The Coffee Trader

31

Just before noon, outside the Exchange, excitement was building upon the Dam. Two weeks had passed since Miguel’s conversation with Geertruid. Today was reckoning day on the Exchange, and today Miguel’s investments came due. He stood in the crowd, awaiting the opening of the great gates, and scanned the faces about him: hard and intense stares into the distance. Dutchman, Jew, and foreigner alike all clenched their teeth and maintained a martial watchfulness. Any man who had spent enough time on the Exchange could sense it, like the smell of coming rain. Great schemes were ready to be unleashed that would affect everyone who traded. Every reckoning day was charged, but today something more than the usual would happen. Everyone knew it.

As he had made himself ready that morning, Miguel felt a troubling peace. His stomach had been in a twist for weeks, but now he felt the calmness of resolve, like a man walking to the gallows. He had slept surprisingly soundly but still drank four large bowls of coffee. He wanted to be wild with coffee. He wanted coffee to rule his passions.

He could not have been more ready, but he knew some things were beyond him. Five men, knowingly or not, were his creatures, and he depended on them to act their parts. It was all so fragile. This enormous edifice could in an instant crumble into dust.

And so he prepared himself as best he could. He cleansed himself before Shabbat at the mikvah and dedicated himself to prayer on the holy day. The next day he continued in prayer, and he fasted from sunup to sunset.

He could not survive two ruins. The world might blink at the first one, forgive it as bad luck. Two ruins would crush him forever. No substantial merchant would ever entrust such a failure with his daughter. No man of business would ever offer Miguel a partnership. To fail today would mean he would have to abandon the life of a merchant.

With his teeth gritty from ground coffee berry, Miguel had stepped outside and breathed in the early morning air. He felt more like a conquistador than a trader. Only a few wisps of clouds drifted across the sky, and a light breeze came rolling in from the waters. A superstitious Dutchman might see clear skies as a good omen, but Miguel knew the skies were clear for Parido too.

Outside the Dam, Miguel waited in the unusually silent crowd. No arguments or bursts of laughter. Nowhere did the sound of early trading set off a ripple of exchanges. When men spoke, they spoke in whispers.

Parido’s calls, like Miguel’s puts, were to come due at the close of the day. That meant Parido needed to keep the price high, and the higher it went the more he would profit, just as the lower it went, the more Miguel would earn. If Miguel did nothing, Parido would gain on his investment and Miguel would lose. As Parido held the coffee shipment that was meant to be Miguel’s, he would hold on to his goods until after tomorrow. He might then slowly sell what he had at the inflated price.

“If you were Parido,” Alferonda had reasoned, “you would want to use your trading combination. You could spread the rumor that his combination was planning to dump holdings, which would bring down the price. But you don’t have that kind of power. Parido does.”

“Why does he not simply spread the rumor that his combination will be buying, thus causing the price to rise even higher?”

“The rumor game is a delicate one. If a combination overuses it, no one will believe rumors associated with that combination anymore, and it has lost a valuable tool. This business with the coffee is Parido’s, not his combination’s. The other members would be unwilling to expend the capital of rumor on his behalf here, not unless the promise of wealth were sufficiently compelling. But there are other ways he can use his combination.”

“He can instruct his men not to respond to me.”

“Precisely. Parido will assume that you will try to sell such coffee as you have acquired, and make it seem as though you have more than you do, thus causing a fall in the price. Alternatively, you will sell what you don’t have. Now, he knows this is tricky, because if you can set off a selling frenzy, you can then buy cheap what others unload, and if anyone challenges the sale you can produce what you have promised. But he will surely have instructed his combination to spread the rumor that you will not have what you pretend to sell, and no one will buy of you.”

Miguel smiled. “Can it be as simple as that?”

“Parido is a very powerful man,” Alferonda said. “He has made his money not by being overly clever but by seeing to the simple things. You’ve demonstrated in the past that you work alone, you work without much strategy, and you tend to follow your instincts rather than clear business plans. I see you are insulted, but you cannot deny it is true. You’ve made mistakes, Miguel, but those mistakes will serve you very well when you step forth onto the Exchange this time. Parido will be expecting a very different opponent from the man he finds.”

The clock upon the tower of the great Town Hall struck noon, and the gates to the Exchange opened in a burst of shouting that echoed across the Dam. Miguel pushed his way in, along with the hundreds of other traders, and slowly made his way toward the East India corner of the courtyard, ignoring the traders who called out to him with their goods.

A larger crowd than was usual milled around the East India traders. Many of the men were of Parido’s combination. They wore the bright colors and feathered hats of the Portuguese, and they held themselves like imperious hidalgos. They were there as a favor to their friend. It would cost them nothing to monitor the trade in coffee, to sell nothing themselves, and to muscle out anyone who might respond to Miguel’s efforts. It was all as he and Alferonda had speculated.

Off to the side, talking with some traders Miguel recognized, stood Isaiah Nunes. He nodded at Miguel. Miguel nodded back. There would be time for accusations later, but for now he put forth his best face. What would Nunes expect to see from Miguel? Disappointment, of course. He knew about the puts. Still, he had to make a certain show of determination.

In the open courtyard where the Hamburg merchants did their business, Alferonda conferred with the few Tudescos on the Exchange. These long-bearded Jews nodded their sage heads as the usurer explained something at great, probably needless, length.

Miguel looked up and saw Parido in front of him. “This day has a familiar feel to it. Does it not remind you of the day the price of sugar fell?”

“No.” Miguel smiled back. “As a matter of fact, this day feels utterly new.”

“Surely you don’t think you can orchestrate a downturn in coffee prices. You were warned to keep away from the coffee trade, but you would do things your own way. That is how it must be. I’ve anticipated your moves, and I’ve taken steps to prevent their success. The kindliest advice I can give you is to walk away. Accept your losses at the day’s end. At least you’ll be spared a public humiliation.”

“I appreciate your advice. But you might wish to keep in mind that you will be pressing your lips to my ass before the day ends.”

“You forget to whom you speak. I am only trying to spare what remains of your reputation. A lesser man than I would have held his tongue.”

“There is no lesser man than you, senhor.”

Parido clucked his tongue. “Do you really believe you can outmaneuver me?”

“I have my business well in hand.” Miguel did not like the wavering of his own voice. Parido seemed too confident. What if he knew the details of Miguel’s plans? What if he had taken steps to prevent Alferonda’s clever scheme to circumvent Parido’s influence? What if Joachim had betrayed him?

“How in hand do you truly have it?” Parido asked.

“I don’t understand your question.”

“It’s quite simple. Do you believe so firmly that you can prevail today and bring down the price that you are willing to make a wager?”

Miguel locked his eyes upon his enemy’s. “Name it.” Parido was foolish to offer a wager. Miguel had already gambled everything.

“The price of coffee now stands at seven tenths of a guilder per pound, which means I have raised it to forty-two guilders per barrel. I only need keep it above thirty-eight guilders to make my money. You need it to fall below thirty-seven to make any profit from your puts. At thirty-seven or greater, you make nothing, and your brother answers for your bad investment.”

Miguel felt himself redden.

“You thought no one knew of your reckless use of his name? You thought you could keep secrets from me on this bourse? And now you think you can outmaneuver me when I am determined not to be outmaneuvered? I admire your optimism.”

It meant nothing, Miguel told himself. He might have learned of Miguel’s trick from his broker. It did not mean Parido knew everything. “You’re doing nothing but boasting, senhor.”

“Very well, I’ll do more than boast. If you can bring the price to thirty guilders a barrel or below, I’ll allow you to buy ninety barrels from me at twenty guilders each.”

Miguel attempted to appear skeptical. “Where would you hope to get ninety barrels of coffee? Can the warehouses of Amsterdam have so much?”

“The warehouses of Amsterdam contain surprises that men such as you cannot imagine.”

“Your wager seems one-sided. What do you get if I cannot defeat you?”

“Well, you’ll be ruined, so I’m not sure you’ll have anything to give me but your person. So let us say this: if you lose, then you will confess to the Ma’amad that you lied about your relationship with Joachim Waagenaar. You will tell the parnassim that you are guilty of deceiving that council, and you will take the punishment that so grave a deception deserves.”

Cherem. It seemed like madness to agree to such a thing, but if he lost he would have to leave Amsterdam regardless. The banishment would make no difference.

“I agree. Let us draw up a paper to that effect, though what it is that I’ve agreed to will have to be kept between us, lest that paper later fall into the wrong hands. But I would like a surety of some kind. You see, I’d hate to win my wager only to discover you guilty of a windhandel-of not having the ninety barrels you promised.”

“What are you suggesting?”

“Only this. I’ll take your wager, and we’ll put it all to paper. And if, by some chance, you can’t supply the coffee at the price you mention, you will instead pay me what those barrels are, at this moment, worth. That would be”-he took a moment to calculate-“thirty-eight hundred guilders. What say you?”

“It is an empty bet, for I never sell what I do not have.”

“Then you agree?”

“Of course not. Why should I agree to a foolish wager that includes the possibility of my paying almost four thousand guilders?”

Miguel shrugged. “I won’t accept otherwise. I require the surety.”

Parido let out a sigh. “Very well, I’ll agree to your silly conditions.”

He quickly drew up the contract, insisting on writing out both copies himself. Miguel therefore had to waste more time reading it over, making certain his rival had not inserted any trickery into the language. But all appeared well, and the contract was witnessed by one of Parido’s friends who stood close by. Each man now had his copy in his pocket. The clock tower told him he had lost a quarter of an hour. It was time to begin.

Miguel took a step backwards and called out in Latin, “Coffee! Selling twenty barrels of coffee at forty guilders each.” The price hardly mattered, as Miguel had none of it himself. This, after all, was a windhandel. He had to make the price low enough to attract attention, but not so low that his call would arouse suspicion. “I have coffee at forty,” he called again. He then repeated the call in Dutch and again in Portuguese.

No one replied. Parido’s men began to move in, menacing Miguel like a pack of dogs. A minor trader from the Vlooyenburg glanced over at Miguel and appeared on the verge of taking the sale, but Parido locked eyes with him and the merchant turned away, muttering. It was clear that no Portuguese Jew would want to incur Parido’s anger by breaking the blockade.

Casting his eyes about the Exchange, Miguel saw Daniel hovering on the perimeter of their little crowd. He had dressed in his best trading suit today-not bright enough to wear on Shabbat but a handsome ensemble: matching crimson doublet and hat with a blue shirt beneath, black breeches, and shiny red shoes with enormous silver buckles. He looked at Parido’s men and at Miguel and then down at the ground.

Silence had descended over their little section of the Exchange. In the near distance he could hear the shouts of other transactions, but no one among the East India traders said a word. The battle had begun, and it surely appeared to the spectators that Miguel was already defeated. Parido smiled and whispered something in the ear of a member of his combination, who answered with a hoarse laugh.

Miguel called out his price again. A few Dutchmen looked on curiously but, seeing the crowd of menacing Jews, kept their distance. Miguel had nothing to offer that was sweet enough to either entice the Portuguese Jews to defy Parido or draw the Christians to trouble themselves with what was so obviously a duel among aliens. Standing alone in the midst of a circle, Miguel looked like a lost child.

He called out once more. Again, no reply. Parido met his gaze and smiled. His lips moved silently. You’ve lost.

Then Miguel heard the call in poor Latin. “I’ll buy twenty at thirty-nine.”

Alferonda had worked his contacts among the Tudescos. One of that nation, a man whose usual trade was in the discounting of bank notes, stood forth and repeated his call. He wore black robes, and his white beard swayed as he shouted out his bid. “Twenty barrels at thirty-nine!”

“Sold!” Miguel shouted. He could not help but smile. It was not the usual trader who hoped his buyers would keep lowering his price. But his business today was to sell cheap.

“I’ll buy twenty-five at thirty-eight and a half,” cried another Tudesco, whom Miguel recognized as a dealer in unminted gold.

Miguel pushed his way through the wall of Parido’s men to acknowledge him. “Twenty-five barrels at thirty-eight and a half, sold!”

The blockade had loosened. A sell-off had begun, and Parido knew he could not stop Miguel merely by keeping his men near.

“Thirty barrels of coffee to buy,” Parido shouted in return, “at forty guilders.”

The Tudescos would be fools not to turn around and sell for an immediate profit. They had never agreed to act as Miguel’s combination, only to break the blockade, motivated by the promise that their assistance would yield its own profitable opportunities. Miguel could see that they considered selling, which would stabilize the price for Parido. Portuguese Jews stood by and waited to see which way the prices went, which faction had command. The odds surely favored Parido. The only thing he could not counter would be a general sell-off. If too many men moved to sell, he could not stem the tide alone, and the men in his combination would not sacrifice their own money for him.

Here was the pivotal moment for the coffee scheme, and the whole of the Exchange sensed it.

Miguel looked up and, unexpectedly, locked eyes with his brother. Daniel stood at the far reaches of the circle of spectators, his lips moving silently as he calculated the odds against a gen-eral sell-off. Daniel tried to look away, but Miguel would not let him go. He wanted to see that his brother understood. He wanted to see it in his brother’s eyes.

And Daniel did understand. He knew that if he chose, at that moment, to join sides with Miguel, to throw himself in with his brother, to call out a sale of cheap coffee, the scheme would succeed. The momentum from Daniel’s participation would tip the scales in Miguel’s favor. Here was the time at last in which family might rise above petty interests. Daniel might say that yes, Parido was his friend, and friendship should be honored, but family was another matter and he could not stand by while his brother faced ruin, permanent ruin-not while he had the power in his hands to prevent it.

They both knew it. Miguel could see that his brother knew it. He had asked Daniel once if he would choose his brother or his friend, and Daniel had not answered, but he would answer now. One way or another. Miguel could see from the look on his brother’s face that Daniel, too, recalled that conversation. He could see the look of shame on Daniel’s face as he turned away and allowed this coffee business to unfold without him.

A strange quiet fell within the walls. Certainly not what would have passed for quiet in any other part of the world, but for the Exchange the noise reduced to a mere din. Traders moved in close as though they watched a cockfight or a brawl.

They would get good sport, Miguel told himself. When Parido had moved to buy, he had himself given the signal for Miguel’s next move, one the parnass could not have anticipated.

“Selling coffee! Fifty barrels at thirty-six!” Joachim shouted.

Parido stared in disbelief. He had not seen Joachim arrive upon the Exchange, or perhaps he had not noticed him. Having lost his peasant’s attire, he was once more dressed like a man of means, looking every bit the Dutch trader in his black suit and hat. No one who did not know him would have guessed that a month ago he had been less than a beggar. Now he was surrounded by a crowd of buyers whose eager calls he engaged with one at a time, calm as any seasoned merchant upon any bourse in Europe.

This move had been Alferonda’s inspiration. Parido could easily assert his influence over the traders of the Portuguese Nation. Every man knew of his rivalry with Miguel, and few would willingly cross a vengeful man with a seat on the Ma’amad. Alferonda knew he would be able to encourage a few foreign Tudescos to begin the trading, but there were not enough of them to sustain the sell-off, and most would be unwilling to invest heavily in so unknown a commodity or do too much to irritate Parido. But Joachim could entice the Dutch market into seeing that this conflict was a matter of business, not some internal Portuguese contest. He could bring in the Dutch traders willing to make a profit off this new product. They might be sheepish about jumping into a fray where Jew battled Jew over a commodity hardly anyone had ever heard of, but once they saw one of their own intrepid countrymen joining in, they would fall in line lest they lose the chance to profit.

Another Dutchman called out to sell. Miguel had never seen him before. He was only some unfortunate trader who had taken a chance on coffee and now found himself caught in the crossfire. Desperate to get rid of his goods before the price dipped even further, he let his fifteen barrels go at thirty-five. Miguel was now only two guilders per barrel away from the price he needed to survive, five guilders from what he needed to defeat Parido. But even if he brought the price to thirty, he would have to keep the price stable until two o’clock, the end of the trading day.

A new man shouted out in Dutch, but his accent sounded French. Then another, this one Danish. Thirty-five. Thirty-four. Miguel need only look on and monitor. He had sold eighty barrels that he did not own. It was no matter. Far more barrels had already changed hands than the warehouses of Amsterdam could hope to house.

Now Miguel would have to wait to see how low the price went and then buy enough to protect himself. If a buyer chose, he might file an appeal so that he would not have to buy his coffee at the now-high prices of thirty-eight and thirty-nine, but that hardly mattered to Miguel. Let them keep their money. Only the price of the barrels mattered now.

Parido looked on, his face blank. He had stopped shouting orders, for one man could not buy everything, not without ruining himself. He had artificially raised the price himself, and he knew that if he bought back enough barrels at a price to bring coffee back to thirty-nine, he would surely lose a great deal of money, even if he factored in the profit of his put.

The price began to stabilize, so Miguel bought at thirty-one and then sold at once for thirty. The loss was nothing, and it set off another frenzy of selling.

Miguel smiled at Parido, who turned away in disgust. But Miguel would not let him walk away. He pushed through the crowd. He heard sales at twenty-nine and twenty-eight. He looked at the clock on the church tower. Half past one. Only thirty minutes remaining.

“I believe the day is mine,” Miguel called.

Parido spun around. “Not yet, Lienzo. There’s still time.”

“There may be time, but I don’t believe you have any more options.”

Parido shook his head. “You think your little tricks will save you? Relish this moment, Lienzo. I think you’ll find you are not nearly so clever as you think.”

“No, probably not. But I have the distinct pleasure this day of being cleverer than you. I wish to take possession of those barrels of coffee you promised me by this time tomorrow.”

“You haven’t the money to pay for them,” he spat. “If you look at your copy of our contract, you will note it specifies the exchange must take place within seventy-two hours of the end of market today. I frankly don’t believe you will be able to raise the money. Indeed, in seventy-two hours in the eyes of the Ma’amad you may no longer be a Jew.”

So Parido planned to use the council to avoid his debts. The council would never stand for it. “You may believe what you wish, but I’ll transfer the amount to your account by this time tomorrow. I expect you to transfer ownership with a similar punctuality, or you will have to honor the contract and pay me an additional thirty-eight hundred.”

Miguel stepped away and glanced toward the crowd of buyers and sellers. The price appeared now to have stabilized at a remarkable twenty-six, with very little time left to trade. If the price only stayed there, he would earn a profit of almost seven hundred guilders from his puts alone, another two thousand from the futures. Now, too anxious to simply stand and observe, he thought to take care of one last bit of business.

Isaiah Nunes had been speaking quietly with some acquaintances, attempting to ignore the selling frenzy. Miguel smiled and asked Nunes to walk with him a moment privately. The two stepped away behind a pillar.

Miguel allowed his face to brighten into his best merchant guise. “I would like you to transfer ownership of the coffee I contracted with you to deliver. I would like ownership papers in my hands no later than tomorrow morning.”

Nunes straightened his posture, as though making some effort to align himself perfectly with the earth, and then took a step forward. “I’m sorry you find yourself in a difficult situation, Miguel, but I can’t help you. I told you the shipment never arrived, and your needs cannot undo what has been done. And if I may be so bold, you are hardly a man to demand prompt action in any regard. Getting you to pay what you owed me has been no easy task, and I feel that you’ve abused my friendship unforgivably.”

“An odd comment from a man who sold my contracted goods to Solomon Parido.”

Nunes tried to show no expression. “I cannot understand you. You are talking like a madman, and I’ll not be insulted.”

“You’re overplaying your part, senhor. You should appear confused, not horrified.”

“Nothing you say may horrify me.” He took a step forward. “I once looked upon you as a friend, but I see you are only a cheat and I’ll discuss nothing further with you.”

“You’ll discuss it with me, or you will discuss it in the courts,” Miguel answered. He saw at once that he had Nunes’s attention. “You took the coffee I had contracted for and delivered it to Solomon Parido. You then lied and told me my shipment had never been acquired. I presume you then arranged for another shipment, but I know the cargo that belongs to me by legal right came in on a ship called the Sea Lily. I have witnesses who will testify to hearing Parido discuss the matter. If you refuse to comply, my only question will be whether to bring you before a Dutch court or the Ma’amad, or both, and force you to provide not only the coffee but pay such damages that result of my not having the original shipment.” Miguel showed Nunes the contract he had made with Parido. “If I lose money on this contract, I’ll be able to sue you for the losses, for if you had not deceived me I should surely have won. And you may wager that once this matter goes to court, your reputation as a trustworthy merchant will be utterly dashed.”

Nunes flushed. “If I withhold the coffee from Parido, he will make me an enemy. What of my reputation then?”

“Surely you can’t expect me to care. You’ll transfer ownership to me by morning, or I’ll see you ruined.”

“If I give you what you ask, you’ll say nothing? You’ll not tell the world of this?”

“I ought not to keep quiet, but I’ll do so out of memory of our friendship. I never would have expected this from you.”

Nunes shook his head. “You must understand how difficult it is to resist Parido when he wants something. I dared not say no to him. I have a family, and I could not afford to put myself at risk by protecting you.”

“I understand his influence and power,” Miguel said, “and I have resisted him just the same. And he did not ask you to refrain from protecting me, he asked you to lie to me and cheat me, and you agreed. I never thought you a particularly brave man, Isaiah, but I was still shocked to learn the extent of your cowardice.”

As he walked away he heard the clock tower strike two. He asked a man standing near him how coffee had closed: twenty-five and a half guilders per barrel.

Miguel would look at once into renting a splendid house on the shores of the Houtgracht. He would contact his debtors to offer some small payment to the most anxious. Everything would be different now.

And there was his brother. He turned around. Daniel stood no more than an arm’s length away. Daniel looked at his brother, tried to lock eyes with him, but Miguel could not bring himself to say anything. The time for reconciliation was over; there could be no forgiveness. Daniel had bet his own future against his brother’s, and he had lost.

Miguel moved away. Crowds of men swarmed around him. Word had begun to spread; already every man upon the Exchange understood he had had a great victory. Even if they did not know what he had won or whom he had defeated, these traders knew they stood in the presence of a trader in his glory. Strangers whose names he barely knew clapped him on the shoulder or pumped his hand or promised they would call upon him soon to speak of a project whose value he could scarce believe.

And then, through the thickness of the traders, he saw a haggard Dutchman in fine clothes grin widely at him. Joachim. Miguel turned away from a triumvirate of Italian Jews who wanted to speak to him about figs, uttering some polite excuse and promising to call on them at a tavern whose name he forgot the moment the men spoke it. He pushed on until he stood facing Joachim, who appeared both greater and smaller than he had in his impoverished madness. His grin appeared not so much triumphant as sad. Miguel returned it with a smile of his own.

“I told you I would make things right,” he said, “if you would but trust me.”

“If I had done no more than trust you,” Joachim replied with equal cheer, “I would still be a poor man. It is only because I hated you and hounded you that you have won this victory. There is a great lesson to be learned here, but I shall burn in hell if I know what it may be.”

Miguel let out a bark of a laugh and stepped forward to embrace this man who, not so long ago, he had wished dead with all his heart. For all he knew, he might wish him dead again, and soon. For the moment, however, he did not care what Joachim had done or would do, and he did not care who knew of their hatred and their friendship. He cared only that he had righted his own wrongs and unmade his ruin in the process. Miguel would have hugged the devil himself.