The Coffee Trader

7

He should have known better than to stand still in the Exchange, for the moment Miguel stopped moving he found himself descended upon by a dozen traders of the lowest sort, each out to test the limits of his indebtedness. “Senhor Lienzo!” A man he hardly knew stood inches away, nearly shouting. “Let’s take a moment to talk of a shipment of copper from Denmark.” Another edged the first aside. “Good senhor, you are the only one I would tell this to, but I have reason to believe that the price of cinnamon will shift dramatically in the next few days. But will it go up or down? Come with me to learn more.” A young trader in Portuguese attire, probably not even twenty years of age, tried to pull him from the crowd. “I want to tell you how the syrup market has expanded these past three months.”

After the unnerving encounter with Joachim, Miguel was in no mood for these scavengers. They were of all nations, the fellowship of desperation requiring no single language or place of origin, only a willingness to survive by leaping from one precipice to the next. Miguel was attempting to force his way past when he saw his brother approach, the parnass Solomon Parido by his side. He hated for Daniel and Parido to see him in such low company, but he could hardly run off now that he had been spotted. It is all posture, he told himself. “Gentlemen, gentlemen,” he told his gathering of unfortunates, “I think you mistake me for a man who might have interest in doing business with you. Good day.”

He pushed off and nearly collided with his brother, who now stood inches away.

“I’ve been looking for you,” said Daniel, who, since the sugar collapse, had rarely so much as glanced at Miguel during Exchange hours. Now he stood close, leaning in to avoid having to shout above the clamor of trade. “I did not, however, expect to see you dealing with miserable men such as these.”

“What is it you gentlemen wish?” he asked, directing his attention in particular to Parido, who had thus far remained silent. The parnass had developed a habit of turning up far too frequently for Miguel’s taste.

Parido bowed to Miguel. “Your brother and I have been discussing your affairs.”

“The Holy One has truly blessed me, that two such great men take the time to discuss my dealings,” Miguel said.

Parido blinked. “Your brother mentioned that you were having difficulties.” He ventured a half smile, but he looked no less sour for it.

Miguel looked at him icily, not quite sure how to respond. If that fool brother of his had been talking about coffee again, he would strangle him in the middle of the Exchange. “I think,” he said, “that my brother is not so well informed of my business as he would like to believe.”

“I know you’re still receiving letters from that heretic, Alferonda,” Daniel said blithely, as though unaware that he revealed information that could put Miguel under the cherem.

Parido shook his head. “Your correspondence is of no interest to me, and I think your brother, in his eagerness to help you, speaks of family matters best kept private.”

“We are in agreement there,” Miguel said cautiously. What did this new generosity mean? It was true that Parido’s anger seemed to have abated somewhat since Miguel lost money in the sugar collapse. He no longer approached merchants-even while Miguel stood there speaking to them-to advise them to pursue their affairs with a more honest broker. He no longer left a room simply because Miguel entered it. He no longer refused to speak to Miguel when Daniel invited the parnass to dinner.

Even after Miguel’s losses, however, Parido would find ways to inflict injury. He would stand with his friends and openly mock Miguel from across the Dam, pointing and smirking as though they were schoolboys. Now he wished to be friends?

Miguel did not bother to conceal his doubt, but Parido only shrugged. “I think you’ll find my actions more convincing than any suspicions. Take a walk with me, Miguel.”

There was nothing to do but agree.

Miguel’s difficulties with the parnass had begun because he had followed Daniel’s advice to take Parido’s only daughter, Antonia, as his wife. At that time, nearly two years before, Miguel had been a successful trader, and it had seemed both a good match and a way of solidifying his family’s standing in Amsterdam. Already married himself, Daniel could not make himself part of Parido’s family, but Miguel could. He had gone too long without remarrying, the wives of the Vlooyenburg said, and he grew weary of matchmakers hounding him. Besides, Antonia came with a handsome portion and with Parido’s business connections.

He had no reason to dislike Antonia, but neither did she appeal to him. She was a handsome woman, but he did not find being with her a handsome experience. Miguel had seen a picture of her before they met, and he had been most pleased by the miniature portrait, but though it was a good likeness, the painter had rendered her features far more animated than nature had done herself. Miguel would sit in Parido’s front room, taking stabs at conversation with a girl who would not meet his eye, asked no questions not directly related to the food or drink set out by the servants, and could answer no questions with words other than “Yes, senhor” or “No, senhor.” Miguel soon became intrigued by the idea of teasing her and began asking her questions touching on theology, philosophy, and the political skullduggery of the Vlooyenburg. Such inquiries produced the far more entertaining “I could not say, senhor.”

He knew he ought not to take such pleasure in torturing his future wife, but there was little else of interest to do with her. What it would be like to be married to so dull a woman? Surely he could mold her more to his liking; he could teach her to speak her mind, to have opinions, possibly even to read. And in the end, a wife was merely someone to produce sons and keep an orderly house. An alliance with his brother’s patron would be good for his own business, and if she was good for nothing more, there were whores enough in Amsterdam.

So, possessed of every intention of following through on his promise, Miguel had been discovered by Antonia in her maid’s room-he with his breeches down, she with skirts lifted. The shock of walking into the room and facing Miguel’s bare ass aimed in her direction had proved overwhelming, and she had let off a shriek before fainting and knocking her head against the door on her way down.

The planned marriage between the two was certainly ruined, but disgrace could have been avoided, and Miguel considered it entirely Parido’s fault that the incident had turned to scandal. Miguel wrote him a long letter, begging forgiveness for having abused his hospitality and unwittingly bringing embarrassment upon him:

I cannot ask you to think no more of these events or to put them from your mind. I can only ask that you believe I never wished to see either you or your daughter harmed, and I hope the day may come that will provide me with an opportunity to demonstrate the extent of both my respect and my remorse.

Parido had sent back only a few harsh lines:

Make no effort to contact me again. I care nothing for what you imagine as respect or how you scheme to frame your meager remorse. You and I must be now opposed in all things.

The letter did not mark the end of the conflict, much to the delight of the gossiping wives of the Vlooyenburg. The maid, it was soon discovered, was with child, and Parido publicly insisted that Miguel provide for the bastard once born. With popular sentiment on Parido’s side, for he had kept his breeches on through the whole affair, Miguel endured a week in which old women hooted at him and spat in his direction and children tossed rotten eggs at his head. But Miguel would not accept these accusations. Experience had taught him a thing or two about reproductive rhythms, and he knew the child could not be his. He refused to pay.

With a mind set to vengeance rather than justice, Parido insisted that Miguel be brought before the Ma’amad, to which Parido had not yet been elected. The council was well used to these paternity disputes, and its investigators revealed the father to be Parido himself. Finding himself publicly humiliated, he retired to private life for a month, waiting for some new scandal to entertain the neighborhood. During that month, believing that Antonia could never find a husband in a city that knew she had seen Miguel Lienzo with no breeches, he sent his daughter to marry his sister’s son, a merchant of moderate standing in Salonika.

The world knew the story-that Miguel was to have married Antonia Parido, that the engagement had fallen into ruin, and that Parido had made accusations that had come back to haunt him. There was something that the world did not know.

Miguel had been unwilling to sit idly by while the Ma’amad decided the case, for Parido was a powerful man, destined for the council, and Miguel was but an upstart trader. So he had gone to see the little doxy and conducted his own inquiry. After Miguel had prodded her for some time, she finally admitted that she could not name the child’s father. She could not name him because there was no child; she only claimed that one grew in her belly because she wanted something for her trouble, being cast out on the street as she was.

Miguel might have tried to convince her to tell the truth, and in doing so perhaps restore himself somewhat in Parido’s eyes, but Parido might also have spat upon that gesture. Instead, Miguel explained to the girl that if she convinced the Ma’amad investigators that the child was Parido’s, she would profit most handsomely for her trouble.

Parido, in the end, gave the girl a hundred guilders and sent her on her way. Miguel could once more walk the streets of the Vlooyenburg without fear of assault from grandmothers and children. However, a new disquiet had taken the place of the old. If Parido were ever to learn of Miguel’s treachery, he would show no mercy.

The great open-air Exchange spread out before them, in structure no different from every other bourse in every trading center in Europe. Amsterdam ’s Exchange was an enormous rectangle, three massive red-brick stories in height, with an overhang along the inner perimeter. The center remained exposed to the elements, such as the misting rain that now fell, so light as to be indistinguishable from fog. Along the interior and beneath the overhang supported by thick and magnificent columns, scores of men gathered to shout at one another in Dutch or Portuguese or Latin or a dozen other tongues of Europe and beyond, to buy and sell, to trade rumors, and to attempt to predict the future. Each section of the Exchange had, by tradition, its own designated business. Along the walls, men traded in jewels, real estate, woolens, whale oil, tobacco. A merchant could converse with dealers in goods of the East Indies, the West Indies, the Baltic, or the Levant. In the less prestigious roofless center gathered the wine merchants, paint and drug sellers, traders with England, and, toward the far south end, dealers in brandy and the sugar trade.

Miguel regularly saw Spaniards and Germans and Frenchmen. Less frequently, he might encounter Turks and even East Indians. It was something of a mystery why this city should have emerged in the last fifty years as the center of the world’s trade, attracting merchants from every land of importance. It should hardly have been a city at all; the locals liked to say that God created the world, but the Dutch made Amsterdam. Carved out of swamp, plagued with a port only the most skillful pilot could navigate (and then only with luck on his side), lacking any native wealth except for cheese and butter, Amsterdam rose to its place of greatness because of the sheer determination of its citizens.

Parido walked silently for only a few moments, but Miguel could not shake the feeling that the parnass derived some pleasure from withholding his business.

“I know your debts weigh heavily on you,” Parido began at last, “and I know you’ve been trading in brandy futures. You’ve gambled that the prices will rise. By closing, two days hence, however, they will surely remain as low as they are now. If I calculate correctly, you stand to lose close to fifteen hundred guilders.”

This was about brandy, not coffee, thank the Most High. But what did Parido know about it-or care, for that matter? “It is closer to a thousand,” he said, hoping to keep his tone even. “I see you’re well informed of my business.”

“The Exchange is little able to hide secrets from the man who wishes to learn them.”

Miguel let out a barking laugh. “And why should you wish to know my secrets, senhor?”

“As I said, I want to make things more comfortable between us, and if you are to trust me, to believe that I will not use my influence as a parnass against you, you must see me act in your benefit. Now, as to the problem at hand, I may know a buyer, a Frenchman, who will relieve you of your futures.”

The irritation dropped away. Here was just the sort of lucky turn for which Miguel had hardly dared to hope. Based on rumors of an impending shortage, received from a very reliable source, he had bought the brandy futures at a 70 percent margin, paying only 30 percent of the value of the total quantity up front, and then either losing or gaining as though he had invested the entire sum. Come reckoning day, if brandy increased in value, he would profit as though he had gambled on a much larger amount, but if brandy lost value, as now appeared inevitable, he would owe far more than he had already invested.

An eager buyer was just what he needed, a gift from the heavens. To be rid of this new debt would surely be a sign that the tide of his misfortune had turned. Could he really believe that his enemy had, out of the goodness of his heart, decided to present the solution to Miguel’s most urgent problem? Where could he produce a buyer for these futures, futures that the world knew would only bring debt to their owner?

“I cannot imagine that any man, French or otherwise, would be mad enough to buy my brandy holdings when the market has turned against them. The value of brandy won’t much change in the few days between now and the monthly reckoning.” Unless, Miguel thought, a trading combination plotted to manipulate the price. More than once Miguel had lost when he thought he saw a new trend in prices and only later learned that he had become the victim of a combination’s plot.

“The price may change and it may not.” Parido shrugged. “It should be enough that he is willing to buy something of which you’d like to be rid.”

Before he could respond to the proposal, Miguel heard his name called out and saw it was a boy with bright orange hair and blotchy skin. The unsightly fellow waved a letter and shouted the name Lienzo again, in a voice more loud than shrill. Miguel called him over and offered him a coin for the letter. He recognized the hand at once as Geertruid’s. He took a step backwards before tearing it open.

Senhor,

I hope all fares well with you on the Exchange, but any profits you might make for yourself are but a mere shadow of the wealth that the fruit of the coffee tree can offer you. While you attend to your daily business, let the spirit of this marvelous berry animate your mind and increase your profits. I write these words only in the capacity of one who is your friend.

Geertruid Damhuis

Parido smiled thinly. “It looked to me like a woman’s hand. I hope you aren’t allowing yourself to be distracted by intrigues during hours meant for business. You’re an amorous fellow, but these gates open only two hours each day.”

Miguel returned the false smile. “There’s no intrigue here. It is nothing of consequence.”

Parido scratched at his nose. “Then let’s do something that is of consequence. We’ll find this merchant I know and see if we can’t set things right.”

They forced their way to the south end of the Exchange, where brandy changed hands. Some traders came to fill orders or to sell what their ships brought into port, but increasingly men bought calls and puts and futures, trading in goods they never sought to own and would never see. It was the new way of doing things, turning the Exchange into a great gaming pit where outcome was determined not by chance but by the needs of the markets around the world.

In his earlier days, Miguel had believed he possessed an uncanny ability to predict those needs. He had enjoyed connections among the most influential West Indian merchants and had been able to acquire sugar at excellent prices and then sell at superior ones. The red-brick warehouses of the Brouwersgracht had been bursting with his acquisitions, and all of the Exchange knew Miguel as the man to see for sugar. But then fortune had taken Miguel by surprise, and now all that sugar was washed away.

Toward the corner where men bought and sold brandy, Parido introduced Miguel to a stunted little Frenchman-no taller than a child-with a sad fleshy face and a nose like a walnut. He wore a high ruffled collar, such as had been popular fifty years earlier, and his reddish coat had turned almost brown with Amsterdam mud.

“Never judge worthiness by the clothes,” Parido whispered, assuming his role of the great sage of the Exchange. “Fools may be tricked by baubles and bright colors, but who does not know that a chicken makes better eating than a robin?”

This Frenchman, whom Miguel would have taken for a hard-pressed fellow of the middling ranks, croaked out in his clumsy accent an interest in doing business. He thrust forth his hands in Miguel’s direction. “You are the man with the brandy futures to sell,” he said in halting Dutch. “I’d like to talk about these holdings, but do not think to be grasping with me, monsieur, or you will find you have no sale at all.”

“I always conduct business like a man of honor,” Miguel assured him. His heart knocked in his chest as he explained to the Frenchman that he was in possession of futures for 170 hogsheads of brandy. He kept his voice free of inflection, not wanting to urge his holdings on the merchant. The situation called for a lighter touch.

“That’s what you have!” The Frenchman shouted, as though Miguel had just tipped his hand. “Ha! Not so much as I thought, nor nearly so good neither. But it is worth a little something to me. Six hundred guilders is more than you can expect, but I shall pay it.”

“That is an absurd offer,” Miguel replied, and indeed it was, though not for the reasons he wished to imply. The Frenchman must be mad to enter into a deal almost guaranteed to lose money. Either that or he knew a great secret from which Miguel might profit. Still, Miguel had invested just over five hundred guilders, so the offer could not be dismissed idly; it would mean a slight profit rather than a significant loss.

“I’ll not part with them for less than six fifty,” he said.

“Then you’ll not part with them at all. I have no time for your Dutch haggling back and forth, this way and that way. We’ll make this trade or I’ll find another man and offer him the same, and he will be more grateful than you.”

Miguel smiled by way of excusing himself and led Parido a few feet away.

“Needless to say, you will take his offer,” Parido announced.

Here was the worm dangling so deliciously, and Miguel was the fish. He might well get the worm, but did he want a hook through his cheek for the trouble?

“I’m skeptical,” Miguel said, rolling his thumb and index finger together, as though feeling the air for something suspicious. “Why should he want these futures so badly? It might be wiser to hold them myself so I can profit from whatever it is he knows.”

“Profits on the Exchange are the treasures of goblins, changing from coal to diamond and back to coal once more. You must take your profits where you can find them.”

“I prefer a bolder approach,” Miguel said dryly.

“There are times for boldness and times for prudence. Think a moment. What do we know of this Frenchman? He may want those futures for a scheme of his own that can’t possibly benefit you. He may only wish to thwart an enemy by hoarding what another fellow seeks. He may be mad. He may know the price will triple in value. You cannot tell. You can only know that if you sell now you will have saved yourself a debt and even earned a little profit. That is how a fortune is made-in small pieces and with great caution.”

Miguel turned away. Few men were as well connected on the Exchange as Parido, and if he had decided that he wished to end his animosities with Miguel, this transaction could be the first step in a friendship that would help extricate him from debt. Would Parido attempt to worsen Miguel’s affairs in full view of the world? Still, Parido had been sour for nearly two years, and Miguel sensed something sinister in this new altruism.

His instincts told him to reject the offer, to hang on to these futures and see what the market offered him, but dare he follow his instincts? The thrill of being rid of the cursed futures was tempting. He could end this month with a profit. Next month he could trade in whale oil-another guaranteed gain-and begin his coffee venture. He might at this moment be staring at a turning point in his fortune.

Faced with a grave decision, one on which his future might well depend, he asked himself what had become the only question that came to mind in these circumstances: What route would Charming Pieter take? Would he defy Parido and follow his instincts, or would he surrender his will to the man who had once been his enemy but now protested friendship? Pieter, Miguel knew, never foreclosed an opportunity, and it was better to make a man who intended trickery believe he had succeeded than to expose him to his face. Pieter would follow Parido’s advice.

“I’ll make the trade,” Miguel said at last.

“That is the only thing to do.”

Perhaps it was. Miguel should have been euphoric. Perhaps he would be in a few hours, when the inexpressible relief of being rid of those poisonous shares finally seemed real. He said a prayer of thanks, but even as he recognized his luck he could not quite shake the bitter taste from his mouth. He had liberated himself from these difficulties only with the help of a man who, two weeks before, would have gladly sewn him in a sack and tossed him into the Amstel.

It might be as Parido said-he wished only to mend their rift-so Miguel turned to the parnass and bowed in thanks, but his face was dark. Parido could not mistake its meaning. If this turned out to be a trick, Miguel would have his revenge.

from

The Factual and Revealing Memoirs of Alonzo Alferonda

It will be hard to explain to my Christian readers precisely what the cherem, excommunication, can mean to a Portuguese Jew. To those of us who had lived under the thumb of the Inquisition, or in lands such as England where our religion was outlawed, or in places such as the cities of the Turks where it was barely tolerated, to dwell in Amsterdam seemed a small taste of the World to Come. We were free to congregate and observe our holidays and our rituals, to study our texts in the light of day. For us who belonged to a small nation, cursed with having no land to call our own, the simple freedom to live as we chose was a kind of bliss for which I never, not for a single day I lived with my brothers in Amsterdam, forgot to give my thanks to God.

Of course there were those cast forth from the community who cared not at all. Some were happy to leave what they saw as an overly scrupulous and demanding way of life. They would look at our Christian neighbors, who ate or drank what they liked, for whom the Sabbath, even their Sabbath, was but another day, and they would see those freedoms as a release. Yet most of us knew who we were. We were Jews, and the power of the Ma’amad to take away a man’s identity, his sense of self and belonging, was truly terrifying.

Solomon Parido did all he could to make me an outcast, but in truth I might have gone far away and changed my name. No one would have known I was Alonzo Alferonda of Amsterdam. I knew deception the way other men knew their names.

And such was my plan. I would do it, but not quite yet. I had plans for Parido, and I would not leave until I had seen them through.