commend your generosity, but I wonder if generosity may not do our community more harm than good.”

Miguel felt himself wobble in the chair. This was no mere pretense at harshness. Parido was after blood.

“Really, senhor,” ben Yerushalieem said, “this denunciation is unbecoming. You and Senhor Lienzo have had disagreements, but Holy Torah commands us not to hold a grudge.”

“This is no matter of grudges. All Amsterdam knows that I’ve set aside our former differences, but that does not mean that I must hold my tongue when I see evil. I have it on good authority,” Parido pressed on, “that this man is engaged in a matter of business that presents a direct threat to this community.”

So this is his move, Miguel thought, as he tried to keep his face from twitching. He could not yet see the whole of the plan, but he recognized the pieces. The gestures of friendship now allowed Parido to claim only the best motives.

“Is this true?” Desinea asked.

“By no means,” Miguel managed to answer, though his mouth had grown painfully dry. “Senhor Parido might wish to reexamine his source of information.”

“Can you tell us more, Senhor Parido?” ben Yerushalieem asked.

“I believe it is Lienzo who must tell us more.”

“Senhor Lienzo,” Miguel corrected.

“The members of this council need no lessons in etiquette,” Parido explained softly. “You are here to answer our questions.”

“Senhor Parido is right,” another parnass, Gideon Carvoeiro, announced. “True, these two men have had words, but that means nothing. The senhor has set forth a question. We cannot bring a man before us and allow him to choose which questions are to his liking.”

Parido made a halfhearted effort to hide a smile. “Precisely. You must tell us the nature of your new venture.”

And there it was. Parido had sought Miguel’s friendship to learn about his plans in the coffee trade. When that had not worked, he had deftly use his position on the Ma’amad not to arrange Miguel’s excommunication but to use their old animosity as an excuse to discover the nature of his business. Now Parido surely thought that Miguel had no choice but to divulge his secrets-otherwise he would almost certainly face the cherem, for defiance of the council was among the most serious of crimes in its eyes. Parido had set his trap brilliantly: Miguel must give up his secrets or be destroyed.

But Miguel would not be so easily ruined; a Jew from Salonika could not hope to scheme like a former Converso. Miguel believed he might still teach Parido a few things about deviousness.

“Senhors,” he began, after taking a moment to formulate his reply, “I hope you will consider that a man of business is not always at liberty to answer questions concerning his affairs. I have agreements with other merchants who depend on my silence. I need not explain to you the role of rumor on the Exchange and the importance of keeping some dealings quiet.”

“Quiet is not a luxury you possess right now,” Parido said. “The Ma’amad’s need to protect the Nation must take precedence over your inclination toward secrecy.”

Miguel swallowed hard. He might ruin himself if he spoke with too much arrogance, but the right tone would win the day. “Then I must respectfully refuse to answer, senhors.”

Desinea leaned forward. “I must remind you that our Nation knows no greater crime than refusal to cooperate with the Ma’amad. Any business scheme upon which you have embarked, lawful or no, may prove itself difficult to execute if you earn the enmity of our Nation.”

“Senhors,” he repeated, careful to keep his tone modest and respectful, for everything hinged on their response to what he now said. “I beg you consider what it is you ask of me, whether answers must be pursued regardless of costs. There is no one in this room who does not have a relation or friend who was destroyed by the Inquisition in Portugal. This council has established itself in the hopes that our people may never have to face those horrors again, but I fear that in truly understanding our enemy we may have become too much like him.”

Ben Yerushalieem slammed his palm down on the table. “I advise you to think before you speak further.” Veins bulged out in his neck. “You dare liken this council to the Inquisition?”

“I only suggest that we must think about the cost of inquiry, and if the answers are worth the price of the asking.”

“Particularly if those costs are yours,” Parido quipped.

The council laughed, Parido’s comment having eased some of the tension, but Miguel clenched his teeth in frustration. “Yes,” he shot back. “Particularly if they are mine. This council is designed to protect the well-being of the Nation as a whole. It wants nothing so much as to see the Nation flourish. Yet that nation is composed of people. I believe it wrong that you ask one of those people to sacrifice his well-being to satisfy the vague curiosity of the community. Must I give up my chance of regaining some small portion of my fortune so that you may know I have done nothing wrong? Perhaps if there were specific charges; but to force me to reveal secrets that protect my business interests in order that you might learn if they may prove dangerous to the community-this is an injustice.”

No one spoke for a moment. Parido opened his mouth but understood that Miguel’s spirited outburst had changed the council’s tone. He could not push too hard here.

“I believe that Senhor Lienzo has argued an important point,” Desinea said at last. “We need not ask him to expose himself without just cause. Such a pursuit could send a chill throughout the city and discourage others of the Nation from seeking refuge here or embracing their ancestral faith. Moreover, if by speaking here the senhor does any damage to Dutch businessmen, the results could do us greater harm than we can endure.”

“What sort of Dutch businessmen?” Parido demanded. “That is what we must find out. We have already established his unappealing connections.”

“Please, senhor.” Ben Yerushalieem shook his head slightly. “We all know there is a subtle divide between business and improper relations.”

The other parnassim nodded in agreement, all but Parido. “How can we learn the truth if we may not inquire into it?”

“You would smash a vessel, Senhor Parido, to learn its contents, thinking nothing of the value of the vessel itself?” ben Yerushalieem asked.

“Perhaps the vessel has no value.”

Desinea stared at Parido. “You assured this council that you would not allow your personal feelings concerning Senhor Lienzo to affect your judgment.”

“And they have not,” he answered. “I defy him to tell this council how the revelation of his plans will harm him.”

“Can you do so,” Desinea asked, “particularly since you know well that we of the Ma’amad know how to keep secret the inner workings of this chamber?”

Miguel surrendered to the urge to smile. Parido had trapped himself within his own scheme, and the world would now see who was the cleverer man. Miguel would win this battle in a manner worthy of Charming Pieter.

“Senhors,” Miguel began, “not very long ago Senhor Parido stopped me on the Exchange and demanded to know, for the sake of his business, the nature of my trades. I refused to tell him at the time, believing silence to best serve the ends of myself and my partners. Now, as a parnass, he demands the same information, claiming that he inquires not for the sake of his own affairs but for the sake of the Nation. You tell me that the workings of this chamber remain in this chamber, but I hope I do not seem overly suspicious if I wonder if every member of this body will honor the tradition of secrecy.”

A chill quiet fell upon the room. Several members of the council glared at Parido. Others looked away in discomfort. Desinea studied a spot on the table.

“Please step outside,” ben Yerushalieem said, after a moment.

Miguel waited, clearing his mind of all expectations while the members of the Ma’amad talked privately among themselves. Occasionally Parido’s voice would pulse through the walls, but Miguel could not discern the words. At last he was summoned to reappear.

“It is the opinion of this council,” Desinea announced, “that you have ignored the laws of our Nation without malice but to ill effect. We have therefore decided to invoke the cherem, to place you under the ban, for a period of one day, beginning with sunset tonight. During that period you may not attend the synagogue, consort with Jews, or involve yourself in any way with the community. At the conclusion of that period, your place among us will be as it was.”

Miguel nodded. He had not escaped unscathed, as he had wished, but he had escaped.

“Let me add,” ben Yerushalieem said, “that should this council learn that you have misrepresented your affairs, you will find it far less lenient. If your relationship with this beggar is other than what you have said, or if your business is improper, you will find us unwilling to listen to excuses. Have you anything to add, senhor?”

Miguel told those gathered that he was sorry for his offense and deserving of their punishment, and after thanking the parnassim for their wisdom he silently withdrew.

To be placed under the cherem even for a single day was a great disgrace. It would be the topic of gossip for weeks to come. Men had fled Amsterdam in disgust after being so punished, but Miguel would not be one of them.

He walked home hurriedly, repeating over and over again the prayer of thanks. He had prevailed. Parido had revealed himself, he had sprung his trap, but Miguel had outmaneuvered him. He paused to hug himself and then regained his stride. He had won.

Yet, it was necessarily a temporary victory. Parido had struck and missed, and the signs of his former kindness would dry up, leaving only ashes. More than that, now Miguel knew he had an enemy, an angry enemy, one who no longer needed to act with subtlety or with subterfuge but would attack boldly and surely fiercely.

But why? Why did Parido care so much about Miguel’s coffee trade? If he did not want Miguel excommunicated, his scheme somehow depended upon Miguel’s scheme, which the cherem would ruin. But since Parido could not get what he wanted through the Ma’amad, he surely would in some other way. If he had not thought himself wronged before, he would surely be stinging after Miguel’s victory today. There could be no doubt that Parido was now far more dangerous than ever before.

from

The Factual and Revealing Memoirs of Alonzo Alferonda

I made it a habit to employ a few Dutchmen of the lower sort to perform little tasks for me. They were rough fellows, as inclined to steal as the men to whom I lent, but there was no helping that. These ruffians, Claes or Caspar or Cornelis-who can remember these odd Dutch names?-would help me terrify the wretches who had borrowed money from me and were disinclined to pay me back. I’m sure a few of my guilders found their way into those Dutch purses, but what could a man do? I hadn’t the inclination to order my business with the iron fist of a tyrant, and I discovered that a little laxity in such matters promoted an odd sort of loyalty.

One afternoon I sat in the basement of a dank tavern sipping thin beer. Across from me sat an aging thief, and a pair of my men lurked menacingly behind me. I always had them peeling apples with sharp blades or carving pieces of wood at these moments. It saved me the tedium of uttering threats aloud.

This thief presented a bit of a problem. He was perhaps fifty years of age and looked ancient from his time of toiling upon the earth. His hair was long and clumped together in thin strands, his clothes stained, his skin a web of ruptured veins. He had borrowed some ten guilders of me, at a very unreasonable rate of interest I should add, to pay for the expenses surrounding the death of his wife. Now, nearly a year later, he had given me nothing and, what was more, announced he could give me nothing. Now, here was not one of those men who claimed he could pay nothing while his ringed fingers stroked a belly big with bread and fish. No, he truly had nothing, but though I pitied him, I could not forgive the debt. Where then would I be?

“Surely you must have some article of value you can pawn,” I suggested. “Some clothes you have failed to mention, old jewels perhaps. A cat? I know a pawnbroker who will give a fair price for a proven mouser.”

“I have nothing,” he told me.

“You are a thief,” I reminded him. “You can steal it. Or have I, in some way, misunderstood the nature of thievery?”

“I am not much of a thief anymore.” He held up his hands. “My fingers are no longer nimble, and my feet are no longer swift. I dare not make the attempt.”

“Hmm.” I scratched at my beard. “How long has this been going on-this clumsy-finger and leaden-foot difficulty? Awhile?”

“Yes,” he admitted.

“A long while? Let us say, more than a year?”

“I would say so, yes.”

“So when you borrowed this money of me, you knew you would not be able to repay? Am I a charitable board to hand out alms? Do you come to me because you have heard of my generosity? You must tell me, because I am confused.”

I admit this harangue served no function but to buy myself time as I decided what course of action to follow. Rarely did I find someone who could pay me nothing and who had no skills I could put into service for myself.

“What,” I asked him, “do you think I should do with one such as you?”

He gave this some long consideration. “I think,” he said at last, “that you should cut off the little fingers from each of my hands. I haven’t the skill of a cutpurse any longer, so I won’t much miss them except as any man would miss parts of his body. And in doing this, you can let the world know that you are determined not to be cheated. I think that would be the merciful thing.”

Here was a handsome situation. How could I avoid cutting off his little fingers-fingers he volunteered for their severing-without revealing myself to be the sort of man who simply re-frained from those sorts of cruelties? I truly believed he had forced my hand and I had no choice but to cut off the man’s fingers-though, being merciful, I was prepared to cut off only one. How else could I save my fierce reputation? I know not what dark path I might have followed if I had not been rescued by the most unlikely of men.

As I stared at the old fellow and contemplated his fate, I heard the slap of metal on wood. I and my Dutchmen turned and saw a figure standing in the dim light, erect as a royal guard. It was none other than Solomon Parido.

“Here is the ten guilders he owes you,” he said coolly. “I won’t allow this thing to transpire.”

“I had no idea you possessed such charity in your heart,” I said.

“I cannot stand by and see a man mutilated by so cruel a beast. This display sickens me, but I am at least gratified to know that the moral judgment I made of you has proved sound.”

“Senhor, the air circulates poorly in this room, and I fear your sanctimoniousness will suffocate us all. Nevertheless, I’m sure our friend here is grateful for your intervention.”

The old thief, knowing an opportunity when he saw one, chimed in. “Ten guilders is but the principal. You have neglected the interest.”

Claes and Caspar looked at me, awaiting orders. I did not want this farce witnessed, so I sent them all out of the room. I told the Dutchmen to free the thief with a slap or two for good measure, and they were gone. I sat facing my old enemy in the thin light of a musky closet. I had not had private words with Parido since my exile. There had been a few barbs exchanged on the street or in taverns where we crossed paths, but nothing like this.

It occurred to me that here was a fine opportunity for revenge. Why could I not have Claes and Caspar remove his little fingers or give him a slap or two for good measure? But that was not the sort of revenge I craved.

“Have you come to apologize to me?” I asked. I gestured for him to sit on one of the old stools in the room and lit my pipe by dipping a large splinter into the oil lamp and then into the packed bowl.

Parido remained standing, too great a man to place his ass on a stool that one such as I might use. “You know I haven’t.”

“I know you haven’t,” I agreed. “Well, then. It must be something for you to come here. I believe it to have worked this way: you had your Ma’amad spies track me to this place and you thought it perfect, for surely no one would see you enter or leave. You were willing to tear open your purse for that old thief because you could not imagine a more private meeting than this, and you were willing to take the opportunity when it presented itself. So now that we know all that, let us move on.” I blew smoke at him. “What do you want, Parido?”

His dignity would not permit him to swat at the smoke, but I could see him struggling not to gag. “I have questions for you to answer,” he said.

“I suppose then we’ll see if I feel like answering, but I can promise you nothing. You see, Parido, I can’t think of any reason why I should want to help you or provide you with answers about anything. You treated me as no Jew should treat another. This is not the Ma’amad chamber of the Talmud Torah, this is the belly of Amsterdam, and if I decide you are never vomited out, no one will hear from you more.”

“Don’t threaten me,” he said evenly.

I admired his courage and laughed at his stupidity-perhaps I had not secured my villainous reputation as carefully as I ought. He had every reason to be frightened yet did not seem to know or care. I only shrugged in return. “I suppose we’ll see what’s a threat and what isn’t. In the meantime, I am nothing short of astonished at your pluck, showing up as you have, as though I might be happy to forgive your wrongs.”

“I won’t defend my actions. I have only come to ask you if you encouraged Miguel Lienzo to pursue a trade in whale oil, knowing that his trade would harm me while keeping that possibility hidden from Lienzo himself. In other words, did you use him as your pawn?”

Quite the contrary: I had gone so far as to warn Miguel Lienzo about just this sort of thing, but I was not about to tell Parido that much. “Why should you ask me that?”

“Because that is what Lienzo says.”

Ah, Lienzo, I thought. Using my name to his advantage. Well, why should he not? Surely Parido cornered him, and, rather than risking himself, he blamed the souring of Parido’s finances on Alferonda the way peasants blame the souring of milk on imps. The parnass could do me no more harm than he already had. I was in no danger. I therefore did not feel any anger toward Miguel, who had only been behaving prudently.

I shook my head. “I would have done so if I could have, but I will not commit the sin of lying to protect any man. I had nothing to do with any whale-oil futures of yours. I suspect Lienzo is protecting himself or protecting another man by suggesting that it was me.”

But, you may wonder, if I did not resent Miguel for taking liberties with my name, why did I not protect him? Why did I expose him to Parido’s anger when I might so easily have absorbed that anger myself?

I did so because I could not risk a rapprochement between the two. Far better that Miguel should face Parido’s wrath.